It’s a travesty that six years ago some guy mixed remnants of Alex North‘s rejected score for 2001: A Space Odyssey with the “discovery of animal bone as a weapon” sequence. It’s obviously not properly synched, but even so North’s score seems wildly off-pitch. It pulls Kubrick’s film down to earth at every stanza, every measure. It even sounds fucking Spartacus-y at times. Then again it’s probably impossible for any serious fan of this 1968 classic to contemplate the film with any music other than Ligeti‘s space music and Strauss’s “Blue Danube.”

Noah Baumbach‘s While We’re Young is his snappiest and most commercially appealing film yet. Not as darkly hilarious as Greenberg or as visually ravishing and mood-trippy as Frances Ha, but it’ll be well reviewed and catch on with most under-50 urban sophistos. It’s a nimble, fast-moving, culturally attuned relationship dramedy about a generational chasm (late 20somethings vs. early 40somethings) or more precisely the vague sense of anxiety that somewhat older guys have about younger guys in their field or realm — a fear of being out-hustled or out-clevered and possibly even left behind if they’re not careful. That would be Ben Stiller, a somewhat old-school, gone-stale documentarian who’s fascinated and flattered by the attentions of Adam Driver, a GenY hipster documentarian. Stiller is also a wee bit inimidated by Driver, and there’s the rub. Their saner, more emotionally healthy significant others are played by Naomi Watts and Amanda Seyfried and there are plenty more rubs coming from their end also. (“I’m not sure I want to be rubbed by you at all” — Rex Harrison‘s Julius Caesar in Joseph L. Mankiewicz‘s Cleopatra.)

I won’t spoil (I can’t — it’s 1:20 pm and the next film starts in 40 minutes) but While We’re Young is more than a little similar to Woody Allen‘s Crimes and Misdemeanors if you remove Woody’s unhappy marriage to whatsername plus the affair with Mia Farrow plus Martin Landau‘s affair-and-murder plot. Like Stiller’s character, Allen also played a less-than-successful, career-frustrated documentarian who’s been working for too long on a doc that leans heavily on interview footage of a respected elderly egghead figure (Peter Yarrow in Baumbach’s film, psychologist Martin Bergmann in Allen’s). Stiller resents the younger, less ethically constrained, destined-for-success Driver while Allen resented his wife’s glib, obnoxious, more successful older brother, played by Alan Alda. And both films end with Stiller and Allen’s character resigned and glumly acknowledging that the world doesn’t care about their ethical concerns about Driver or Alda, and is more than ready to cut them a break while it has little respect or affection for 40ish under-achievers.

Chris Rock‘s Top Five, which I also saw earlier today, is similarly influenced by Woody Allen’s Stardust Memories (’79), at least in terms of the broad strokes. But I can’t get into it because Bill Pohlad‘s Love and Mercy starts at 2 pm and it’s 1:38 pm. I can at least say it’s Rock’s most engaging self-directed film ever, and one that comes closest to reflecting his persona or personality as well as his own life. It’s not strictly autobiographical but it’s apparently close enough.

I was planning to tap out a couple of stories after returning from last night’s The Theory of Everything premiere after-party but the wifi at my Beverley Street condo had a seizure — call it a mild stroke — which led to a diagnostic discussion with a Liquid Web tech-support guy plus the usual hand-wringings, wall-punchings (the unit doesn’t have a refrigerator) and frenzied attempts at restoring service. I went to bed with sore knuckles but the wifi was gloriously back in action when I awoke this morning at 7 am. Four films today — Noah Baumbach‘s While We’re Young ay 8:30 am, Chris Rock‘s Top Five at 10:45 am, Bill Pohlad‘s Love and Mercy (the Brian Wilson druggy meltdown in the ’70s film with with Paul Dano as young Wilson, John Cusack as the somewhat older Wilson, Paul Giamatti as Dr. Eugene Landy) at 2 pm and Andrea Di Stefano‘s Escobar: Paradise Lost (Benicio del Toro as Pablo Escobar) at 4:15 pm.

(l. to r.) Santa Barbara Film Festival director Roger Durling, The Theory of Everything star Eddie Redmayne, Deadline‘s Pete Hammond at last night’s after-party following pic’s premiere at Princess of Wales, which generates less-than-satisfactory sound.

(l. to r.) Chris Rock, Greta Gerwig, While We’re Young director Noah Baumbach at party for Rock’s Top Five, which suddenly became TIFF’s leading buzz film yesterday (and which I’ll be seeing later this morning right after the 8:30 am screening of Baumbach’s film). The other current high-intrigue title of the moment is The Good Lie, the Reese Witherspoon / Lost Boys of Sudan flick that relatively few have seen thus far, along with The Theory of Everything.

(l. to r.) Cedric “if you want tact, call a tactician” The Entertainer, Chris Rock, While We’re Young‘s Ben Stiller.

The Theory of Everything screenwriter Anthony McCarten.

The Theory of Everything composer Johann Jóhannsson, who last night told me something I’d never heard (or had forgotten), which is that Alex North composed a rejected score for 2001: A Space Odyssey, and that it’s purchasable online.

Antoine Fuqua and Denzel Washington‘s The Equalizer (Sony, 9.26) starts out coolly and unpretentiously and in no big hurry for the action to start. Which is okay with me. I was actually impressed by the fact that Tony Scott‘s Man on Fire (’04), still the high-water mark for Denzel whoop-ass, delayed the inciting incident (i.e., the kidnapping of Dakota Fanning) until the 45-minute mark.

We all know and accept what The Equalizer is basically about — Denzel bringing pain and death to a slew of bad guys. But I really need the action to be semi-plausible and that means Denzel has to be at least a little bit vulnerable, and I really don’t want the bad guys to just be heavily-armed, standard-issue muscle-bound jerkoffs, glaring and snarling and wearing the same beards and shaved heads and dressed in the usual black bad-guy apparel (black suits, black T-shirts, slick black boots)

When I sat down late this morning I said a silent prayer: “Please, Movie Godz…I know this thing isn’t going to be anywhere near as good as Man of Fire…Fuqua peaked or got lucky 13 years ago with Training Day and it’s been downhill ever since…he’s a much sloppier, less exacting and energetic director than Scott but if The Equalizer could almost as good as Man on Fire, I’ll be more or less content.”

Well, it’s about a third as good, if that. After a fairly promising first half-hour or so The Equalizer goes crazy and becomes less and less believable the bodies pile higher and higher. Denzel kills a lot of bad guys here…15, 20, does it matter? Man on Fire‘s Creasy did almost the same thing, but he operated with stealth and discretion. Here Denzel is playing a one-man army who can’t be killed, and it just goes on and on and on. Very disappointing. Later. It’s really not even worth reviewing this thing. It’s just slick garbage. I don’t mean to be dismissive but…well, actually I do.

To be entirely honest I wasn’t sure at first about James Marsh‘s The Theory of Everything (Focus Features, 11.7), the keenly anticipated biopic about British physicist and cosmologist Stephen Hawking. Eddie Redmayne‘s performance as Hawking is clearly a technical and emotional knockout on at least a couple of levels (which is quite a feat given the limitations on his emoting due to Hawking’s progressive ALS condition, which kicks in at the 25-minute mark); ditto Felicity Jones‘ internals as his wife Jane, whose book “Travelling to Infinity: My Life with Stephen” is the basis of Anthony McCarten‘s screenplay. In any event I was respecting it, admiring it, and experiencing no significant problems. But I was nonetheless waiting for “it” to happen. And then it happened in the third act (I won’t divulge at this stage but I’m referring to three…well, two and a half great scenes) and all was well. Everything has now joined the select fraternity of leading, hot-shit contenders for Best Picture along with Birdman, The Imitation Game and Boyhood. The Equalizer beckons — I’ll write more about Marsh’s film later today or tonight.

I tried to get into yesterday’s public screening of Noah Baumbach‘s While We’re Young, which Variety‘s Peter Debruge enjoys and admires, but all the tickets had been given away. And today’s public screening doesn’t fit into today’s schedule so I’ll have to see it tomorrow. But for now…

Ben Stiller, Naomi Watts in Noah Baumbach’s While We’re Young.

“Though While We’re Young is primarily a comedy — and a very funny one at that, managing to be both blisteringly of-the-moment and classically zany in the same breath — Baumbach has bitten off several serious topics, for which laughter serves as the most agreeable way to engage.

“And so, anchored by Ben StillerThat N’s egoless portrayal of middle-age insecurity, the film examines how as a species, humans are naturally threatened by the younger generation, who possess an energy and an aptitude that daunts the more experienced. We can cower from it or embrace the fear. For Josh and Cornelia, the brush with youth re-energizes their marriage, even as it reveals the depths of Josh’s pettiness, once he realizes that Adam Driver‘s young filmmaker he was so willing to help may actually be on to something interesting.

At least two press and industry screenings tomorrow (i.e., Sunday, 9.7 — James Marsh‘s The Theory of Everything at 9:00 am and Antoine Fuqua‘s The Equalizer at 11:45 am, followed by a 6:15 pm public screening of Oren Moverman and Richard Gere‘s Time Out of Mind at the Elgin. I might squeeze in a fourth screening sometime during the afternoon, but what?

Black and White director-writer Mike Binder, star-producer Kevin Costner at gala screening after-party at West Bar, 510 West King Street, Toronto — Saturday, 9.6, 6:20 pm. Costner and I spoke for 10 or 15 minutes. Mutual respect and salutations. Again, my recently-posted review of Black and White and my q & a with Binder.

Time Out of Mind star Richard Gere, Variety‘s Scott Foundas during American Mavericks chat at Toronto’s Gould Hall — Saturday, 9.6, 8:35 pm.

Nightcrawler cdirector-writer Dan Gilroy, whom I spoke to this evening at Toronto’s Trump Hotel. I’ll post a piece about the conversation sometime tomorrow.

Black and White costars Octavia Spencer, Jillian Estell.

Theodore Melfi‘s St. Vincent (formerly St. Vincent de Van Nuys) is an emotonally engaging, nicely-crafted, perfectly agreeable dysfunctional family dramedy set in…where is it, Sheepshead Bay? And good old Bill Murray‘s performance as Vincent, a retired, lazy-ass, less-than-hygenic boozer with a good heart, is a juicy role and roughly on par with his performances in Rushmore and Lost in Translation. The film is good enough to not stand in the way of a possible Oscar nomination for Murray, but it isn’t quite substantial enough on its own terms to be nominated itself. But I enjoyed it. It never lifted me out of the my chair but it’s nice, it’s fine…nothing to complain about. And it’s very agreeable to see Melissa McCarthy give a steady, focused, mid-tempo performance that doesn’t involve acting like a lower-middle-class slob. It’s basically a louche-goofball-babysitting drama, and the 12 year-old kid (Jaeden Liberher) who more or less costars with Murray is on-target also. Smart and mature, stands his ground, doesn’t “kid” it up too much.

I sat down next to a know-it-all couple before this morning’s press and industry screening of Jason Reitman‘s Men, Women & Children. Late 40s, early 50s. A bit aloof and snooty, but I can roll with that. They either knew everything or were curious about everything…chattering away and vibrating with the spirit of journalistic engagement. When I heard her talk about Birdman I asked if she’d seen it locally, and she said she’d just come back from the Venice Film Festival. “Oh.” Anyway, around the hour mark they abandoned the Reitman film. They bolted, scrammed, ducked out like thieves. I’m presuming it wasn’t because one of them had a doctor’s appointment and the other wanted to offer comfort.

Ansel Elgort, Kaitlyn Dever in Jason Reitman’s Men, Women and Children.

I stayed but I’m afraid I agree. After the collapse of Labor Day Reitman needed at least a critical hit, but Men, Women & Children ain’t it. It probably won’t be much of a commercial hit either. It’s an evils-of-the-internet movie…the absorption, the screens, the banality, the sense of drifting, the absence of vitality…except it reflects the banality too well. Is is what it’s lamenting. It’s a relatively empty flick about several distracted, lazy, delusional people sitting around texting each other and talking selfies and surfing porn sites. New title: “Screens, Texts & Aridity of Existence.”

Your empty, passive life is reflected in your empty, passive texting and contemplation of screens, screens and more screens. Is that all there is, Peggy Lee?

I’ve slightly overslept (i.e., seven instead of five hours) but the schedule demands that I catch Jason Reitman‘s Men, Women and Children at 9:15 this morning instead of at a 6 pm public screening at the Ryerson…always see ’em sooner rather than later. I next have a 12 noon showing of Theodore Melfi‘s St. Vincent, a.k.a., the Bill Murray dramedy. The point is to clear the decks so I can see Noah Baumbach‘s While We’re Young at 7 pm rather than wait for a Monday press screening. It’s bad when things start piling up but it’s worse if you just slump and succumb. This is a metaphor for life and survival. Man up or get eaten.

Yesterday I re-saw Wild Tales for the fun and pleasure of it (yes, I indulged…sorry). Then came Michael Roskam‘s The Drop, a low-key neighborhood crime drama which struck me as agreeably flavorful and well-acted , especially by the always impressive Tom Hardy as an unassuming, seemingly-none-too-bright barkeep named Tom who surprises the audience but particularly Matthias Schoenaert‘s bullying bad-guy character in Act Three. It’s a somewhat…no, earnestly above-average, Friends of Eddie Coyle-ish crime drama that I’m looking forward to seeing a second time with subtitles as I was able to catch maybe 60% or 70% of the dialogue. Strongly accented Jersey-speak + slightly whispery, miscalibrated sound system at the Princess of Wales = give it another shot.

Dan Gilroy‘s Nightcrawler was the somersault head-turner of the evening. The Reitman screening starts in 33 minutes so I’ll just re-post the tweets. It’s a chilly, highly original urban psychodrama about a beyond-creepy sociopathic news video shooter who fits right in. The brazen, reckless, manic-wacko quality of Nightcrawler is what makes it cool and cultish — I was fascinated, appalled, thrilled. It’s strikingly soul-less, cold, creepy…and quite respectable for that. A news-video thriller with ice in its veins. Jake Gyllenhaal plays a modern-day antithesis of Travis Bickle on adderall. An uber sociopath, triple creepy, manic and very, very controlled and controlling. And yet Bickle had a lot of soul and sadness while Gyllenhaal’s cranked madman, by contrast, hasn’t a kernel of common humanity.

Three years ago I tried to explain the reasons why I hated the original Horrible Bosses. And now this new trailer for the sequel is renewing my loathing, or rather reminding me how much I despise Charlie Day‘s voice. Three years ago I described his character as “a little male hygienist with a high-pitched voice who probably has a schlong the size of a rook on a chess board.” I can’t roll with and certainly can’t laugh at puny, unmanly, pencil-dick guys. I have to believe or at least be effectively sold on the idea that they’re at least somewhat manly in all the usual ways. Short guys (example: Peter Dinklage) can be manly as hell. It’s all in the mind and more particularly “the size of the fight in the dog.”