VENICE – It may not have received ecstatic reviews across the board, but when the dust settles on this year’s Venice Film Festival, one of my personal highlights is still likely to be “Tracks,” John Curran’s classical, visually resplendent true-life tale of Australian explorer Robyn Davidson’s 1700-mile trek across the Outback desert. Judi Dench may have all the Lido buzz right now for “Philomena,” but were it up to me, “Tracks” lead Mia Wasikowska would be the leading contender for Best Actress at this point in the fest.

In any event, it looks like Dench and Wasikowska may soon be stablemates, as it was reported today that The Weinstein Company is in talks to acquire “Tracks” for US distribution — the first big acquisitions news of the fall festival season.

That seems a logical fit to me. Speaking with a colleague who was as taken with the film as I was after it screened in Venice on Thursday morning, we were wondering which high-end American outfit would snap up this prestige item — Fox Searchlight or Focus would also have served it well, but the Weinsteins should do a good job of playing up both its classy pedigree and its broad accessibility. (Enterprising older families could go see this, in addition to the more obvious target market.)

We don’t know yet what the Weinsteins have in mind as a release date: it could be an awards vehicle, or it could be a modest 2014 art house release in the vein of say, “The Sapphires,” another Australian festival crowd-pleaser picked up by TWC. They seemingly have enough on their awards plate this year, particularly with such female-led vehicles as “Philomena” and “August: Osage County,” so they may want to play the long game with this one.

Whatever route they choose, here’s hoping they do a better job than Warner Independent did with Curran’s “The Painted Veil” in 2006: buried in the late-December crush, that rather lovely film didn’t find an audience, and made no headway on Oscar voters either. It deserved better.

At any rate, that’s one title we can cross off our list of 15 awards-season hopefuls looking for a home. Check out my full review of “Tracks” here.

VENICE – If I wasn’t surprised by the news today of Hayao Miyazaki’s retirement, it’s not just because he’s made several preliminary remarks to this end over the last few years. Rather, as I noted in my review last night of the Japanese animator’s apparent swansong “The Wind Rises,” it seemed to me that he indirectly made the announcement in the film itself.

Miyazaki wasn’t at the Venice Film Festival today to present the visually spectacular aviation epic, which had its world premiere in Competition earlier this evening. Instead, it was Studio Ghibli president Koju Hoshino who broke the news at the film’s press conference this afternoon with this simple statement: “Miyazaki has decided that ‘The Wind Rises’ will be his last film, and he will now retire.” He added that the 72-year-old Oscar winner will make a more formal farewell statement in person at a Tokyo press conference next week.

I think he already made his intentions subtly clear in “The Wind Rises,” in which a spiritual guide to the protagonist issues the advice, “Artists are only creative for 10 years.” As I wrote: “It’s a mantra repeated often enough that one has to wonder if Miyazaki, whose brilliant career dates back considerably farther than 10 years, means anything personal by its inclusion. Is “The Wind Rises” a spirited gesture of continued defiance, or a belated sign-off?”

Turns out it’s the latter. It’s already been over 11 years since “Spirited Away” became Miyazaki’s biggest crossover hit to date (and won him the Oscar, to boot), so I’d be curious to know at what point, if any, he thinks he hit his 10-year expiry date. In any event, the ravishing, heartfelt “Rises” is far from a minor career-closer.

If anything, I think this news considerably boosts his chances of a Golden Lion win on the Lido — it hasn’t been the strongest Competition so far this year, and “Rises” is one of its more grandiose auteur statements. In their own way, festival juries can be a sentimentally inclined as Academy voters; I’d be very surprised to see it leave Venice empty-handed. Furthermore, the film will have ample opportunity to build its buzz at other festivals: Toronto, of course, and New York, while it was the final title confirmed for Telluride. It screens there today.

Across the pond, meanwhile, Miyazaki’s purported retirement — combined with the enthusiastic reception for “The Wind Rises” — stands him in good stead for the Best Animated Feature Oscar race. It’s been a year of sequels, retreads and formulaic family fare in the animated realm, with no single title having captured the imaginations of both critics and audiences to the degree of, say, prime Pixar.

He’s only been nominated once (for 2005’s “Howl’s Moving Castle”) since taking the award in just its second year of existence for “Spirited Away.” It’s easy to imagine Miyazaki’s peers in the Academy’s animation branch thrilling to the film’s technical execution. Meanwhile, with his imminent retirement pressing upon them the fact that this is his last chance to be nominated (or even to win a second statuette), he could be the chief beneficiary of a weak slate. 

TELLURIDE, Colo. – Usually I’m winding down on Sunday at Telluride, but this is the first year I’ll be staying until Tuesday, meaning a full day tomorrow of casually catching up on things I missed. So today, a much-needed respite: I slept in. After Fox Searchlight and Sony Classics’ separate soirees for their films and talent last night, and particularly after a ride like Alfonso Cuarón’s “Gravity,” it didn’t hurt to charge the batteries a little more.

Cuarón’s film had its North American premiere last night at the Werner Herzog Theater with the director and his son/co-screenwriter Jonás on hand. Probably the most eager crowd of the fest so far, given the raves that burst out of Venice upon the film’s world premiere last week, were thickly lined up well in advance. Before the screening, Jonás said that the intent was indeed to produce a roller-coaster ride, and boy is it ever. But something that struck me while experiencing this one-woman-show was how much of a powerful double feature it would be with J.C. Chandor’s “All is Lost,” also programmed at Telluride this year.

Both films deal in separate thematic hues. “All is Lost” is very much a metaphor for economic crisis and downfall. “Gravity” is largely about connectivity. But both films are ultimately about rebirth, each packing similar visual metaphors to convey the idea by the end of their separate narratives. (Though in the case of the much more abstract “All is Lost,” you could argue its denouement in more somber terms if you wanted.)

“Gravity” was born out of a script Jonás had been working on, a tight desert-set narrative with very few elements presenting a constant state of tension. He went to his father for notes and Alfonso decided he wanted Jonás to help him write something similar set in space. “We wanted to explore through the ride of our character the challenges that are presented in someone’s life and how in overcoming them you can reach a catharsis and a kind of rebirth,” Jonás said following the screening. “In a way, there’s no better setting than space for challenges. It’s a very perilous setting; anything that goes wrong is really bad.”

The same could be said of the deep sea, and in “All is Lost,” Chandor cooks up a meticulous study full of behavioral minutiae. Robert Redford, like Sandra Bullock in “Gravity,” is without connection to the civilized world. In the case of “Gravity,” that’s a commentary on a character with a trauma in her past who wants to disconnect from the world around her. In the case of “All is Lost,” it says something about self-reflection at the end of one’s life.

“Somewhere in my mind it was Robert Redford representing people from the baby boomer generation who had all this promise and all this prosperity and what came from it,” Chandor told me on Friday. “And great things did. But at the end of your life you always question.”

So if “All is Lost” is working in the macro, “Gravity” is a bit more in the mirco. Chandor’s study is of a character we know precious little about, so something of a Rorschach is the result. In “Gravity,” the Cuaróns are presenting a character with defined emotional baggage, “drifting and following her own inertia into the void, getting further and further away from Earth, where life and human connection exist as we know it,” Alfonso said last night. Bullock’s character quite literally lives inside her own bubble — her astronaut helmet — and through the turmoil she encounters in that void, she experiences a rebirth that Alfonso called “a new knowledge.”

Both are powerful films, and both in their separate ways are technical marvels. “All is Lost” was largely filmed in the Rosarito, Mexico water tank set at Baja Film Studios that was used for “Titanic,” among other movies, thrashing the 77-year-old Redford around a tiny boat. For “Gravity,” technology had to be invented in order for Cuarón’s vision of long, drawn-out takes with Bullock in a painstakingly realized state of weightlessness. The whole thing was “a big act of miscalculation,” Alfonso said of taking on the challenge, yielding a four-and-a-half year production. Chandor, meanwhile, was more modest in his vision, keeping the camera level with Redford and almost never pulling back to any sort of omniscient place of observation to give the effect of being there with this character.

And, as you would expect, sound is absolutely crucial to telling both stories. “All is Lost” is full of all the aural elements of the ocean but it also weaves Redford’s breaths into the mix as the character is mostly silent throughout the film. “Gravity,” meanwhile, is very careful to present the fact established in that old tagline for Ridley Scott’s “Alien”: In space, no one can hear you scream. Nor can they hear a 20,000 mile-per-hour wave of debris tear through satellites, space stations and shuttles. Bullock’s breathing is also crucial to an overall mix that is full of tension.

Chandor is conservative with Alex Ebert’s score. Cuarón lays Steven Price’s on. Those decisions certainly affect how the emotion of each film registers, but both movies leave a sense of Nietzschean affirmation in the end. Redford is truly magnetic, every glance meaningful, his visage telling the entire story. Bullock experiences a powerful arc, as physically embattled in her role as Redford. And both, absolutely, will be in the hunt for awards recognition at the end of the year.

“Gravity” arrives in theaters on Oct. 4. “All is Lost” won’t be far behind on Oct. 18. Consider seeing them as a double feature.

VENICE – As we near the 50th anniversary of John F. Kennedy’s assassination, it’s comforting to know that he died surrounded by so many attractive people. Cold comfort, admittedly, if indeed we still require any consolation at all for a moment in history that, however rupturing, has by now been amply processed — both on screen and elsewhere.

But it’s pretty much all I gained from Peter Landesman’s vapidly exploitative take on the events of November 22, 1963, as experienced by the sundry agents, doctors, servicemen and civilians who played a tangential but first-hand role in the unhappy day. Like Emilio Estevez’s similar but marginally more redeemable “Bobby,” it reveals nothing about the tragedy that you didn’t already know, bar that which you certainly never needed to know in the first place. “Hey, there’s Jackie! I think so, at any rate: looks nothing like her. Anyway, how did the nurse feel about it all?” 

Writer-director Peter Landesman — a practised journalist demonstrating few of his erstwhile profession’s best principles in his debut feature — adapted his fidgety screenplay from Vincent Bugliosi’s 700-page investigative tome “Four Days in November.” Apart from the name and place captions cluttering the screen in its opening stretches, however, the film doesn’t give the impression of being all that thoroughly researched, as various stunned characters trade stock movie dialogue to convey their unsurprising anguish. “This is the first time the Secret Service has lost a president under its watch,” barks an officious senior suit, a banal line that accidentally hits at least one human truth: in the immediate fallout of a major figure’s passing, it is the first instinct of many to make it all about themselves.

As such, “Parkland” is structured a little like a hypothetical 1963 Twitter timeline, narrowed by the hashtag #JFKRIP: none of the participants have much to say about the man or his absence, but they’re appropriately sad about it. Zac Efron’s dreamy ER medic Jim Carrico’s lip quivers, dreamily, as he realizes the futility of the resuscitators he’s dreamily applying to the President’s chest, but keeps dreamily pumping away regardless, jaw clenched in dreamy despair. Paul Giamatti’s humble civilian Abraham Zapruder frets humbly about the in-demand Super 8 footage of the assassination he’s accidentally (but humbly) captured, humbly calling on media vultures to Do The Right Thing. Ron Livingston’s stricken FBI agent James Hosty looks stricken as he ponders the striking possibility that he let Lee Harvey Oswald slip through his fingers, and is further stricken as his superiors chastise him for his neglect. Meanwhile, an unrecognizable Jackie Kennedy (Kat Steffens) shows up to shed a few wordless tears in a recognizable pink suit, before beating a hasty retreat from the tacky proceedings.

Such is the level of characterization and emotional profundity throughout: rather a severe shortcoming in a film that purports to tell the story mostly through the eyes of the real, little people. It’s understandable that writers and actors often feel hamstrung when required to make a living, breathing character of a celebrity figure as iconic as, say, John F. Kennedy — whose face here is coyly shielded at every turn. But even in a project of such dubious taste, the regular-folk construct should be an avenue toward portraying textbook history in an empathetically human context, not gawking at the second-degree famousness of someone who once got to touch the President’s bloodied corpse. (Landesman’s script misses even the small sociological details: how likely is it that a cadre of iron-jawed presidential aides would have addressed the newly widowed First Lady by her abbreviated Christian name?)  

The only figure in this waxen ensemble who emerges as something resembling a complex, conflicted human being is Oswald’s decent, stoic but tacitly ashamed brother Robert, a man in no doubt as to his sibling’s guilt but attempting to muster up enough unconditional love to understand his mindset. In the only performance here that feels porous and palpably damaged, James Badge Dale is given too little to work with to come close to salvaging the whole tawdry affair, but his efforts are appreciated all the same. As his vindictive mother Marguerite, meanwhile, Jacki Weaver goes to the opposite extreme, playing the woman’s horn-rimmed glare and hissing conspiracy theories for high camp value. It’s the cartoonish approach this material arguably calls for, but a distracting one when none of her blander co-stars apparently received the memo.

Shot by the great Barry Ackroyd in a curious fashion that suggests Landesman was at once after un-anchored, “United 93”-style immediacy and lacquered period warmth, the film cuts urgently from strand to strand without amassing much in the way of momentum — largely because the human stakes across the ensemble are so uniform. “The Grown-Ups,” a wonderful episode from the third season of AMC’s “Mad Men” (directed, as it happens, by Oscar nominee Barbet Schroeder) got right pretty much everything that “Parkland” gets wrong in trying to dramatize the repercussions of Kennedy’s death as felt by those outside the inner circle, the eerie emptiness of mourning someone you don’t know — all without feeling the need to get within even six degrees of separation from the man himself.

Landesman, by contrast, milks even the most insignificant first-hand minutiae for pathos, bottoming out by showing us several brick-faced servicemen struggling to maneuver Kennedy’s coffin through a narrow airplane door. It’s an obliviously grotesque scene, made even more obliviously hilarious as James Newton Howard’s cloth-eared score swells over their huffing and puffing, vainly attempting to ennoble a process that is the political equivalent of pushing a sofa up a stairwell: “An undignified end for a dignified man,” to crib a line from Giamatti’s fussy turn. That “Parkland” opens on October 4 — somehow skipping out on the Golden Anniversary date only seven weeks later — may be its solitary act of good taste.

VENICE – Is it a bird? Is it a plane? At several points in Hayao Miyazaki’s frequently dazzling new feature “The Wind Rises,” the answer might as well be both. Studio Ghibli devotees could be forgiven for scratching their heads a little when the news broke that the Oscar-winning animator — hitherto a merchant of extravagant, culture-fusing fantasy — was set to make a biopic of influential Japanese aeronautical engineer Jiro Horikoshi. Engineering biography, however sexy a genre on its own terms, isn’t known for its abundance of flying eel-dragons or midnight cat-buses.

So it seems both a reassuring assertion of identity and an audacious imposition when Miyazaki finds room almost straight away in “The Wind Rises” for extended — forgive me — flights of fancy: dream sequences in which some airplanes seem to distort and grow plumage, gliding (and falling) through the atmosphere with scarcely more human agency than the eerily self-propelled steel creatures of Disney’s “Planes.” Speaking of which, if we only needed one animated ode to the thrills of aviation on our screens this year — and we do — this is certainly it.

The dreamer of these visions is the young Jiro, a frail, four-eyed nipper growing up in rural Japan between the World Wars, whose ambitions of becoming a pilot are thwarted by his own extreme myopia. He directs his passion instead into precocious research on the subject, poring over English-language magazines on aircraft design to such an extent that his slumbering subconscious has no choice but to follow suit. Lushly moustachioed and spouting a steady stream of lyric wisdom, Italian aeronautics innovator Giovanni Caproni becomes a regular presence in Jiro’s sleep.

“The wind is rising! We must try to live,” he exhorts, via the words of poet Paul Valery, as the youngster dreams images of Caproni’s greatest professional follies — most vividly, a three-storey biplane that itself seems something of a Ghibli creation — that he accepts as motivating rather than cautionary. 

Yes, “The Wind Rises” is a non-fantastical fantasy, and the rare Ghibli film in which the most arresting imagery has some basis in reality. It’s not the first time the spirit of Caproni has entered the studio’s canon: “Porco Rosso,” their 1992 pigs-might-fly adventure, featured an aviation company plainly inspired by Caproni’s own. The recycling of such reference points suggests we may be watching a veiled history of Miyazaki’s own creative development as much as Horikoshi’s.

“Artists are only creative for 10 years,” Caproni cosmically advises Jiro as he grows up, studies engineering in Tokyo and swiftly establishes himself as the boy wonder of the Japanese aviation industry — creating ever more streamlined and combat-ready plane designs for Mitsubishi, while his pacifist conscience wrestles with the destructive real-world application of his gifts. It’s a mantra repeated often enough that one has to wonder if Miyazaki, whose brilliant career dates back considerably farther than 10 years, means anything personal by its inclusion. Is “The Wind Rises” a spirited gesture of continued defiance, or a belated sign-off?

Either way, it’s a work that shows Miyazaki as an artist not just at the very apex of his own creativity, but of the entire animated form. No one in animation — whether hand-drawn, computer-generated or a sleek fusion of the two — is creating canvases quite this epically fluid and color-saturated, yet still alive with witty individual flourishes. Miyazaki’s films are utterly distinguishable from those of other directors in the Ghibli stable, with this one more distinct still. It’s as if working in a mode of (relative) narrative realism has necessitated his most florid vision yet. From the rich plum of a woman’s signature hat to the sparkling spring green of the grass that — interestingly for a story with its head in the clouds — seems to fill the screen more expansively than the sky, even the simplest aesthetic choices here inspire sharp intakes of breath.

Tragedy is even an occasion for beauty in this film, where the shattering Tokyo earthquake of 1923 proves a formative event in Jiro’s own life. Miyazaki realizes the disaster with jolting visual specificity, shaking and compressing exquisitely drawn landscapes like a carpet being shaken out from under, and illustrating the subsequent environmental carnage with piercing streaks of magenta flame amid the roiling gray. If it seems hardly appropriate for a sequence this devastating to be this purely beautiful, the earthquake is also a key initiating event in the film’s late-blooming love story: it’s here where Jiro meets his future wife Nahoko, then a mere child.

Nahoko and Jiro meet again in the 1930s at a countryside retreat, setting in motion the film’s most satisfying stretch of sustained visual storytelling: an exquisite seduction sequence involving paper planes and wind-buffeted umbrellas has all the swoony, wordless grace of a Gene Kelly ballet. But the bliss doesn’t, and indeed cannot, last: not with WWII looming ahead, its extent and gravity unknown to them and all too known to us, and not with Nahoko placing her own finite terms on the relationship.  

It’s as a stylized romance, its heartbeats subtly reflected in Miyazaki’s vivid atmospheric detail, that the film works most rewardingly as an emotional experience. As a one-man biopic, however, its earnestly traditional storytelling can seem dry, even a little turgid, against the film’s more innovative sensory properties. (Structurally, this isn’t a million miles from the noble, profession-oriented biopics than studios cranked out in the 1940s, often for leading men as dour as Walter Pidgeon.)

At over two hours, there’s perhaps a smidge more nitty-gritty aeronautical detail than I strictly needed to feel enraptured — and, by a mordant ending that requires the viewer to fill in a few historical blanks, suitably intimidated — by the miracle of flight. In this ravishing  passion project from an artist still in full autumnal leaf, planes are as hearts are as hats: all starships, meant to touch the sky.

TELLURIDE, Colo. – The truth is I don’t quite know how I feel about the Coen brothers’ “Inside Llewyn Davis” yet. A number of people have asked me, “How can you not know how you feel?” This is, after all, a film embraced almost unanimously at Cannes and now here in Telluride.

I don’t quite know how to put it, so I want to wait and see how it resonates. At first blush it feels somewhat minor, but I want to think more about what’s going on thematically. It shouldn’t be lost on anyone that the Coens are independently making a film about a folk musician struggling against the constraints of commercial music after coming off their biggest box office hit to date, for instance. For now, though, I’ll just concentrate on what sticks out as immediately worthy of praise: Oscar Isaac’s absolutely pitch-perfect performance as the eponymous Davis.

Isaac is an actor we’ve seen deliver in a character capacity for a little while now, whether it’s in something like “Robin Hood,” “W.E.” or “Drive.” That work ethic pays off in spades here as, combined with the fact that he’ll be largely an unknown to commercial audiences when the film is finally released, he slips under the skin of this character and cooks up a genuine person. I wasn’t watching Oscar Isaac on that screen. I was watching Llewyn Davis.

I don’t think I can hammer that home enough here. I was completely taken with his portrayal, quirky but not the least bit — not the LEAST bit — mannered or contrived. The authenticity was like a vintage whiff off an old vinyl. And that’s before we even get to the performance element.

Isaac’s work behind the mic is something to behold, truly. He has a wonderful voice but more than that, he delivers something that’s really un-teachable with his vocals: truth and experience. His words dance out like the testimony of someone who has lived the stories he sings, and that is a special quality indeed.

“If I came down right here and said, ‘Hey, I want you to hear this song,’ and if I played it with a lot of love and said, ‘Here’s a song I want to give all of you right now,’ that’s what Oscar was able to do,” T Bone Burnett said at this morning’s tribute to both him and the Coens. “He was able to get into that real moment of a singer’s absolute generosity, giving everything he had. That’s an extraordinary feat.”

So count that as my take on “Inside Llewyn Davis” for the moment: absolute captivation by Oscar Isaac, who has given, to my mind, the single best performance I’ve seen on a screen so far this year. I’ll sit with the movie itself a bit longer and perhaps take it in again either here at the festival or in a few weeks in LA, but it’s full of all the tasteful craft you’d expect of the Coens. I just want it to marinate a little longer.

As for the festival itself, there will be plenty more to come. I still haven’t written up Penn and Teller’s “Tim’s Vermeer,” potentially the best new film I’ve seen here so far. But will that change in mere hours after “Gravity” wraps up? I’ll let you know.

TELLURIDE, Colo. – Fox Searchlight was smart to get into business with filmmaker Steve McQueen two years ago when, not long after screening his last film, “Shame,” here at the Telluride Film Festival, they acquired it for distribution. Further dividends will be paid in the sterling accomplishment of “12 Years a Slave,” to be sure.

It wasn’t just the sound of sniffles but open bawling that could be heard throughout the Werner Herzog Theater today at the second screening of the film. It is every bit as emotionally devastating as you’ve been led to believe so far and it is a knock-out awards contender, firing on all cylinders with nominations to be expected across the board.

McQueen had been wanting to make a film about slavery for some time and was always looking for an in. He had the idea of a free black man kidnapped into slavery and started working on a script with John Ridley (whose work on the page with this vintage dialogue is absolutely exquisite). McQueen’s wife suggested a book he had never heard of, an autobiography of just the sort of character he had in mind written by Solomon Northup and “12 Years a Slave” started clicking to life.

“As soon as it was in my hand, I couldn’t put it down,” McQueen said of the book in the post-screening Q&A. “It was just riveting. Every page I turned, I just couldn’t believe what I was reading. I live in Amsterdam and for me it was like reading Anne Frank’s diary for the first time. And 99% of people I spoke to had never heard of it. It was a passion.”

Meanwhile, Brad Pitt and his “little garage band of a production company,” as he put it — Plan B — had made it their mandate from the beginning to work with directors who they thought had a unique and special voice. McQueen certainly qualified, as this was coming off of “Hunger” with Michael Fassbender (who also stars in “12 Years”). A little choked up talking about the material and the experience working on the film, in which he also has a small part, Pitt said he wondered why there weren’t more movies about slavery and found it intriguing that it took a Brit to make something such as this.

“I just want to say that I am so humbled and so proud to be a part of the film,” Pitt said. “This is why I wanted to get into film, films like this that I watch and have such an emotional and transformative experience. I don’t know about you guys but I find it difficult to speak afterwards. These fine performances — I know what it takes to get to where these guys got to. It’s an incredible feat.”

Indeed, Chiwetel Ejiofor offers a stunning portrayal that shoots right to the top of an already crowded and competitive Best Actor Oscar race. A character actor who has cranked out head-turning work for years, going back to at least “Dirty Pretty Things” (and probably farther, but that’s when I first sparked to him), he has been due a role such as this for quite some time. He makes everything of the opportunity, giving a performance of raw intensity at times and tranquil beauty at others.

“I just wanted to try and investigate this person as much as I could,” Ejiofor said of Northup. “I found the story so beautiful as well as having all of this sort of trauma in it. There’s this incredible spirit that this man had and trying to capture that and tell the story within the paradigm of that narrative was something I wanted to achieve.”

Speaking of making the most of an opportunity, Fassbender was quick to note how impressed he was by newcomer Lupita N’yongo, who revs into an equally intense portrayal. “She came into the first rehearsal that we did and she just gave it everything and had the courage to lay it on the table, and perhaps fall flat on her face, but go for it,” he said. “I was like, ‘Shit, I better do my homework. This is the hunger of somebody new, somebody seeing the opportunity and taking it with both hands.'”

Fassbender’s work in the film is one of seething villainy, not unlike Ralph Fiennes in “Schindler’s List.” His barbaric slave owner haunts the screen, as terrifying in bursts of violence as he is in smoldering silence. All three of these actors deserve to be in the awards conversation throughout the rest of the year, as, frankly, does Sarah Paulson as Fassbender’s daintily vicious wife.

I found the film incredibly moving and yet another example of expert craft from McQueen. He’s collaborating with one of the most talented cinematographers working today, Sean Bobbitt, and together they frame this story in profound ways, patient with the camera. Design elements are perfectly realized, from Patricia Norris’ costumes to Adam Stockhausen’s production design. Hans Zimmer’s score often plays to what this is, an American horror story. However, in the more delicate areas, he rather distractingly borrows from his own work in “The Thin Red Line” and “Inception.”

The only other complaint I could muster with this is that, like my colleague Greg Ellwood, I felt the passage of time wasn’t all that well presented. For a film called “12 Years a Slave,” it would have been valuable to really feel how epic this story is. That’s not to say it isn’t epic in its own way, but before long you start to forget how long this is supposed to have been. Then again, that could be partly the point; surely time bled together for Mr. Northup.

Expect to be hearing plenty more about this one as the year unfolds. It’s a towering achievement from all involved.

“12 Years a Slave” opens in limited release on Oct. 18.

TELLURIDE, Colo. – Given the Coen brothers’ catalog of great American films, they would have been perfectly suited to a tribute unto themselves at this year’s 40th annual Telluride Film Festival. But when you consider Telluride’s connection to music via the annual Bluegrass music festival held in June, the Coens’ collaboration with T Bone Burnett over the years and particularly how that collaboration has reached a peak with this year’s “Inside Llewyn Davis,” honoring them together made way too much sense.

Last night’s tribute unfortunately faced a scheduling nightmare as it was programmed against the sneak previews of “12 Years a Slave” and “Prisoners,” but the turn-out was still solid as former Coen cinematographer Barry Sonnenfeld presented the brothers with the Silver Medallion. The Chuck Jones Cinema was all the more packed this morning with film lovers who missed last night’s ceremony, eager to toast the trio. Those filing into the theater were met with the musical stylings of The Americans and the traditional picking quartet also offered up a two-song intro on stage to kick off the event.

Clips were shown representing the Coens’ collaborations with Burnett over the years, including rock from 1998’s “The Big Lebowski,” bluegrass from 2000’s “O Brother, Where Art Thou?,” gospel from 2004’s “The Ladykillers” and, of course, folk from “Inside Llewyn Davis.” Variety film critic and moderator for the morning, Scott Foundas, started with the obvious question: What were the formative musical experiences for these three?

In the case of Burnett, he wanted to know about Cole Porter from a very early age after digging into countless 78s in his parents’ house. “I spent a lot of time down there in that dream world,” he said. “There were these songs that were so evocative…all of these universes that were created by just these three men and songs. It was really a pretty amazing thing.”

Joel Coen mentioned Pete Seeger but also, being land-locked in Minnesota throughout his childhood, said he found something incredibly romantic about sea shanties. And when it came to his brother, “Big Bill Broonzy blew my little kid brain,” Ethan said. “I’m still getting over that.”

From there talk shifted to how the filmmaker siblings have used music in their films over the years. It’s interesting how Burnett came to be involved with them. After seeing “Raising Arizona” he decided “I’ve either got to talk to these people or get them out of my head,” he said. It was the only time he had ever cold-called someone. He was quite taken by how they used music in the film, particularly Pete Seeger’s “Ode to Joy.”

With “Lebowski,” each character “seemed to have their own musical genre,” Ethan said. The film is obviously inspired by the work of golden age musical director Busby Berkeley, and indeed, Joel mentioned that he was very fond of the director’s work, from “Dames” to “Gold Diggers of 1935.”

As for “O Brother, Where Art Thou?,” Burnett’s influence was greatly noticed, all the way to four Grammys. The success of that film’s American folk/bluegrass soundtrack inspired the “Down from the Mountain” concert benefit and tour that was a raging success. “Me and Joel were totally surprised [by that success],” Ethan said. “T Bone is the only one in the world who was not.”

Burnett noted that similar plans are in store for the “Inside Llewyn Davis” soundtrack contributors following the “Another Day, Another Time” benefit scheduled for next month in New York, proceeds of which will go to something very dear to his heart: sound preservation. One of the wonderful things of late, he said, is that great 21st century artists are interested in going back and recording classic tunes from the early part of the last century. But the truly sad thing about that, he said, is that all of the recordings sound bad. “Help is on the way for that,” he teased, before noting that he’s heavily involved in services for sound preservation much like Martin Scorsese’s involvement with film preservation.

Indeed, by way of introduction, Foundas astutely classified Burnett as an “archaeologist” of American music. This kind of thing flows through Burnett’s veins. At Thursday morning’s patron brunch he giddily told me of the countless pies he has his fingers in at the moment as it pertains to giving a considerable shelf life to this music. His passion for it is unmistakable, and as he sat next to the Coens this morning, he waxed on about how much of the nation’s DNA is found in “pickin’ and singin’,” to steal an “O Brother” phrase.

“The United States has defined itself through music since the very beginning, since ‘The Star Spangled Banner,’ and ‘John Brown’s Body’ in the Civil War,” Burnett said. “It’s our most important cultural artifact, and it’s been our most democratizing act, the fact that we went into the South in the 1930s and 40s and recorded the poorest people in the United States and broadcast their stories around the world. That is the greatest act of democratization we’ve achieved in this country. So all of this music is part of that story.”

“The Ladykillers” was given a bit of short shrift in the discussion but talk focused plenty on “Llewyn Davis.” The Coens were interested in the almost famous story of a Bob Dylan-like figure who never quite made it but was every bit a part of a scene that would ignite. They wanted the musical performances to be shown in full, an entire song, beginning to end, and they wanted the whole thing to have an almost documentary experience to it, they said. So the work would be doubly hard on whoever got the title role.

In Oscar Isaac, they found a huge musical talent driven to achieve the effect they were after. Burnett said Isaac would spend plenty of time away, nailing down the songs so that when it came time to perform on the day, the nerves were gone. The songs were performed live during filming with one mic, making the technical side of the film quite something to behold. But beyond just an authentic technical effect, Isaac provided a lived-in performance of a character that felt every bit as genuine as a result.

“He was able to get into that real moment of a singer’s generosity, giving everything he had,” Burnett said of the actor.

But the movie isn’t just about music, Joel said. “It’s about anything. People who are very talented at something that aren’t necessarily ‘successful,’ in quotation marks, in terms of how the rest of the world perceived them, that was interesting to us.”

And it remains interesting to them, as Ethan revealed that they hope their next film will be about an opera singer. And not only that, with typical quirk, they want it to feature an intermission.

Through music, the Coens have found themselves tapping a number of genres and forms, with Burnett as a steward through much of it. Foundas asked if there was a risk in re-appropriation and telling stories with a vintage hue, that the work could become kitsch. But all involved said they don’t think in those terms. It’s more about appreciation than appropriation.

“We don’t do camp or comment or anything,” Ethan said. “For us it comes from an affection for those forms and wanting to do them yourself — not to spoof the form but to do the form.”

With that in mind, when asked what it was that made them want to be filmmakers, the siblings had a classic Coen answer at the ready. Ethan recalled reading an interview with Mick Jagger once upon a time in which the Rolling Stones frontman was asked why he was still performing. Jagger said he got up on stage when he was a kid, made a fool of himself, and no one told him to stop. So he kept doing it. Joel’s answer was along the same lines and sums up the duo’s attitude toward what they do quite well.

“When we were 12 and 13 years old, we would see ‘The Naked Prey’ on television with Cornel Wilde and we’d go out in the backyard with a Super 8 camera and make it the next day,” he said. “Literally we were just fuckin’ around. And we still feel like we’re just fuckin’ around.”

“Inside Llewyn Davis” will play throughout the Telluride film fest. It opens in limited release on Dec. 6.

VENICE – The unhappy case of Philomena Lee, we are told throughout Stephen Frears” outwardly stoic but not-so-secretly mallow-centered “Philomena,” is far more than a ‘human interest” story. That phrase, frequently used here as a catch-all for manipulative, exploitative ‘soft” journalism short on both sincere humanity and interest, is first contemptuously uttered by disgraced political journalist Martin Sixsmith (Steve Coogan) when Lee”s daughter approaches him about looking into her mother”s agonized search for a long-lost son. “It”s a human interest story,” he brusquely informs her, helpfully adding that such stories are written both for and about the “weak-minded, vulnerable and ignorant.”

Well. It takes neither a student of psychology nor one of narrative structure to tell that the hardened Oxbridge man will undergo a change of heart in due course. And true enough, the elderly Irishwoman”s tale of woe – recounted six years after their initial meeting in Sixsmith”s 2009 book “The Lost Child of Philomena Lee” – certainly is more penetrating, not to mention more surprising, than the formulaic if true accounts of loss and redemption that fill the tabloids Philomena herself likes to read. Conflicted sexual identities, enduring institutional corruption and raw, never-to-be-resolved grief are all teased out of this one mild-mannered woman”s sentimental journey – with a hearty side order of Catholic guilt, of course.

That doesn”t stop Sixsmith from pitching it to a practically salivating magazine editor as human interest material of the glibbest variety, as he emphasises its salacious extremes – “Evil is good, story-wise,” he yammers, as Philomena shoots him a baffled look – and projects a cathartic happy ending for the then-unsolved case. Coogan”s screenplay, co-written with Jeff Pope, repeatedly chastises Sixsmith and his kind for packaging human tragedy in this fashion, but the irony is that Frears” entertaining but thoroughly unchallenging film isn”t doing anything remotely different.

Timing its unexpected reveals with Swiss-watch precision for maximum pathos, and patronizing its salt-of-the-earth title character by playing her cultural and intellectual limitations for sympathetic laughs, “Philomena” is human interest filmmaking of a classy and highly effective order, but its repeated sneers at the adjusted-reality fixation of modern middlebrow culture are more than a little disingenuous.

The Catholic Church has been much in the news for the abuse it has enacted on the bodies and minds of young men; but its equally unconscionable maltreatment of the fairer sex remains a less explored scandal. Peter Mullan”s searing 2002 film “The Magdalene Sisters” was a breakthrough in that regard, documenting life in the workhouses (or ‘Asylums”) managed by the Church for “fallen” women. It”s a world that “Philomena” revisits in less gritty flashback scenes that nonetheless, thanks to the saturated, soft-toned wizardry of genius cinematographer Robbie Ryan (surely the best man ever to shoot for Frears), carry real atmospheric weight.

Knocked up after a first, ecstatic sexual encounter at a fairground in rural West Ireland in the early 1950s, the teenaged Philomena (played with spare, trembling power by Sophie Kennedy Clark) is bundled into an Asylum, and made to sign over her imminent child to the Church”s care. After a difficult birth – “The pain is her penance,” hisses hatchet-faced nun and chief villain Sister Hildegard (Barbara Jefford) – Philomena is permitted daily visitation rights to her son Anthony. Three years later, the Church sells him, together with another inmate”s daughter, to a wealthy childless couple from the States.

This is the last Philomena knows, her subsequent enquiries over the decades having been rebuffed by the Asylum staff – who trust that the naive, God-fearing woman will take accept the Church”s profession of ignorance. Faced with the enquiries of even a slumming Sixsmith, however, the case is blown open far more efficiently, and it”s not long before the journalist and his sweet-natured new meal ticket are on Anthony”s trail in Washington D.C.

It”d teeter on spoiler territory to offer further details of their investigation – though it”s with each subsequent revelation that Philomena reveals herself to be rather a more complex, socially advanced being than the Harlequin-reading rube the rest of the film makes her out to be. Her attitude toward sex, having been punished so severely for it herself, is particularly intriguing, even if the script can resist making several limp old-woman-talking-dirty jokes at her expense.

Indeed, the whole film seems rather too amused by Philomena, repeatedly ribbing her as a kind of holy innocent, whose sense of perma-wonder extends even to the complimentary mint on her hotel room pillow. Neither is it a character approach that sits particularly well with Dench”s touching, finely etched performance: not an actress naturally given to playing dumb, her more intelligent read on Philomena is of a woman at once aware of her limitations, and not entirely aware of where others presume her limitations to be. Scenes that require Philomena to be dimly garrulous or blowsy therefore don”t quite ring true – she certainly can”t utter the Irishism “feckin” eejit” with much conviction. It”s the ones where her reactions don”t meet with narrative expectation – as in a particularly moving, underplayed faceoff with the withered Sister Hildegard – that give the film its grace notes (and Dench, I expect, her seventh Oscar nomination).

There certainly aren”t any being provided by Alexandre Desplat”s dismayingly terrible score, which underwrites the film”s every more subtly expressed emotion with twee, tinkly Oirishisms and sickly arpeggios that might best be described as aural human interest. That Frears could pair Ryan”s lovely imagery – more subdued in the film”s latter-day stretches, but still lit with delicate acuity – with a score of such pile-driving lilt suggests he, too, wasn”t quite sure how to play the script”s searching personal narrative with its blandly reductive comic relief. It”s a story rich enough to win the battle, as proved by the thundering applause that greeted its first press screening at Venice this morning, but not without the shaping it professes to find so undignified.

TELLURIDE, Colo. – After its premiere screening at the 2013 Telluride Film Festival Friday evening, it goes without saying that no narrative film or TV program has ever depicted the sheer brutality and horror that was American slavery as Steve McQueen’s “12 Years A Slave” does. Based on the true story of Solomon Northup, a free black man who was kidnapped and sold into slavery in 1841, “12 Years” is a powerful drama driven by McQueen’s bold direction and the finest performance of Chiwetel Ejiofor’s career.

The film begins about halfway through Northup’s ordeal as he finds himself cutting sugarcane and sharing a floor to sleep on with countless other slaves. It then quickly jumps back to his idyllic life in Saratoga, New York where he appears to have made a living as a violin player.  While his wife and two children head out of town for a few weeks (Quvenzhané Wallis briefly appears as his daughter), Northup (Ejiofor) makes the mistake of partnering with two men who present themselves as circus promoters (Taran Killam, Scoot McNairy) for a few performances culminating in Washington, D.C. At that time the nation’s capital was not a safe area for free men of color because it bordered the slave states of Virginia and Maryland. After a night of celebrating with his supposed business partners, Northup wakes up to find himself in a slave pen shackled in chains. The horror of this situation is immediate to both Northup and the audience. His predicament becomes even more painful to watch after he is sold to a Louisiana plantation owner and freedom is now thousands of miles away.

Northup’s story and the brutality he witnesses during his time as a slave would be tough viewing for anyone, but that’s McQueen’s greatest strength and what truly sets “12 Years” apart.  McQueen has no fear in depicting the true savagery thrust upon American slaves by their owners. He won’t flinch in holding on the image, even if it’s graphically disturbing.  Slavery was an inhumane evil that McQueen refuses to turn away from. The fact McQueen makes this creative decision early on allows one heartbreaking whipping scene near the end of the movie to effectively become the picture’s climax. The scene is filmed completely in one shot allowing the tension to build as you realize there will be no escape for the victim or the viewer. It’s obviously tough to watch, but also brilliantly realized. As producer and supporting cast member Brad Pitt noted in the film’s post-screening Q&A, the film is so intense it makes you “want to take a group walk around the block.” And, yes, that’s a good thing.

For all McQueen’s considerable skills as a filmmaker, “12 Years” would not succeed without Ejiofor’s incredible turn.  In this day in age it may be hard to believe why a free man wouldn’t run for his life or fight to his last breath in Northup’s circumstances. Ejiofor makes history palatable as he captures Northup’s desire to survive as well as his despair as the weight of his plight increases over time.

Michael Fassbender and newcomer Lupita Nyong’o are the picture’s two other standout turns. Fassbender is essentially the embodiment of evil as Northup’s last slave owner, Edwin Epps. McQueen’s frequent muse (“Hunger,” “Shame”) is relentless in depicting the inhumanity in Epps, but expertly manages to avoid making Epps one note. Instead of pretending there is some good in Epps, Fassbender and McQueen provide him a range of combustible madness.

Epps primary victim is Patsey, a young slave girl played by Nyong’o. As Patsey suffers from Epps’ affections, insecurities and jealousy, Nyong’o eloquently convinces us why her character sees death as her only viable escape. It’s the film’s breakthrough performance and may find Nyong’o making her way to the Dolby Theater next March.

McQueen is also blessed by fantastic small performances by a number of great actors including Paul Dano as an insecure overseer on Northup’s first plantation, Benedict Cumberbatch as Northup’s sympathetic (to a degree) first owner, Paul Giamatti as a cold-minded slave auctioneer, Alfre Woodward as a kept plantation owner’s wife and Pitt as Northup’s eventual salvation. Sarah Paulson deserves special recognition for superbly avoiding cliches in the familiar role of a jealous plantation owner’s wife.

“12 Years” also features gorgeous cinematography by another longtime McQueen collaborator, Sean Bobbitt, and one of Hans Zimmer’s more moving scores in some time.

One minor criticism of the film is that it shockingly fails to convey the passage of time during Northrup’s forced slavery. This isn’t to suggest McQueen needed title cards dictating individual years, but when your film is titled “12 Years A Slave” it might make a bit of sense to communicate the weight of the period to your audience.

Most importantly, however, long after its initial run in theaters and years after it earns whatever awards come its way, “12 Years,”” like “Lincoln,” “The Hurt Locker” or “Milk,” will have an enduring legacy as an educational tool for new generations. And, frankly, that might be the most satisfying reward someone like McQueen or Ejiofor could ask for.

“12 Years A Slave” will continue to screen at the Telluride Film Festival and have it’s official world premiere at the 2013 Toronto International Film Festival. It opens in limited release on Oct. 18.

TELLURIDE, Colo. – It’s interesting seeing Robert Redford receive a tribute at the Telluride Film Festival. With Sundance so ingrained in his blood and his being the face of an entire institution, his presence here — albeit in a completely warranted capacity — feels like a touch of infidelity. But it’s too good an opportunity to pass up for a fixture of Hollywood history who this year delivers an absolutely amazing, sure-fire Oscar-contending performance in J.C. Chandor’s “All is Lost.”

A pair of tribute presentations were held yesterday and today at the fest with a clip reel and Silver Medallion presentation (introduced last night by Redford’s “Quiz Show” star Ralph Fiennes, who is here with his own film, “The Invisible Woman”). Audiences were treated to 60 minutes of Redford’s work across a wide spectrum, from Sidney Lumet’s “The Iceman Cometh” (1960) to multiple Sydney Pollack collaborations (1972’s “Jeremiah Johnson,” 1985’s “Out of Africa,” etc.) to Redford’s own “A River Runs Through It” (1992, starring Brad Pitt, who’s also here this year with a sneak of “12 Years a Slave”).

When this morning’s event got around to the conversation portion, moderated by the LA Times’ John Horn, the theme was clear: Redford’s perspective on an ever-evolving industry over the course of five decades. He has worked through a changing of status quo in Hollywood, watching as the industry “became more centralized and ‘followed the money,'” to steal a phrase from 1976’s “All the President’s Men.” Redford could “see changes taking place in the product, and it was jettisoning the kinds of movies I was interested in,” he said.

That is of course a well-worn talking point by now as it’s the perfect segue to his reasoning for founding the Sundance Institute and later the Sundance Film Festival. But it’s part and parcel of Redford’s perch and perspective. He’s seen the rise of film schools and a new breed of filmmaker in people like Brian De Palma, Martin Scorsese and Francis Ford Coppola, and later, the effects-driven world of consumer product in film. But within all of that, gradually what was missing for him were the three things he holds most dear: character, story and emotion.

One of his earliest collaborations was with Sidney Lumet in “The Iceman Cometh,” and that was a filmmaker Redford was quick to praise in the discussion. “Sidney really understood the value of pulling out the emotions in something,” Redford said. “He liked close-ups so much that he would get in the way of your performance; he’d stand next to the camera and you’d be working with Jason Robards or Myron McCormick and suddenly there’s this face in there. But that was Sidney.”

There was also talk of his numerous collaborations with the late Sydney Pollack, who Redford called “a wonderful manager.” He was happy to be used to Pollack’s advantage, Redford said, because he trusted him to shape the work properly. It gave him a certain freedom. But that brought him to another unsettling trend he’s seen develop as some filmmakers have begun to reveal a lack of discipline over the years.

“I don’t like doing a lot of takes because I think it devalues your work over time,” he said. “I’ve seen as time has gone on some directors of late seem to want to shape their films in the editing, and they know that, so they just do a lot of takes. At a certain point you wonder, ‘Why is this director just doing take after take after take?’ You realize they want to get a lot of footage so they can shape it in the editing room. They don’t do so well with you on the set because they’re either afraid of you or they just want to shape it their own way and they don’t want to stop the show. That’s different than the way it was when we started.”

Redford went to school for set design largely to get his family off his back, constantly asking him what he was going to do, what he was going to amount to. But he discovered a love of art early on and he confided in the audience that as his acting career took hold, he carried a “shadow of guilt” with him that he had not been what he thought he was supposed to be, a painter. He fretted that he had lost something. But eventually he found a profound convergence.

When Redford set out to make his directorial debut, 1980’s “Ordinary People,” he didn’t know the language of the camera. He always believed as an actor trying to forge a character on screen, he should shut out the technical side of filmmaking, to stay present as a performer. So when it came time to explain what he wanted to his DP on the film, he didn’t quite know how to do that. So he grabbed a piece of paper and drew his own crude storyboard, explaining the composition he was after, how the light was used in the frame, etc. It was then that the epiphany struck. “I haven’t lost something,” he recalled thinking to himself. “I’ve brought it forward to join something else.”

The clip reel was full of great examples of his trajectory, perhaps the best displays of his work coming in bits from Lumet’s “The Iceman Cometh,” Michael Ritchie’s “The Candidate” and Alan J. Pakula’s “All the President’s Men.” And now, “All is Lost.”

Redford offers up a brilliant portrayal in the film, one of grit and conviction, nuance and tenderness. He’s as enigmatic as he’s ever been in a nearly silent performance mingled with all the valuable behavioral minutiae writer/director J.C. Chandor has given him to work with. And he will absolutely be in the hunt for an Oscar win by season’s end.

The film itself I will get into at a later date, but again, it was the perfect occasion for a Redford toast. The 40th annual Telluride Film Festival was smart to program it, despite the friendly festival competition just a few mountain ranges over.

“All is Lost” will play throughout the Telluride Film Festival. It will also screen at the New York Film Festival before hitting theaters on Oct. 18.

TELLURIDE, Colo. – 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.

Upon introducing the film tonight after having just completed it a week ago today, Villeneuve (who paced with nervousness outside the Werner Herzog Theater prior to the screening) noted that he was terrified of transitioning to American cinema as a French Canadian filmmaker, worried he would lose his identity. He praised his producers for allowing him to maintain it, and indeed, “Prisoners” remains a vision all his own, identifiable, even.

I was no fan of “Incendies” on a story level but found the filmmaking to be formally refined. And “Prisoners” has every ounce of that class. It’s a patient film, almost painful in its suspense, and as mentioned, unafraid of pushing to an arguably unnecessary length. You could feel the length of “Incendies,” too, but the difference here is that drawing the bow so meticulously  tight adds to the atmosphere Villeneuve is building.

The narrative, in a nutshell, was set up nicely by a trailer many think gives away too much, but trust me when I say it doesn’t. It’s the story of a pair of kidnapped girls and the labyrinthine hunt for where they are, who took them and why. The answers ultimately aren’t all that satisfying, to be perfectly honest, but the build to them, the craft on display and a hugely brave final moment make it easy enough to look past narrative contrivances.

Of course, plenty of credit is owed to Villeneuve’s crew, cinematographer Roger Deakins in particular. There’s a reason most consider Deakins to be the best working DP and he makes another case here, collaborating with Villeneuve on a vision of at times startling richness, any number of frames bucking what one might expect out of a film such as this.

The ensemble is great across the board but Hugh Jackman gives what honestly might be his best performance as one of the desperate fathers willing to do whatever it takes to find his daughter. Jake Gyllenhaal is also perfectly utilized, carving out a law enforcement character caught between the robotics of the job and the emotion of the case. And also worth noting is Terrence Howard as the other father; he doesn’t get a whole lot to do here, but he makes it all count and, along with his work in “Lee Daniels’ The Butler,” seems to be back on the right track.

I don’t quite know if this shakes out as an awards movie, though, and it’s not like it has to. Jackman certainly deserves to be in the Best Actor conversation but it’s impossibly competitive. The film editing and cinematography both deserve consideration, too, but I can’t be sure. If it takes off (the Telluride crowd here was riveted), then there could be wiggle room.

But I keep coming back to the simple note that this is atypical. It’s not reinvention of the wheel, mind. It’s not something completely fresh. But it is expert, tasteful craft in the Hollywood sphere. We just don’t get it often enough. I think one day Villeneuve is going to give us an absolute diamond. I look forward to it, but in the meantime, this is an impressive leap onto the Hollywood stage.

“Prisoners” plays the Telluride Film Festival throughout the weekend before heading to Toronto next week. It hits theaters on Sept. 20.

The lucky folks in Telluride are the envy of the cinephile community tonight, as “12 Years a Slave” has its unofficial world premiere with a sneak preview at the festival. It will, of course, go on to Toronto for its formal unveiling, but by that point, many key critics will have already had their say, and a reputation will already be forming.

Now comes the news that Steve McQueen’s latest will also be heading to the New York Film Festival, where it’ll be presented in association with Film Comment magazine. “Slave” has enough self-generated prestige that it can afford to miss a stop or two along the way, but it’s working the fall festival circuit hard. It could have had the full house, too: I’m told that it was the one title that Venice director Alberto Barbera really fought and failed to secure, but Fox Searchlight presumably felt that, despite McQueen’s Euro-fest track record, Telluride-Toronto would be the best launchpad for this heavy Oscar hopeful.

The NYFF date, which also marks its US premiere, is on October 8, ten days before it hits US theaters. McQueen will be on hand to present the film, along with stars Chiwetel Ejiofor, Michael Fassbender, Lupita Nyong”o, Adepero Oduye, Paul Dano and Alfre Woodard.

Fil Comment editor Gavin Smith explained his magazine’s involvement, saying, “This is a powerful work about a subject that remains vital and I have no doubt that it”s one of the year”s most important films.” McQueen added, “For me, this feels like a true home-coming for Solomon as he was from New York and I’m delighted that his story can be celebrated here.”

Look out for our first reaction to “12 Years a Slave” later tonight.

TELLURIDE, Colo. – All of town is abuzz today with the official revelation of two “sneak preview” screenings set for tonight: Denis Villeneuve’s “Prisoners” and Steve McQueen’s “12 Years a Slave.” But everyone has been curious what the third would be, if indeed there would be a third.

Well, wonder no more as Deadline is reporting that Shane Salerno’s documentary “Salinger” has grabbed a “surprise late entry” to the lineup. If true, it’s an interesting turn of events, given how things were apparently supposed to shake out originally.

I’ve been told that The Weinstein Company had Stephen Frears’ “Philomena” all lined up for a sneak preview on Monday, fresh off its Venice bow tomorrow. But I’m told 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.

“12 Years a Slave” and “Prisoners” are both set for Toronto next week, while the former was programmed by the Film Society of Lincoln Center for a U.S. premiere at the New York Film Festival on Oct. 8. As soon as confirmation that McQueen’s film would be unveiling here, a press release hit the wires announcing this “official” premiere.

But Toronto, particularly after having its “Argo” thunder stolen last year, has apparently become more and more unsettled by Telluride sneaks. Indeed, the only film set for a gala premiere at Toronto that’s on the Telluride lineup this year is Ritesh Batra’s “The Lunchbox.” With films like “Labor Day,” “Under the Skin,” “Gravity” and “The Invisible Woman” popping up here first, in addition to McQueen and Villeneuve’s entries, perhaps “Philomena” was the last straw? And perhaps that’s why The Weinstein Company has gone with “Salinger” instead (which, after all, opens a mere week from today)?

Oh the drama of the fall festival circuit.

VENICE – Tye Sheridan seems a nice kid and all, but he sure has terrible taste in father figures. Well, okay, not the real Tye Sheridan – whose dad, I”m sure, is a delight – but the flinty, feral persona he”s honed in two country-fried journeys into manhood this year. First came Jeff Nichols” “Mud,” in which the steady-gazing teenager attached himself to Matthew McConaughey”s snake-tattooed fugitive Mud, a reverse adoption that ended about as well as it might have done. Now comes David Gordon Green”s “Joe,” in which Sheridan, his face already older and more settled, attaches himself to Nicolas Cage”s skull-tattooed ex-con Joe – a slightly more mutual adoption that, given the boy”s brutal, whiskey-wet home environment, could only be described as the lesser of two evils.

As with the goofy-melancholy antics of “Prince Avalanche,” hailed earlier this year as Green”s redemptive feature after the progressive artistic backslide of his mainstream comedy phase, “Joe” sees the North Carolina graduate returning more to a physical environment than a cinematic one. Grimy and shouty and riddled with broad, substance-scarred stereotypes, this hellish vision of the South – that no state is specified on screen enhances the sense of all unflattering bases being covered, though Larry Brown”s source novel is set in Mississippi – is a realm far, far away from the woozy, Sparklehorse-kissed romanticism of “All the Real Girls,” or even the honest gruel of “Undertow,” however regionally approximate. In career terms, Green is returning from the wilderness by returning to it – but in the time he”s been away, he appears to have developed an outsider”s wary perspective.

Coincidentally or otherwise, the film”s very first shot lures resilient 15-year-old Gary (Sheridan) with both the motive and means for escape, as he sits beside his grizzled, alcoholic dad Wade before a railway track that one suspects has ample time for moss to gather between trains. Father and son trade abuse from the off, and not in the jocular, status-asserting way that is common in even the Bradiest of bunches. It”s plain theirs is a violent, loveless bond, and if the performance by first-time actor Gary Poulter as Wade is short on emotional gradation, its unschooled volatility does make him an appropriately stressful presence. (In countenance and clothing, meanwhile, he also looks distractingly like Bruce Dern in Alexander Payne”s upcoming “Nebraska,” but that”s a separate concern.)

A male counterpart of sorts to Jennifer Lawrence”s Ree Dolly in “Winter”s Bone” – if you look closely, Lawrence and Sheridan even have a similar, wide-cheeked mien – Gary is entrusted with caring and providing for his mother and sister over a father whose drowning in an Ozark lake would be, if anything, a benefit to all parties. His sister is mute, and his mother may as well be: I”d hazard a guess that she”s a meth-head, since Gary Hawkins” script scarcely gives her any room to prove otherwise. (Still, they”re about the only women in the film”s world who aren”t prostitutes, with or without hearts of gold, so this otherwise dire family must be doing something right.)

Capable and diligent beyond his years, Gary finds temporary employment with Cage”s semi-reformed renegade Joe, who heads up a tightly-knit troupe of foresters, charged with poisoning old pine trees to make room for stronger, lumber-providing ones. There”s a none-too-subtle metaphor in there about the unchecked withering of the old South, though as depicted here, it”s already long past gone. Either together or alone, Gary and Joe alike spend virtually every scene of the film careering from one violent altercation with a known enemy to another with a random acquaintance: it turns out they share a mutual foe in skeezy, scar-faced Willie, whose motives the script keeps frustratingly opaque. (He”s also the cast”s second most disconcerting lookalike: should we ever misplace Peter Sarsgaard, it”s nice to know we have a scruffier backup.)

Before you can say it”s a dog-eat-dog world out there, Green serves us with a tawdrily obvious scene in which one dog does indeed eat another. The act takes place in the hallway of the local brothel, as we cut to images of sundry miscreants writhing and grinding and pumping iron upstairs, and it”s a curious tonal segue – a momentary dip into the world of “Lee Daniels” Joe,” if you will – from the more drably earnest miserablism that dominates proceedings. 

So, for that matter, is a rather sweet stretch of buddy-comedy foolery later on, as Joe and Gary drive drunkenly around town in addled search of that same cannibalistic dog; it”s a sequence that, like the best parts of “Prince Avalanche,” shows that Green”s apprenticeship in Hollywood comedy wasn”t for naught. It”s here where Cage, otherwise on effortfully atypical, subdued form, is really allowed to let rip; as much as the film seems calculated to remind us what the slumlord star can do when he”s Really Acting, I couldn”t help feeling this was the one section in a carefully modulated performance that plays to his manic strengths.

Indeed, I felt Cage and Green dutifully constricting themselves throughout “Joe,” suppressing their warmer, looser instincts to serve a narrative that is serious but not quite substantial. Essentially affecting as the surrogate father-son relationship at its core is, I found myself rooting for the leads only because the film”s narrow, nuance-free story world presents no other options, steaming as it is with unyielding masculine toxicity – and telegraphed as it is toward someone ending up with a shirt soaked in blood. Lying beside him in bed, Joe”s barely characterized girlfriend – who exits proceedings with a Dear John note flashed so fleetingly on screen it”s like she was never there at all – describes her fantasy of enjoying a chivalrous, old-fashioned dinner date with him. “Maybe you could hold the door open for me?” she asks plaintively, knowing full well there are no Southern gentlemen to be found around this wearisome, unfriendly film.

TELLURIDE, Colo. – The Telluride Film Festival programmers saved Jonathan Glazer’s new film “Under the Skin” for the last debut of opening day and at first glance it was a tad perplexing. The 11:45 PM screening time guaranteed that only the most hardcore of cinephiles would be in the audience. Considering that Glazer delivered the most high profile art film since “Holy Motors” that was a very smart move

“Skin” is adapted from Michael Faber’s critically acclaimed 2000 novel, but does not provide as much detailed narrative.  Glazer, best known for his films “Sexy Beast” and “Birth,” has instead fashioned an original piece of cinema that is gorgeous, mesmerizing, heartbreaking, frustrating and pretentious all at the same time. It has some of the most haunting images of the year and features the bravest performance of Scarlett Johansson’s career.

The filmmaker begins by departing from Faber’s explanation of his main character’s origins. Unlike the book, where or when Laura (Johansson) comes from remains to be seen. Is she an alien as in the novel? Or, a being from the future or another dimension? Glazer is letting the audience decide.  

We first meet Laura (or “a previous Laura”) when one of her motorcycle goons picks up her lifeless body from a darkened hillside in Scotland. In the back of a moving truck a broken Laura is stripped by her replacement who puts on her predecessor’s tattered clothes. Our new Laura then methodically gets a new wardrobe and makeup at the local mall as she begins her mission. This first act of the picture finds Laura driving her truck around the urban areas of Scotland seducing men on the street. She coyly convinces them to come back to what they think is her apartment.  Instead, Laura hypnotizes them like a Black Widow and they strip down only to walk into a merciless fate in what can only be described as a liquid prison. What happens to her victims at that point is better viewed on screen, but every entrapment has been stunningly realized.

[Editor’s note: Making a note on my own review just for those who think they may be learning too much of the plot even if that’s not the case.  You may want to skip the next three paragraphs and then continue.]

Glazer depicts the routine of Laura failing, changing her mind and succeeding perhaps a few too many times, but  it’s important to see the human side that appears when the men are speaking to her contrasted with the cold, calculating demeanor she fronts during the rest of her search. At one point we see her inhumanly ignore a young baby orphaned on a secluded beach basically leaving it to die. We see her react in horror to someone else’s blood thinking it could be her own. Little moments that show “something” is in there. Things change, however, when she mistakenly trips falling face first onto the sidewalk. Is it a shock to her system? Trauma to her head? All that matters is that it begins to slowly changes her perspective.

That transformation begins during the film’s most heartbreaking scene as Laura approaches a deformed man (likely suffering from Elephant Man disease or Neurofibromatosis Type 1) to join her in the van. The man was walking late at night to the supermarket and Laura perfectly plays on his insecurities and loneliness to convince him to return to her liar. After he agrees to go, Glazer includes a close up of him pinching his hand so he knows it’s a not dream. It’s the most sympathy projected upon any of her victims and, at that moment, it’s hard to believe we’ll ever root for Laura again. Like clockwork Laura does her job and we see this poor soul walk to his fate, but does he? Walking down the stairs of her building to return to her search for more male captives, Laura is startled by her image in a mirror. Does she finally see her human flesh? Is she remembering who she was at another time? Is she beginning to relate to her victims? All you need to know is that moments later, she frees the deformed man and thus begins the final chapter of “Under the Skin.”

The third act of Glazer’s near-masterpiece finds Laura on a journey to try to become human as we discover the goons she once worked with are searching the countryside to track her down. She soon realizes, however, she has more to fear from man outside the protections and predictability of her previous existence.

Glazer may be the visionary behind “Under the Skin” cinematic highs, but it must be noted that this film lives and dies on Johansson’s incredible turn. Johansson’s dialogue is mostly limited to her pickup lines as she scours the city for new meat. Even though a majority of her scenes are silent the 28-year-old actress still finds a way to bring a distinct dramatic arc to her character. Johnasson has shown signs before, but even her harshest critics will have to recognize she’s clearly grown into a world class actress.  If making “The Avengers” and “Captain America: The First Avenger” means she gets to take unconventional roles like this more often you won’t hear any complaints from fans of independent cinema.

“Skin” is likely to divide the opinions of conventional critics, but Glazer has created a conversation piece that will be talked about long after the blockbusters of this year and next have come and gone. How easily mainstream audiences will be able to view the picture remains to be seen. A distributor will pick it up in the U.S., but a release in more than the 29 theaters “Motors” found is highly unlikely.

“Under the Skin” will continue to screen at the 40th Telluride Film Festival and will have it’s official world premiere at the 2013 Venice Film Festival next week.

TELLURIDE, Colo. – In 1975, filmmaker Werner Herzog had films such as “The Enigma of Kaspar Hauser,” “Even Dwarfs Started Small” and “Signs of Life” under his belt. Tom Luddy went to his fellow Telluride Film Festival co-founders Bill and Stella Pence with the idea to honor him with one of the festival’s tributes at the second annual edition. And so the stage was set for a long-lasting relationship.

Since 1975, Herzog has returned almost every year with one, sometimes two new films to show. He says he’s stopped counting over the years but it must be over 30 presentations he’s offered here. So it was a no brainer when the festival directors finally made headway on establishing a new venue for the annual festival: it would be called the Werner Herzog Theater.

After the North American premiere of J.C. Chandor’s “All is Lost” earlier today, the 650-seat theater — which has been built inside a hockey rink and will be taken back down again after the festival — played host to a bit of an appreciation for Herzog and a screening of the film he brought with him way back in 1975, “Aguirre, the Wrath of God.” A new HD scan of the original negative, the film was a natural pick to dedicate the space and Herzog was quite touched as he waxed on about what Telluride has meant to him these last four decades.

“When you look at other film festivals, there’s always the industry somehow involved and all of the rituals and all these things,” he told the audience. “This is absolutely pure. This is a place that is a total, absolute constant in the universe where you know you will meet people who love cinema more than anything else. You will see films that are the best of the best. It’s a family reunion for those who love cinema, and in the early days it had the same spirit. This is a place where things actually happen that are deeply embedded in our hearts. It’s a place of poetry.”

The film — one of my all-time favorites and thus tonight’s screening is easily the high point of my meager five-year Telluride history to date — was made in 1972 and starred the late Klaus Kinski. It was the beginning of a beautiful, horrifying friendship between two artists who threatened to kill each other on that jungle set…and meant it. It was put together with a budget of $360,000 and is truly a shining jewel in the history of cinema, an unequivocal masterpiece. In it Herzog finds humor and horror amid considerations of greed, figurehead governments, religion, decadence and more.

It’s a staggering work, really, and one that I discovered at just the right time. I was a film school student and kind of knew of the film. The very title seemed to always have a magnetism to it. But when I finally saw it, it floored me. The striking image of Kinski in his conquistador helmet is every bit as iconic to me now as Gene Kelly on a lamp post, Willem Dafoe in a Jesus Christ pose or Dustin Hoffman with Anne Bancroft’s leg. And the filmmaking on display is a master class.

We talk a lot about “immersive” cinema these days and all the tools that can put you in the story being told on screen, from surround sound to 3D technology. But here is a film in mono and a modest 1.33:1 aspect ratio that transports you to a terrifying downward spiral of insanity and men at their worst. Herzog allows elements into his frame that give the viewer a certain first-hand perspective. Water from the raging rapids of a river drips down the lens and actors frequently spike the camera, but it never takes you out of the film, never feels like something additive. Rather, it puts you there, an observer who can’t look away. Perhaps that word, “immersive,” ought to be reserved for films so expert as this, and there are precious few — “2001: A Space Odyssey,” “The Thin Red Line,” “Apocalypse Now,” etc.

The scan itself was nothing short of glorious. Like you, I’ve been enjoying this film on sub-par home video versions for years, but seeing it on a big screen in full, vibrant detail was jaw-dropping. And lucky for everyone it won’t just be the attendees of Telluride who get to soak up this new re-master as Shout! Factory recently announced plans to use this very scan for a Blu-ray release of the film, among other Herzog classics.

I was in the Werner Herzog Theater all day long, from “All is Lost” to “Aguirre” to “Inside Llewyn Davis,” and I really can’t think of a better place to have kicked off the 40th annual. But I will never forget the experience of seeing this film here, in this condition. It is, in so many ways, what the Telluride experience is all about. Whether it’s a painstakingly restored colorized print of Georges Méliès’ “A Trip to the Moon,” a 70mm “Baraka” experience or a newly restored Herzog classic, these are the elements that make this perhaps the greatest film festival in the world.

I’ll finish up with some thoughts on Herzog that the late film critic Roger Ebert passed along to him in a Sept. 2011 letter that has been printed in the Telluride FilmWatch booklet: “You and your work are unique and invaluable, and you ennoble the cinema when so many debase it. You have the audacity to believe that if you make a film about anything that interests you, it will interest us as well. And you have proven it.”

TELLURIDE, Colo. – You may have met many a someone in your life whose passion for being in love is almost addictive. Someone who loves the intimacy so much it blinds them to the reality around them. Someone for whom there is no middle ground in a relationship. Either they are 110% in or they are out. That, in a nutshell, is the character of Adele, played by Kate Winslet, in Jason Reitman’s new drama “Labor Day.” It’s also the crux of a storyline that will reward viewers who are willing to take a big jump.

Set in 1987 New Hampshire, the movie is an adaption of Joyce Maynard’s novel of the same name and is primarily told through the eyes of Henry, Adele’s 13-year-old son (Gattlin Griffith). We begin the Thursday before Labor Day weekend and through the voice over of an older Henry (yes, yet another movie narration by Tobey Maguire) we learn of his attempts to break his mother out of her agoraphobic depression. His father has left Adele,  remarried and has a new daughter and step-son, but Henry won’t leave his mother to join them. We initially believe their divorce caused Adele’s deep slide into depression, but will later learn that’s not completely the case. On this day, however, they make their monthly trek for supplies to the equivalent of a low end Walmart and Adele is so uncomfortable outside her home she can barely get the car into reverse.

At the store, Adele tries to focus on shopping as Henry walks over to the magazine aisle where we see he’s intrigued by the beautiful models on the fashion magazines (puberty!). He’s soon interrupted by Frank (Josh Brolin), who asks for his help. Henry is clearly confused as Frank is wearing a store vest which insinuates he works there and yet he is bleeding on the side of his stomach through his shirt  Before you know it, Frank has approached Adele and proceeds to scare her into helping him by subtly threatening to hurt her son. Frank is lucky in one respect that Adele is so emotionally fragile she doesn’t scream for help in the middle of the a very large, public store. On the other hand, you may wonder why Adele’s own issues don’t trigger an instinctive cry for help. The trio are soon in Adele’s car where they discover his “ride” is to their home.

After reaching their house, Frank insists he’s just going to sit tight for a few hours before heading towards the train track. A TV report soon informs Adele and Henry that Frank is an escaped convict that was serving an 18-year sentence for murder. At this point in the film, Reitman begins to experiment by using flashback scenes to establish Frank’s story. As the picture progresses the details of the flashbacks become more and more distinct and by the end of the film we discover how Frank ended up incarcerated. Back in the present day, Frank also begins to show more and more interest in staying around as he complains his leg hurts from jumping from a two-story hospital window to get free. And, of course, there is the obligatory “you don’t know the whole story” moment when Adele and Henry question his conviction.

As the story moves to Friday, the film begins to make a jump that some viewers will have trouble with. And, you could argue, it’s an incredibly difficult suspension of disbelief moment for any director to pull off. Essentially, Frank’s charismatic charm, handyman and – no joke – pie-making skills begin to wear down the weak Adele and she falls for him. In fact, she falls for him pretty much by Saturday evening. If you can believe this scenario then the rest of picture will be a suspenseful ride as you root for a happy ending for the new Bonnie and Clyde. If not, the movie will likely feel like a series of well-directed scenes that has trouble coalescing into a complete experience.

No matter what side you fall on, a lion’s share of the credit of what works has to go to Reitman. “Labor Day” is the antithesis of the loud and brash tone he made his name with in films such as “Young Adult” and don’t expect anywhere near the amount of laughs as “Up in the Air.” Instead, “Labor Day” is a drama that seems more in the wheelhouse of a director such as Sam Mendes (yes, Winslet’s ex-husband), Todd Field (yes, Winslet’s collaborator on “Little Children”) or even Derek Cianfrance. Reitman has never teased such versatility in terms of tone or visuals before and what he’s achieved here should continue to expand his creative horizons.

Reitman is assisted by another strong performance by Winslet who once again proves she might be the second best living actress on the planet after Meryl Streep (and she is likely the film’s strongest awards player). Brolin is also very good although you wonder if another actor could have made the quick seduction of Adele a tad more believable. It’s his work with Griffith that makes much of the movie work, however. Griffith isn’t necessarily a revelation, but he’s pretty damn close. It’s a superb and natural turn for the 14-year-old who you’d never believe already has a substantial resume of work in Hollywood.

Special recognition needs to go to casting directors Jessica Kelly and Suzanne Smith for a supporting cast that is simply pitch perfect. Major contributions include Clark Gregg as Henry’s father, Tom Lipinski as a young Frank (a doppelganger for Brolin), Michah Fowler as a heart-breaking Barry, Brooke Smith as Barry’s mom, James Van Der Beek as an annoyingly suspicious cop (his best work in years) and Brighid Flemming as Henry’s increasingly forward love interest.

The picture also features an unconventional score by Rolfe Kent that doesn’t overdo the dramatic moments and gorgeous cinematography by longtime Reitman collaborator Eric Steelberg.

“Labor Day” is currently screening at the 40th Telluride Film Festival and will also screen at the 2013 Toronto International Film Festival. It opens in limited release on Dec. 25.
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As the story moves to Friday, the film begins to make a jump that some viewers will have trouble with. You could argue it's an incredibly difficult suspension of disbelief moment for any director to try and pull off. Essentially, Frank's charismatic charm, handyman and pie-making skills begin to wear down the weak Adele and she falls for him.  In fact, she falls for him pretty much by Saturday evening. If you can believe this scenario then the rest of picture will be a suspenseful ride as you root for a happy ending for the new "Bonnie and Clyde."  If not, the movie will likely feel like a series of well directed scenes that has trouble coalescing into a complete experience.

No matter what side you fall on, a lions share of the credit of what works has to go to Reitman.  “Labor Day” is the antithesis of the loud and brash tone he made his name with in films such as “Young Adult” and don’t expect anywhere near the amount of laughs as “Up in the Air.” Instead,” “Labor” is a drama that seems more in the vein of a director such as Sam Mendes (yes, Winslet’s ex-husband), Todd Field (yes, Winslet’s collaborator on “Little Children”) or even Derek Cianfrance. Reitman has never teased such versatility in terms of tone or visuals before and what he’s achieved here should continue to expand his creative horizons.

Reitman is assisted by another strong performance by Winslet who once again proves she might be the second best living actress on the planet after Meryl Streep (and she is likely the film’s strongest awards player).  Brolin is also very good although you wonder if another actor could have made the quick seduction of Adele a tad more believable. It’s his work with Griffith that makes much of the scenario believable.  Griffith isn’t necessarily a revelation, but he’s pretty damn close. It’s a superb and natural turn for the 14-year-old who you’d never believe already has a substantial resume of work in Hollywood.

Special recognition needs to go to casting directors Jessica Kelly and Suzanne Smith for a supporting cast that is simply pitch perfect.  Major contributions include Clark Gregg as Henry’s father, Tom Lipinski as a young frank (a doppelganger for Brolin), Michah Fowler as a heart-breaking Barry, Brooke Smith as Barry’s mom, James Van Der Beek is a suspicious cop and Brighid Flemming as Henry’s increasingly forward love interest.

The picture also features an unconventional score by Rolfe Kent that doesn’t overdo the dramatic moments and gorgeous cinematography by longtime Reitman collaborator Eric Steelberg.

“Labor Day” is currently screening at the 40th Telluride Film Festival and will also screen at the 2013 Toronto International Film Fesival.  It opens in limited release on Dec. 25.

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