When the well is dry and you have to wash the car (not to mention pay money to see Black Effing Widow), post Times Square marquee photos.

The word along the Croisette is that certain distributors have either pulled their films out of the 2021 Toronto Film Festival or are seriously thinking about same. Why? Because (a) the Telluride and Venice festivals, unlike Toronto, are not leaning on streaming, and (b) distributors greatly prefer live-audience projection screenings.

Why is Toronto a mostly-streaming festival this year? Because the Canadian government is being extremely cautious about the new Delta strain of Covid, despite high rates of vaccination.

In short, this is not Toronto’s year. Which is a good thing, of course, as Toronto, like Sundance, has become a repressive and prejudicial wokester festival. All hail Telluride and Cannes…festivals that believe in art, freedom of ideas and fair access.

Ingmar Bergman‘s Scenes From a Marriage (’73) was originally a six-part Swedish miniseries that ran 281 minutes; the shorter, theatrically released version ran 167 minutes. It costarred Liv Ullmann, HE nemesis Erland Josephson and Bibi Andersson.

In Hagai Levi’s remake of the Bergman series, a multi-episode thing that will air on HBO in September, a woke switch scheme has been hatched. Instead of Jessica Chastain playing Ullman and Oscar Isaac playing Josephson, Isaacson plays Ullmann and Chastain is doing Josephson. (Or so I’m told.)

The miniseries is exec produced by a boatload of people, but Isaac, Chastain and Williams are among them.

The good-looking Isaac (i.e., Poe Dameron) is only 42, but with his gray hair and beard he looks at least 50 if not 55. It’s obviously a choice and there’s nothing “wrong” with this…just saying. Chastain is no spring chicken (the clock never relents), but she looks fine. Ditto Williams.

…should’ve been on Richard Branson’s Virgin Galactic flight this morning. Because without a Joe Schmoe presence it’s just a brash elitist stunt…”look at what this billionaire can do…hah! Because I can!”

What is weightlessness? It’s nothing. 53 years ago that Pan Am space stewardess wearing “grip shoes” was weightless in 2001: A Space Odyssey, and it was almost nothing even then. Ditto Gary Lockwood, Keir Dullea and William Sylvester…who cares? The Apollo 13 guys — Tom Hanks, Kevin Bacon, Bill Paxton, director Ron Howard — were weightless on the vomit comet 25 or 26 years ago, and most of us shrugged and said “okay, cool, but what else can we read about?”

By “average schmoe” I don’t mean some person who works for Door Dash or Target or Southwest Airlines — I mean anyone who has to work for a living, which can obviously include six-figure earners.

Long-festering allegations about an alleged secret alteration of the 8mm Abraham Zapruder film of the Dealey Plaza murder…an alteration that allegedly began late in the evening of 11.23.63 and was completed sometime near dawn on Sunday, 11.24…this, I’ve been told, is a significant focus of Oliver Stone’s JFK Revisited: Through The Looking Glass. Reading through all this stuff makes your brain ache, and my gut still says there’s something fundamentally flakey about the Zapruder alteration scenario, and yet…

Oliver Stone speaking to Deadline’s Tom Grater:

The Hollywood Reporter‘s Scott Feinberg “suspects” that Juho Kuosmanen‘s Compartment No.6, which screened on Saturday, may be “the first serious contender for the Palme d’Or.” Because of the alleged quality of it and the enthusiastic audience response.

Before you buy the hype, consider the trailer (top) and especially the bottom clip, in which the costars, Seidi Haarla (Finnish) and Yuriy Borisov (Russian), chat inside a small train compartment.

And ask yourself how many minutes you’d want to spend listening to the drunken Borisov boast and cackle as he blows his rancid smoke and drops ashes all over the place…I was feeling repulsed rather quickly. Imagine having to listen to this jerk for hours on end as he lights up cigarette after cigarette…dear God.

Boilerplate synopsis: “Compartment No. 6 is the story of a young Finnish woman who escapes an enigmatic love affair in Moscow by boarding a train to the Arctic port of Murmansk. Forced to share the long ride and a tiny sleeping car with a Russian miner, the unexpected encounter leads the occupants of compartment no. 6 to face the truth about their own yearning for human connection.”

A journo pally has suggested HE readers might want to (a) name a critically-acclaimed director whose films they despise, and (b) explain why in 50 to 75 words.

The only director I can think of whose work I really, really don’t like is Todd Solondz (Happiness, Welcome to the Dollhouse, Palindromes, Life During Wartime, Dark Horse, Wiener-Dog). That’s not to say I don’t respect Solondz’s “brand”, or that I would argue with anyone who might insist that he’s one of the indie greats. He’s ballsy — I’ll give him that much. Courage of his convictions, unmistakable signature, etc. And I’m saying this as one who was raised in suburban New Jersey (i.e., not Essex County but Union).

I just know that the films of Todd Solondz tend to make me feel soiled and icky and lethargic. Yeah, I know — that’s the point.

From “Hating Wiener-Dog,” posted on 1.22.16: “Todd Solondz‘s Weiner-Dog, a morose and depressive slog about a dachsund passing from owner to owner and bearing the sins of mankind, screened at the Eccles tonight. It’s about futility, fuck it, banality, depression, ennui, emptiness, death, random cruelty, Down Syndrome and cancer.

“Solondz reportedly told an interviewer today that he intended a blend of Au Hasard Balthasar and Benji. I’ve always hated Solondz and his dweeby, depressive attitude and particularly his attachment to depressive losers. I began hating this film early on, and it was agony sitting through to the end (which I was determined to do no matter what).

“Animal lovers…I was about to post a warning but they can fend for themselves. As Weiner-Dog began a woman sitting behind me was making that ‘awwuhhah’ sound as the camera regarded the lovable dachshund, and I was muttering to myself or more precisely to God “please don’t make me listen to this woman make ‘awwuhhah‘ sounds all through this thing.” Well, she stopped. (On this note Solondz was my ally.) At the very end an older woman sitting next to me was moaning ‘Why did he do that? Why did he do that?’ Go, Todd!”

Here’s another “trying to find good homes for the kittens” story. It just happened. Around 9 am a person asked (texted) whether any of the kittens were still available, and I answered “yes — three. But there’s a homing fee.” The person replied “great” and suggested a drop-by around 10 or 10:15 am. Before agreeing I asked for some basic info. It was a youngish woman who said she has a cat named Timmy who’s alone all day (she works on weekdays), and who could use some company. Okay, I said.

Right around 10:10 am the woman texted “here.” I stepped outside and walked over to the front stoop.
About 50 feet away was an older white convertible covered in garish, hand-painted graffiti (green, black, pink lettering). Right away I was thinking “the hell is this?” A large, sandy-haired beefalo male (mid 30s) was behind the wheel, and the woman I’d texted, a short blonde in sunglasses (also 30ish), was in the passenger seat. They were sipping take-out Starbucks and exchanging PDA — caressing each other’s hair, etc. They looked like they’d been partying all night and hadn’t been to bed.

Obviously they were highly questionable people. No way would I entrust the well-being of a young kitten to these mongrels. What kind of grunt drives a ride like this? What kind of woman says “hey, this big unshaven galumph with longish surfer hair is kinda cute, and I love all the graffiti on his car!” Nope.

I approached them as they exited the vehicle. The woman was holding a small blue cat carrier. I said “sorry but there’s no way I’m selling a kitten to a couple sitting in a car that looks like that.” The woman said “what?” The guy said, “It’s not her car.” I shook my head and said firmly, “I’m not doing it, man.” The woman was silent. The man said to the woman, “Okay, let’s roll.” They returned to the graffiti-mobile. I waved and said “Have a nice day.”