Wilnervision!

You know the ending of “The Italian Job”? The original, not the remake.

It’s a literal cliff-hanger, with Michael Caine and his merry band of thieves literally balanced on the edge of disaster — their stolen gold bars in one end of a recreational vehicle, the gang on the other, as the RV teeters over the edge of a cliff.

If the thieves move toward the gold, the van will tip over the side. If they move toward safety, the gold will shift, and the van will tip over the side. If they do pretty much anything rash or stupid, the van will tip over the side. So the movie just leaves them — and us — hanging.

Well, England has had enough. Last week, the Royal Society of Chemistry challenged the nation to find a scientifically legitimate solution to the problem, based on the evidence provided by the film (and rejecting “the employment of a helicopter” as a possible fix).

But wait! In a recent BBC interview, Michael Caine says he’s had the answer all along, and even claims they’d shot it back in 1969:

The star says he would have saved them by “switching on the engine”, burning off petrol until it righted itself.

“I crawl up, switch on the engine and stay there for four hours until all the petrol runs out,” he said.

“The van bounces back up so we can all get out, but then the gold goes over.”

“There are a load of Corsican Mafia at the bottom watching the whole thing with binoculars. They grab the gold, and then the sequel is us chasing it.”

I have my doubts about the practicality of this solution — it’s kind of anticlimactic after the intentional anti-climax of the cliff-hanger, which is presented with surprising grace when compared to the freneticism of the action that leads up to it. It very much feels like the movie’s supposed to stop there.

On the other hand, should that inevitable 40th anniversary DVD of “The Italian Job” should include the alternate ending, I will make with the shrugging and simply say that, you know, they were right to go with what they did.

A 34-year-old Wal-Mart worker was trampled to death yesterday morning as customers overran his store in search of 5 am “Black Friday” bargains.

Okay, we knew this was bound to happen eventually, what with the escalating stories about “those crazy consumers!!!” every year, and the whole clutching, grabbing mob thing that happens whenever people see the words “limited quantities” on a flyer.

It’s still obscene.

That’s all.

Today’s opening of Arnaud Desplechin’s lovely “Un Conte de Noel” is a suitable bridge between American Thanksgiving and the Christmas season; if you haven’t yet been sucked into the swirl of holiday shopping, you could do far worse this weekend than spend a few hours in its company.

There’s some other stuff landing in theaters over this blockbuster-crammed weekend, but nothing to get too worked up about … it’s mostly what the kids call “counterprogramming”, a handful of documentaries and festival pickups that never really had a chance at distinguishing themselves. Better to dump ‘em now and blame the big movies for their meager receipts.

“FLicKeR”: Nik Sheehan’s documentary dusts off the artistic legacy of Brion Gysin, whose Dream Machine device was purported to induce a transcendent state by means of visual stimulation — basically, you watched the flashing lights and you got high. Susan likes it; I found it amusing enough at Hot Docs, I guess, but it’s the kind of curio that’ll play just fine when you run across it on cable sometime next year.

“I Think We’re Alone Now”: Hey, remember Tiffany? Jeff Turner sure does — he’s been stalking her for twenty years! Sean Donnelly’s documentary about the subculture of obsession puts his fervent worship under the microscope, as well as that of another Tiffany admirer who may be even more tragically complicated. But, as Barrett puts it: Tiffany? Really?

“The Killer”: Screenwriter Cedric Anger (”Le Petit Lieutenant”) makes his directorial debut with this drama about a hit man (Gregoire Colin) who comes to an odd, vaguely existential arrangement with his latest target (Gilbert Melki). I was already overloaded with stuff for this week’s issue, but Barrett and Kieran make it sound pretty intriguing.

“Restless”: Never having been much of an Amos Kollek fan, I let his latest film — about an Israeli exile and his sniper-trained son who meet up in New York after two decades apart — slide past me during TIFF. The middling reviews from Rad and Damian convince me I made the right choice.

Still need something to see? Cinematheque Ontario is screening a new print of Francois Truffaut’s “The Wild Child” tonight and tomorrow, and tickets are still available.

Jeez, you people are demanding.

Want to catch up to yesterday’s wave of movies? Pick up a copy of today’s NOW, which features my reviews of “Australia“, “Four Christmases” and “Transporter 3“.

And once you’re done with those, read my interview with Arnaud Desplechin, whose lovely “Un Conte de Noel” was one of the highlights of my first Cannes. When it opens tomorrow, you really ought to see it.

And if you’re reading this from the States, well, happy turkey day. Me, I have to spend my morning watching Meryl Streep yelling at Philip Seymour Hoffman. It’s a living.

The Wednesday before American Thanksgiving is always clogged with would-be blockbusters; this year, we also see Focus Features try to put one of its smaller films out in front of the crush of December Oscar contenders. Proper reviews will appear in tomorrow’s paper (except for “Milk”, which Susan reviewed last week), but here’s a special sneak preview just for you!

“Australia”: Baz Luhrmann makes yet another berserk cross-genre construction, in the style of “William Shakespeare’s Romeo + Juliet” and “Moulin Rouge!”, but this time he comes up with a mess that is in no way glorious — it’s just a frenetic, convulsive hodgepodge of ill-conceived steals from other movies. And Nicole Kidman really has to stop with the whole light-comedy thing. (My full review will appear in tomorrow’s paper.)

“Four Christmases”: Speaking of people who have to stop trying to be funny: Has Reese Witherspoon ever worked in a comedic context? She was perfectly cast as the humorless villain of “Election”, but in movies like “Legally Blonde” she’s always struck me as too flinty and poised to actually get laughs. (Also, I think the “Legally Blonde” movies are terrible.) In Seth Gordon’s atrocious holiday comedy, Witherspoon’s Type-A stiffness grates up against Vince Vaughn’s chatterbox flailing in the worst possible way. And then the movie starts.

“Milk”: Remember when Oliver Stone and Robin Williams were planning to make their Harvey Milk biopic? Around, say, fifteen years ago? I’m pretty sure Dustin Lance Black’s screenplay is the one they were going to use — a generic hagiography that focuses on Milk’s political accomplishments and tells us almost nothing about the man himself. Sean Penn and James Franco are still pretty great, though.

“Transporter 3″: All I’m saying is, it’s no “Transporter”. Or even “Transporter 2″, for that matter. I still eagerly await “Crank 2″, though.

My latest Sympatico/MSN DVD column is up, in which I try once again to get people to appreciate Peter Berg’s “Hancock” in all its warty, spastic glory.

I’m still not convinced it works as a movie, but it’s as conceptually fascinating to me now as it was in July … check it out, won’t you?

And if you’re not into the whole Will Smith-superhero-flying-around thing, there’s always “Tell No One“. It’s got subtitles, so it’s classy!

Well, there you have it: “Twilight” pulled in $70.6 million over the weekend, stomping both Disney’s “Bolt” and the Bond movie to declare itself a proper phenomenon.

As a result, Summit greenlit a sequel — oh, yippee — and we are now stuck with Catherine Hardwicke, Voice of Today’s Youth.

One thing I haven’t really seen in any of the frothing media coverage of the New! Hot! Thing! is an acknowledgment of the brilliant way Summit orchestrated the marketing campaign on what’s essentially a niche picture: Though Stephenie Meyers’ books are virtually unknown to anyone above the age of 17, Summit’s been percolating interest among the faithful all year, dribbling out stills and clips and posters with a steady stream of targeted media releases. I was sick of seeing the “New Twilight Image!” subject line in my inbox by, oh, April. Can’t say it didn’t pay off at the box-office, though.

Serious-minded media analysts are going to make a face, but “Twilight” is essentially following the same model as “The Passion of the Christ” — a small, independent production of a beloved text, marketed directly to the rabid fan base with little or no regard for people who aren’t part of the culture, explodes onto the scene with startling force. It’s all about getting the fundamentalists to the theater.

I also find it interesting the quality of the product is ultimately irrelevant. The people who want to see their favorite story told on a big screen get exactly what they want; it doesn’t matter if the execution is dull or hackneyed. (This is the lesson Hardwicke learned on “The Nativity Story”: Directorial incompetence doesn’t matter if you’re working with material people already cherish.)

So, yeah, “Twilight” is a tedious slog through teen-movie cliches with laughable performances and a ridiculous abstinence metaphor — hey, girls, chastity is teh awesome, but it has to be your boyfriend’s choice! — but it doesn’t matter. Edward + Bella 4-ever, right there on the screen!

Just wait until they get a little older and discover “Buffy” …

The “Twilight” juggernaut rumbles forward: Variety was estimating a $37 million take in its first 24 hours — which, says the piece, could translate into an opening weekend somewhere north of $55 million.

(That seems somehow off to me; Saturdays are bigger days for business than Fridays, so wouldn’t we be looking at a weekend gross closer to $75 million? Or are we being conservative in our estimation for the sake of respectability?)

Anyway, to milk the whole vampire-romance thing, here’s my latest Sympatico/MSN gallery, featuring six memorable examples of fang-banging. And yes, “Underworld” is largely memorable for Kate Beckinsale’s rubber suit.

The week before the American Thanksgiving holiday is notoriously quiet, as the majors prepare for the biggest Wednesday of the year … leaving a hole open for everyone else. Oh, and Disney.

“Ballast“: Lance Hammer’s indie drama is a calm, measured and utterly devastating study of three lives on a collision course on the Mississippi Delta. Yes, I know, that’s annoyingly vague; the mechanics of the plot are so delicate that I don’t want to risk denting them. Anyway, great movie, please go see it.

“Bolt”: John Travolta is a talking dog! Miley Cyrus is a talking person! Animated adventure ensues! I, um, had scheduling conflicts.

“Growing Op”: Didn’t see this one, either, but it stars Wallace Langham, whom I’ve enjoyed ever since his glory days fighting with Sarah Silverman on “The Larry Sanders Show” — and Adam found it inoffensive.

“I Can’t Think Straight”: The other Lisa Ray/Sheetal Seth/Shamim Sarif movie to open in Toronto this month, after “The World Unseen” two weeks ago; this one’s a contemporary romantic comedy about women in love, which Susan found far more palatable.

“Repo! The Genetic Opera”: Were you as disappointed as I was when Anthony Stewart Head literally bumped into Johnny Depp in Tim Burton’s “Sweeney Todd”, and wandered off without singing a note? Well, now’s your chance to hear those pipes a-bursting in the service of Darren Lynn Bousmann’s gore-drenched rock opera, which Barrett holds in pretty high regard.

“Twilight”: She gave us this generation’s “Reefer Madness” with “Thirteen”, turned “Lords of Dogtown” into a self-satisfied snooze and turned “The Nativity Story” into a Grade-Z act of Christian pandering; now, Catherine Hardwicke takes Stephenie Meyer’s young-adult novel and turns it into a borderline incompetent movie of the week, built around the wet-blanket Kristen Stewart and the truly ridiculous Robert Pattinson. Yeah, it’s going to make money. No, there won’t be another one any time soon.

Gotta run — CTV Newsnet wants me on to talk about “Twilight”. 11:15 am, Rogers cable 62; check it out, if you’re able.

I am not terribly well-represented in the latest issue of NOW, but don’t worry; it’s just a quirk of timing. I’ll be all over the section next week.

Today’s paper does feature one thing about which I’m reasonably proud, though — an interview with Lance Hammer, the director of a terrific new drama called “Ballast” that’s been picking up some of the year’s strongest reviews on the festival circuit. It opens in Toronto tomorrow, and is well worth watching even at one of the shoeboxes in the Carlton.

It’s not for everyone, but it’s infinitely more satisfying than, say, Rod Stewart’s manky cover of Ron Sexsmith’s lovely “Secret Heart”, which is playing on CBC Radio 2 as I type these words. Seriously, what the hell?