One of the first things I saw upon arriving in Cannes
was a
seagull eating a pigeon
on the main commercial drag…
No doubt a living metaphor
for the wilderness I was entering…
It’s fitting that the Cannes film festival
would choose to
open
with a film
with a film
of shameless
self-reflexivity.
self-reflexivity.
Arnaud Desplechin’s Ismael’s Ghosts
is a pure and
saturated Desplechin .
Detailing a love triangle,
set to its maker’s characteristic pan-pan
rhythm,
it is overloaded with formal decoration:
time jumps, iris-ins,
rear-projection montage,
direct address to camera, and so on.
A
swamp of information that can be seen
as a depiction of
“all
the women he could never touch.”
That
quoted line, spoken by Ismael
(a film director played by Mathieu Amalric,
certified alter ego of Desplechin’s libido),
certified alter ego of Desplechin’s libido),
combines with other
self-deprecating winks
(“You’re afraid of the film’s subject,”
“All you can do is direct!” etc.)
“All you can do is direct!” etc.)
to make this a picture
that feels specific to Desplechin’s personal history.
that feels specific to Desplechin’s personal history.
A
film that features more
than two dozen repetitions of the phrase
“I’m
too old now…”..
Ismael’s
Ghosts shows the sense of anxiety
that a man might experience
when the final traces of his youth
finally evaporate.
finally evaporate.
Impossible
reunions …
spontaneous hook-ups…
spontaneous hook-ups…
quixotically resurrecting past relationships
and desires …
The
narrative juxtaposes horror,
rom-com
rom-com
and espionage tropes,
against classic Hollywood hat-tips
(“five
films compressed into one,”
Desplechin dixit in the press kit).
Desplechin dixit in the press kit).
The
dissonance is
fresh and inviting.
But is only cathartic for its maker…
This
is fine, because not all art
needs to appease an audience…
But
these are bells
and whistles
that leave me cold...
On the other hand,
Andrey Zvyagintsev’s new film, Loveless,
is as unsentimental
as it is dim.
as it is dim.
"Technically impressive” is about as
close to a compliment
as I can give
to this misogynistic film
to this misogynistic film
about a divorcing Russian couple’s missing 12-year old son.
Set at the end of 2012
and defined by its slow push-ins,
Zvyagintsev’s latest fills its mise en
scène
with explicit references to Russia’s political climate,
with explicit references to Russia’s political climate,
with indications
of the relationship with Ukraine,
and the apocalyptic ethos
and the apocalyptic ethos
of the end of the Mayan calendar.
The dramaturgy is marked by cliche representations
of marital life …
devoid of any sense of natural development…
despite having been modeled
of marital life …
devoid of any sense of natural development…
despite having been modeled
after similar quarrels
seen in recent Romanian New Wave
efforts…
…later
on that night,
being bored over measure
on a taunting yacht party
around rocks and crystals,
being bored over measure
on a taunting yacht party
around rocks and crystals,
I assembled a small cabal
who will not be named…
Together we set about surrendering to the sea…
On the shores of the party we all kissed adieu.
Moments
later
I was on another balcony at yet another party,
standing beneath a statue
of a blue gorilla.
When
a man with a bucket full of roses
down below
started throwing them up my way .
He
wasn’t a very good arm,
so after several failed attempts, he found a friend to
help.
The
moment I caught the roses,
staring up at the starry night,
I
watched as a seagull flew,
and smoked a Gitane...
…Last
year, Rive Gauche icon Agnès Varda
and French photographer JR
went on a
road trip through rural France,
documenting whatever locals they encountered .
“Faces/Places”
is sweet and accessible,
like something of a redux for Varda’s documentary
masterpiece The Gleaners and I (2000).
It chronicles their journey
and
never misses an opportunity to turn inward.
The
film is democratic even by Varda’s standards.
It generously accommodates any
thought, detail,
or passerby, leaving space
for its makers
to analyze their own impulses.
Among
the charms and anecdotes,
there are Varda’s
ruminations
on the pleasures of photography:
the way the ephemeral of a print
mimics that of our bodies…
on the pleasures of photography:
the way the ephemeral of a print
mimics that of our bodies…
the sensations of seeing one’s own image…
how our
portrait has the opportunity
to “see” things and places in the world
that we never will ...
to “see” things and places in the world
that we never will ...
Varda’s free-form
accepts the inevitable
finality of her life
— that moment when she will become,
as we all will,
as we all will,
an
(exquisite) corpse…
Ruben Östlund’s bombastic new movie, The Square (Palme d'Or),
is composed of practically nothing but
moments and mannerisms.
It is obvious it
tries very hard
to unify its myriad pieces
to unify its myriad pieces
within a critique of
class.
Working
through two parallel narratives —
one about a Swedish contemporary art museum’s
efforts
to create a campaign for its latest acquisition,
an experience called “The Square,”
and the museum curator’s
efforts
to retrieve some belongings he lost in a pickpocketing
— the film only really works
— the film only really works
when it’s funny…
…Though it’s rarely as funny as it thinks it
is…
Its shots at contemporary art are mostly
clichés.
And facile.
Indeed,
the humour only really functions
when it’s doing something cute
with ambient
sound or off-screen space.
The frame is always intrusive.
It
only keeps us off the tension…
Elsewhere,
another conceptual piece in the museum
— a simple white neon text “YOU HAVE NOTHING”
— is also played for
laughs, while a lecture is thrown
into chaos
by an attendee with Tourette...
into chaos
by an attendee with Tourette...
I
know Östlund likes to push buttons,
but come on, man!…
…And
later on I hit the town
with Producer L and Acteur M
in search of the
Magnum-branded beach club,
site of the A Ciambra afterparty…
What
a morning that was.
Seagulls
were flying high
and at tremendous speed.
On
the beach we dropped down to our undies
and scoured the sand,
tits-deep dans la
mer.
After
about 20 minutes of blind hunting
I realized the purple in the sky was turning
pink
and the pink to orange,
our nipples were about to mutiny.
Suddenly
remembering we were indeed in France,
I sprant down the beach
baywatch
clutching the sun,
while it was already penetrating the horizon…
Pure art!
…Speaking
of art, I spent the morning with The Meyerwitz Stories, the new
Baumbach.
An opening scene of Adam Sandler parking a Subaru
unfolds into an hour
something of delightful variations
on the screaming same.
I
must say of all the bards of male impotence,
Baumbach is probably my favorite…
.........I spent much of the afternoon catching up on
sleep,
then ate what was without a doubt
the best gnocchi of my life.
But
I digress.
The
evening’s activity was the Critic’s Week opening night party.
It
felt a bit like a bar mitzvah I never went to.
Everyone
was celebrating the fact
that we were all here in this place.
As
the night slowly swung into the strange strip clubs,
I said my goodbyes and
made for bed…
Early
that morning I awoke
for an 8:30 screening of Yorgos Lanthimos’ new film
The Killing
of a Sacred Deer.
The
film was heroically boring.
Yorgos
seems uniquely able
to align himself completely
with the mind of a torturing
psychopath
and even delights in the game of his logic.
Perhaps
is it a greek thing?
Call
him a Haneke wannabe...
Nothing to report on the seagulls today,
they seem
to be minding their own for now…
Baumbach’s
film was incredibly funny.
Why
am I trying to hate Baumbach?
I
love Baumbach.
Yorgos
too.
Up
at 7:00 for Coppola’s Beguiled.
Not
a single brave or interesting choice in the whole damn movie !
Was
it made for TV?
Or
was she just asleep on the dolly?
Like
Yorgos’ film,
it also hosted the Kidman/Farrell lead
team …
…do
those two pair at discount?
I’m
starting to think my filmic heroes are not leaving the retirement home much…
Whatever.
I
know every generation is juiced to make it to the top,
but the olds are overdoing it
in so many arenas right now.
but the olds are overdoing it
in so many arenas right now.
Give
youngs a chance.
Let
people who use the internet run the world for Christ’sake.
….Speaking
of youngs.
After another lunch,
I finally saw the
shorts in Semaine de la Critique,
far superior to the half dozen Official
Selection films.
Where
the Palme d’Or competitors were conservative
and redundant,
la Semaine was raw
and wild!!!
New music unto the universe!
So was Carlo Francisco Manatad’s Employee
of the Month,
a visually punk rock
assault on capitalism,
all set at an unnamed gas station one fluorescent night.
As
far as I’m concerned Manatad is the Philippines’ Godard!
was a crushingly beautiful take
on the suicidally forces of Poland’s imaginary streetscape.
There’s more heart
and pain
and beauty
and conviction
in her 30 minutes
than all the features I’ve seen here!...
Watch
those directors.
………Cannes
is largely devoted to a cinema that
presents
subjects with whom we are meant to empathize to some degree.
Far
outside these benchmarkers ,
Bruno Dumont’s new film, Jeannette, the
Childhood of Joan of Arc
is one of the true UFOs I have encountered in my 20 years of Cannes attendance!
is one of the true UFOs I have encountered in my 20 years of Cannes attendance!
So
aberrant!
So ruthless in its pursuit of
new forms of poetry
and of madness that it can be!!!
Dumont offers here something silly,
metal,
and deviant,
metal,
and deviant,
but no less rapturous.
The music, composed by French breakcore
band Igorrr
(a.k.a. Gautier Serre),
(a.k.a. Gautier Serre),
constitutes at least half of Jeannette.
Dumont
opted to use live sound for the finished film,
leaving in all the mistakes,
stray sounds,
and ambient noise usually eliminated in the post-production.
The
result is a work that,
in addition to being singular
in addition to being singular
(even by the standards of
late-lunacy Dumont),
is present before us!
It delivers the young Jeannette’s dreams of divinity
is present before us!
It delivers the young Jeannette’s dreams of divinity
as close as it could.
Another
American tale,
Josh & Benny Safdie’s Good Time,
Josh & Benny Safdie’s Good Time,
stars Robert
Pattinson (as Connie)
and Benny Safdie himself (Nick) as brothers.
The movie
detonates with a botch bank robbery
and never looks back.
The
action is intense,
weaving through the city’s streets and
businesses…
one wrong step triggers another
and triggers another
again...
and triggers another
again...
Connie
embodies the low-life persona
in American crime films,
diving into the most foolish schemes
in American crime films,
diving into the most foolish schemes
for attaining a
better life
for his mentally-challenged brother
and fed-up mother.
and fed-up mother.
…on my last hours in Cannes,
I hit the 8:30 AM preview-screening
of Twin Peaks .
Showtime delivered indeed : 25 years later.
The actors were old, the pace was old,
even the locations felt old.
even the locations felt old.
It was interesting how the visuals of new computing
had
entered the Twin Peaks world,
but remained true to an early ’90s look ...
It seemed clear Lynch/Frost don’t use them much.
It made me reflect on this particular moment
in cultural history,
where those in power
have yet to hand down the torch to youngs…
I still love Lynch
and I am curious to see where the series
goes.
Even if it felt a bit
like folk tales
from an old tattooed biker
in a greek
bar…
Fingers crossed, the return of real Cooper
will have a journey
into light.
I, for one, have seen enough darkness for a while.
Sailors say seagulls
are the souls
of great marines
departed.
Sometimes
a film
can be
like a ritual …
unwinding powers
that are…
or
were…
giulia d
