My stubborn biological system keeps insisting on long naps in the middle of the day. I just awoke from a three-hour snooze (12 noon to 3 pm) — the second such occurence since arriving in Paris the night before last. I guess you could call me a “burn the candle at both ends” type of guy, but occasionally the body demands a different deal.

System to Hollywood Elsewhere: “I don’t insist on eight hours as other bodies do. Back home in Los Angeles six or seven is good with an occasional one-hour nap, depending on the stress levels. I understand what your professional demands are, and I’m willing to work with you. And I understand that stress levels go up to level 11 during the Cannes Film Festival in terms of filing. Four or five was all we managed between 5.11 (when we did an all-night flight to Stockholm, followed by a daytime flight to Nice) and 5.24.

“But when the festival ends I insist on payback, whether you like it or not.”

I’ve been visiting the Eiffel tower off and on for decades. A year ago a pair of ten-foot-tall glass barriers were erected to protect the monument from possible terrorist attacks. The structure is safer now, but it feels like a tragedy. From 1889 to 2018 the Eiffel tower and the grounds beneath it were open and accessible to everyone — now it feels like a a place of paranoia and a metaphor for the menace that we all realize is out there and possibly preparing to strike at any time. We all want to feel safe, but it’s shattering to see this once-egalitarian atmosphere suffocated in a sense. By erecting these walls the French government has basically announced that Islamic terror has established psychological dominance. Imagine the atmosphere in Washington, D.C. if the U.S. Capitol and the White House were to be surrounded on all sides by similar barriers. This is the world we live in now, and it’s heartbreaking.

Champagne toasts and jovial back-slaps to Bong Joon-ho‘s Parasite, which has won the Cannes Film Festival’s Palme d’Or. And to Mati Diop‘s Atlantics (aka Atlantique) for taking the Grand Prix. And the Best Director winners, Jean-Pierre and Luc Dardenne for Young Ahmed. And the co-winners of the Jury Prize — Ladj Ly for Les Misérables and Kleber Mendonca Filho‘s for Bacurau.

And Best Actor winner Antonio Banderas for his Pain and Glory performance, and Little Joe‘s Emily Beecham for roping the Best Actress prize. And Portrait of a Lady on Fire‘s Celine Sciama for tasking the Best Screenplay trophy.

And congratulations to myself for having once again failed to see the biggies. I saw a boatload of competition flicks at the festival but I couldn’t get to Parasite and Atlantic. Not out of a lack of interest, but because I couldn’t finish riffs and reviews I was writing in order to attend. Each and every year I’ve managed this. I’m brilliant at it.

“Odds of Cannes Prizes To Come, ” posted on 5.22: “I chose to write a longish review of Once Upon A Time in Hollywood rather than see Bong Joon-ho‘s Parasite so I’ve nothing to say on this. I also failed to see Mati Diop‘s Atlantique and Jessica Hausner‘s Little Joe — apologies.”

I also mentioned that “I would find it stunning if the Cannes jury doesn’t honor Les Miserables with some kind of significant award come Saturday” — at least I was right about that.

Up at 6:30 am; six hours later I’m suddenly exhausted. The 17-hour-per-day exertion of the last 12 days hitting like a ton of bricks. 3:10 pm: Up and back at it. A six-hour stroll awaits.

From Reservoir Dogs through Jackie Brown, Quentin Tarantino‘s gab was as good as his game. But since Kill Bill or over the last 19 years, I’ve been saying to myself “he talks a better game than he shows.”

Large sections of Once Upon A Time in Hollywood are just as diverting as these clips, and some…okay, many are more so. And the finale, as noted, is quite the knockout. But some scenes during the first 80% or 85% are just sufficient, and there are others that seem to drag on too long. Or are over-acted. Or don’t hold up to post-screening scrutiny.

I love that Tarantino recently said that he’s not wedded to the Cannes cut, and that he might make the release-print a bit longer. L’audace! The third clip is the best.

Even if I had time for the Cannes Film Festival’s Alain Delon tribute, I’m not sure I would have attended. I’m not anti-Delon as much as a neutralist, my respect for his ’60s and ’70s performances having long been counter-balanced by disdain for his arch-rightist views. I nonetheless found this quote from Thierry Fremaux affecting, in part because of his allusion to our current political climate:

“…to take a break from their conscience. That’s what I see when I look at Trump’s rallies, his spewing lies at [those] people and [those] people saying ‘I gotta believe in somethin” and he said he’d bring my manufacturing job back and she didn’t, and I’m all in.

“But at the end of the day, aside from ‘I don’t wanna pay taxes’, it’s race. It’s race. This is about the Republican party, or a wing of it, going ‘this is our last chance to save the party’. And the only way they could do that was to tape the race button and say ‘go ahead, it’s okay.'” — To Kill A Mockingbird star Jeff Daniels on or about 5.20, speaking to MSNBC’s Nicolle Wallace.

I watched a portion of this during the Cannes Film Festival, didn’t have time to focus in until this morning.

So why wasn’t Robert Eggers‘ The Lighthouse offered a Cannes competition slot? Jordan Ruimy‘s French-speaking festival whisperer, who’s been fairly accurate this year, confirms that it was fiat–out rejected for competition by Cannes topper Thierry Fremaux. A midnight slot was offered as compensation, but Eggers and A24 decided instead on a Director’s Fortnight slot. It all worked out in the end.

In a chat with Indiewire‘s Anne Thompson, Luca Guadagnino mentioned the persecution of Woody Allen. He said he frowns strongly upon “the perverted and primordial enjoyment of a kind of ‘Scarlet Letter’ trial of a man. I still am a believer in [the] state of rights. Mr. Allen went through many investigations 20 years ago and was cleared.

“[And] the Woody Allen legacy –— those movies are there, and they are fantastic. Anyone who denies that Another Woman is a masterpiece is stupid!”

I can’t honestly say that Another Woman, released in October ’88, burns all that brightly in my memory. My most vivid recollection is a romantic confession moment with Gene Hackman, whose part is relatively small. Gena Rowlands has the lead role; Ian Holm and Mia Farrow costar. 31 years ago the film was regarded as Ingmar Bergman-esque, and specifically a riff on Wild Strawberries.

Now I want to see it again, except the only way I could do that would be to buy the 18 year-old DVD.

The primary focus of the Thompson chat was Luca’s The Staggering Girl, a 35-minute short which I saw and favorably reviewed last Tuesday. Its submission to Directors Fortnight led to Guadagnino’s first Cannes invitation. “I’m a Venice man,” said Guadagnino. “I am a nouvelle vague person, [and] this is my first time in Cannes. [But] I felt at home. Maybe this is the beginning of a new phase for me.”

Mid-afternoon: I endured a miserable Cannes-to-Marseille journey earlier today on an overcrowded 2nd class car…awful. Now on a less crowded SNCF train, surging smooth and fast toward Paris. Expected arrival at 6:30 pm. Late evening: Arrived at the Paris apartment (22 rue Saint-Claude) around 8 pm, and was surprised to discover it’s a lot smaller than the Airbnb photos indicated. Tatyana’s 19-year-old son Gleb was already there. Alas, no Tatyana yet. Gleb and I went out for groceries, stopped by Cafe Charlot on rue Bretagne.

Too pooped to boogie, too whipped to think. Whatever I can add to the conversation will have to keep until tomorrow morning.

It’s 2:24 am — almost an hour since the 10 pm press screening of Abdellatif Kechiche‘s Mektoub, My Love: Intermezzo ended. I can’t write a proper review because I need to be up by 7:30 or 8 am. But I can at least report that this plotless (but not character-less) 212-minute beach blanket buttathon with a 15-minute cunnilingus interlude …this crazy-ass film wildly defies all notions of what cinematic substance or intrigue or even worthwhile flavor amounts to.

It is so effing monotonoous, so long and so plot-averse that it’s like “c’mon, Abdellatif…really?” And he’s replying in the exuberant affirmative.

Intermezzo is nervy as fuck but also brazenly, outrageously empty (but not really if you’re perversely determined to give Kechiche a break or if you’re especially susceptible to the relentless sight of women’s shaking, quivering ass cheeks).

Kechiche is pretty much defying people like me to call him out for making a three-and-a half-hour movie about intensely sexual male-gazing on a beach and in a nightclub…relentlessly provocative sex-throb dancing and eyeballing and shuddering quiver-butts.

Kechiche knows how to make the kind of film that most of us will respond to favorably. He made Blue Is The Warmest Color a few years back. He just chose to go radical this time.

Gaspar Noe‘s Climax (which screened here last year via Directors Fortnight) went in this all-orgiastic-dancing direction for a fairly long spell, but at least he introduced the idea of LSD-spiked sangria. Kechiche introduces no such shaker-upper.

There’s probably no way in hell Intermezzo gets distribution in the States. The sexuality is way too pronounced (the bathroom cunnilingus scene is pure Pornhub) and the #MeToo community would totally freak if any of the usual suspects picked it up.

Roughly three-quarters of this epic is set in a club in Sete, France, and is mainly about three youngish, good-looking Tunisian guys (played by Shaïn Boumédine, Salim Kechiouche and Roméo De Lacour) gently but persistently hitting on a loose-knit crew of casually responsive 20something girls, whom the Tunisians have met on the beach earlier that day.

Intermezzo breaks down into five sections: (a) A 40-minute chat scene on the beach between Kechiouche and Lacour and most of the girls, (b) a 105-minute drink-talk-and-dance sequence that offers character shadings among the principals but mainly just pumps and throbs and dances for endless stretches, (c) a 15-minute cunnilingus scene in the bathroom, (d) a second talk-drink-and-dance sequence that runs about 45 minutes, and (e) a brief morning-after epilogue that doesn’t pay off in any way, shape or form.

Not long after Jack Kerouac‘s “On The Road” was published, Truman Capote famously said “that’s not writing — that’s typing!” I could just as easily say that Mektoub, My Love: Intermezzo isn’t filmmaking but cinematography. A crew of young, attractive actors, a whole lotta butt-shaking and flirting and erotic playfulness and footage that just goes on and on and on.

I’ll probably add to this sometime tomorrow.

Tim Miller and James Cameron‘s Terminator: Dark Fate (Paramount, 11.1) is embracing diversity by emphasizing female and Latino characters. Linda Hamilton, taut and 62, is back as Sarah Connor, but Mackenzie Davis is the new Arnold Schwarzenegger-like protector and Gabriel Luna (unfortunately sporting a tennis-ball haircut) is the new version of Robert Patrick‘s T-1000. And “Dani Ramos”, the new Terminator target who must be shielded at all costs, is played by Natalia Reyes.

But what about actors and characters of African persuasion, not to mention a LGBTQ player or two? Will the Twitter hyenas erupt in protest over these two groups being absent or under-represented? Will they burn Miller and Cameron at the stake for selectively favoring women and Latinos over other tribes that deserve not just equal recognition but equal paychecks?

A white-bearded Schwarzenegger makes a brief appearance in the trailer, presumably as some kind of cyborg cousin of the characters he played in the ’84 and ’91 originals. But if he’s a cyborg, why has he aged?