About ten days ago, or dead smack in the middle of the Toronto Film Festival, New Beverly Cinema owner Quentin Tarantino announced that he’s not only renovating the famously grimy, down-at-the-heels repertory theatre (it’s due to re-open sometime next month) but is totally committed to an all-35mm, all-the-time policy. The retro-minded director is not that worried about profitability. What matters to Tarantino (and I totally respect this) is standing by celluloid to the bitter end. “The big thing about what’s going to change now that I’m taking the theater over is, from here on in the New Beverly is only showing film,” Tarantino told Deadline‘s Jen Yamato. “That’s it. No digital. If something’s playing at the New Beverly, if we’re showing it, it’s on film.”

That means getting rid of the digital projector that theatre manager Michael Torgan (son of the late honcho/founder of the New Beverly) had installed. That also means Tarantino is taking over the New Beverly programming for the first three months of the new incarnation and showing many of his own 35mm prints, most of which are presumably in pretty good condition, along with pre-show shorts and cartoons and whatnot. (He basically wants the place to simulate a ’70s grindhouse vibe with a mixture of exploitation and art fare.) This also means that Torgan’s involvement in the new operation is…uhm, uncertain. Yamato wrote that while “terms of the takeover remain vague,” Torgan “might stay on as the New Beverly’s Julia Marchese and Brian Quinn step up as assistant managers.” Tarantino’s actual quote: “I want him to be involved”…hah!

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The buzz for the last couple of months has been that David Fincher‘s Gone Girl is a movie that some couples might break up over. A chillingly entertaining, top-notch Fincher drill bit with a startling Rosamund Pike performance. A critic I know has just seen it and says the following: “The movie’s heart is curdled and cynical and black, and Fincher doesn’t pull any punches. I’m not sure it will catch on with mainstream audiences, but I’m really happy he made it. It’s so beautiful. Ben Affleck is aces, perhaps the best he’s ever been. It’s more of a provocative date movie than high art. I wouldn’t call it slamdunk Best Picture material, but watch out for a nomination for Rosamund Pike — she’s that good. Original author and screenwriter Gillian Flynn could get one too. I’m kinda surprised the book caught Fincher’s interest as it’s 95 percent dialogue in living rooms and 5 percent Fincher-style grotesquerie (including an insane bloody murder). Not showy or flashy in any way. I also really liked Patrick Fugit‘s near-silent performance. Fincher is so detailed oriented and specific he reminds me a little of Kubrick. It’s maybe 15 minutes too long, but Tyler Perry can act!”

Southern California Edison informed me today that equipment replacements will cause my particular area of West Hollywood to be without power for as long as 11 hours starting tomorrow around 7 pm. In a heat wave? Thanks, bozos! I’ve never heard of equipment replacements causing an outage lasting a full half-day. I’m presuming that the actual power-less period will be closer to an hour or two, but the SCE robots have been instructed to say it might last as long as 11 hours. So I booked a room for tomorrow night (check-in at 3 pm) at the Beverly Terrace hotel, which is just outside the grid area. It’ll cost over $200 bills but I don’t want to risk being without air conditioning or fans for that long a period. Am I acting like a spoiled nelly? Should I man up and cancel the reservation and just deal with it like the late Steve McQueen would have?

I know who Rob Marshall is. I know what he’s capable of, where his instincts lie, where he’s likely to go. I know what Chicago, Memoirs of a Geisha, Nine and Pirates of the Caribbean: On Stranger Tides were. He makes smooth, costly, handsomely designed films. You’re not going to get me to believe that his latest endeavor, a filmed adaptation of Stephen Sondheim‘s Into the Woods (Disney, 12.25), is going to be anything more or less than another Rob Marshall film. What that will finally amount to is, of course, anyone’s guess. But you know what I mean.

At first glance Gabe Ibánez‘s Automata (Green Room/Millenium, 11.18) looks like a blend of Blade Runner and Neil Blomkamp‘s District 9 (particularly the dusty atmosphere and bleachy color scheme) with a shaved-head-sporting Antonio Banderas playing a variation on Harrison Ford‘s Dekker. His character, Jacq Vaucan, is an insurance agent for the ROC Robotics Corporation (which sounds like a branch of the Tyrell Corporation) who’s looking into the case of a robot apparently modifying itself (which is vaguely similar to a replicant named Roy trying to take charge of his own destiny by extending his life). Whatever it is, I feel like I’ve been here before.

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It needs to be fully understood that Scott Frank‘s A Walk Among The Tombstones (Universal, 9.19) is at least two or three cuts above your typical Liam Neeson whoop-ass actioner, and that it deals restrained cards all the way through with intelligent dialogue, logical plot progressions and action scenes that are rugged and jarring without being stupidly overwrought. It’s a smart-guy detective film in the vein of Chris McQuarrie‘s Jack Reacher — sensible, pruned down, less is more. Most of it is dialogue- and character-driven, and it all gradually makes sense. The mostly off-screen violence is horribly brutal (the bad guys are like ISIL without Allah) but it doesn’t feature a single under-25 woman using vocal fry patois or uptalk or the sexy baby vocal virus…thank God!

The only passage that doesn’t work happens at the very end — a violent climax that uses occasional freeze-frames as we listen to somebody recite the twelve steps from Alcoholic Anonymous. An industry journalist noted the same thing when I saw him in the parking lot. But when I said, “Okay, I felt that way also but c’mon, that’s not worth getting hung up on…this is a tough, disciplined smart-guy detective thriller,” he frowned and shook his head. My blood ran cold. “You…wait, you’re telling me you prefer the same old Taken-style Neeson whoop-ass shit to this?”,” I asked. “Yeah,” he said. “Oh, my fucking God,” I said.

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“In Listen Up Philip, Alex Ross Perry continues his cinematic quest to test the limits of just how far you can take the obnoxious misanthropy of your leading characters,” writes Hollywood Reporter critic Todd McCarthy. “Explicitly set in the literary world, this ambitious venture focuses on the willfully self-destructive impulses of a talented young novelist who simultaneously sabotages the potential success of his new novel and his love life, partly through his admiring relationship with a venerable older writer whose antisocial behavior is far more evolved than his own. Critics will gather around this indisputably talented work for its risk-taking, dark humor and barbed portraiture of creative individuals, but beyond sophisticates with a masochistic streak, audiences will not take up Perry’s dare to embrace this acridly engaging work.”

Right now there are two critics against Birdman — elite contrarian James Rocchi (here’s his Film.com review) and Film Freak Central‘s Walter Chaw (whose review is instantly dismissable because of his belief that Guillermo del Toro‘s Pacific Rim is a more respectable/honorable film than Alejandro G. Inarritu‘s 21 Grams and Babel). No biggie, minor potholes — there’s always an intelligent naysayer or two. No, the real machine-gun fire is going to come from somewhat older women who prefer safe-haven comfort movies. That’s not to say a sizable percentage of the Birdman dissers aren’t (or won’t eventually be revealed as) older males — I’m just confining myself for now to first-hand reactions that have dropped in my lap.

There’s a wife of a friend whose reactions to this or that award-season film have proven to be bellwethers in years past. When I asked her about Birdman she said, “Wild, isn’t it?” That’s code for “not my cup of tea.” But last night I was told she has serious reservations…uh-oh. HE’s own Glenn Zoller, a part-time Telluride resident, says that an older local woman hated it also. This woman and her husband were talking to a couple of middle-aged guys in a downtown Telluride-to-Mountain Village gondola, and she said at one point, “Whatever you do, don’t see Birdman.” And the guy across from her said in a perfect deadpan, “I financed Birdman.”

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Robert Altman‘s California Split was screened earlier this month at Telluride as part of Kim Morgan and Guy Maddin‘s special programming effort. I would have loved to have kicked back and just settled into the loose-shoe groove of this film, but I had to catch the hotties. Split is “one of those movies so special it’s hard to even write about,” Morgan wrote on 8.31. “It’s just so alive and breathing and real and charming and sad you can practically smell it. It’s a movie I turn to time and time again because, even if I know it’s not a healthy world, I want to be in that world again. I want to experience its off-kilter cool, its bummer vibes. I want to, once again, fall in love with its scruffy-cool, wisecracking, charismatic leads.”

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Do you believe that an unarmed older guy, no matter how strong or commando-trained, can take out four or five bad guys with his hands, a knife, a corkscrew and another guy’s gun in less than 30 seconds? I think it’s showoffy. No serious ex-commando would go into a roomful of villains un-armed. Whether you believe it or not, this is the best violent scene in Antoine Fuqua‘s The Equalizer (Columbia, 9.26). It only gets crazier and more ludicrous after this. Fuqua violates HE’s ten-shot rule, by the way. By the end of the film (and the final bullshit finale inside an unlighted Home Depot-type store) a couple of thousand rounds have been fired, minimum. I liked the first half-hour and then I began zoning out.

I was mostly miserable when I was 11 and 12 years old. I was miserable before that (I think I started to feel really badly about life’s possibilities when I seven or eight) but the onset of puberty seemed to make things worse in so many ways. My only encounters with happiness, however brief, came from hanging with certain friends and catching new films at my local theatre (the Westfield Rialto) and on WOR’s Million Dollar Movie or the CBS Late Show when I visited my grandmother, who would always let me stay up as late as I wanted.

My childhood was a gulag experience. So were my teens. Things started to get a little better when I began as a film journalist but my life didn’t really pick up until ’80 or thereabouts. And even then it was constant struggle, struggle, toil and trouble.

My home town of Westfield, New Jersey, was a pleasant enough place, but the social aggression and general bullshit in junior high school meant there was always a taunt and a challenge and some kind of shit going on being your back. A fairly rancid atmosphere. Everything was awkward or tortured or tedious.

So I got into the habit when I hit 13 or 14 of taking the bus into Manhattan (a secret mission as my parents wouldn’t let me go alone) and just roaming around Times Square and looking at the various marquees and just soaking it all in. It was a mild little weekend adventure. I’d take the bus in the late morning, visit Mecca for three or four hours and get back for dinner by 5 or 6 pm. I paid for these trips with my modest weekly allowance plus a little extra lawn-mowing money.

I used to love the smell of bus exhaust inside those Port Authority parking areas. To me those fumes were the city itself — they smelled like oxygen.

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Last night I made the mistake of watching a Region 2 Bluray of Phil Kaufman‘s Invasion of the Body Snatchers (’78). People turning into emotionless seed-pod versions of themselves in Don Siegel‘s 1956 original was a perfect metaphor for 1950s conformity, but the idea doesn’t fit into the liberal culture of late ’70s San Francisco. There was social pressure to submit to the human potential movement, of course, but that was all about open emotionality and uninhibited sexuality and not stiff, robotic behavior. So many scenes are poorly (i.e., woodenly) acted. Kaufman’s idea of naturalism is for people to talk at each other; no one seems to listen to what anyone else is saying. And all the effort put into icky-gooey pod makeup and prosthetic models and special FX realism is for naught — it’s boring. The film generates a creepy noirish feeling in the third act, aided by Michael Chapman‘s shadowy photography, but the only aspect that got my full attention is the fact that Telluride Film Festival director Tom Luddy has a significant (if dialogue-free) cameo as a pod person. (Siegel and original Body Snatchers star Kevin McCarthy also appear briefly.) I was also reminded that San Francisco culture was one hell of a traumatic thing in late ’78 — the mass suicide of the followers of San Francisco-based Jim Jones in Guyana on 11.18.78, the murder of San Francisco’s openly gay supervisor Harvey Milk on 11.27.78, and the opening of Kaufman’s film on 12.20.78.

Youngish Tom Luddy in one of many scenes in which he appears in Phil Kaufman’s Invasion of the Body Snatchers.