If it’s the Thursday after Labor Day, then I must be in Toronto, queuing up with hordes of Canadian (and American) press for press screenings at the 2009 Toronto International Film Festival (hereafter: TIFF), an event I’ve been attending on-and-off (off years being due to mostly to the whims of idiot editors I’ve worked for in the past) since 1984.

Like all things, TIFF suffers from its own success and, of course, entropy. It has become a massive, sprawling showcase – the launchpad for the fall Oscar season (and the place where the best of what will be at the New York Film Festival gets seen first).

I only took in a couple of screenings today – more on those in a minute – but a pet peeve already has presented itself.

Specifically: too many damned commercials before the start of each film, placed there obviously because they advertise sponsors of the festival. Yes, I know, no sponsors, no festival – that’s the way of the world. But get a grip: I counted six of them at one point before one of the films I saw today – for Bell, Cadillac, Blackberry, Cineplex, some bank and the ever-present back-patting for volunteers. And of course, at least one for the festival itself.

Sure, each one is only 15 seconds or so. But at least when I’m watching TV, I can use the DVR to skip them. Here, you’re a captive audience – and if you’re seeing four or five movies a day, well, I have a feeling I’ll be able to recite them by heart by Saturday.

Allow me a moment of in-my-day musing: I remember the glorious ‘80s, when a press badge got you into any film, anytime. You could walk into any public screening, even before the people with tickets were allowed in. Of course, almost all of the theaters where those public showings were held have vanished behind waves of urban renewal. The biggest of them, whose name escapes me, is now a massive Pottery Barn on Bloor Street. And the venues, rather than being concentrated in the Yonge & Bloor neighborhood, are scattered all over downtown, making quick egress from one show to the next virtually impossible.

Ahh, the good old days, when being a critic was actually a big deal. Now a press badge doesn’t even get you into a press screening – at least not the dreaded “priority press” screenings, where we mere “regular” press have to line up so that priority press – whoever they may be; no one seems able (or willing) to answer that question – can be sure to get seats first. Then the rest of us ink-stained wretches (there’s a phrase that dates me) are allowed in. It’s a little too much like high school for my taste, with the masses waiting until the cool kids get their pick of seats.

On the bright side, in acknowledgement of just how far it can be from screening to screening, this year for the first time the festival has provided us in the press with a free transit pass, which allows us to hop the ultraclean, quiet and upholstered subways to those far-flung venues. That’s a real boon and one that I’m thankful for.

So, on to the movies:

As I said, I only took in two on Thursday – but also had a chance to see a half-dozen or so festival films in Manhattan before the festival.

“Creation” was the opening night gala last night, a well-meaning historical biopic about Charles Darwin and his wife Emma, as played by real-life couple Paul Bettany and Jennifer Connelly. Directed by Jon Amiel, it’s a look at Darwin as he tackles his writing of “The Origin of Species,” the book that would change science forever.

It’s a fascinating topic and echoes what remains a topic of hot debate 150 years later. “You’ve killed God,” enthuses Thomas Huxley (Toby Jones) to a frightened, scattered-looking Darwin, who isn’t sure what he thinks about being the man who put the lie to creationism.

But the film barely deals with that controversy, except as a backdrop for Darwin’s own grief over the death of his 10-year-old daughter. Instead of the debate between religion and science (which only gets lip service), “Creation” turns into a sadly dreamy affair in which an ill Darwin drifts back and forth in time and memory of his daughter and his studies. His struggle is less with the church than with his own fear that, perhaps, his pursuit of science (and neglect of religion) has somehow doomed his daughter. All in all, it’s too mopey by half.

Much more rousing: Michael Moore’s “Capitalism: A Love Story,” as fierce and angry a film as Moore has made. In examining the cause of the recent near-collapse of the financial system, Moore tosses barbs at a variety of topics. The most shocking: companies that secretly take out life-insurance policies on their employees and wind up collecting more money when they die than their families do.

Moore has no shortage of angry, unemployed, dispossessed witnesses to the greed and giveaways of the Bush years and he pins the tail on that particular donkey over and over again. But he also provides context, going back to the age of Reagan, when the asylum was turned over to the inmates, who deregulated us right into the mess we’re in today.

A couple of others that I saw pre-Toronto:

Pedro Almodovar’s “Broken Embraces” stars an incredibly sensual Penelope Cruz as a rich man’s mistress who lands a starring role in a movie – and launches a torrid affair with its director (Lluis Homar). Almodovar splashes color like a wild impressionistic painter, yet manages to shift from the intimate to the epic just by turning a corner. He coaxes yet another full-bodied performance out of the gorgeous Cruz – and offers startling panoramas of the beaches of Lanzarote, an amazing-looking island in the Canaries. It’s a stirring, captivating tale of passion and its aftermath.

On the other hand, Lars von Trier’s “Antichrist,” which caused a sensation at Cannes – mostly of the negative variety – is alternately tedious and pointlessly shocking, featuring gruesome scenes of graphic violence in service to some pretentious point known only to von Trier. I can’t wait to read his apologists doing backflips to explain his seriousness – or perhaps his prankishness. Nothing, however, can excuse a film this pointedly pointless.

One last one: “The Damned United” reunites actor Michael Sheen with writer Peter Morgan of “The Queen” and “Frost/Nixon” fame. This time, they’re looking at the controversial career of British soccer coach Brian Clough, who took over England’s top soccer team and unsuccessfully tried to remake it in his own image. It’s a film of sneaky wit and inspired perceptions about the nature of ambition and professional athletics, with a sterling cast that includes Jim Broadbent, Timothy Spall and Colm Meaney. Now that’s a lineup of all-stars.

Up too early; to bed too late; a diet of lattes, popcorn and soda. It must be Toronto. More tomorrow.

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