What were the breakout films at this year's Fantastic Fest? Which French horror film had audiences squirming and arguing at Fantastic Fest and Toronto's Midnight Madness? What question couldn't James shake during Zack and Miri Make a Porno -- and what, according to Scott, is that film's secret weapon? And which October films are waiting to be your new fave film of the fall? Joining James this week to talk about all of the above -- and more -- is Cinematical's Managing Editor Scott Weinberg. ... Cinematical's podcast is now available through iTunes; you can subscribe at this link. Also, you can listen directly here at Cinematical by clicking below:



As ever, you can download the entire podcast right here -- and those of you with RSS Podcast readers can find all of Cinematical's podcast content at this link.

I haven't even finished all of my Fantastic Fest work yet (expect a semi-large wrap-up real soon), but my inbox has been flooded with new reports from three other genre festivals. And since I love this stuff, I figured I'd throw 'em all into one handy section. Let's begin reverse-chronologically, shall we?

Beginning on October 17 is the small-but-powerful Toronto After Dark festival (October 17 - 24), which aims to fill a post-TIFF void while Midnight Madness programmer Colin Geddes and his staff take a well-earned vacation. I shan't be able to attend this fine-looking event, but the final slate just came in -- and I can definitely vouch for titles like the brilliant Let the Right On, the amusingly bizarre South of Heaven, the splatterific Tokyo Gore Police, and the stylishly nasty Donkey Punch. Among those "ooh, I wanna see that" titles we have Kevin Tenney's Brain Dead, the comedy horror Netherbeast Incorporated, and I Sell the Dead, which stars Ron Perlman, Dominic Monaghan, Larry Fessenden AND Angus Scrimm. Cool. For more info on Toronto After Dark, click right here.

After the jump: More geeky droolings on L.A. Screamfest and the biggie: SITGES!

Above: Jasper Sharp, author of Behind the Pink Curtain; the Alamo Drafthouse; Sean Donnelly (blue shirt), director of doc I Think We're Alone Now; Rian Johnson (glasses), director of The Brothers Bloom; Devin Faraci (glasses and beard), writer, CHUD.com, in the midst of debate; Jay Slater, English writer, ready to resolve a debate by boxing.

What qualifies a mainstream comedy like The Brothers Bloom to screen at Fantastic Fest, a festival reknowned for its horror, science fiction, fantasy, and other hard-core genre entries? One answer might be: 'Because co-founder Harry Knowles said so,' but even Knowles wondered if the film belonged in the program. The better answer might be: 'Why the heck not?' The best film festivals in the world are programmed by knowledgeable people who are passionate about presenting films they love to audiences who are eager to discover great new work.

In his introduction to the film, which was presented as the first "secret screening" of the festival (titles not revealed in advance; the shows always sell out anyway) on Tuesday evening, Knowles expressed his conviction that writer/director Rian Johnson "creates his own worlds." Certainly there are fairy-tale aspects to Johnson's featherweight con man tale, but I doubt anyone present really cared if the film "belonged" at the festival or not. The steady stream of visual gags drew near constant laughter, though I agree with James Rocchi that the film drags too long and, for me, edged too far into sentimental obscurity. The Brothers Bloom opens wide in January.

My screening day began with horror thriller Donkey Punch, a conventional yet refreshingly hard-edged dive into depravity that could be summed up as "threesomes never end well for anybody," a modern updating of the 80s slasher film notion that sexually active teens must pay for their sins by dying in repulsive ways. It's due for limited release in January.

By Monday, we were more than halfway through Fantastic Fest. On the one hand, festgoers who were just there for the weekend had departed, thinning the crowds slightly. On the other hand, some of us realized that there were still tons of movies to see and only a limited time, so we had better try to get into as many films as we could. I know some people who managed to see 5 or 6 films a day. I'm not one of them -- too wimpy.

One movie I saw and liked on Monday was Santos, a superhero film from Chile. When director Nicolas Lopez took the stage before the movie, I recognized him as one of the judges from Thursday night's Air Sex Championships. He was a wonderfully unpredictable judge and turned out to be a charming speaker during the intro and later during the Q&A for his film (as shown in the photo after the jump). Santos is about a comic-book artist who doesn't realize he has the same superpowers as one of the characters he writes about -- and at various points in his life, he's called upon to use those powers. It's very funny, but if you get the chance to see it, bear in mind that many of the gags are not at all family-friendly. Santos was produced by Elizabeth Avellan of Austin's Troublemaker Studios (which produces Robert Rodriguez's films) -- no U.S. distribution deals as of yet, but I hope that changes.

(from left to right) Fantastic Fest programmer Zack Carlson, Fantastic Feud co-hosts Devin Steuerwald and Scott Weinberg, and Not Quite Hollywood director Mark Hartley

With the weekend came no sure rest for Fantastic Fest attendees. Saturday kicked off with, among other things: a screening of Conquest of the Planet of the Apes shown from an HD master of a cut unseen in over thirty-five years; initial screenings of the very popular Tiffany stalker doc I Think We're Alone Now and the very anticipated Swedish vampire drama Let the Right One In (which can now fall firmly in the former category); and a boat party held in honor of Donkey Punch, in which several youthful types face some serious consequences after their high behavior on the high seas. Did life end up imitating art on that front...?

Arriving at my place of lodging shortly before 3:00 a.m. very late on Saturday night (or early this Sunday morning), it felt like a short night at Fantastic Fest. That's not to say that everybody parties until dawn, but with three (sometimes four) screens pumping out a steady stream of genre flicks all day long -- some of which don't start until well past midnight -- Fantastic Fest attendees might be forgiven for losing track of "normal" hours.

That's what happened to me on Friday night, which stretched well into Saturday morning. But before that craziness ensued, there were the films, and I got to see a typically odd combination, beginning with Ole Bornedal's Just Another Love Story. One of two productions that the Danish director made last year, Just Another Love Story plays like While You Were Sleeping on acid, which is basically how Alamo Drafthouse / Fantastic Fest programmer Zack Carlson described it in his introduction. A family man is mistaken for the boyfriend of an accident victim in a coma. When she wakes up, the deception ensues.

Rather than romantic comedy hijinks, Just Another Love Story pushes quickly into dark dramatics and the fantasy of a mid-life crisis before circling back around to the territory inhabited by Jonathan Demme's Something Wild. I followed that up with The Substitute, also directed by Bornedal, which was a big box office success in Denmark. It's easy to see why. The terrific Paprika Steen lets her hair down, so to speak, as a farmer's wife who is possessed by an alien life form.

There are indie filmmakers who try to work in the realm of small character dramas and succeed only in making myopic films that feel inert and meaningless; there are those who attempt to stand out from the pack by writing scripts replete with quirky story lines and witty dialogue, only to end up with a mundane mess; and then there are a few who manage to achieve, through a combination of richly drawn, yet simple stories and excellent cinematography, a level of filmmaking that inspires without overwhelming, impresses without overreaching. Ramin Bahrani falls firmly in the latter camp, and with his latest film, Goodbye Solo, the director builds on the excellence of his previous work with a finely drawn tale of a cabdriver and the fare who changes his life.

Bahrani starts with an intriguing premise: Solo, a cab driver (Souléymane Sy Savané) picks up a routine fare, only to find his life turned upside down when the man he picks up asks him to take him to the remote mountaintop location of Blowing Rock in two weeks, where he plans to jump to his death. Solo's troubled by both the plans of his fare, William (Red West) to end his life, and the implications to himself of being a party to the man's suicide; he decides to befriend the older man in an attempt to persuade him to change his plans. This is the simple set-up for the film, and it's all Bahrani needs to make a thoughtful, compelling film that explores the relationship between these two vastly different men and the way they're changed by the friendship they form.

Based on journalist Mark Boal's real experiences following bomb disposal experts in Iraq, The Hurt Locker isn't just a welcome return to big-screen action from director Kathryn Bigelow (who has wrung both fame and infamy with Near Dark, Strange Days and Point Break). It's an assured, confident, swaggering piece of moviemaking that manages to not only evoke every war of the 20th century but also, despite the claims by makers and some reviewers that it's an 'apolitical' film, speaks very specifically to the Iraq war. Even so, plunging us into the thick of things alongside the highly-trained men (and they're all men here) who defuse bombs for the Army, Bigelow and Boal avoid the speeches and postures and long, contemplative talks of home front films like Stop-Loss and In the Valley of Elah by staying in Iraq, and they shun the loopy, loony formal experiments of Brian De Palma's Redacted. Boal and Bigelow stay laser-focused on one group of men with a singular mission, and make us live in the constant possibility of death. Viewed from half a world away, a bomb is a political concern; viewed from less than a foot away, a bomb's just a high-stakes exercise in problem-solving, where making a mistake means a final, terminal education in the physics of expanding gases.

The Hurt Locker follows three soldiers -- bomb tech James (Jeremy Renner) and his subordinates Sanborn (Anthony Mackie) and Eldrige (Brian Geraghty) into the jaws of death; it's all last names in The Hurt Locker, as seen on patches and heard in urgent radio dispatches. Early on, Bigleow establishes that people will be killed in this film -- with a bravura sequence that depicts a bomb's detonation on the macro and micro level, billowing bursts of smoke and pressure and flame intercut with gravel and dust leaping choreographed in lockstep by the pressure wave, as if God had slammed his fist on reality hard to make a point -- and while Renner, Mackie and Geraghty are fine actors, they're also unknown enough to subconsciously let us know that they aren't safe from what may happen.

It's hard to imagine for the few exhausted stragglers still going from film to film, but the end is in sight for the 2008 Toronto International Film Festival. Joining us this week on The Rocchi Review is critic, journalist, analyst and man-about-town David Poland, best known for his work at Movie City News and The Hot Blog, as well as his "Lunch with David" videocasts. Which films got a boost out of Toronto? What's it like to work at the Festival as a journalist? How crazy is it to feel 'behind' in covering movies that may not open for at least another three months? And what classic graphic novel did David dream of finally seeing adapted for the big screen after catching Waltz with Bashir? We talk about all those topics, Che, Slumdog Millionaire, Rachel Getting Married and much much more this week, all live from the 2008 Toronto International Film Festival. Cinematical's podcast is now available through iTunes; you can subscribe at this link. Also, you can listen directly here at Cinematical by clicking below:



As ever, you can download the entire podcast right here -- and those of you with RSS Podcast readers can find all of Cinematical's podcast content at this link.

Today I leave Toronto to head home to Seattle, leaving James Rocchi behind to see the fest through to its exhausting end. It's been a decent fest overall, not great but good. I saw a several films I enjoyed here, including Burn After Reading, Goodbye Solo, and 35 Rhums, as well as a couple of fun midnight picks with JCVD and Detroit Metal City.

I missed being able to see a lot of films I really wanted to see, due to schedule conflicts and the lack of a cloning machine at our hotel that would allow me to be multiple places at once (or at least, the ability to see far enough into the future to foresee which of two films screening opposite each other will be wretched).

It seems that lots and lots of people who attend this fest (I'm talking normal people, not those of us crazy or masochistic enough to work in any aspect of the film business) want very, very much to attend the big parties, and seem to think if they can't get in, they're missing something fun or perhaps even life-altering. There's always a gaggle of scantily clad girls and hipsters hovering around the entrance of these events, hoping to finagle a way to crash the party.

A highbrow festival like Toronto doesn't offer many opportunities to laugh, and I was grateful for this one. Easy Virtue, an adaptation of an early Noël Coward play, is a droll and witty delight, a superb showcase for its cast, and a return to fine form for The Adventures of Priscilla, Queen of the Desert director Stephan Elliott, who last turned in the unsettling but incomprehensible Eye of the Beholder nearly 10 years ago. Where most TIFF films seemed to glower at me from the screen, this one winked and smiled.

Noël Coward may seem a strange choice for Elliott, whose films have favored the bizarre and the obscure. I don't know what attracted the filmmaker to this project, but I'm glad that something did. The material may seem almost purely verbal, all clever turns of phrase and sardonic interjections (what Americans think of as "Britishness"), but Elliott is constantly concerned with how the movie looks and sounds. Fittingly, he manages to give it a curious, otherworldly feel. This is most pronounced in the opening sequence, which marries choppy black-and-white footage, odd angles, and a jazzy soundtrack to introduce us to the characters and transport us to a universe that is ever so slightly off-kilter. It's a welcome recognition that these hyper-literate, impeccably constructed old comedies – Coward, Wilde, etc. – don't take place in a world quite like ours.

Spike Lee's films have always been fraught with the potential for greatness and disaster, shuddering with a nervy wire-walking energy that makes them superb when they stay on the narrow space between ambition and execution and gives you a long time to watch the fall when they don't. But that, of course, is what makes them worth watching; for but one example, the only thing more shocking than the realization that there was a musical number in Malcolm X was the realization of how superbly it worked; Lee's films are rarely undeniably perfect, but they are always undeniably his.

So it is with Miracle at St. Anna, a bold, sprawling, messy epic of war and faith set behind enemy lines in 1944, as a group of four African-American soldiers are trapped far from their fellow troops in German-occupied Italy. There are moments here where the film does not work, where you can feel the sharp needle of disbelief or dislocation puncture the film mercilessly, and there are other moments that are not only willing but indeed eager to look at big, challenging, relevant issues of race and power, war and justice, faith and failure. These moments -- and there are many of them -- not only speak to Lee's unwavering skill and commitment as a filmmaker, but also to the singular nature of his talent and will. When Miracle at St. Anna falters, it's in the moments that seem like they could have been crafted by any other film maker; when Miracle at St. Anna succeeds, it's in the moments that could only have been crafted by Lee.

I can't imagine a more apt title for Lovely, Still than the one it has. This sweet, surprising story about romance between senior citizens is uncommonly lovely, and a serene stillness rests over most of it. Of course, the title works the other way, too: The process of falling in love is lovely, still, even after all these years.

It is Christmastime in an unnamed snowy town, and Robert Malone (Martin Landau) is a lonely old man. He lives by himself in a house that he has occupied for 48 years, a house with minimal furniture and no pictures on the walls. The only gift under his Christmas tree is one he wrapped himself, addressed to himself. He works part-time as a bagger at a grocery store, where the doofy, over-eager manager, Mike (Adam Scott), wants him to invest in the publication of a homemade book of Christmas recipes.

Across the street, a widow named Mary (Ellen Burstyn) and her daughter Alex (Elizabeth Banks) have just moved in. Mary, seemingly smitten upon first laying eyes on the old man, invites Robert to dinner. Delighted by his sudden great fortune, Robert seeks dating advice from everyone he encounters the following day. Has he never even been on a date? Or has it just been too long since the last time?

Soon the two are dating, with Mary taking charge and Robert awestruck by her attention. He cannot believe that love has finally found him, so late in life. For the first time, he will have someone to spend Christmas with.

At any large film festival, it's easy to get caught up in the buzz and the biz of it - most of the time, the press screenings are really press and industry screenings, which means that the person sitting next to you is not some fellow ink-stained wretch who will watch the film and have to write a review but, rather, an acquisitions person who will watch the film and, perhaps, write a check. This doesn't just lead to seat-hopping and movie-jumping as the acquisitions people shrug No, not for us and leave so they can continue their quest; it also leads to getting caught up in an atmosphere where questions of commerce can come more readily to mind than questions of art.

So it was with the Toronto screening of Me and Orson Welles, where my feeling warmed and charmed by Richard Linklater's recreation of 1930's literary New York came on the heels of a much more pointed question -- namely, who the hell is going to see it? Starring Zac Efron as a young would-be actor who's recruited for a bit part in Orson Welles' 1937 Mercury Theater production of Julius Caesar, the film skews young in energy and execution, but unless teens are lured into caring about old-timey theater by Efron's name, it's unlikely they'll go; older audience members, who have the advantage of actually knowing, and caring, who Orson Welles is might be put off by the presence of Mr. Efron, who they know solely from their childrens' repeated viewing of High School Musical.

The Secret Life of Bees, adapted and directed by Gina Prince-Bythewood from the best-selling book by Sue Monk Kidd, weaves racism and the civil rights movement around the story of Lily (Dakota Fanning), a young white girl taken in by three African-American sisters when she runs away from her controlling, emotionless father. It's a role that's in some ways reminiscent of the character Fanning played in Hounddog, a film that was critically panned and rather controversial for having a scene in which Fanning's character was raped.

This time around, there's no such awkward controversy; The Secret Life of Bees is a sweet, mostly charming coming-of-age tale that, while it doesn't particularly break any new ground with regards to the filmmaking, does an able enough job of adapting a bestselling book of the "women's bookclub" variety for the screen. Here's the basic story: Lily is haunted by the death of her mother; now, on the eve of her fourteenth birthday, she's had enough of her father, T-Ray (Paul Bettany), and starts to fight back against him.

When their maid, Rosaleen (Jennifer Hudson), is accosted by a pack of angry white men on the way to registering to vote -- and ends up arrested herself for her trouble -- Lily decides that it's time for both her and Rosaleen to escape. She has a vague idea about where to go -- Tiburon, South Carolina -- based only on the name of a town written on one of the few possessions she has of her mother's, and a label from a honey jar.