Nicholas Stoller‘s Neighbors is somewhere between a 7 and 7.5 on the yaw-haw scale — amiable, good enough, no-laugh-funny. But it’s not good enough to be an opening-weekend superstud at the box-office. This decent but not-that-exceptional comedy will make roughly $51 million by tonight, and in so doing will humiliate the living shit out of The Amazing Spider-Man 2. Did anyone who paid to see Neighbors find their expectations even slightly exceeded? Did anyone even laugh that much? I called it “heh-heh funny” in my initial review. A more or less routine culture-clash comedy, Neighbors is generally “fast, loose, punchy and lewd,” I allowed, “[and] Andrew J. Cohen and Brendan O’Brien‘s script (augmented, I’m sure, by nonstop improv) is a cut or two above.”

Five hours of writing and pacing the room and then a nice healthy roam-around. I bought my Tuesday morning train ticket — leaves Gare de Lyon at 7:45 am, arrives in Cannes around 1 pm or thereabouts. I hit five or six allimentation stores and a couple of supermarkets in search of a simple bar of lavon (i.e., soap), but women are under the impression that bar soap dries their skin so I have to work around that. I got rained on twice and saw a beautiful rainbow above Place Bastille. I hate walking around with a heavy computer bag (which I sometimes refer to as a Charles Bukowski mail sack) on my right shoulder but I guess I’m stuck with that burden.

I just liked the yellow — no clue at all what this shop sells.

My Airbnb apartment from 5.25 thru 6.1 is in this building — 10 rue Felix Ziem, 75018.

Rob Reiner stopped being cool a long time ago, but his supporting performance as Leonardo DiCaprio‘s potty-mouthed dad in The Wolf of Wall Street made him cool again. Now he’s back to uncool with And So It Goes (Clarius, 7.11), his latest sappy comedy. An Ebenezer Scrooge-like realtor (Michael Douglas) learns to grow a soul while taking care of his granddaughter. I didn’t see Billy Crystal‘s Parental Guidance, and I probably won’t see this effing thing either. (Unless it’s much, much better than the trailer is indicating.) Costarring Diane Keaton and Frances Sternhagen, and written by Mark Andrus (As Good as It Gets).

Next week in Cannes U.S. critics and distributors will be assessing Tommy Lee Jones‘ The Homesman and David Cronenberg‘s Maps to the Stars, and then both will most likely be re-promoted at Telluride/Venice/Toronto before being theatrically released in the fall or early ’15. French distributors are way ahead of this system (or mindset) with The Homesman opening here on 5.18 and Maps debuting locally on 5.21. Due, of course, to the Cannes promotion factor, which means a lot here and less-than-zero Stateside.

It’s good that I crashed around 2:30 am Paris time (8:30 pm and 5:30 pm in New York and Los Angeles, respectively) and woke up around 8:30 am. That means I’m already into the European clock and that jetlag will not interfere by the time the Cannes Film Festival begins next Wednesday morning. But I left a few points dangling or unmentioned after tapping out my Godzilla review, to wit:

(1) I didn’t mention the human characters or performances because I found them perfunctory while watching the film at Le Grand Rex, and I felt no after-enthusiasm when I filed around midnight. I understand that director Gareth Edwards is a Steven Spielberg fan and therefore feels compelled to (a) focus on a traditional family unit (Aaron Taylor Johnson, Elizabeth Olsen and their zombie-eyed son) as the central blah protagonists, and (b) place Johnson (as Naval bomb-defusing specialist Ford Brody) in the center of the storm by virtue of portraying the alienated, once-resentful son of nuclear-power official Bryan Cranston and his wife-partner Juliette Binoche, both of whom had encountered a huge seismic disturbance at a Philippine nuclear-power plant in the late ’90s. I felt that Ken Watanabe‘s Dr. Serizawa (a nod to Akihiko Hirata‘s Dr. Serizawa in the 1954 Godzilla) was as rote as this kind of scientific-authority character can get. I was happy to see that Sally Hawkins, who plays Watanabe’s partner/colleague, Dr. Vivienne Graham, had landed a serious paycheck role. Don’t even talk about David Straitharn‘s military commander role, which is about nothing but rote ramrod speechifying.

“I recognize also that getting outed (i.e., assasssinated) by TMZ or some other gossip site is par for the course these days, but Donald Sterling was talking privately. That means nothing by today’s standards, I realize, but perhaps it should.” — from 4.30.14 HE post called “Old Buzzard Gets His.”

“So let me get this straight,” Real Time‘s Bill Maher said 36 hours ago. “We should concede that there’s no such thing anymore as a private conversation, so therefore remember to ‘lawyer’ everything you say before you say it, and hey, speaking your mind was overrated anyway so you won’t miss it. Well, I’ll miss it, I’ll miss it a lot. When President Obama was asked about the Sterling episode, he said, ‘When ignorant folks want to advertise their ignorance, just let them talk.’ But Sterling didn’t advertise. He was bugged. And while he may not be worth defending, the 4th Amendment is.”

I chuckled several times during Saturday night’s sold-out public premiere of Gareth Edwards‘ Godzilla (Warner Bros., 5.16) at Le Grand Rex in Paris. And three or four times I laughed out loud, which is saying something considering that my legs were aching due to the cramped balcony seating. For me, chuckling and laughing at a monster film is a thumbs-up reaction. It means I’m having a fairly good time, which Godzilla definitely provided until the finale. Overall it left me feeling cranked up and a bit surprised in a “wait…what?” sense of the term and yet taken care of for the most part. It’s not a great monster film but a very good one, I feel. Or at least until the end. It’s a hell of a lot better that the 1998 Roland Emmerich and Dean Devlin version, I can tell you that.

The best blow-your-socks-off sequence, I feel, comes around the middle — a monster- attack-on-Honolulu sequence that includes a big tsunami crashing and racing through the streets and wreaking all kind of non-consequential, eye-popping destruction — ten if not twenty times what this city suffered through when Michael Bay staged his Japanese aerial attack in Pearl Harbor (’00). The swelling wave effects are pretty damned persuasive, I must say. In fact nearly every damned visual effect seems at least above average. On a purely technical level Godzilla is one hell of a ride.

And I loved, loved, loved seeing Las Vegas get levelled all to hell. Like the original 1954 version that started the franchise, Edwards’ Godzilla is supposed to be a metaphor about nature’s wrath pushing back against man’s industrial arrogance and technological excess. It therefore seemed fitting if not delightful that the “worst money-grubbing place in the world” (which I’ve never had any love for, unlike Ben Affleck and a million other guys who actually worship the place) should be one of the cities to pay the price. I laughed and almost cheered when I realized what was happening to this overdeveloped shithole. Eat it, Steve Wynn! Maybe you’ve been crushed to death under the rubble of your own hotel. Just desserts, asshole!

And I liked the fact Edwards tones Godzilla down for most of its running time. Over and over he uses suggestion — visual and aural hints and implications — instead of blatant show-and-tells. He deserves admiration for delaying Godzilla’s first big MCU roar until the two-thirds mark and also holding back on the trademark fire-breathing until the big super-finale, in which San Francisco gets it but good.

The following image is from a comment thread below a David Poland riff about an economical solution to cell phone usage during the Cannes Film Festival. Hey, David…why not ease up and drop by the La Pizza gathering on Tuesday night? Life is short. We don’t have to sit next to each other or chat too much. Relax and enjoy.

This appears to be more or less a re-heating and re-shuffling of Sam Raimi‘s A Simple Plan. That Scott Rudin-produced Paramount release is now 15 and 1/2 years old, but it seems better and better the more I think back upon it. Scott Smith‘s screenplay was based on his novel of the same name. Bill Paxton, Billy Bob Thornton and Bridget Fonda were never better. Thornton snagged a Best Supporting Actor Oscar nominated, and Smith was nominated for Best Adapted Screenplay.

This is obviously…okay, seemingly of a very high order. Maybe. If your idea of “a very high order” is a mixture of Runaway Train, the “political exiles on a long ride to the Urals in a cattle car” sequence from Dr. Zhivago (which incidentally contains my beloved “I am the only free man on this train!” scene with Klaus Kinski) and the “realistic” CG panache of Robert Zemeckis‘s Polar Express. I’m also figuring you can’t go wrong with Tilda Swinton in a scenery-chewing mode

I don’t know what crawled up the ass of the Parisian Weather Gods but the air was like mid-November when I stepped out of Charles DeGaulle airport this morning around 8:30 am. Not to mention the gusty breezes…how much would it cost to buy a winter overcoat? Not to mention the misty moisture that wasn’t quite rain but was close enough. Not cool, not welcome. Where the hell is global warming when you really need it? Took the good old Roissy bus into town. My Airb&b sublet in the 17th wouldn’t be ready until 1 pm so my landlady let me drop my bags off at her place. Enjoyed a nice omelette and two cafe noirs at a Montmartre cafe but the wifi (boldly promoted on a sign outside this humble establishment) was on the fritz. It wasn’t exactly cost-efficient to buy a scarf but I was chilly and uncomfortable so I got one. The sublet is in a downmarket area of the 17th (near the La Fourche metro stop) but it’s not too bad. The place itself is terrific — quaint, cozy, homey. The Godzilla screening at the Rex starts in a couple of hours. I guess I’ll just come back here to write the review.

I’m telling you right now that between the nihilistic muttering and his occasionally challenging if not indecipherable strine accent I’m not going to understand half of what Guy Pearce is saying in David Michod‘s The Rover. I’m telling you this right now. During the Cannes screening I’m going to be cupping my ears, leaning forward in my seat…the whole schpiel.