Never, ever wear whitesides to an Oval Office meeting. Democratic House minority leader Hakeem Jeffries is a good hombre and a skilled operator, but in this instance he should be ashamed of himself. If you’re sporting whitesides you might as well wear knee-length beach shorts or a silky floral print shirt. We’re speaking of plaster cracks in the once-great wall of traditional civilization here. Certain sartorial instincts should be suppressed at all costs.

If and when I get around to seeing The Little Mermaid (no way would I forsake my precious Paris time by seeing it here), I’ll probably feel underwhelmed. I’ve hated nearly every Rob Marshall film ever made (I found Nine half-tolerable), and he’s not going to change and neither am I, and this is just a live–action rehash anyway.

I’m a genuine fan of the 1989 animated original (83 minutes!), and so sight unseen I despise Marshall’s version, which tells roughly the same story, for adding 52 minutes of bloat.

Are there some hinterland trollers out there who are saying ixnay because of Halle Bailey’s casting as Ariel (i.e., standard Disney-fied diversity)? Yeah, I guess, presumably. But who believes that the shitty Rotten Tomatoes ratings (top critics at 47% and ticket-buyers at 56% if you count all of them) are driven by this?

The obviously gifted Bailey seems fairly cool and appealing, but I see no genetic evidence of her being the daughter of Javier Bardem’s King Triton, a pale-faced Spaniard by way of the deep blue sea. Why didn’t they make this aspect work? They easily could have. Not a huge deal but a deal.

It’s Sunday evening (6:15 pm), the sun won’t slip into dusk for another three hours (during the warm months night doesn’t really begin in Paris until 10 pm), and for the first time in nearly two weeks I’m finally feeling relaxed and settled down. Breathing easy.

A couple of hours ago I took my first late-afternoon nap since…I don’t know, May 10th or something. It’s amazing what a decent snooze can do for your disposition. The whole city feels casual and chill. Everyone is sharing the same dreamy mood. Blue sky, gentle sunshine, not too hot.

After nearly two weeks of mostly Cannes-generated stress, deadline pressures, way too little sleep (i.e., the snore bear), waiting in line after line for the next Salle Debussy film and regarding the usual suspects askance, feelings of serenity are finally within. Not for long but at least tonight feels right.

Alas, it all starts again late tomorrow afternoon with my 7:15 pm flight to Newark. God protect me from being seated next to a Jabba.

HE salutes and respects the Cannes jury’s selection of winners. It was a strong festival and I’m glad to have been part of it on a certain level.

I’m pleased that The Pot au Feu’s Tran Anh Hung won the Best Director trophy, although a grander tribute should have come his way.

My brilliant failure to see Justine Triet’s Anatomy of a Fall, the Palme d’Or winner, as well as Ali Kaurismaki’s Fallen Leaves, which took the Jury Prize, embarassingly speaks for itself, but then I’ve managed many such flubs for years.

My respectful but less than fully enthused reaction to Jonathan Glazer’s The Zone of Interest, which won the Grand Prix, also contributes to a vague sense of lethargy that I’m currently feeling. Ditto my complete lack of enthusiasm for Hirokazu Kore–eda’s Monster.

Let’s just let it go. It’s over. Congrats to all the winners, etc. No gain in raining on anyone’s parade.

I haven’t seen Disney’s half-biological, half-CG’ed Little Mermaid, but the basic impetus or social agenda has been obvious for months. Armond White explains the deal sans bullshit.

Posted on 5.25 about Jonathan Glazer’s The Zone of Interest, which may, for the usual motives, snag the Palme d’Or during tonight’s award ceremony:

Jonathan Glazer’s The Zone of Interest is a strong, admirable, ultra-precise horror film, but it’s strictly made for film devotees and academic know-it-alls…elitists who loathe the taste of popcorn and would rather slit their wrists than experience any kind of visceral enjoyment of anything. Strictly a Cannes joint…DOA at your local multiplex.

…without considering the likely fact that these apparently proud fellows are, on some level, kidding.

If I were King Charles I would have at least forsaken the absurdly flamboyant black-and-gold royal cloak with the 10-foot train, not to mention the crown and scepter.

He’s obviously inviting derision. He’s obviously saying to the world “I am totally living within my own royal membrane and I don’t give a shit what others may think.”

And for the 17th or 18th time, why baldy has ignored the easy-as-pie Prague hair remedy is completely mystifying.

“Rendezvous with Quentin Tarantino”, a special event at Theatre Croisette (home of the Directors Fortnight program), began at 4:22 pm. QT was introduced, stepped on stage to vigorous applause, and announced that John Flynn’s Rolling Thunder (‘77) would be the secret screening — a 35mm print, he proudly announced — and that a fun discussion would follow.

The film began at 4:35, and I’m sorry but it looked and sounded like shit. A faded, half-pink print. Smothered in dirt and scratch marks during the first two or three minutes and never looking or sounding all that clean. To me the dialogue was weak and whispery and barely audible, especially with the soundtrack humming and popping and crackling.

I hadn’t seen Rolling Thunder in 45 or 46 years, and if it hadn’t been for the French subtitles (which helped here and there) I would’ve been totally lost about some of the plot particulars.

You’d expect that for an event like this Tarantino would’ve gotten hold of a decent print, or relaxed his purist 35mm aesthetic (I know…heresy!) and shown a DCP. I’m sorry but I haven’t watched a film in this kind of ghastly condition in ages. We’re all accustomed to old films being restored or upgraded these days. Rolling Thunder is streaming on Amazon Prime.

QT’s affection for this Vietnam War-era revenge film is genuine, and the last thing I want to do is rain on his parade. I was really looking forward to a Thunder session but if you can’t hear a good portion of the dialogue what’s the point?

Humphrey Bogart never had this much hair, not even when he was ten or twelve. Back in ‘51 there was no such thing as Prague hair — only wigs.

In other words: “Nothing will give us pause in our determination to trash Coup de Chance when it finally screens in the early fall, possibly in Venice or perhaps at the San Sebastián Film Festival.”

Kady Rush Ashcraft‘s Jezebel riff is nothing –bitter, sour grapes flinging droplets of urine.