I had to hang around the Dallas Buyers’ Club party until 1:15 am in order to snap Jared Leto, who is unquestionably the big breakout “everybody’s talkin'” guy of the Toronto Film Festival and an all-but-guaranteed Best Supporting Actor nominee. Indiewire‘s Anne Thompson was disagreeing with me (and virtually the rest of the world) about this prediction, and so we agreed to get into a back-and-forth about it. She’s dead wrong. Deadline‘s Pete Hammond said that Leto’s touching performance as Matthew McConaughey‘s cross-dressing drug-distribution partner is analagous to Chris Sarandon‘s performance as Leon in Dog Day Afternoon.

Dallas Buyers Club costar and likely Oscar contender Jared Leto last night at Cibo on King Street, where the after-party was held.

I’m not complaining about having been invited to five parties tonight. It’s lovely to be asked, and it always feels soothing to greet and be greeted and not drink alcohol, etc. But as I sit on my stool at a Starbucks on Queen and John Streets I guess I am sort of whining about it, whiny little bitch that I am. Four or five parties in the space of four and a half hours will wear you down. But I really want to say hello to all my industry pallies at the Sony Classics party uptown, and then at the Fox Searchlight and IFC Films and Metalhead parties down in this neck of the woods, and finally at the Dallas Buyers Club party which starts at midnight. All hail Matthew McConaughey and especially Jared Leto!

I saw Nicole Holofcener‘s Enough Said a couple of hours ago. It’s another myopic, mild-mannered visit with the denizens of Holofcenerland — upscale, educated, liberal-minded 40- and 50-somethings who live west of the 405. It’s a bittersweet experience due to the presence of the late James Gandolfini, whom I’ve long felt a special kinship with (and whose funeral I attended last June in Manhattan), but otherwise it’s basically about how it’s a bad idea for a divorcee (Julia Louis-Dreyfuss) to go out with an ex-husband (Gandolfini) of a client she’s getting to know (Catherine Keener) because one way or another the ex-wife is going to list every shortcoming of the ex-husband in spades, and that stuff is toxic, a kind of poison, and it’ll kill the relationship pretty quickly if you let it into your head so you shouldn’t. That’s basically what the film is saying.

It’s 3:35 pm Toronto time, and so far I’ve seen Peter Landesman‘s Parkland, which isn’t anywhere close to being as authentic and grounded as it needs to be (and I’m saying this as a fan of Landeasman’s script) and Jean-Marc Vallee‘s Dallas Buyers Club, which looks to me like a definite maybe among Best Picture contenders. The last third in particular delivers the tragic dimensions and brings home the sadness and humanity. The surprise is that everyone sat down expecting to see a Best Actor-calibre performance from Matthew McConaughey. They got that, but when the lights came up the first words out of everyone’s mouth were “Jared Leto, right?” Leto’s performance as McConaughey’s drag-queen ally and drug-dispensing partner is, trust me, easily and squarely in the Best Supporting Actor race now. And Jennifer Garner really nails it also — her Dallas Buyers Club doctor is probably the best role she’s ever had and the best performance she’s ever given.

Jason Bateman‘s Bad Words, a tartly ascerbic spelling-bee comedy aimed at the diminishing ranks of non-moronic moviegoers, went over extremely well at the Ryerson last night. It’s a kind of Rushmore-meets-Bad Santa piece about a pissed-off, close-cropped 40something guy (Bateman) who takes advantage of a loophole to compete against kids in the National Quill Spelling Bee competition, and in so doing bonds/warms up to/gets down with a reporter (Kathryn Hahn) and a 10 year-old Indian kid (Rohan Chand) as he seeks a kind of satisfaction that has nothing to do with winning the $50,000 first prize. Dry, subdued, bordering-on-perverse performances + Andrew Dodge‘s witty-ass, occasionally scatalogical screenplay resulted in much laughter with some in the audience wondering if the film goes “too far,” as one questioner inquired. Trust me, the “too far” stuff is one of the main reasons the film went over so well.

At Toronto’s Ryerson theatre last night following screening of Bad Words (l. ro r.) director-star Jason Bateman, costars Rohan Chand, Kathryn Hand.

I’ve just been watching (i.e., have just escaped from) Jonathan Taplitzky‘s The Railway Man at Toronto’s Roy Thomson Hall. I felt lost in the ether, but it costars Colin Firth, Nicole Kidman, Jeremy Irvine and Stellan Skarsgard. By far the most interesting portion is an extended World War II flashback sequence showing British POWs working on the Thai-Burma Railway under Japanese troops. It’s interesting because another camp of soldiers are doing the exact same thing under the command of Lt. Col. Nicholson (Alec Guinness) down near the River Kwai, and because there’s also a certain British POW named Lionel Mandrake (Peter Sellers), later to become a Group Captain and serve at Burpleson Air Force Base under General Jack D. Ripper (Sterling Hayden), who’s also laying track. They’re all starving and suffering and sweating buckets and planning escapes and dying from malaria and bumming butts.

“The campy guilty pleasure suggested by the Diana trailer proves a marketing mirage thanks to Downfall director Oliver Hirschbiegel’s sensitive direction of an overly earnest drama,” writes Variety‘s Charles Gant. “While mostly swerving past the pitfall of tastelessness, this sincerely intended account of the last two years of Princess Diana’s life risks an even more perilous roadblock: dullness. Still, the tony credentials, including lead thesp Naomi Watts’ two Oscar nods, provide a handy alibi for upscale audiences eager to have their fill of royal rumpus, but anxious that Diana might merely be trash TV on a bigger budget.

“While Hirschbiegel’s direction and a crack technical team class up the production, the same can’t always be said of Stephen Jeffreys’ script, which is belabored by clunky exposition and struggles to convincingly depict two real people actually in love. Watts’ at times deft impersonation of the doe-eyed beauty similarly never coheres into a full-fledged performance, or offers much insight into the enigma that lurks within.

“The decision to keep the rest of the royal family offscreen — only sons William (Laurence Belcher) and Harry (Harry Holland) are briefly glimpsed — may have intended to set the film apart from TV fare such as 1992’s Charles & Diana: A Palace Divided, or simply to keep the focus on the central relationship. But their conspicuous absence further undermines any sense of Diana as a rounded human being.”

I missed the first five minutes of the 11:30 am screening of Roger Michell‘s Le Week-End, and I’m sorry but I bailed after an hour. I found it slow, meandering, uninvolving. Then I ducked into Ralph Fiennes‘ The Invisible Woman just to get a feel for Felicity Jones‘ performance as Kelly Ternan, the young woman who was Charles Dickens‘ secret (or certainly unacknowledged) lover for several years. She handles herself well enough — her performance is earnest and grounded — but despite Variety‘s Scott Foundas calling it “revelatory” I didn’t see any reason to do cartwheels in the foyer. I bailed after 30 minutes — sorry. Then I attended a public screening of Teller‘s Tim’s Vermeer, which I saw start to finish. It’s a delightful, fascinating, highly intelligent, inventive and spirit-lifting film for everyone — the Telluride praise was well earned. Then I slipped into Iram Haq‘s not-bad I Am Yours but I couldn’t stay — sorry. It’s now 5:30 pm. At 6pm I’ll be seeing Jonathan Teplitzsky‘s The Railway Man at Roy Thomson Hall, and then it’s a toss-up between a 9:30 pm screening of Peter Landesman‘s Parkland and Jason Bateman‘s Bad Words, a spelling-bee movie, at the Ryerson at 9:30 pm. I don’t know what to do. I’m leaning toward seeing the Bateman tomorrow instead…sorry, no offense.

Ten or even five years ago a movie directed by Roger Michell (Changing Lanes, The Mother, Enduring Love, Venus) with a script by Hanif Kureishi (My Beautiful Laundrette, Sammy and Rosie Get Laid) and costarring Jim Broadbent, Lindsay Duncan, Lesley Warren and Jeff Goldblum would be a must-see with journalists buzzing about it with at least a certain level of excitement. But the energy levels couldn’t be lower about this morning’s (11:30 am, or 27 minutes from now) screening at the Scotiabank 14. What am I doing here in my place, writing about Le Week-End instead of seeing it? I think it’s the hyphen that’s giving people pause. It’s spelled “weekend”, not “week-end.”

Paul Greengrass‘s Captain Phillips is a riveting, bucks-up, first-rate verite thriller about a real-world hijacking/hostage drama that happened four years ago. It’s unquestionably well made and an obvious uptick compared to the usual brand of high-seas action flick (i.e., some generic, dumb-ass Bruce Willis or Jason Statham or 1980s Steven Seagal concoction, say). And it does an interesting thing by inserting a slight vein of sympathy or measured compassion (or at the very least avoids a simplistic reading of what happened) by depicting the Somali hijackers as desperate, dirt-poor losers who are entirely outflanked and out of their league when they attempt a takeover of this scale. It’s basically about a team of well-funded, corporate-backed cargo-ship guys supported by the might of the U.S. military vs. four jerkoffs in a motorboat carrying guns.

If you’re even slightly intrigued about the late J.D. Salinger, Shane Salerno‘s Salinger, which I saw this evening, will hold your interest and then some. I didn’t know zip about his World War II experiences (i.e., D-Day to Dachau). Or his early 1940s romance with Oona O’Neil. Or what his Cornish, New Hampshire home looked like. It supplies dozens of assertions and anecdotes that added to my understanding of the legendary author. And it feels good knowing a bit more. But the tone of this two-hour film is tawdry and tabloidy. It feels reaching and intemperate, like some Sci-Fi Channel doc about the Sasquatch or Loch Ness monster. It lacks the courage and the character to be modest and plain. It’s over-cranked and certainly over-scored. It sells rather than tells. Salinger himself would hate it — it embodies everything about coarse, phony America that he tried to stay away from by living in rural New Hampshire. If Salerno had toned it down and attempted a more thoughtful or literary air…but he hasn’t. Salinger is what it is. I was interested and attentive, but I was exhaling loudly and rolling my eyes almost from the get-go.

I’ll tell you right now that I’ve got a feeling that Joel Kinnaman might be the weak link in Jose Padilha‘s Robocop (MGM, 2.7.14). I can just sense it on some level — he’s not quite delivering that cyborg schwing. And I’m not sure if that Robocop outfit is sufficiently clompy and clanky and metallic and rock-studly enough. But the rest of it looks okay. Good cast — Gary Oldman, Michael Keaton, Samuel L. Jackson, Abbie Cornish, Jay Baruchel, Jackie Earle Haley, Miguel Ferrer, Jennifer Ehle.