The Metacritic score (only two-thirds of critics approve, roughly the same in the case of Joe and Jane Popcorn) tells you there’s trouble in River City. (The Rotten Tomatoes 80% score is meaningless — that site is crawling with whores).
Having seen it 11 or 12 days ago and soon after posted my somewhat bewildered review, I’ve been feeling more and more anoyance with Tom Cruise‘s Ethan Hunt having been pretty much deified. Hunt is spoken of and deferred to with the same respect and reverence offered to Angela Bassett‘s U.S. President (former CIA honcho Erika Sloane). He might as well as be Superman in a Warner Bros. D.C. film.
What happened to the idea of major government authorities pledging to disavow any knowledge of Hunt and/or the M:I force if things theoretically go south? Final Reckoning‘s Hunt is completely out of the shadows. He could host his own CNN show, or even run for President himself.
The good news, first and foremost, is that the Cannes jury tonight handed the Camera d’Or prize to Hasan Hadi ‘s ThePresident’sCake — an Iraq-set children’s drama that HE went totallynuts for several days ago.
But there’s no way on God’s green earth that Jafar Panahi‘s It Was Just An Accident is a better film than Joachim Trier‘s SentimentalValue. The Trier is unquestionably the shit — a drill-down serving of intimate, soul-flooding cinema. And yet the Cannes Jury has just given the Palme d’Or to the Panahi regardless.
Out of political motives, obviously. They feel compelled to show support for Panahi in lieu of the poor guy having coped with nearly a quarter-century of pressure and persecution from the Iranian government. That’s all it is — a sympathy vote, “you go, bruh”, “we’ve got your six”, etc.
Trier’s obviously superior family drama won the Grand Prix award — i.e. a second prize that was undoubtedly presented in a guilty frame of mind. Jury: “We loved the film, Joachim, but…well, you weren’t politically persecuted so we hope you understand.”
I didn’t see Hafsia Herzi‘s The Little Sister, but this adaptation of Fatima Daas‘s 2020 novel (“The Last One”) is about a daughter of Algerian immigrants in Paris being afraid to tell them she’s a lesbian. Big surprise — Nadia Melliti‘s performance as the daughter won the Cannes jury’s Best Actress trophy, and in so doing beat out Renata Reinsve‘s deepheart, guns-blazing SentimentalValue performance.
I wouldn’t want to presume anything, but what are the chances that gay-supportive sentiments had something to do with Melliti winning? Is this, like, a remote possibility? Whaddaya think?
Kleber Mendonca Filho‘s The Secret Agent, an admirable but overhyped drama about political terror in 1977 Brazil, won a Best Director prize, and the star, Wagner Moura, won for Best Actor. (Here’s HE’s 5.19.25 review.)
Mascha Schilinski’s Sound of Falling (a.k.a. Sound of Movie Patrons Falling Asleep) shared a jury prize because of its feminist credentials — it’s this year’s Women Talking. (Here’s my review.)
Friendo: “The Cannes Film Festival’s politically progressive praise mechanism is a racket. Which is why the Palme d’Or at Cannes — and all the other Cannes awards — mean less than zero. ‘Hey honey, wanna go see Sound of Falling tonight? I’ve heard it shared a major prize at Cannes!’
“When I finally caught up with Women Talking, I was shocked at how bad it was. It wasn’t even crudely watchable, male-bashing propaganda. It was slow-moving drivel in Amish garb.”
Because The Mastermind, which I sat through several hours ago, is basically about a married, middle-class, not-smart-enough jerkoff — Josh O’Connor‘s James Blaine Mooney, or “JB” — being so inept at organizing a theft of some Arthur Dove paintings from a museum in Framingham that he’s unmistakably in the running for the sloppiest felon in motion picture history, and I mean right up there with Al Pacino‘s Sonny Wortzik in Dog Day Afernoon.
We know going in, of course, that Reichardt doesn’t do genre stuff and that The Mastermind, which is being praised, of course…we know her film will be exploring something else. It certainly isn’t Rififi, for sure. But what is it?
Reichardt is primarily interested in JB’s life being blown to smithereens when the half-assed robbery goes wrong. But why? Is it about JB’s subconscious attempt to punish himself for marrying Alana Haim‘s Terri and having two boys with her and…I don’t know, feeling trapped by this? Is he looking to thumb his nose at his straightlaced parents (played by Bill Camp and Hope Davis)?
It certainly seems to be about a form of convoluted self-destruction.
JB winds up on the run, penniless, scrounging around, snatching an old lady’s cash-filled handbag and finally being arrested during an anti-war demonstration. But to what end?
The Mastermind asks “how would a born-to-lose guy go about escaping from his life?” Suicide would be the simplest way, of course, but JB seems to lack the necessary character and conviction to put a pistol in his mouth. If he wants to join up with some hippies and run away to Hawaii or Mexico or Central America, why doesn’t he just do that? Why go to the trouble of hiring a pair of young fuck-ups to steal the paintings, knowing that in all likelihood one or both will eventually screw up and get popped and rat him out?
All I know is that The Mastermind has a little story tension going on during the first 75 minutes or so, but once the jig is up and JB goes on the lam, it has nowhere to go. The last shot of JB in a police paddy wagon conveys a little something, but the film basically peters out.
I don’t want to say any more. The film isn’t dull or uninteresting — O’Connor is always good in a grubby, glint-of-madness sort of way — but it’s basically a wash. For me, at least, but then I’m not a cultist.
Biden: “There’s no possibility of my being completely candid with you…it’s simply beyond the realm of my own personality and psychological makeup to explain why I did a 180 last weekend by deciding to abandon my presidential campaign…a major pivot after insisting there was no argument or force short of Almighty God that could persuade me to quit.
“How did this happen? Was it my wife, Doctor Jill, whom some of you have compared to Lady Macbeth? Did she keep me in a bubble where I wouldn’t hear more open and honest assessments?
“The truth is that I was determined to tough it out no matter what…I said this over and over in various unyielding, mule-stubborn ways…even if it meant losing and taking the whole Democratic ship and crew with me, all of us swirling down to Davy Jones locker…
“The bottom ine is that I didn’t quit out of selflessness or personal sacrifice or any of that lofty, noble, Patrick Henry stuff…I was finally told there was no path to winning, and was therefore finally persuaded that in the eyes of history my name would be mud if I let that happen…and that was it…in order to save my legacy, to avoid the utter shame of self-ruin I was shoved out, plain and simple…and I fought this like a dying wolverine…snapping and snarling and screaming…I decided to fold my tent only under extreme Irish duress…and I mean I was howling and spitting and punching my refrigerator and baring my fangs and kicking and even shitting my pants. It wasn’t pretty.
For those who doubted my 5.16 declaration that Hasan Hadi‘s The President’s Cake is a very good film, consider the fact that it won the Choix du Public (People’s Choice) award earlier this evening.
When I make a call, you can take it to the bank…period.
Apart from an unfortunate, vaguely annoying decision to tell yet another story about a brutish toxic male raping a woman — certainly the reigning or default narrative of present-day feminist cinema — Eva Victor’s Sorry, Baby (A24, 6.27) is really, REALLY good.
In terms of being lulled and led along into a lesbian way of thinking to the point of feeling vaguely charmed and kind of fascinated, Sorry, Baby operates in a manner that’s more or less equivalent to Luca Guadagnino’s Queer, and that, for me, is quite an achievement.
I caught this Quinzaine headliner around 8:20 pm.
Not only are Victor’s writing and direction top-tier, but her performance as lead protagonist Agnes, a brilliant literature professor who is mostly gay or certainly bi (i.e., not averse to hetero coupling when candidates like the soft and vaguely squishy Lucas Hedges come along) is about as captivating as such a performance could be.
Victor’s dialogue leaks out in the manner of someone exceptionally bright and introspective and given to thinking out loud — confessional and candid in a cautious and hesitant way, but not overly so. It feels straight and true at every turn.
Sorry, Baby is infused with guarded but self-accepting attitudes that are basically lezzy, for sure, but it’s a quietly realistic small-town social drama that wins you over early on, and then keeps earning more and more points.
I knew it had won raves after debuting at last January’s Sundance Film Festival, but I went into tonight’s screening with doubts and trepidations. But they evaporated fairly quickly.
It also delivers excellent supporting perfs from Naomi Ackie (Agnes’s totally gay, male-loathing lover during the first half), John Carroll Lynch, Kelly McCormack, Louis Cancelmi (a Scorsese guy playing the evil animal rapist), Hettienne Park as a whipsmart civil servant in a jury-selection scene, etc.
Produced by Adele Romanski and Barry Jenkins, this is definitely a goodie.
I wasn’t exactly afraid of any chowing-down scenes, but I knew I’d be a wee bit antsy about anything too graphic. I mainly wanted The History of Sound to be as good as Luca Guadagnino‘s Queer, but I knew this would be a tall order.
I emerged from a Debussy press screening of The History of Sound about an hour ago, and my initial reaction, much to my surprise, was “where’s the vitality…the primal passion?”
I’m not saying I wanted to see Mescal lick up more cum droplets (as he did in All Of Us Strangers), but there hasn’t been a more earnestly delicate, suppressive, bordering-on-bloodless film about erotic entanglement since David Lean‘s A Passage to India (’84) and before that Alfred Hitchcock‘s Marnie(’64).
Come to think of it, Marnie at least has that one scene when Sean Connery rips off Tippi Hedren‘s bathrobe, leaving her buck naked.
A History of Sound delivers a welcomely non-graphic sex scene early on, but that’s all she wrote.
The History of Sound is a gay romance made for older straight guys like me, I suppose, but even I was thinking “Jesus, I never thought I’d complain about this thing being too tasteful and hemmed in.”
Variety‘s Owen Gleiberman has called it “listless and spiritually inexpressive…Brokeback Mountain on sedatives.”
The heart of the film is when lovers Lionel (Mescal) and David (O’Connor) go hiking around rural Maine in boots and backpacks and carrying a wax cylinder sound-recording device, the idea being to record rural types singing folk tunes.
Except this happens in the winter months, and if you’ve ever been to Maine between December and late April…well, c’mon! Not to mention the lack of bathtubs or showers on such a trek, which means smelly feet and gunky crotch aromas after a few days. Who the hell would do such a thing? During the summer maybe…
O’Connor’s role is smaller than Mescal’s but the former exerts more feeling somehow…more command. Mescal’s Lionel is supposed to be a native Kentuckian, but he doesn’t sound or look country-ish. (Imagine if he’d played Lionel in the manner of Gary Cooper‘s Alvin York, who hailed from Tennessee around the same time.)
Mescal is basically playing a master of emotional constipation who doesn’t behave in a manner that suggests “1920s gay guy”…he’s very, very committed to keeping it all buttoned inside…the relationship with O’Connor’s David is highly charged and drilled, and yet they part company and Lionel moves to Italy and then England to teach music.
And then, while in England, Lionel flirts with the idea of being in love with with Emma Canning‘s Clarissa, a to-the-manor-born British lass who seems to love him unconditionally, only to blow their relationship off in order to return to Maine and possibly hook up with David again.
Which is totally nuts, of course. There was no percentage in living an openly gay life in the 1920s, so the smart move for Lionel would have been to marry wealthy Clarissa and, in the manner of Heath Ledger‘s camping trips with Jake Gyllenhaal in Brokeback Mountain, visit O’Connor for annual vacations and whatnot.
Or, put more concisely, “What the fuck is going on?”
If only Caught Stealing (Sony, 8.29) had been a Cannes competition title!
Wikipedia describes Aronofsky’s ’90s-era film as “an American black comedy crime thriller”. Screenplay by Charlie Huston, based on his book. Austin Butler (playing his first decent role since Luhrmann’s Elvis biopic), Matt Smith, Zoë Kravitz, Regina King, Vincent D’Onofrio and Benito A Martínez Ocasio.
Last night’s buzz was that Jafar Panahi‘s It Was Just an Accident, a gripping situational about rage, revenge and governmental persecution, is the likeliest Palme d’Or winner. Yesterday the Panahi film earned a 3.1 score from critics polled for Screen International’s Cannes grid, placing it in a tied-for-first-place position (Two Prosecutors also has a 3.1). I therefore watched it this morning with my hopes up and yaddah yaddah.
Within 45 minutes I knew Accident had been greatly over-rated. Critics are tumbling over political factors, and more specifically because Panahi’s years-long persecution at the hands of the Iranian government clearly inspired the narrative
“The Panahi is definitely better than okay,” I texted a colleague, “and is certainly a sobering meditation about the after-effects of state terror. But without dismissing or minimizing the traumatic effects of Panahi having been pushed around, threatened, travel-restricted, house-arrested and jailed for seven months, Accident struck me as emotionally overwrought and infuriating in some respects (no investigative specifics, no attempted research or double-checking).
“Yes, catharsis comes at the end but why wasn’t this more of a Costa-Gavras film? Why wasn’t this State of Siege?
“I’m sorry but it’s been WAY over-hyped. No one will protest if the Cannes jury gives Accident the Palme d’Or, but with the exception of a haunting sound effect (a squeaky prosthetic leg) that the film ends with — a peep-peep that sinks in and stays with you — it certainly doesn’t go ring-a-ding-ding in terms of narrative scalpel-wielding or in purely cinematic terms.”
Friendo: “Of course it’s overrated! Panahi is a good, impassioned filmmaker, but not as interesting as his persecuted artist rep would indicate. He’s basically been getting the kid-gloves treatment from those whose admiration is largely about wanting to sympathize with and support his difficult political plight, which has been going on for a quarter-century.”
My Accident problem boils down to this: Vahid (Vahid Mobasseri), an unshaven, impulsive schlubbo who endured governmental torture some years ago, is 95% certain that a lean, bearded fellow who hobbles around on a prosthetic limb is Eghbal (aka “Pegleg”), the guy who tortured him. Yahid is so persuaded because Eghbal’s prosthetic makes a slight squeaking sound, which is burned into Vahid like a cattle brand.
The problem is that 5% of doubt which disturbs Vahid — he isn’t entirely sure that he recognizes Eghbal’s face. The anger is all in his eardrums.
Vahid assaults Eghbal, ties him up and throws him into his van. Then he starts digging a hole in some desert region and is about to bury him alive….what?
Friendly with four locals who were also tortured and terrorized around the same time, Vahid drives the captive Eghbal around to ask this quartet — bookseller Salar, pissed-off laborer Hamid, wedding photographer Shiva, a bride and groom named Goli and Ali — to take a look and confirm (or deny) that the dude in the van is the one who brought such terror and misery into their lives.
Should they waste Eghbal, and if they do how will they cope with the karma of it all?
An answer about whether or not Eghbal is guilty arrives near the conclusion, but why don’t Vahid and friends simply conduct a forensic on his background? Why not hold him in a garage or cellar somewhere as they ask around and burrow into his life like the State of Siege revolutionaries knew all about Yves Montand? Why not clarify the situation by assembling some kind of half-assed dossier?
What these five bruised souls mainly do is scream and beat on Eghbal and stamp around and call him a motherfucker, etc. I understand their rage and lust for revenge, but it’s not very interesting to sit through.
I kept saying to myself “is this just going to be about psychic eruptions and spilling-over anger? Is the whole film going to behave on this level?” I was intrigued and absorbed as far as it went, but Accident ain’t no champion of the Croisette. It’s just a pretty good film about the after-effects of state terror. Y’all need to calm down.
He smiled, rather, like some kind of bloodless predator or demonic reptile.
And Jean Arthur never looked this well-tended, this cool and composed…like an elegantly coiffed player from Robert Wise‘s Executive Suite (’54)…like an Eisenhower-era Barbara Stanwyck or Nina Foch.
