Nearly every critic in town has fallen for Ken Loach‘s I, Daniel Blake, which screened yesterday afternoon at the Salle Debussy. I noticed a couple of women dabbing tears from their cheeks as I shuffled out. It’s another one of Loach’s social injustice sagas, this time about a 59-year-old carpenter (Dave Johns) who needs state assistance after suffering heart trouble and losing his job. The Cannes party line is that it’s about a poor guy being slowly strangled in red tape, but it’s also about an obstinate fellow who’s more committed to venting frustration than playing the system for his own benefit. It’s a sad tale but the world is full of guys like this.

Here’s a debate that ensued this morning between myself and a critic friend:

Me: “You need to calm down on I, Daniel Blake. He’s a carpenter, a joiner, a delicate craftsman, and a would-be employer offers him a job around the two-thirds mark and he turns it down because he’d rather just keep pretending to look for work so he can keep getting government checks?

“Don’t tell me it’s because he’s afraid that working will give him a heart attack because he’s already leading a life of considerable stress plus the anguish of feeling depressed. When he said ‘no, thanks’ to that job, I checked out. No sympathy. If his heart is going to fail anyway then it’s better that it fail while he’s working and earning a living with a sense of pride than to die a miserable government dependent.

“Plus he’s got an obstinate attitude all through the film. It seems more important to him to express indignation and loathing for the bureaucracy than to man up, play it smart and make things a little better for himself. He’s full of grief when Hayley Squires‘ Katie turns to prostitution but he can’t pick up a saw and some nails and do a little honest work?

“When poor Dan died at the end I was muttering ‘tough break and I’m sorry, but with your attitude and the state’s obstinacy things weren’t going to get any better, were they?

I’m under embargo for a couple of days but last night I saw the first “wow!” flick of the 2016 Cannes Film Festival. A classic kids-on-the-run tale in the vein of a ’70s Terrence Malick thing. Very handsomely composed art-genre flick. Fields of tall grass. Hello, Days of Heaven again! It’s basically Badlands meets Cop Car. I’ll be elaborating when the flag goes up on Sunday but I’m telling you this movie is everything that you want from a ripe festival discovery. I knew it was the shit less than five minutes in. Awesome cinematography, convulsive score, subdued but affecting performances.

Shane Black‘s The Nice Guys will have its big Cannes showing two days hence. After catching the latest trailer two or three days ago I said that while it seems a bit tawdry it might be half-appealing all the same. (Ryan Gosling‘s performance may be a keeper.) However last night a guy who saw it in New York called it (a) “bloated like Crowe” and (b) “funny enough to get a pass from lesser critics, but a real disappointment for the rest of us.”

Response: “This ‘lesser critic’ not only found The Nice Guys very funny but also extremely subversive in the manner of The Big Lebowski, although it’s obviously not as good a film. But it messes with the idea of the tough, all-knowing private eye who stands up to danger and does the right thing. It’s less Laurel and Hardy than Abbott and Costello Meet Boogie Nights. And I mean that in a good way. It’s a helluva lot more entertaining and cohesive takedown of that 70s detective film style than Inherent Vice.”

An instinct told me to duck this morning’s Bruno Damont film. A critic friend tells me my instinct was correct. My first task of the day is the Deadline party around 3:30 pm, and then, God help me, a 7 pm screening of Maren Ade‘s 162-minute Toni Erdmann, which appears to be a riff on Boudu Saved From Drowning/Down and Out in Beverly Hills. I’m not saying I won’t attend tomorrow morning’s screening of Steven Spielberg‘s The BFG. I’m saying that barring some astonishing realignment or reconfiguration of creative instincts on Spielberg’s part, my inclination — no offense, no surprise — is to find ways to dismiss this film. A family-friendly creation like this can play here…promotion, whatever…but it’s not a Cannes film. It soils the atmosphere.

I didn’t get around to posting these shots of Kristin Stewart in yesterday’s post about the Nikki Beach Cafe Society luncheon, and I didn’t want to just bury them so here we are.

During this afternoon’s Money Monster press conference I asked director Jodie Foster if her film is advancing a Bernie Sanders narrative, which is definitely my opinion as well as that of two journalist pals. She didn’t deny it, but she answered along the lines of “you guys figure it out.” There’s nothing to figure. Money Monster is even more of a Bernie advertisement than was Michael Moore‘s Where To Invade Next?, and that doc had Bernie’s DNA all over it.

Having seen it this morning, I can add that while it’s not a great film, it’s a fairly successful attempt to blend a situation suspense thriller with a leftie high-concept drama, the concept being the usual-usual (i.e., we live in a elite-favoring rigged economy, your average finagling Wall Street sociopath is no better scruples-wise than Tony Montana or Al Capone). 

It’s well cut, well organized, well acted as far as the screenplay allows, etc. As long as you go into it with the knowledge that it’s not an earth-shaking melodrama, you’ll be fine with it. Or, you know, it won’t piss you off.

Before this morning’s Money Monster screening my attitude was “please don’t suck,” and to my slight surprise it turned out not to. I was once again reminded that there’s room in the world for films like this — films that point fingers and cut through the b.s. and try to say something more than just “buy more popcorn.”

I’ve sensed from the get-go that Money Monster is more or less Costa-Gavras‘ Mad City (’97), another hostage drama with a despondent sad sack protagonist (John Travolta) whose path ends in tragedy. It more or less is that. I’m now thinking about streaming Mad City just to see how it plays.

Regarding the press conference video: You know the talent is only seconds away when you see those blue-white strobe flashes reflected on the wall of the entranceway.

Attended 11 am screening of Jodie Foster‘s Money Monster (no time for a review it’s reasonably decent for what it is) and then ran over to the 12:30 pm press luncheon for Woody Allen‘s Cafe Society at Nikki Beach — a gloriously pleasant and relaxing affair attended by Woody, Kristen Stewart, Jesse Eisenberg, Vittorio Storaro, Blake Lively, Corey Stoll. Ran back for 2pm Money Monster press conference, which lasted about 50 minutes. There’s just enough time to load some Woody luncheon photos before 4:30 Salle Debussy screening of Ken Loach‘s I, Daniel Blake. Don’t even have time to insert captions…sorry.

Elite Cannes press (i.e., those with white or pink-with-yellow-pastille passes) always huddle tightly in the center position prior to a Salle Debussy screening. I don’t know why there’s an urgency to push in but there always is. It gets worse when the Cannes guards start letting this group in. For whatever reason I always go along with it and maintain a close position to the guy in front of me as I gently nudge my way forward. I don’t believe in pushing but once I’m in this thing I don’t exactly believe in letting others go first either. I believe in being calm and polite and cool, but also in getting past the guards sooner rather than later. It’s a very delicate balance. Yesterday I was behind a guy who was erring slightly on the side of not being aggressive enough. I didn’t say anything, of course, but if my thought bubble could be seen it would read “it’s not my idea but we’re in a Darwinian situation here…just steel yourself and nudge your way forward, dude…let’s get this over with.”

I’m not making even a moderate-sized deal out of this, but as I sat in the front row during yesterday’s Cafe Society press conference I was noticing that Kristin Stewart, who exudes something truly luscious in the film, has a noticably smaller head than Woody Allen or costar Blake Lively. The general myth is that most big stars tend to have big heads, but there are always exceptions. Stewart, who’s been in a good career groove since her Cesar-winning performance in Clouds of Sils Maria, is simply more modestly proportioned.

Posted on 4.26.07: “The late Dan Cracchiolo, the hot shot who worked as Joel Silver‘s top guy in the mid to late ’90s and a little beyond, once told me about a conversation he and Silver had about movie-star craniums. He said that Silver told him, “Dan, all big stars have really big heads.” Physically, he meant.

Today’s slate includes an 11 am Money Monster screening (roughly 100 minutes from now) followed by a Cafe Society luncheon (sitdown chats with Woody Allen and cast) at Nikki Beach from 12:30 to 2 pm, or more precisely from 1 to 2 pm as Money Monster ends at 12:40 pm and then I’ll have to hike it all the way down. A little filing time will follow, and then a 4:30 pm screening of Ken Loach‘s I, Daniel Blake.

George Clooney in Jodie Foster’s Money Monster, screening today at 11 am.

Nikki Beach, a restaurant/club on the beach in front of the Carlton Hotel.

Later tonight there’s a private screening of Mean Dreams, a Director’s Fortnight attraction, that I’d like to attend.

A few days ago I mentioned that a friend who saw Money Monster back in Los Angeles “really” liked it, and that it feeds into both the Bernie and Trump narratives. (I wasn’t aware their narratives were synonymous but whatever.) Well, I’ve spoken to another friend who’s seen it, and his view is that it rates a solid two stars out of four. Not bad, he says, but not as good as he wanted it to be.

I respect the scheme and intent of Christi Puiu‘s Sieranevada, which I saw last night at the Salle Debussy, but I felt constantly under-nourished throughout the 173-minute length, and I’m afraid that translates into a no-go. And I’m saying that as a genuine admirer of the Romanian cinema aesthetic — austere, raw behavior as opposed to “acting”, long takes. I wasn’t miserable as I sat there, but there’s no way I’ll sit through it again. No. Fucking. Way.

Sieranevada is about a truckload of sullen, pissed-off behavior and enough indoor cigarette smoking to send an Olympic athlete into intensive care, but there’s too little beef. I heard someone mutter “frustrating” as everyone was shuffling out; the words I had in mind were “opaque” and “somewhat draining.”

Sieranevada is a smart film with a bold approach, but it’s not going to satisfy your boilerplate American arthouse audience, I can tell you. It’s no Four Months, Three Weeks and Two Days and it’s no Tuesday, Before Christmas either.

What did I actually get from it? I was reminded how great it can be to not have to deal with a large family. And I learned what a difficult thing it can be to find a parking spot in Bucharest without blocking someone or parking in someone else’s space and getting into a heated, nearly violent argument with the owner.

Basic Sieranevada message (apart from the basic one about families accelerating or intensifying the aging process and draining your soul): Don’t own a car, take public transportation.

Mostly occuring in a too-small, over-stuffed apartment in Budapest, Sieranevada is a real-time capturing of a family’s memorial gathering for a recently deceased uncle. The main character is a burly, graybeard doctor named Lary (Mimi Branescu) and Laura, his shrewish, high-strung wife (Catalina Moga) who doesn’t attend in order to hit the post office before 4 pm and then buy groceries at the local Carrefour.

Woody Allen‘s Cafe Society is an attractively composed period dramedy (a few laughs but hardly a torrent) that plays it mild and steady and familiar. But it’s a fine Woody hit-list thing with a compelling if familiar moral undertow. There’s no way anyone who’s even half-acquainted with the Allen realm is going to be disappointed. Is it a bust-out in the vein of Midnight in Paris? No, but it’ll do until the next one comes along. It’s fine, it’s good — just don’t expect any big surprises.

Set in Los Angeles and New York over a two-year period in the mid ’30s, Cafe Society is a romantic triangle piece mixed with a hard-knocks, get-tough saga. It’s witty more than funny, but it’s really great when the laughs land. How many good laughs does it have? Not more than 20 or 25. I laughed maybe 10 or 12 times but I didn’t mind because it’s not about hah-hah but about fuck-me.

It’s a romance-gone-wrong thing that deals with sadness, moral ambiguity, disappointment. It’s too mired in hurt to be called a light-touch thing, but it does kind of glide along in a way that lets you know nothing awful or grotesque will occur.

It’s the story of Bobby (Jesse Eisenberg), a young Jewish guy who comes out to Hollywood in 1936 to ask his hotshot agent uncle (Steve Carell) for a job, and who soon falls in love with Carell’s romantically entangled secretary Vonnie (Kristen Stewart), only to gradually discover that her admitted-to relationship is not with a “journalist”, as she tells Bobby, but with fucking Uncle Phil.