From David Mikics’ 5.22.24 Tablet article about Nellie Bowles‘ “Morning After The Revolution — Dispatches From The Wrong Side of History“:
“Remember the heady days of 2020? Progressives trained by the richest universities in the land suddenly had the chance to remake America in their image, the way they had always dreamed of doing. The result was so obvious and crushing a failure that one is no longer supposed to talk about it.
“Four years later, the power elite have discovered that their cosplay revolution is seen as merely ridiculous. Minority groups don’t want the new names that have been issued to them. Straight people prefer not to be called cisgender, and gay people don’t like being submerged in a tide of heterosexuals who style themselves queer. Even The New York Times, that high conclave of official euphemisms, has begun to soft-pedal chilling locutions like ‘gender-affirming care for minors,’ instead referring honestly to puberty blockers and body-altering surgery.
‘Nellie Bowles’ ‘Morning After the Revolution‘ is a grand tour through the craziness that followed the killing of George Floyd and continues to this day, despite the majority of Americans shaking their heads in bewilderment.
“Bowles, a former Times reporter, started out as a progressive seeker, curious and hopeful about the new thinking, and she is still seeking solutions to racism, income inequality, and attacks on women’s rights. But she also sees the absurdity of much of what passed for progressivism, yet was actually narcissistic, neo-racialist, and aggressively inhumane.”
The Richard Burton encounter happened in 1978, when Kevin Costner was 23. He and wife Cindy Silva were flying back to Los Angeles from a honeymoon in Puerto Vallarta. Go to the 10:15 mark…
This was taken as the Feinberg-Costner interview began. I have a bizarre habit of baring my fangs while posting on my phone. I have to work on this.
…and in recent years have tended to vote for films that have promoted the right kind of politically correct message, especially since the woke virus began to infect everything six years ago.
I therefore wouldn’t be surprised if Greta Gerwig‘s jury declines to give the Palme d’Or to Sean Baker‘s wonderfully un-wokey Anora and hands it instead to Jacques Audiard‘s Emilia Perez, primarily because of the trans thing.
Failing this, they will most likely give the Best Actress trophy to Karla Sofía Gascon, the transitioned biomale actor who plays the titular character. There’s really no question that Anora‘s Mikey Madison gives a more compelling, dynamic, high-throttle performance, but cultural political matters are a bigger deal these days.
It is also worth recalling that Palme d’Or winners have often triggered WTF responses in the past. Case in point: Ken Loach‘s I, Daniel Blake, which won eight years ago.
When Ken Loach‘s I, Daniel Blake won the Cannes Film Festival’s Palme d’Or, I posted the following: “WHAT? Wrong call, gents. A good film, but not my idea of a really good one, and a long way from greatness. It’s a sturdy, downish Loach-wheelhouse thing about an older craftsman (Dave Johns) with a heart condition getting the humiliating run-around by the system. Except 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.”
On 5.13 I had an argument with a critic friend about Blake — here it is:
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.
Sean Baker‘s Anora certainly deserves the highest Cannes Screen Jury rating (3.3), but the aggregate critical scores for Ali Abassi‘s The Apprentice (1.7) and Paul Schrader‘s Oh, Canada (1.8) are deranged. Neither of these films has anything to apologize for, and they both pay off. Meanwhile the 12 participating critics are telling us, in effect, that David Cronenberg‘s underwhelming The Shrouds (2.2) and Francis Coppola‘s nutso Megalopolis (2.1) are better? Take the needle out of your arms.
