The once-legendary David Frost died yesterday at age 74, possibly of a heart attack. He was on a Mediterranean-bound cruise ship to do a speaking gig. Not the worst way to go — suddenly, sea air in your lungs, no prolonged deterioration. When I heard the news I didn’t think first of Frost’s 1977 Richard Nixon interviews or his hosting of That Was The Week That Was in the ’60s. For me Frost’s finest moments were those 1974 interviews with Muhammad Ali in Zaire before his Heavyweight Championship bout with George Foreman. Those were the high times. Frost was a celebrity conversationalist, a go-getter, a personality, a lightweight who grew into a middleweight (at least that) in the ’70s. he appeared to live in a state of constant engagement, drive, curiosity. A good fellow. Condolences to friends and family.

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I really want to read Robert Koehler‘s thoughts about the gradual dilution of The Artist Known As Terrence Malick, but I have to subscribe to Cineaste in order to do so. The short answer (which I’ve repeated ad infinitum on this site) is that Malick needs a Bert Schneider-type producer who will read him the riot act and slap him around when his flake tendencies go into overdrive, and instead he’s been enabled to death by producers who’ve never said boo.

If you ask me Denis Villenueve‘s Prisoners (Warner Bros., 9.20) has been a little bit over-hyped by critics. Don’t get me wrong — it’s a moody, riveting, well-crafted thriller by a director who’s obviously a cut or two above the norm and is into complexity and adult stuff. Set in the grimmest, coldest, rainiest part of Bumblefuck, Pennsylvania you’ll ever not want to visit, the story (written by Aaron Guzikowski) is about the kidnapping of two young girls and the efforts of a lone-wolf cop (Jake Gyllenhaal) and the girls’ vigilante-minded dads (Hugh Jackman, Terrence Howard) to find them. Although not in synch, of course.

Aimed more at critics than ticket buyers, Prisoners is one of those thoughtfully murky, atmospheric, densely plotted thrillers that’s more about the journey than than the destination. Because when you get to the end it’s like “uhm…wait, what?” That was my reaction, at least.

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So Stephen Frears‘ Philomena is a huge Venice wow, but Telluride audiences won’t catch it on Monday due to Toronto programmers strongly protesting this. HitFix‘s Kris Tapley reported Friday that he;d been told that Weinstein Co. “had Stephen Frears’ “Philomena” all lined up for a sneak preview on Monday, fresh off its Venice bow, [but] this didn’t sit well with programmers at the Toronto Film Festival, incensed that yet another of their big North American debuts was going to drop here.”

The fascinating ending was the first topic broached by moderator John Horn during yesterday’s post-screening discussion of All Is Lost with director-writer J.C. Chandor and Robert Redford. They don’t spoil anything so no worries. I wanted to catch it again to see if it played as strongly as it did in Cannes, and it definitely did that. Anyone who sees this film and goes “yeah, not bad, decent” needs to get his/her pipes cleaned. All Is Lost is landmark, classic, world-class stuff, and most definitely a metaphor for the struggle and the loneliness that comes with late-period aging.

After unforgivably programming Steve McQueen‘s 12 Years A Slave against Denis Villeneuve‘s Prisoners last night (everyone I spoke to was pissed about this), the Telluride guys are offering a Prisoners follow-up screening this morning at 8:30 am at the Palm. Wait…the widely-hailed pic runs 153 minutes? Okay, I’ll get out at 11:15 or thereabouts. Oh, right — they never start films on time and they always spend 10 minutes on introductions so make it a little past 11 am.

I’m especially intrigued by the opening of Kris Tapley’s HitFix review: “They simply don’t make thrillers like Denis Villeneuve‘s Prisoners at the studio level, and yet here it is. Glacially paced, bloated to a 158-minute running time, stingy with details as its mystery unfolds — it goes against most every convention for a film like this.

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My 12 Years A Slave tweets, tapped out on dark streets between the Galaxy and 221 South Oak, failed to mention likely Best Supporting Actress contender Lupita N’yongo and Hans Zimmer‘s dynamic, impacting, non-period score. Cheers also to supporting players Michael Fassbender (whose performance as a plantation owner makes Simon Legree look like Shirley Temple), Brad Pitt, Sarah Paulson, Benedict Cumberbatch, Paul Giamatti, Paul Dano (whose beating scene is ten times more satisfying than all of the posturing payback scenes in Django Unchained) and Alfre Woodard, among others. Make no mistake — Slave is Steve McQueen‘s high-water mark, his grand slam.

Following Friday night’s 12 Years A Slave debut screening at Telluride’s Galaxy (l to r.): Moderator, Brad Pitt, Cheweitl Ejiofor, Lupita N’yongo, Michael Fassbender, Steve McQueen.

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There’s too much happening to file. 12 Years A Slave begins in 50 minutes. My video files of the Redford-Chandor interview are still converting to mp4 so I have to leave the computer at the inn. A possible interview with Blue Is The Warmest Color girls might happen around 10 or 10:30 tonight…maybe. I’ll just have to file stuff late.

I’m enraged…okay, irked to hear that people at yesterday’s screening of J.C. Chandor‘s incontestably brilliant All is Lost were giving it three stars out of five. Or were going “yeah, pretty good but not amazing” or words to that effect. “I think some people just weren’t prepared for it,” a cinematographer friend told me last night. She means they were a bit thrown by the almost total lack of dialogue and the fact that it’s all Redford, all the time — i.e., no other characters. There hasn’t been a more or less dialogue-free film that has delivered this effectively in I don’t how long. (The Artist doesn’t count — different animal.). Trust me, All Is Lost is not falling short at the Telluride Film Festival — it’s the audiences. But what can you do? You can’t get out the stick and order people to be more perceptive. Their aesthetic dispositions are their own affair. They either get what they’re seeing or they don’t.

Film buffs who go to festivals like Telluride have been more or less trained like poodles to sit up on their hind legs and go “yap! yap!” whenever a new Coppola comes along and makes a film. Gia Coppola, director-writer of the occasionally irksome but mostly decent Palo Alto, is the latest recipient of this largesse. My attitude is that talented filmmakers deserve respect and allegiance, even if their paths have been paved by family connections. And it has to be acknowledged that The Latest Coppola has delivered a pretty good film here. Or at least one that I felt more or less okay with when it ended.

I talked things over with three or four colleagues after it ended, and we were mostly agreed with Gia Coppola shouldn’t be penalized for being the granddaughter of Francis because her work is certainly above-average.

Based on producer and costar James Franco’s same-titled short story collection, it’s basically about a demimonde of Northern California teens revelling in vacant nihilism and coping with the tug of nascent adulthood. In that sense it sometimes feels boring as shit because most teenagers — hello? — are boring as shit to hang with. I knew that when I was 17 even and I really know that now. Teenage males, in particular. All but worthless, not into anything, hormonal dogs, booze-swilling, to some extent self-destructive…go away and come back when you’re 29 or 30.

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