Angelina Jolie is on the cover of this month’s Vanity Fair, which is either her ninth or tenth. A VF cover used to be a fairly big deal — now it’s like “uh-huh, okay.” I’ve mentioned twice before that as a director with the ability to choose her own projects, Jolie has demonstrated a preference for stories about innocents suffering horribly under the yoke of evil forces. In The Land of Blood and Honey (’11) focused on a Bosnian muslim woman (Zana Marjanovic) coping with the Serbian genocide. Unbroken (’14) was largely about an American soldier being sadistically brutalized in a Japanese prison camp. The following year Jolie was talking about directing a film about the poaching of elephants with Brad Pitt intending to play poacher-fighter Richard Leakey. Now she’s promoting her latest film, a Netflix production called First They Came For My Father, which deals with the Khymer Rouge’s genocide of Cambodia in the mid ’70s. Father will probably play Telluride.

Michelangelo Antonioni‘s Red Desert (’64) will screen this Friday (7.28) at the Walter Reade. Oh, that red hair and pale skin, that black mud and those gloomy gray skies and general sense of sprawling ecological ruin…mother’s milk to me.

I saw Red Desert for the first time two years ago. I know the Antonioni milieu, of course, and had read a good deal about it over the years, so I was hardly surprised to discover that it has almost no plot. It has a basic situation, and Antonioni is wonderfully at peace with the idea of just settling into that without regard to story. And for that it seemed at least ten times more engrossing than 80% or 90% of conventional narrative films I see these days, and 87 times better than the majority of bullshit superhero films.

Monica Vitti plays a twitchy and obviously unstable wife and mother who’s been nudged into a kind of madness by the industrial toxicity around her, and Richard Harris is an even-mannered German businessman visiting smelly, stinky Ravenna, a port city on the Adriatic, to arrange for several Italian workers to perform a long work assignment in lower Argentina.

You suspect that sooner or later Harris, whose hair has been dyed an odd brownish blonde, will make a move on Vitti but other than that nothing really happens. It’s about industrial sprawl and poisoned landscapes and a lot of standing around and Vitti’s neurotic gibberish and a certain caught-in-the-mud mood that holds you like a drug, specifically like good opium.

Each and every shot in Red Desert (the dp is Carlo di Palma, whom Vitti later fell in love with) is quietly breathtaking. It’s one of the most immaculate and mesmerizing ugly-beautiful films I’ve ever seen. The fog, the toxins, the afflictions, the compositions.

HE to guy who’s seen Woody Allen’s Wonder Wheel: “Without sourcing or even mentioning whom I spoke to or what country you’re from, how would you rate Kate Winslet‘s performance in terms of potential award-worthiness, on a scale of 1 to 10? It all comes down to the arc and the writing and the third-act catharsis, of course, but I gather she does a theatrical angst-and-hair-pulling thing due to Justin Timberlake two-timing her with Juno Temple, or something like that.”

Answer: “10. Truly. She’s amazing.”

Then I turned to a guy who’s spoken to a guy who knows a thing or two, and his reply was “I’ve only heard that she has a Blue Jasmine-ish meltdown that goes on for many minutes. So who knows but it at least sounds like a seven-plus at this stage.”

Blade Runner 2049 will probably land a berth at the Toronto Film Festival (right?), but the fact that it wasn’t announced among the first batch…what does that tell you? To me it suggests indecisiveness or an internal debate on the part of Warner Bros. marketing, but maybe not.

The fanboys are gradually starting to realize that the most Denis Villeneuve’s film can hope to do is “cover” the dog-eared design mythology of Ridley Scott’s 1982 groundbreaker. That’s it, that’s the shot. A revered, ahead-of-its-time cult movie did an urban dystopia thing 35 years ago, and here we are doing it again. Except we’re doing a nostalgic classic-rock thing, and we’re keeping Harrison Ford in the wings until the very end.

What’s the most memorable moment in Blade Runner? When Rutger Hauer‘s Roy dies and the dove flies away.

Again: It would seem that the decades-old Blade Runner suspicion about Harrison Ford‘s Rick Deckard being a replicant has been answered by the trailer for Blade Runner 2049. Deckard, like Ford, has aged, and that, for me, feels like proof that Deckard is flesh and blood. Why on earth would the Tyrell Corporation have constructed replicants that age like humans? This would make no sense at all — none.

The official synopsis says 2049 is about LAPD Officer K (Ryan Gosling) discovering “a long-buried secret that has the potential to plunge what’s left of society into chaos,” etc. This “leads K on a quest to find Deckard, a former LAPD blade runner who’s been missing for 30 years.” It would follow, naturally, that the K-meets-Deckard moment happens in the third act.

Yesterday’s Toronto 2017 announcements will ultimately represent…what, maybe half of what will finally play there? By the way: I’m presuming (praying) that Andrey Zvyagintsev‘s Loveless, a Cannes hottie, will be among the Telluride selections. Put another way, it damn well ought to be.

England Is Mine is a ringing title, but name one Smiths song that you hum to yourself on occasion. I can name several. The Smiths are my life. When I shower I’ll often sing “Girlfriend in a Coma” or “Still Ill” or “Panic” or “Heaven Knows I’m Miserable Now.” A portion of my living room walls are covered in Smiths’ album jackets. The Queen is Dead, Meat Is Murder…come softly to me, Smiths! I’d obviously like to see Mark Gill’s film (who wouldn’t?) — a friend just sent me a link. Seriously: I always understood that I needed to respect The Smiths, but in the same way I never saw a Beth and Scott B. film, I never gave them a single listen on my own dime.

With all the Donald Trump animus it doesn’t seem right that Chicago artist Mitch O’Connell couldn’t make a deal with a domestic billboard company to display his They Live art. “Perhaps unsurprisingly, it turns out that billboard companies pretty much nationwide don’t want to touch anything so political,” reports the Chicagoist‘s Steve Gossett. Later this month O’Connell’s creation will finally be displayed, albeit “along Norte 69, in Naucalpan, just northwest of Mexico City.” Has McConnell ever heard of Robbie Conal? The image should be duplicated by the tens of thousands and wild-posted everywhere, every city and town, sea to shining sea. Someone needs to fund this.

Mike White‘s Brad’s Status is clearly a smart, bone-dry comedy about an insecure, middle-aged dad (Ben Stiller) who’s more than a bit  haunted by underachievement and, worse, the blooming success of his son. My first reaction was “this’ll be good, I get this, I wanna see it.” But right after that I thought, “Wait, Stiller’s playing the same kind of anxious 40ish guy he played in Noah Baumbach‘s While We’re Young (’14). Should he be doing another one of these so soon?” But I’d jump for joy if he’d make Greenberg 2.

Right after the reported encounter with alien craft, Indianapolis air-traffic control asks the pilot if he’d like to report a UFO. Silence. The air-traffic guy asks again if the pilot wants to report. Finally the scratchy reply: “Negative…we don’t want to report.” That’s much, much better than what this trailer passes along (“I wouldn’t know what to report.”) Trailer-cutters are dedicated to removing the intrigue and the shading. They’re always dumbing things down.

I’ve made it clear I’m no fan of Mervyn LeRoy‘s 1950s films, and that certainly includes The FBI Story (’59). James Stewart gives a reasonably engaging performance as FBI agent Chip Hardesty, whose 25-year history with the bureau serves as the basic throughline. If you can excuse or ignore the fact that The FBI Story is essentially a J. Edgar Hoover propaganda film (the closeted FBI director assisted the producers every which way), you could give it a pass. But it’s always struck me as a stodgy, Joe Friday-ish, overly righteous thing with a broomstick up its ass.

And yet I’ve always loved Elmer Bernstein‘s main-title theme. It summons your inner right-winger, and as such is almost as good as Jerry Goldsmith‘s Patton theme (including his entr’acte music). Every so often Bernstein’s scores would surpass the films they were meant to enhance; this was one such occasion.

An announcement popped this morning about principal attractions slated for the 2017 Toronto Film Festival. As usual, Hollywood Elsewhere will be there with bells on following my Telluride attendance. All hail the enticement of Darren Aronfosky‘s mother!, even if it’s not playing Telluride.  Why turn down an Aronofsky film, Tom?

Don’t knock the Toronto rock: Guillermo del Toro‘s The Shape of Water (following showings at Venice and Telluride), Joe Wright‘s Darkest Hour, Alexander Payne‘s Downsizing (which will also have previously played Venice and Telluride), the noteworthy inclusion of Luca Guadagnino‘s Call Me By Your Name after the forehead-slapping turndown by Telluride, George Clooney‘s Suburbicon, Valerie Faris and Jonathan Dayton‘s Battle of the Sexes, Martin McDonagh‘s Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri (Venice but no Telluride), Scott Cooper‘s Hostiles, Scott Cooper‘s Hostiles, Greta Gerwig‘s Lady Bird (also a Telluride firstie), Ruben Ostlund‘s The Square, Alfonso Gomez-Rejon‘s The Current War, Stephen Frears‘ Victoria and Abdul, et. al.

The first thing you have to ask about any TIFF is “how many high-profile titles are grim stories about some form of assaultive or debilitating trauma followed by painful recovery or, failing that, acceptance or closure”? I’m not posting a comprehensive list of these films here and now, but Toronto Agonistes certainly applies: Andy Serkis‘ Breathe, David Gordon Green‘s Stronger, Angelina Jolie‘s First They Killed My Father, Hany Abu-Assad‘s The Mountain Between Us, Paul McGuigan‘s Film Stars Don’t Die in Liverpool, Jennifer Baichwal and Nicholas de Pencier‘s Long Time Running, et. al.

Thanks to TIFF’s regional designations after every film (listing them as a North American, Canadian or international premiere), we know almost everything about who’s doing Venice, Telluride and/or Toronto. Jig’s up, cat’s out of the bag.

I doubt that Telluride will be showing Dee Rees‘ Mudbound, which played Sundance last January, but if they do they’ll be granting it an exception that they didn’t grant Call Me By Your Name, which Tom Luddy deep-sixed for having played Sundance and Berlin. But Sebastian Lelio‘s A Fantastic Woman, which played Berlin and other international festivals, is going to Telluride, as indicated by TIFF’s calling it a Canadian premiere, which means the film will have been celebrated as a U.S. and international premiere prior to Toronto.

Here, based on TIFF’s info, are rosters of films playing and not playing Telluride (special acknowledgment to Deadline‘s Pete Hammond and the tireless Jordan Ruimy for sharing and clarifying):

Going to Telluride: Joe Wright‘s Darkest Hour (which TIFF is calling a Canadian premiere), Paul McGuigan‘s Film Stars Don’t Die in Liverpool (Canadian premiere), Alexander Payne‘s Downsizing, Sebastian Lelio‘s A Fantastic Woman (Canadian premiere), Angelina Jolie‘s First They Killed My Father (Canadian premiere), Chloé Zhao‘s The Rider (Canadian premiere), Guillermo del Toro‘s The Shape of Water, Valerie Faris and Jonathan Dayton‘s Battle of the Sexes (calling it an “international premiere” = no Venice or Berlin), Scott Cooper‘s Hostiles (international premiere), Greta Gerwig‘s Lady Bird (international premiere) and Joachim Trier‘s Thelma.

NOT going to Telluride: Luca Guadagnino’s Call Me By Your Name (HE response: boooooo!), Robin Campillo‘s BPM (Beats Per Minute), Darren Aronofsky‘s mother! (baahh), Ruben Östlund‘s The Square (boooo!), George Clooney‘s Suburbicon, Martin McDonagh‘s Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri, Stephen Frears‘ Victoria and Abdul, Andy Serkis‘s Breathe, Deniz Gamze Ergüven‘s Kings, Hany Abu-Asasad‘s The Mountain Between Us, David Gordon Green‘s Stronger, Alfonso Gomez-Rejon‘s The Current War