“Trump has opened up the floodgates, and the poison is coursing through the body politic. Republicans have been cranking up the racist mob for 40, 50 years. The Southern strategy…dog whistle, dog whistle, dog whistle. And then along comes Trump, who throws the dog whistle over his shoulder and picks up a bullhorn. He’s a disinhibitor.”

Filed at 3:30 am Dublin time…later. I haven’t been here since the fall of ’88. The Aer Lingus flight back to NYC leaves tomorrow at 1 pm. Update: In the breakfast room of the Clifton Court hotel (11 Eden Quay), 8:10 am. Leaving for airport in a couple of hours.

Asia Argento remarks, delivered at Cannes Film festival award ceremony earlier this evening: “I was raped by Harvey Weinstein here in Cannes. I was 21 years old. The festival was his hunting ground. Even tonight there are those that need to be held responsible for their conduct. You know who you are. But most importantly we know who you are, and we will not allow you to get away with it any longer.”

Le puissant discours d’@AsiaArgento pendant la cérémonie de clôture de Cannes. « J’ai été violée ici en 1997 par Harvey Weinstein ». 👊💪 pic.twitter.com/Qn1uguRzP4

— Hugo Clément (@hugoclement) May 19, 2018

Palme d’Or: Shoplifters, Hirokazu Kore-eda. HE comment: Why did they give the top prize to a film I didn’t get around to seeing? I resent that. My sense was that Shoplifters had drawn a respectful response but nobody was doing cartwheels. Nobody grabbed me by the collar and said, “Oh my God…you absolutely must see Shoplifters! The cartwheel winners were Cold War, Capernaum and Happy As Lazzaro.

Grand Prix: BlacKkKlansman, d: Spike Lee. HE comment: The Grand Prix being equivalent to second prize, I find it odd that Lee’s film, an engaging ’70s undercover-cop caper film but far from great art, came away with a more prestigious trophy than the one Cold War earned (i.e., Best Director for Pawlilowski) or Nadine Labaki‘s Capermnaum, which took third prize or Jury Prize.

Jury Prize: Capernaum, d: Nadine Labaki. HE comment: At least it took one of the three top awards.

Best Actress: Samal Yeslyamova, Akya. HE comment: Didn’t see it. My money was on Cold War‘s Joanna Kulig.

Best Actor: Marcello Fonte, Dogman. HE comment: Fine performance, mostly unsatisfying film, not my cup of tea.

Best Director: Pawel Pawlikowski, Cold War. HE comment: Approved.

Best Screenplay (tie): Alice Rohrwacher, Happy as Lazzaro & Jafar Panahi and Nader Saeivar, Three Faces.

“In the months before the U.S. invasion of Iraq, the reporters in the Knight Ridder Newspapers Washington D.C. bureau were virtually alone in their questioning of the Bush Administration’s allegations of links between Saddam Hussein, weapons of mass destruction and international terrorism.

”The team of Knight Ridder reporters, led by Jonathan Landay, Warren Strobel, John Walcott and Joe Galloway, produced stories that now read like a prescient accounting of how the Bush Administration sought to sell the war to the American people.” — from “The Reporting Team That Got Iraq Right,” a 5.25.11 Huffpost story by Max Follmer.

The main culprits who sold the U.S. Congress and the public on the necessity of invading Iraq were, of course, President George Bush, vice-president Dick Cheney, secretary of state Colin Powell and N.Y. Times reporter Judith Miller, who ran a series of exclusives about weapons of mass destruction in Iraq, some of which were found to be untrue. Miller’s main source was Iraqi politician Ahmad Chalabi. In a film about uncovering the chorus of lies used to justify the invasion, wouldn’t you think that Miller would be an important character? In the IMDB cast list there’s no “Judith Miller” character. Chalabi appears in the trailer, but he’s not part of the IMDB cast list either.

For the sheer pleasure of it, I caught Pawel Pawlikowski‘s Cold War this morning for the second time. I sat in the third row of the Salle Deubssy, swooning once again to that velvety, needle-sharp black-and-white cinematography and that boxy aspect ratio that’s been breaking my heart for decades. Every shot is so exquisitely framed and lighted that it brings tears to your eyes. You could blow up any frame from this film and hang it on the wall of any snooty Manhattan art gallery.

And I love how cinematographer Lukasz Zal frames many of his shots with acres and acres of head room above the natural center of attention.

Cold War is so perfectly composed, a masterwork on every level. Pawlikowski’s story-telling instincts couldn’t be more eloquent or understated. Every plot point is always conveyed in the most discreet and understated terms, but you never miss a trick. And the economy! A story that spans 15 years ** is handled within 84 minutes, and you never sense that you’re being rushed along.

If I were deciding tonight’s Cannes Film Festival awards, I’d definitely choose Cold War for the Palme d’Or and Joanna Kulig, the femme fatale songbird whose in-and-out, hot-and-cold emotions propel this tragic love story, for Best Actress.

There’s no better gelato joint in any city or country. It’s so good that I was scared I was hurting myself by visiting so often. Time and again I’d tell myself “no, don’t go in…show some discipline.” I think I had a mid-sized cup every other day. I actually avoided it for a couple of two-day stretches, in fact. (4 Rue Felix Faure, 06400 Cannes.)

There’s a chance that Lee Chang-dong‘s Burning will wind up with a major prize by the end of tonight’s Cannes Film Festival award ceremony. I was told by two or three colleagues that I really need to see it, but I couldn’t make it happen and do the thing that I feel I need to do in my own way. I should apologize for missing it, but every year I always manage to miss a significant Cannes film so why not just own that? I’ll get to Burning sometime in the fall.

The Hollywood Reporter‘s Todd McCarthy called Burning “a beautifully crafted film loaded with glancing insights and observations into an understated triangular relationship, one rife with subtle perceptions about class privilege, reverberating family legacies, creative confidence, self-invention, sexual jealousy, justice and revenge.”

Oh Jung-mi and Lee Chang-dong’s screenplay is based on “Barn Burning“, a 1992 New Yorker short story by Haruki Murakami (with acknowledgments to William Faulkner).

Bill Maher on the royal wedding between Prince Harry and Meghan Markle, which is happening as we speak: “Enjoy the hell out of it tomorrow. Will you watch? Of course you will. A B-list actress marries a man who will never be king” — Harry is sixth in the line of succession to the British throne — “in a country that doesn’t even matter.”

From “I Take Thee, Baldie,” about Prince William and Kate Middleton’s marriage ceremony, posted on 4.29.11:

“The wedding will be a celebration of an exceptionally lame fantasy that tens of millions of under-educated, Sex and the City-worshipping, Star magazine-reading women the world over hold extremely dear, which is that they might one day luck into marrying an exceptionally rich guy from a rich and powerful family and live a life of fabulous wealth and, yes, workhorse duty for the rest of their lives. And have kids who will enjoy the same luxuries and get to to do the same thing as adults-with-their-own-kids when they come of age.”

I’ve known a meth-head or two in my time. Their churning brains and emotional extremes…truly one of the worst realms ever imagined or created. Run in the opposite direction. Obviously a showy role for Timothee Chalamet, but he’s such a gifted actor so it all balances out. Directed by Felix Van Groeningen, re-written by Luke Davies. Steve Carell, Amy Ryan, Maura Tierney, Timothy Hutton, Amy Forsyth, Ricky Low, Kaitlyn Dever. Produced by Brad Pitt‘s Plan B Entertainment. Amazon will release Beautiful Boy on 10.12.

A half-hour ago I slipped out of a still-running Salle Debussy screening of Nuri Bilge Ceylan‘s The Wild Pear Tree. It runs 188 minutes, and I made it to the two-hour mark. I’ve been a Ceylan fan (Climates, Three Monkeys, Once Upon a Time in Anatolia, Winter Sleep) for years, but this time he lost me. As in “forget it, life is short, this isn’t happening,” etc.

I’ll get around to seeing the final hour later this year, but I knew The Wild Pear Tree was a no-go within the first half-hour.

Set in a mid-size Turkish city (Yenice), it’s a John Osbourne-ish, angry-young-man thing about despair, bitterness, insecurity and festering resentments. The protagonist is Sinan, a would-be writer (Aydın Doğu Demirkol) with an attitude problem. Pissed at his father, dismissive of his friends and the community, a bit arrogant, undisciplined. You can sense early on that he’s his own worst enemy.

I’ve just shared the following with a journalist friend: “The main character, the unshaven and hunched-over Sinan, was just insufferable. In denial, judgmental, dismissive of community locals, a guy with an attitude, indecisive, sullen. Two hours with that guy was more than enough.

“Nothing really happened in the first two hours. No inciting incident, nothing sought or feared except a life of tedium, nothing at stake, no story tension at all, no bad decision or any decisions of any kind…it was just idling in neutral.

“When I saw the body lying near the tree, I thought ‘aah, a suicide or a murder or a death from old age….but at least it’s something!’ It turned out to be none of these.

“If Sinan had only tried to re-ignite things with the pretty ex-girlfriend (the one who bummed a cigarette and was bit him on the lip when they kissed). She was cool, different, contrarian. But of course he didn’t pursue her. Why would he? That would be too interesting.