Since I have to get my Toronto wish list down from 40 to 30 films (to be seen over nine days, starting on 9.9), here are some films I’m thinking of jettisoning. I’m aware of the cruel-sounding nature of this procedure, but I don’t know what else to do. I don’t want to dump any of these — I want to see everything — but something’s got to go.

Special Presentation Dumps (6): Brighton Rock (d: Rowan Joffe); Cirkus Columbia (d: Danis Tanovic); Henry’s Crime (d: Malcolm Venville); Love Crime (d: Alain Corneau); Stone (d: John Curran); The Whistleblower (d: Larysa Kondracki).

Gala Dumps (5): Barney’s Version (d: Richard J. Lewis); Erotic Man (d: Jorgen Leth); Essential Killing (d: Jerzy Skolimowski); Uncle Boonmee Who Can Recall His Past Lives (d: Apichatpong Weerasethakul — satirical Cannes comment opportunity); The Ward (d: John Carpenter).

Real to Reel Dumps (2): Cool It (d: Ondi Timoner); Mother of Rock: Lillian Roxon (d: Paul Clarke).

Reel to Reel Addition: Thom Zimny‘s The Promise: The Making of Darkness at the Edge of Town.

I’ve seen the wholly respectable Secretariat (Disney, 10.8) but can’t get into it without a green light. The rules are the rules. But it’s great watching the various YouTube videos of the 1973 Kentucky Derby, the Preakness and the astonishing finale at the Belmont Stakes.

“Like many changes that are revolutionary, none of Washington’s problems happened overnight. But slow and steady change over many decades — at a rate barely noticeable while it’s happening — produces change that is transformative. In this instance, it’s the kind of evolution that happens inevitably to rich and powerful states, from imperial Rome to Victorian England. The neural network of money, politics, bureaucracy, and values becomes so tautly interconnected that no individual part can be touched or fixed without affecting the whole organism, which reacts defensively.

“And thus a new president, who was elected with 53 percent of the popular vote, and who began office with 80 percent public-approval ratings and large majorities in both houses of Congress, found himself for much of his first year in office in stalemate, pronounced an incipient failure, until the narrowest possible passage of a health-care bill made him a sudden success in the fickle view of the commentariat, whose opinion curdled again when Obama was unable, with a snap of the fingers or an outburst of anger, to stanch the BP oil spill overnight. And whose opinion spun around once more when he strong-armed BP into putting $20 billion aside to settle claims, and asserted presidential authority by replacing General Stanley McChrystal with General David Petraeus. The commentariat’s opinion will keep spinning with the wind.

“The evidence that Washington cannot function — that it’s ‘broken,’ as Vice President Joe Biden has said — is all around. For two years after Wall Street brought the country close to economic collapse, regulatory reform languished in partisan gridlock. A bipartisan commission to take on the federal deficit was scuttled by Republican fears in Congress that it could lead to higher taxes, and by Democratic worries about cuts to social programs. Obama was forced to create a mere advisory panel instead.

“Four years after Congress nearly passed a comprehensive overhaul of immigration laws, the two parties in Washington are farther apart than ever, and hotheaded state legislatures have stepped into the breach. Guantanamo remains an open sore because of fearmongering about the transfer of prisoners to federal prisons on the mainland. What Americans perceive in Washington, as Obama put it in his State of the Union speech, in January, is a ‘perpetual campaign where the only goal is to see who can get the most embarrassing headlines about the other side — a belief that if you lose, I win.’

“His chief of staff, Rahm Emanuel, whose Friday-afternoon mantra has become ‘Only two more workdays till Monday!,’ sums up today’s Washington in terms both coarser and more succinct. To him, Washington is just ‘Fucknutsville.’ — from “Washington, We Have A Problem,” a brilliant piece by Vanity Fair‘s Todd Purdum about the absurd dynamic affllicting the Obama administration.

I tried seeing John Scheinfeld‘s Who Is Harry Nilsson? once more a couple of weeks ago, but I could only make it up to the point when he finishes 1971’s Nilsson Schmillson, after which it was all downhill.

I just can’t stand watching people destroy themselves. And yet for some reason these John and Harry pics, taken during their infamous Troubadour fracas on 3.12.74, always bring on the chuckles. Famous and gifted people getting all primitive and sandbox. The baser the emotions, the funnier it seems.

Scheinfeld’s doc opens at the Cinema Village on 9.12, or smack dab in the middle of the Toronto Film Festival — great timing.

Earlier today Movieline reported the Jim Cameron vs. Mark Canton battle over Piranha 3D, which Cameron basically feels is a sleazy and essentially worthless piece of shit.

“I tend almost never to throw other films under the bus,” Cameron said last week, “but Piranha 3D is exactly an example of what we should not be doing in 3D. Because it just cheapens the medium and reminds you of the bad 3D horror films from the 70s and 80s, like Friday the 13th 3D. When movies got to the bottom of the barrel of their creativity and at the last gasp of their financial lifespan, they did a 3D version to get the last few drops of blood out of the turnip.”

At the beginning of Canton’s nearly 1400-word response, he says that Cameron’s comments “are very disappointing to me and the team that made Piranha 3D,” blah, blah. “Cameron, who singles himself out to be a visionary of moviemaking, seems to have a small vision regarding any motion pictures that are not his own,” blah, blah, blah. “It is amazing that in the moviemaking process, which is certainly a team sport, that Cameron consistently celebrates himself out as though he is a team of one.

“His comments are ridiculous, self-serving and insulting to those of us who are not caught up in serving his ego and his rhetoric,” blah, blah, blah, blah, blah.

Cameron is right, of course, and Canton is just trying to prop this one up so more people will go see Piranha 3D.

The Guardian‘s Shane Danielson took issue today with a sentiment I posted on 8.13 about the extraordinary clarity in the forthcoming Psycho Bluray (which has already been released in England).

I said I “love being able to see stuff that you weren’t intended to see” — like the pancake makeup on Martin Balsam’s face in a certain closeup — “but which Blu-ray has now revealed.” Danielson says he’d prefer it if Bluray transfers looked less exacting and more celluloid-y. Okay, but he gets too many things wrong in the piece.

One, he says my article appeared “last week.” Today is Tuesday, 8.31, so it actually appeared not last week nor the week before but 19 days or two and a half weeks ago.

Two, Danielson gives Balsam a new first name — “Robert.”

Three, he claims that “the Blu-ray edition of Paramount’s 1953 War of the Worlds has given fans much anguish, with the wires holding up the Martian spaceships now clearly visible in almost every shot.” Except there’s no Bluray of George Pal’s 1953 classic. The wires are, however, clearly visible on the 2005 DVD.

Four, Danielson complains that while watching Robert Harris‘s Bluray restoration of The Godfather trilogy two years ago in a Times Square Virgin Megastore that it had “a precision to the images, a sort of hyperreal clarity, that didn’t jibe with my memory of having watched the film, either in the cinema or at home.” In fact Harris worked on the trilogy with dp Gordon Willis and produced one of the most celluloidy-looking Blurays in history. And two, as Harris said this afternoon, “He was probably looking at it on a crappy monitor with the color and contrast pumped to the hilt…don’t watch these films at electronic consumer superstores.”

And five, he asks what the difference is between Warner Home Video technicians digitally erasing the wires holding up the Cowardly Lion’s tail in The Wizard of Oz and George Lucas‘s much-maligned ‘fix-ups’ to the original Star Wars trilogy? The standard, says Harris, is original viewing standards. “if 1939 audiences didn’t see the wires when they saw The Wizard of Oz in theatres, then present-day audiences shouldn’t see them on the Blu-ray.” The line isn’t as clear with Star Wars, but if Greedo didn’t shoot first in the original 1977 version then he shouldn’t shoot first (or simultaneously) in the digitally revised version. Simple.

It’s being widely reported/repeated that a CBS News/Vanity Fair poll has found that three out of four Americans haven’t been turned off by Mel Gibson‘s ugliness, and would probably pay to see him in Jodie Foster‘s The Beaver.

If, that is, Summit had the smarts and chutzpah to release it, which of course they don’t. Because they’re worried about industry consensus and all that. On 7.10 I explained the reasons for ignoring the Gibson scandal and releasing The Beaver anyway.

The exact wording of the Gibson question was, “Are you now less likely to go see a Mel Gibson movie as a result of the recent scandal?” 76% of 847 respondents said Gibson’s comments (“blow me,” etc.) would have no effect on their willingness to pay to see him in a film. (Men were 80% on this point; women were at 72%). Plus I’m betting that a certain portion of the 20 percent who said they’d be “less likely” to view his films are just saying that, and that they’d go if The Beaver came to their local bijou.

What else do you need, Summit? A note of permission from Ari Emanuel?

Anton Corbijn‘s The American (Focus Features, 9.1) is a moderately soothing art piece and an excellent Machete antidote. After you’ve had your blood sausage and micro-waved tacos, The American will feel like a drink of cool mountain water. It’s certainly a tasteful walk (wank?) in the woods. You’ll feel unsullied when it’s over, and gratified that Corbijn and Focus Features respect you, and are not treating you the way Robert Rodriguez treats his fans. This is the other side of the mountain.

Georeg Clooney, Violante Placido in Anton Corbijn’s The American.

And yet there’s something about The American — a lot actually — that feels tastefully repressed and mummified. It’s vaguely Antonioni-ish but at the same time not really because it isn’t “about” any social zeitgiest thing. But it’s certainly aromatic and scenic. Martin Ruhe‘s photography is exquisite here and there.

The American is stirring, in short, for what it doesn’t do and for the meditative tone and cappucino atmosphere. But if the idea was to make some kind of thriller then forget it, folks. It’s a quietly unsettling thing from time to time, but it’s about eerie “uh-oh” feelings rather than pulse-quickenings. Which I was mildly okay with except for the ending, which is on another level entirely.

It’s about an assassin (George Clooney) hiding out in an Italian village and doing relatively little except making a rifle and rolling around with a local prostitute. But if female nudity does anything for you, and if you can let the thriller idea go and just roll with the easy glide of it all, it isn’t half bad and the finale — the last 20 minutes or so — is more than worth the price.

The American is mainly a piece about paranoia. About a man unable to live because he’s forced to use all his wits in order to not get killed. Living in a cave, a prison. Cautious, stealthy. And always haunted by the same thought — who and where are the predators? They’re definitely out there.

Jack (Clooney) is a professional killer who’s being hunted by certain parties, some of them clearly Swedish. His boss (Johan Leysen) suggests a job in an Italian hill town that involves constructing a special high-powered rifle for a female client (Thekla Reuten). While doing the work he strikes up a passing acquaintance with a local priest (Paolo Bonacelli) and an exceptionally good-looking prostitute (Violante Placido).

Speaking of which The American provides some gratuitous nudity that I would call wonderful, excellent, and good for the soul. I am calling it that, in fact. And it has a very nice red-lighted sex scene. Good for George and Anton during filming, and good for guys everywhere.

Corbijn is a celebrated photographer, and is known primarily for Ruhe’s exquisite lensing on Control, his debut film. But I have to say I wasn’t floored by some of the American compositions. Corbijn and Ruhe depend on a great number of close-ups and medium close-ups. There’s an early meeting in Rome between Clooney and Leysen that is all closeups and medium closeups, and I was frankly feeling bored fairly quickly. I regret saying that The American is not Control in color. I was hoping for some kind of Paul Cameron or Dion Beebe-level thing, but nope.

I wanted Bonacelli’s priest, whom I disliked immediately from the very first instant, to be killed. Every time he lumbered along with that hoarse voice and that wavy white hair and those facial jowls I went, “Oh, God…him again.” He’s way too fat and friendly and nosy. And he speaks perfect English, which seemed ridiculous for a priest from the Italian hill country. He’s the kind of Italian who sometimes turns up in American-shot movies set in Italy. A friendly guide, interpreter, counselor.

MILD SPOILERS FOLLOW:

There’s a moment at the very end when Clooney’s grim, somber-to-a-fault performance — monotonous and guarded to the point of nothingness, shut and bolted down — suddenly opens up. It’s when he asks the local prostitute to leave with him. For the first time in the film, he smiles. He relaxes and basks in the glow of feeling.

There’s a little patch of woods by a river that Clooney visits three times. Once to test his rifle, once for a picnic and a swim in the river, and then in the final scene. One too many, perhaps. But his final drive to this spot is almost — almost, I say — on the level of Jean Servais‘ final drive back into Paris in Rififi. For the second and final time in the film Clooney shows something other than steel and grimness.

The American is worth seeing for this scene alone, and for the final shot when a butterfly flutters off and the camera pans up.

The American director Anton Corbijn (l.) , George Clooney (r.)

There’s gunplay in The American, but it’s so abbreviated it’s almost on a “what?” level at times. Corbijn knows how to capture beautiful images but he doesn’t know much about shooting action, and apparently couldn’t care less.

There’s a scene in which a predator has the drop on Clooney and is right behind him, gun drawn and (as I recall) about to be pointed, and Clooney “senses” his presence and turns around and drills him. It’s that easy? There’s also a shootout in the snow — in a remote forest in Sweden — in the beginning. There’s a rifleman wearing snow gear on the ledge above, and Clooney is down below with his handgun…and suddenly he just shoots and drops the guy. Just like that?

Later on there’s another action sequence in which another Swede tries to kill him in the Italian village. Clooney is the victor again (if he wasn’t the movie would stop dead so I don’t consider this a spoiler) but he leaves the guy sitting there in a car with broken glass splattered on the road. Carabinieri and detectives would be swarming all over the next morning, and in less than an hour they’d be knocking on Clooney’s door, and they would find the hand-made rifle and the game would be over.

END OF MILD SPOILERS:

How curious, I’m thinking, that yesterday I posted a quote from former N.Y. Times critic Richard Eder that applies in a certain way to The American.

If Eder were reviewing this film today, as every critic in the country is now doing, he might say the following: “The American is handsome, meditative, elegiac and languid. It’s so coolly artful it is barely alive. First-rate ingredients and a finesse in assembling them do not quite make either a movie or a cake. At some point it is necessary to light the oven.”

By the way: I’ve never seen Richard Fleischer‘s The Last Run (1971), another movie about an elegant American criminal type (played by George C. Scott) hiding out in Europe and showing a certain facility with repairing and building things and doing the old laconic moody thing. I wonder if there are any other similarities. Anyone?

Late last March Tim Blake Nelson‘s Leaves of Grass was set to open at Manhattan’s Angelika — a bad place to see a film. But then it was yanked at the last minute. Telepathic Studios had bought distrib rights from First Look’s Avi Lerner, allowing for a much wider opening than Lerner had planned.

Several critics had already posted reviews, of course (including one by the New Yorker‘s David Denby) and they stayed up. I myself had taken a quick dump on Leaves of Grass during last year’s Toronto Film Festival.

And now this broad and mangy shit-kicker stoner comedy has announced a new New York opening, this time at the Village East — a less problematic place to see a film but nothing to crow about — on September 17th. And then it’ll come out on DVD/Bluray a little more than three weeks later. But at least it’ll play in more theatres across the country than it would have with Lerner at the stern.

I’m polishing my review of Anton Corbijn‘s The American, which I saw last night at the AMC 19th Street. But I first need to explain the absurd circumstances it was shown under. This is one of the quietest films I’ve seen in in my life — George Clooney raises his voice slightly once or twice, and nobody ever shouts — but during the entire thing the dialogue was competing with and mostly losing to an unusually loud air-conditioning system in the theatre.

Remember the next-to-last scene in the 1960 Ocean’s Eleven, inside the Las Vegas chapel where the Rat Pack is attending a funeral service for poor Richard Conte? They’re sitting side by side in a pew and they hear an odd persistent noise — something blowing and rumbling. “What’s that sound?” one of them asks, “The deceased is being cremated,” an usher says. That was what I was listening to throughout the entire film last night, only two or three times louder. I had to cup my ears to hear some of the dialogue.

If there’s one film I’ve seen this year that really demands first-rate sound and a sense of absolute dead quiet in the theatre, it’s The American. And it was shown in the noisiest theatrical environment I’ve encountered in years if not decades.

It was almost as if someone at Focus Features had decided to ruin the viewing experience as best they could without being too overt about it. (I’m not suggesting this, of course.) I can imagine the meeting when they decided on the best plan. “We need to diminish The American with New York critics, but how?” a publicist might have said. “What if we hire a couple of guys to agitate the crowd?,” a colleague might have suggested. “You know…get them to talk loudly at the screen and maybe start a fight in the middle of the show?” Too blatant, the first guy would say. Something more subtle. “I’ve got it!” an assistant could pipe in. “We show it at a theatre with a noisy 1962 ventilation system that rumbles so loudly people won’t be able to hear some of the dialogue!” Brilliant, says the first guy.

Contrary to what Hitfix‘s Greg Ellwood reported a day or two ago, there will be a press screening of Clint Eastwood‘s Hereafter during the Toronto Film Festival. It’ll happen a day before Sunday evening’s public screening at the Elgin (9.12, 9 pm) — on Saturday, 3 pm at the Scotiabank plex.

Update: The press screening schedule for the New York Film Festival was sent out this afternoon, and Hereafter — part of the 2010 slate — wasn’t on it.

Another no-laugh-funny “comedy”, although I grin every time I think back on it. Director Frank Perry really knew how to convey that lackadaisical ’70s thing — casually hip and born to swagger. Every character was a “character” in this film. Eccentric, imaginative, unsettled, peculiar. (Megan Fox would fit right in if somebody were to try an exact remake.) Those muttering scenes between Harry Dean Stanton (Curt) and Richard Bright (Burt) were classic. I would have films like this again.

Rancho Deluxe was shot in and around Livingston, Montana, which I visited in the late ’90s. Livingston (the home of novelist/Rancho Deluxe screenwriter Thomas McGuane) was a very cool place to live back then, and I’m thinking that Rancho Deluxe may qualify as one of those films that may have been a bit more fun to make than it was to watch (although it’s certainly an enjoyable sit).

McGuane’s career in the early to mid ’70s has been described as the period in which he became known as “Captain Berserko” in which he authored screenplays for Rancho Deluxe, The Missouri Breaks (’76), starring Jack Nicholson and Marlon Brando; and McGuane’s foray into directing with the film version of 92 in the Shade ’75).

From his Wiki bio: “The excesses of those years are reflected – though hardly in full – by McGuane’s tumultuous affair with actress Elizabeth Ashley (captured in voyeuristic detail in her memoir, Actress), his divorce from his first wife Becky Crockett, (who went on to marry Peter Fonda) his marriage to actress Margot Kidder, the birth of their daughter, Maggie (herself an author), and by his second divorce, all in the span of less than a year.”

From Richard Eder‘s 11.24.75 N.Y. Times review: “Rancho DeLuxe is handsome, witty, apt and languid. It is so cool it is barely alive. First-rate ingredients and a finesse in assembling them do not quite make either a movie or a cake. At some point it is necessary to light the oven.”

“Oh, give me a home, with a low interest loan. A cowgirl and two pickup trucks. A color TV, all the beer should be free. And that, man, is Rancho Deluxe.”