You may not have yet seen Jonathan Glazer‘s Under The Skin and if you have you may not be down with it, but you have to admit that this extended trailer delivers a fairly accurate semblance of how the film looks, sounds and plays. Here’s my Toronto Film Festival reaction.

In his mostly ecstatic review of Alfonso Cuaron‘s Gravity (Warner Bros., 10.4), TheWrap critic Todd Gilchrist describes it as “a hard-science tale.” The $80 million dollar 3D epic certainly feels technologically realistic but the term “hard-science” suggests something dry and matter-of-fact and perhaps even 2001-ish. That’s not how the film plays. Director-cowriter Cuaron spends a lot of time exploring the emotional travails of Sandra Bullock‘s novice-astronaut character, Dr. Ryan Stone. Gravity, truth be told, is basically an emotional-woman-in-peril movie first and a “hard science” thing (if you want to call it that) second. Gilchrist calls it “a virtuoso technical achievement and a powerfully visceral cinematic experience” — definitely. He also says “it offers a uniquely poetic portrait of hope and survival.” I’m less sure about “uniquely” since Bullock’s response to her life-threatening situation isn’t radically different from the responses of Doris Day and Karen Black in vaguely similar films of the past, as I pointed out on 9.19. Gravity is a brilliant achievement, but “hard science” it’s not.

Kyle Patrick Alvarez‘s C.O.G. (Focus Features, 9.20) is a personal-odyssey drama about a Yale graduate (Jonathan Groff) trying to immerse himself in some form of rural reality (i.e, an apple farm) as a way of shaking himself out of his elitist academic realm…or something like that. (C.O.G. is an acronym for Child of God — is there anyone on the planet who can’t be so described?) Jeremy Seifert‘s GMO OMG is a doc about a guy looking for naturally grown, non-corporate foodstuffs. GMO is an acronym for “Genetically Modified Organism.”

I’ve seen and reviewed four of the 18 films that opened two days ago — Rush (positive as far as it goes), Prisoners (mixed positive), Haute Cuisine (positive) and The Wizard of Oz 3D (mostly positive). I walked into a Toronto Film Festival screening of The Art of The Steal and walked right out again 20 to 25 minutes later because it seemed too genre-ish. I haven’t seen A Single Shot, After Tiller, Battle of the Year 3D, C.O.G., The Colony, Generation Iron, IP Man: The Final Fight, Jerusalem, My Lucky Star, Plus One, The Short Game, Thanks for Sharing and Zaytoun. This is the way of the movie world these days. I should have seen one of two more openers, I suppose, but a one-man band can’t keep up and write this kind of column (six or seven stories per day).

“There’s no escaping that [this] film will jerk tears, but it doesn’t deserve the pejorative label that might suggest…Felix von Groeningen seems to innately understand that sorrow truthfully communicated and shared can be cathartic, rather than depressing.” — The Playlist‘s Jessica Kiang, filing from the Karlovy Film festival.

I was mildly okay with Ron Howard‘s Rush (Universal 9.20) for the most part, but I haven’t felt moved to review it. I’m still not there. I’m waiting for the insight or ignition. I admired the craft and verisimilitude and the ’60s/’70s vibe, and I enjoyed the visceral vroom-vroom…but it didn’t stay with me, possibly because I didn’t sense much of an undercurrent (or at least an undercurrent that meant something to me personally). Is it because I didn’t care all that much about James Hunt (Chris Hemsworth) or Niki Lauda (Daniel Bruhl)? The former struck me as an instinctual, good-natured, hot-dog libertine with a lion-like mane ; the other as an edgy, screwed-down, not-especially-likable hardass. Am I glad I saw Rush? Yeah. Would I see it again? Possibly. Will I buy the Bluray? No offense but probably not. And that’s not a putdown. I might rent the HD version on Vudu.

Formula One race-car driver James Hunt, who is portrayed by Chris Hemsworth in Ron Howard‘s Rush, died at age 45. The film doesn’t exactly say that Hunt paid the price for being a chronic party animal, womanizer and cigarette smoker who burned the candle at both ends, but that’s obviously what happened. He died of Harry Nilsson‘s disease — “He liked to party and he got that, and in the end it got him.” It’s funny how this pathology, which has been dramatized over and over by party-hound types in Hollywood and the music industry for decades…it’s fascinating how this never seems to have the slightest effect upon people in their 20s who love the wild life. Almost everyone in their 20s thinks they’re bulletproof. Or that they’ll start living more moderately down the road. Or that it’s better to burn out than to fade away.

(l.) Chris Hemsworth; (r.) James Hunt.

I might be kidding myself, but I believe there’s a difference between (a) mindless smartphone distraction as a way of avoiding mystical silences and pushing back on loneliness and (b) constantly searching sites and refreshing Twitter and checking emails in an 18/7 search for material, which is more or less what I do.

Last April I caught an American Cinematheque screening of the original cut of Thom Andersen‘s L.A. Plays Itself (’03). I was happy to see it again, of course, but the visual quality was basically shit and it was of course dated by a decade. It reminded me that it was time for Andersen to deliver an updated, remastered version. That new version screened last night at the same venue. Here’s a Arts Meme mini-review by Robert Koehler. A make-up screening at the Aero would be nice. Or at least a chance to watch a DVD screener.

“I was totally bowled over by 12 Years a Slave and it looks to me like the rare case where a sentimental or politically-motivated vote will go toward a film that, you know, actually deserves it,” says Peter Knegt in a 9.20 Indiewire piece called “Has 12 Years a Slave Already Won the Oscar?” “It’s hard to deny the narrative this year of decent (Lee Daniels’ The Butler) to good (Fruitvale Station) to downright brilliant (12 Years a Slave) films with important black stories being directed by actual black filmmakers. Which I say only because so many times over the years, films with major black characters have been huge Oscar contenders (Driving Miss Daisy and Crash being the obvious two), but they were representationally problematic ones directed by white dudes. If this is the year of the black filmmaker, Steve McQueen is a remarkable one — who is wholly deserving of what’s about to come his way.”

I recognize that Denis Villeneuve‘s Prisoners has won the devotion of the elites. I recognize that the damp, sprawling Fincher-like aspects of the damn thing are very appealing to a certain breed of critic. But for me and others in my aesthetic realm it feels more like a dense slog than anything else, and I think it might be nice at this juncture to gather all the complaints (like the 153-minute length and that “what?” ending) under one umbrella and kick the can around. All I know is that I began looking at my watch around the one-hour mark. All through Prisoners I felt weary and chilly and fatigued. “If this is such a good film — and it is — why do I feel like a prisoner myself?,” I muttered at one point.

Time‘s Richard Corliss acknowledges that while Prisoners “has more pedigree than a Westminster dog-show winner, it’s just not very good. In fact, it’s worse than not-very-good — it’s could’ve-been-really-good-and-isn’t.”