A screenwriter I know has passed along reactions of a New York-based friend who saw Robert Zemeckis‘ The Walk at the New York Film Festival yesterday, and who mentioned nausea and PTSD. Direct email quote: “I couldn’t take the 3-D, and the whole finale gave me motion sickness and flashbacks to seeing people falling from the twin towers. And I wasn’t alone [in this reaction].'”

Remember the “too soon” crowd who didn’t want to watch Paul Greengrass‘s United 93 when it came out nine years ago? Remember four years ago when Movieline‘s Stu Van Airsdale spoke to a guy who’d seen an early cut of Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close, and one of his reactions was that the impressionistic recall of 9/11 horrors was “inappropriate” and “too soon”?  Ten years later?

Some New Yorkers will never get over that day no matter what, but The Walk doesn’t do anything, really, except show the twin towers from all kinds of angles for the last 25 or so minutes. There are no summonings of nightmares.

And yet The Walk could have been a bit more delicate. One of the things that James Marsh‘s Man On Wire got right and The Walk gets wrong is that Marsh didn’t lift a finger to allude to the WTC’s ultimate fate. He knew he didn’t have to. But at the very end of The Walk Zemeckis has Joseph Gordon Levitt talk about a special visitor pass to the observation deck of the WTC and how the official who gave it to him had crossed out the expiration date and written “forever.”

That would have been more than enough, but then Zemeckis has to pan his camera over and focus on the towers (which look kinda painted rather than real) for 20 or 25 seconds and have them gradually fade into darkness. I realize that American audiences seem to like emphasis and a lack of restraint. I realize that a lot of people are going to be touched by this final moment. And that you can’t tell people that it’s better to undersell, that less is always more. People like what they like. There’s no accounting for taste.

In yesterday’s award-season chat between The Hollywood Reporter‘s Scott Feinberg and Stephen Galloway, topic #1 is Paramount’s decision to release Adam McKay‘s The Big Short, adapted from Michael Lewis‘ book, is late December, obviously with an aim of making some award-season noise a la The Blind Side and Moneyball, which are also Lewis adaptations.

Galloway: “I was fascinated by that. You know what I think it means? Paramount’s Megan Colligan obviously studied the awards landscape and concluded there’s no film that can’t be beaten.” (That means you, Revenant, Joy and Spotlight!) “It puts the studio right back in the awards game after it looked like they’d have no contender. Last year, as you know, their awards strategy took a bit of a turn after Interstellar sputtered, and Selma came out of nowhere to get a best picture nomination. I’m sure they learned from that — not least the danger of having a movie appear so late in the game that nobody has a chance to see it.”

From 9.27 review by Little White Lies‘ David Jenkins: “Robert Zemeckis’ The Walk lays on the cartoon gloss like Vaseline before a marathon, transforming what some may have chalked up as one man fulfilling an incomprehensible life’s calling into a case of wishy-washy daredevilism, a disaster movie with little at stake.

“In Zemeckis’ buttery paws, Phillipe Petit becomes a stock action hero, a twinkle-toed dreamer who is powered by nuggets of old-timey wisdom and screwball serendipity that he acquires along the road to infamy.

“A tone of light comedy prevails from the get-go, with Joseph Gordon-Levitt prancing around on the torch of the Statue of Liberty and teeing up his tall tale like a court jester above his station. There’s the feeling that Zemeckis is in constant doubt that his audience might dismiss this story as whimsical and inconsequential, and so his screenplay — co-written by Christopher Browne and based on Petit’s book, ‘To Reach The Clouds’ — employs a narration whose purpose appears to be to make sure that even a scintilla of ambiguity is neutralized on sight.”

Last night I decided to skip the L.A. premiere screening of Ondi Timoner’s BRAND: A Second Coming and just hit the party instead. Little did I know that Timoner has trimmed about 15 minutes from the version I saw two or three months ago at the L.A. Film Festival, and I didn’t think that cut needed tightening at all. I’m nonetheless told that it plays quite nicely. The party was at St. Felix on Cahuenga. I spoke briefly to Amy Berg about her doc, Janis: Little Girl Blue, which I saw and loved in Toronto. HE’s own Svetlana Cvetko, who shot a large portion of the Brand doc, was in attendance along with Timoner, of course, as well as street artist and illustrator Shepard Fairey.

(l. to. r.: Shepard Fairey, BRAND: A Second Coming director Ondi Timoner, dp Svetlana Cvetko.

I attended this morning’s press screening of Robert Zemeckis‘ The Walk at IMAX headquarters in Playa del Rey. I found the first 100 minutes fairly dreadful — over-acted, “cute”, hamboned, like some kind of Gene Kelly musical…as manipulative and ungenuine and disrespectful of reality as any Hollywood bullshit fantasy you’ve ever sat through. But the last 25 minutes deliver one of the greatest visual knockout experiences I’ve ever seen on an IMAX screen. This finale is so good that I have no choice to but recommend The Walk despite all the awful stuff.

Yes, that’s my review in a nutshell — The Walk will make you feel nauseous but you need to see the finale so I’m sorry but you’ll have to suffer through it. 98% of the time a movie that drives you nuts for the first three-quarters will deliver a sucky finish. But not this time.

What Zemeckis has done is take the real-life, inspirational saga of wire-walker Phillippe Petit (played by Joseph Gordon Levitt), the ginger-haired Frenchman who walked on a wire between the World Trade Center towers eight times on the morning of 8.7.74, and turn it into cliched, manipulative, family-friendly oatmeal.

James Marsh‘s Man on Wire (’09) took the exact same material and made one of the most fascinating and spiritually uplifting docs of the 21st Century. Zemeckis’ film is basically Man on Wire for megaplex idiots — for the fine citizens who need to feel scared or awed and have everything spelled out for them, as if they’re eight or nine years old. If you’re a fan of dumbing stuff down for whatever reason, you’ll love The Walk. It has laughs, charm, love, silliness, slapstick, quirky humor, thrills, passion, suspense! And broad strokes every which way. And that knockout ending!

I now have a good idea what it was like for Petit to walk between the towers on that fateful morning. Seriously. Try watching this segment without moaning or groaning or gripping your knees. Try looking down 110 stories in 3D from Petit’s POV. Go ahead, give it a shot. The words “holy” and “shit” will form in your mind. Whether or not you say them is up to you.

I’m aware, obviously, that no other award-season spitballers have insisted, as I have, that Amy Schumer‘s emotionally subtle and occasionally tear-inducing performance in Trainwreck is Best Actress-worthy, but I swear it definitely is. Schumer’s work in that brilliant Judd Apatow film is no less of an achievement than that of Judy Holliday in Born Yesterday, and just because Schumer is a comedian is not (hello?) a mark against her. She delivers the goods. You can feel exactly where her character is coming from in each and every Trainwreck scene, and she never goes for just one note — she’s always juggling two or three conflicting considerations or impulses at any given moment. I realize I’m going to have to be a realist and drop my Schumer crusade down the road, but shame on the punditry for not even raising the Schumer balloon. It’s September, for God’s sake — time to mix passion and advocacy with the usual tea-leaf readings.  Live a little.

Yesterday Hollywood Reporter award-season analyst Scott Feinberg, relying on exhaustive cross-checking of data and precedents mixed with his usual Yoda-like perceptions (which are not the same thing as being graced with Hollywood Elsewhere-style insect antennae), posted some spitball projections on the basis of “if the Oscars were held tomorrow and voters could consider only contenders that have already been screened” — i.e., at Telluride and Toronto. I’m reposting a few along with HE commentary:

(1) Feinberg starts by declaring that Spotlight would win Best Picture, Tom McCarthy would win Best Director for his work on that Boston-based drama, and that Spotlight would win for Best Original Screenplay. (HE comment: Agree, fully deserved) He also projected that The Danish Girl‘s Eddie Redmayne would win Best Actor (HE comment: Just you wait) and that Brooklyn‘s Saoirse Ronan would win Best Actress (HE comment: Fine).

(2) Feinberg also projected that Joel Edgerton‘s over-performed and overly-accented John Connolly in Black Mass would win for Best Supporting Actor. (HE comment: The light blue suits won by Edgerton in Scott Cooper‘s film are a disqualification in and of themselves.) Feinberg also believes The Danish Girl‘s Alicia Vikander would win Best Supporting Actress (HE comment: I get it — everybody gravitated toward her performance when they realized that Redmayne’s was so relentlessly delicate and one-note, but it’s early yet).

My attention is diverted by a low-priced Witness Bluray streeting on 10.13. This offers an opportunity to praise one of the most satisfying punch-out scenes ever captured in the history of motion pictures. It works because it arrives after nearly an hour of milking cows, raising barns, fixing car engines and making goo-goo eyes at Kelly McGillis. It feels so good when those bullies start giving grief to Alexander Godunov because they don’t know what’s coming…but we do. You’re about to get schooled, assholes.

Ageism can be hilarious! The underlying message in this broad slapstick piece, an apparent creation of Huffpost‘s Ricky Camilleri, is that companies should think twice about using 60-plus interns because of their health issues and whatnot. They might drool or crap in their pants or even die on you. Note: The white-haired actor dies too quickly. He should look worried, exhale loudly a few times, put his right hand over his heart and then die.

From my Tellruide Film Festival review of Davis Guggenheim‘s He Named Me Malala (Fox Searchlight, 10.2): “The people on my gondola coming down from the Chuck Jones Cinema were beaming, almost swooning. But they were reacting, trust me, more to the subject matter than the film itself. Which feels and plays like a lesson, a sermon, an 80-something minute educational piece that…you know, we all need to see and contemplate and so on. It’s a good-for-you spinach movie, as I supposed it would be yesterday.

“One can’t help but feel touched and inspired by the saga of teenaged Pakistani education activist (and current resident of Birmingham, England) Malala Yousafzai, and particularly how she managed to not only survive being shot in the head three years ago (when she was 15) by a Taliban fanatic, but how she recovered and continued to campaign for female education in Pakistan and other Muslim countries, and how she won the Nobel Peace Prize late last year. The more this film is seen worldwide (particularly in Middle-Eastern territories where the suppression of women is appalling), the better.

“But Guggenheim’s film is just okay. If you wanted to be a sorehead you could say it almost flirts with mediocrity. But I don’t want to say that because I don’t want to discourage anyone from seeing it. He Named Me Malala stands for the right things, shows the right things, says the right things and uses watercolor-like animation to convey portions of Malala’s life…all to the good. But it never seems to find any kind of levitational groove or strategy that would result in a 2 + 2 = 5 equation.

Three days ago Etiquette Pictures released a Bluray of The American Dreamer, a 1971 doc about the late Dennis Hopper during his looniest, druggiest, hippie-dippiest phase. About five years ago I was invited by co-directors L.M. Kit Carson (a longtime friend who passed last year) and Lawrence Schiller to a special Film Society of Lincoln Center screening of the film. Here’s a portion of my review, which I titled “American Boob”:

“Speaking as a longtime pal of Carson’s and an admirer of Schiller’s, I regret being unable to think of anything remotely flattering to say. The vibe in the room was kindly and sympathetic, but what I heard and felt after the show was mainly polite astonishment. Why had Schiller and Carson decided to even show this thing?

“I was stunned by the doc’s shapeless sloppiness, and amused and repelled by its portrait of Hopper as a bearded, drug-fried horndog on the verge of destroying his directing career with the abomination that was The Last Movie.

“You might expect The American Dreamer to be a portrait of an allegedly gifted director (Hopper helmed Easy Rider two years before the doc was shot) at some kind of personal crossroads, his state of mind clearly affected (to put it mildly) by pot and hallucinogens. You’re thinking you’ll at least get to sample Hopper’s milieu and personality as he was finishing editing on The Last Movie, a film so allegedly incoherent that it ended his behind-the-camera career until he finally sobered up in the mid ’80s. And maybe get to ‘know’ the guy on some level.

Strange as this may sound, Hollywood Elsewhere doesn’t have that much of a problem with Nancy Meyers‘ The Intern. I caught it last night, expecting to be underwhelmed or narcotized in the usual Meyers way…and yet somehow this combination of two 20 mg. Xanax tabs and a mild slice of quiche went down easy. Does it give you a feeling of electric discovery and high-throttle wowser and a flood of emotion pouring out of a fire hydrant? No, but it lulls you into thinking that there’s more to life than just this. Especially if you’re 50-plus with a vial of Cialis in the bathroom cabinet.

It’s about Ben, a 70 year-old retiree (Robert De Niro) who needs a job of some kind to keep from losing his mind, and so he lands a senior intern gig at an online fashion company run by Jules (Anne Hathaway), a driven, detail-obsessed entrepeneur. And nothing really happens. Not that much, I mean. The Intern reminded me of “Nothing Is Easy,” the Jethro Tull song, but in a different context. Sometimes “nothing” is no sweat.

The sharp, organized and always gentlemanly Ben fits right in, and not only does he not fuck anything up but Hathaway eventually realizes he’s a kind of low-key gift from the Gods — nice guy, problem-solver, friend, chauffeur, silver smoothie, confidante, etc. A 21st Century Mr. Belvedere.  De Niro and Hathaway and the friendly, well-groomed supporting cast just amble along. This happens and that happens. Easy does it. How can you hate a film that begins and ends with a nice Tai-Chi class in a park?

The Intern has (a) one really funny line that I laughed out loud at, (b) the usual over-heated slapstick-style reactions to anything to do with sexuality, and (c) a steady supply of mellow.

All I know is that if you can let The Intern in (and I realize that could be a problem in some quarters), it gives you a nice, comfortable, settled-down feeling. Sometimes it’s okay just to lie back and submit to a nice foot massage. As long as you’ve just showered and had a recent pedicure, I mean.

The worst thing that happens is the issue of Jules’ cheating stay-at-home husband, Matt (Anders Holm).  But it’s nothing to get bent out of shape over. One look at Holm’s reddish beard and floppy bohemian hair and bathrobe-and-sweat-pants attire and I decided “whatever…not that hot…a bit of a belly that will grow over the years…considerate guy but not that dynamic…if he and Jules get divorced, fine…they can share custody.”