“There’s a stunner of a centerpiece scene in James Schamus‘ Indignation that is quintessential Philip Roth, the author of the source novel. Played as a thrilling match of equals between Logan Lerman in a breakout performance and playwright-actor Tracy Letts in a turn that will push his estimable reputation to greater heights, this daringly extended exchange is a dialectic pitting a secular Jewish college student, resistant to suffocating authority, against a needling faculty Dean, impressed by the young man’s presentation while deploring his content. It’s characteristic of a film that is simultaneously erudite and emotional, literary and alive, that so much talk could be so enthralling.” — from David Rooney‘s Hollywood Reporter Sundance review.

Maren Ade‘s Toni Erdmann, a dry, interminable father-daughter relationship farce, screened early this evening at the Salle Debussy. People were chuckling from time to time; I was seething. It’s about a hulking, white-haired, 60ish music teacher named Winfried (Peter Simonischek) who tries to rejuvenate a distant relationship with Ines (Sandra Huller), his career-driven daughter, by parachuting into her life and pretending to be a boorish asshole named Toni Erdmann. Winfried’s strategy is to puncture Ines’ veneer by acting out a series of socially intrusive put-ons that are essentially passive-aggressive. You know going in that Ines will eventually warm to this crap but I felt more and more appalled. It got to the point that I couldn’t stand anything about Simonischek — his boorish, hostile behavior and particularly his abominable snowman appearance (jowly wattle, 2-week-old whisker beard, yellowish fake teeth, a cheap black wig he wears for a portion of the film, man boobs). I was fascinated by Huller’s life on its own terms (especially her curious relationships with certain co-workers), but the film, of course, is about Simonischek’s plan to overturn her social apple cart so he can break through. Lord knows I’ve found this or that character off-putting from time to time, but my repulsion for Simonischek was something else. I left around the 100-minute mark. I’m told there’s a great naked birthday party and an impromptu singing sequence that Huller sells for all it’s worth, but I will never even think about seeing this film again.

Imagine getting stuck in an elevator with this guy. On second thought, don’t.

If a film has been directed by Gavin O’Connor (Miracle, Pride and Glory, Warrior, Jane Got A Gun), rest assured it’ll be at least half-decent. (Miracle is/was one of the most hardcore sports film ever; Warrior was a classic of its type.) The Accountant (Warner Bros., 10.14) is about Chris Wolff (Ben Affleck), a socially awkward CPA and math savant who works as a freelance sleeper assassin for some of the world’s most dangerous criminal organizations. Written by Bill Dubuque (The Judge), pic costars Anna Kendrick, J.K. Simmons, Jon Bernthal, Jeffrey Tambor and John Lithgow.

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.