The right owns blacklisting, or rather their fathers and grandfathers earned it back in the late ’40s and ’50s, branding it into American conservative legacy like red-hot iron. The idea of blacklisting anyone for their political convictions is reprehensible, of course, but if, let’s say, anyone on the left wanted to play around with the idea of blacklisting a rightie or even flirt with a fantasy along these lines just for amusement’s sake, contemporary righties would have no choice but to take it and like it. They could complain but they have no leg to stand on. Their forebears bought the farm.

I’m sorry but I was listening last night to “Walking In The Rain,” the ’64 Ronettes song that was written by Barry Mann, Phil Spector and Cynthia Weil. And out of the blue the chorus just seemed…well, poorly thought out. I’m not saying it’s on the same level as those King Kong natives building a huge gate in that wall intended to keep all those dinosaurs and giant apes from invading their village, but it sure as hell is illogical.

The lead-up to the chorus goes “He’ll be kind of shy / But real good lookin’ too / And I’ll be certain he’s my guy / By the things he’ll like to do.” And then the mind-blower: “Like walking in the rain / And wishing on the stars up above / And being so in love.”

Has anyone in the history of the planet earth ever been able to look up and see stars in the middle of a rainshower? Ever? Particularly the kind accompanied by thunder, which “Walking in the Rain” producer Phil Spector threw in for added emotional effect?

Obviously one can interpret the lyrics as being about a would-be boyfriend who likes to (a) walk in the rain as well as (b) wish on stars after the weather has cleared, but to the casual listener the lyric clearly suggests that the rainstorm stroll and the star-wishing are happening on the same dreamy date.

It’s fucked up, and to my knowledge nobody has pointed this out in over half a century.

To judge from David Rooney‘s 9.8 Hollywood Reporter review, Noah Baumbach and Jake Paltrow‘s De Palma, a A24 doc about the once-dazzling auteurist who’s been downswirling for at least the last 15 years, is a lot of fun, or more precisely “a blast.” It’s just played in Venice and will screen at the N.Y. Film Festival…but not, apparently, here in Toronto.

My view is that De Palma was a truly exciting, must-watch director from the late ’60s to mid ’70s (Greetings to The Phantom of the Paradise to Carrie), and an exasperating, occasionally intriguing director from the late ’70s to mid ’90s (Dressed To Kill, Scarface, The Untouchables, Carlito’s Way, Mission: Impossible, Snake Eyes). But he’s been “over” in the sense of failing to read or respond to the culture for years. I used to love the guy but then he made Mission to Mars (’00), Femme Fatale (’02), The Black Dahlia (’06), Redacted (’07) and Passion (’12)…over and out.

Non-pros who’ve never attended the Cannes Film Festival won’t care about the following, but a persistent and profoundly irritating sound problem in the Grand Lumiere theatre, the largest inside the sprawling festival bunker known as the Grand Palaix, hadn’t been solved as of last May’s festival, and so this morning I wrote Cannes honcho Thierry Fremaux about asking Boston Light and Sound’s Chapin Cutler to take a look at things:

“Thierry,

“I’ve written you once before about what I and several others regard as a troubling sound issue in the Grand Lumiere. Too much bass and echo, not enough middle-range, and a resulting inability to understand much of the dialogue in certain films. I’m not a sound technician but there’s an acoustical condition called ‘standing waves‘ that may be a factor. Or not — I’m not sure. But I know that the Grand Lumiere’s sound has definitely compromised the dialogue in certain films shown there over the last two or three years, and that a solution needs to be found.

“Last May the dialogue in two films that I saw in the Grand Lumiere — Denis Villenueve‘s Sicario and Justin Kurzel‘s Macbeth — was all but unintelligible. More than a few journalists have reported the same. I can say for sure that in the case of Sicario it’s not the mix. A week ago I re-viewed Sicario in CAA’s screening room in Los Angeles, and the dialogue was fine — I understood every last vowel and consonant.

There are press & industry screenings Thursday afternoon at the Scotiabank plex — 45 Years (which I couldn’t get around to at Telluride), Jawar Panahi‘s Taxi, the uncut German bank robbery flick Victoria, etc. And then comes the opening-night double-header at the Princes of Wales — Jean Marc Vallee‘s Demolition and Michael Moore‘s Where To Invade Next. The only thing happening tonight is a Toronto Star-sponsored journalist soiree at some Mexican joint. The party has a name — “Critical Drinking.” Thanks to Peter Howell for the invite.

HE’s Porter Air flight touched down in Toronto around 3:25 pm. I ran into the formidable but always friendly and laid-back Darren Aronofsky in baggage claim — he’s being interviewed tomorrow night at Koerner Hall about the relationship between movies and music. Picked up the press pass at Bell Lightbox around 4:15 or so. The staffers and volunteers are helpful and gracious, as always, but the press “lounge” in the BL’s third floor is the size of a large bathroom, and there aren’t enough electrical outlets. And the festival has no app, which is fairly shameful as Cannes, Berlin and Telluride have them. At least there’s a TIFF people’s app — 2015.tiffr.com. (Thanks to Awards Daily‘s Jordan Ruimy for the tip.)

A-training to Penn Station at 11 am, and then on to Newark airport. I’ll be strolling Toronto streets by 3:30 or thereabouts. The Martian, Trumbo, Truth, Our Brand Is Crisis, Freeheld, Stonewall, Black Mass, Spotlight, The Danish Girl, Beasts of No Nation, Brooklyn, Son of Saul — it all starts tomorrow. My latest speculative Best Picture top-ten rundown for Gold Derby, influenced by Telluride, not-yet-seen titles in boldface: (1) The Revenant (2) Spotlight, (3) Joy, (4) Suffragette, (5) Carol, (6) Son of Saul, (7) Beasts of No Nation, (8) Brooklyn, (9) Steve Jobs and (10) The Danish Girl. Here’s how the Gold Derby gang is spitballing things.

“Irish director Lenny Abrahamson clearly has a penchant for confining his actors to tight spaces — Michael Fassbender within a large fake head in Frank, and now Brie Larson and her little son to a 10×10 shed in Room (A24, 11.6). The result is rather better this time around, as this adaptation of Emma Donoghue’s celebrated 2010 novel, with a script by the author herself, is involving and moderately heartwarming here and there, even if doesn’t reach the higher levels of psychological insight and emotional profundity to which it aspires. Strong performances by Larson and young Jacob Tremblay as a mother and son held captive for years, as well as the book’s reputation, will provide a certain art house draw, more among female viewers than with men. But the claustrophobic and upsetting nature of the material will be a disincentive to many.” — from Todd McCarthy’s 9.4 Telluride review. And yet Rotten Tomatoes is assessing the Room reviews thus far (including McCarthy’s) as indicative of 100% rapture,

As noted, Fox Searchlight has two spring ’16 releases — Jean Marc Vallee‘s Demolition and Luca Guadagnino‘s A Bigger Splash — debuting as we speak at the Toronto and Venice film festivals, respectively. But without any crossover. A Bigger Splash (which has fared relatively well in Venice reviews) won’t play Toronto and Demolition‘s exposure is strictly confined to Toronto. This kind of either-or separatism has happened before, but rarely.

Atom Egoyan‘s Remember screens tomorrow (9.10) at the Venice Film Festival. No disrespect but I stopped trusting Egoyan a long time ago. I had a particularly difficult time with The Captive, which I saw at the 2014 Cannes Film Festival. So I’m taking a rave review of Remember (from an industry-involved guy called “Marlowe”) with a grain of salt.

For one thing it’s a Holocaust-related Nazi-hunt thing, and the calendar has pretty much shut that genre down, certainly in a present-day context. Everyone from that period is either dead or in their 90s and therefore less than ambulatory, and probably too weak or disoriented to accomplish anything. Marathon Man was 39 years ago. Give it a rest.

“It’s a small film that ultimately packs a powerful punch,” Marlowe contends. “Christopher Plummer plays a Holocaust survivor living in a retirement home with his dying wife along with Martin Landau, a weak, wheelchair-bound friend. Landau has persuaded Plummer that after his wife passes he has to track down the surviving Nazi who tortured him and Landau 70-odd years ago. The fact that Plummer has advanced Alzheimer’s compromises his likely effectiveness in this regard, but he has a handwritten letter from Landau that instructs him exactly how to proceed.