I tweeted last night that when it plays before a crowd, Inside Llewyn Davis is a pellet dropped into water. The depth and the delight is in the vegetable dye that spreads out and sinks in, and though obviously emanating from the pellet, da coolness is in the mixture. The Coen Brothers period film, inspired and exquisitely made as it obviously is, is the trigger but not the all of it. And therefore some (like a big-league critic who sat near me last night) are going to sit down with it and say, “Wait…that’s it?”

And that won’t be because like-minded sorts aren’t sharp or open enough. A few knowledgable people of some influence are going to say “Well…I don’t think it quite gets there.” There’s going to be a bit of a backlash. Which always happens whenever a strong film appears that doesn’t precisely spell itself out. And such films are always the ones that expand and deepen and touch bottom over time. Or within hours after your first viewing…whatever.

Joel and Ethan Coen‘s Inside Llewyn Davis, which just let out, is some kind of brilliantly sombre, wonderfully atmospheric, dryly hilarious, pared-down period masterpiece — a time-tunnel visitation to 1961 Greenwich Village that feels so meditatively right and authentic and resonant that I can’t wait to see it again. I read the script about 14 months ago and I still don’t know what it’s really “about.” Well, I do but the Coens sure as shit don’t spell anything out. But I know a profound American art film when I see it. I know what exquisite less-is-more movie backrubs are all about. I know the real take-it-or-leave-it when I experience it.

You need two and possibly three things to get into the Catching Fire party tonight at 10 pm at Baoli Beach (across from the JW Marriott). A white cardboard invitation, a silver pin worn on your lapel (first time in my life I’ve been given a special admission pin for a party), and ID to back it up. So crashers are going to have a tough time. The event is actually being called a celebration of “the 75th Annual Hunger Games.” And its going to be raining the whole time…great.

The dismissals of Arnaud Desplechin‘s Jimmy P.: Psychotherapy of a Plains Indian are pretty much universal. It’s the 2013 Cannes Film Festival’s first wipeout. And yet! It’s an intelligent, decently composed, pleasingly acted thing. Adult, probing, patient. As usual, Benicio del Toro‘s performance is steady and rooted. It’s just that you can’t understand how anyone came to believe it was compelling enough to be financed and made into a feature.

If I was to walk outside and run into Idris Elba at the local fruit market, I probably wouldn’t recognize him. I might go “wait, do I…? Nah, I guess not.” I’m not a fan of The Wire (I respected the two episodes I saw but chill the eff down) and I never paid much attention to Elba’s work in RocknRolla, Takers, The Loser, Thor, Ghost Rider: Spirit of Vengeance or Prometheus. He’s like Lady Gaga in the sense that he’s famous without having a household face. Maybe the Weinstein Co.’s Mandela flick will change that.

Make me miserable. Make me damp. Drench the festival. Have an umbrella at the ready or die. Misery loves company. Cats and dogs. Little rivers and flash floods on the streets. Philippine monsoon. Apocalypse Now. At around 1:30 or 1:45 pm it stopped raining and it started pouring, you see. It didn’t come down in sheets, but almost that. Right now there 20,000 people in this town with damp socks.

In a Cannes interview with Vulture‘s Kyle Buchanan, Paris Hilton talks about allowing director Sofia Coppola to use her actual mansion in The Bling Ring and blah blah. Except the film reveals some embarassing design details. Well, embarassing to a person with any taste, I mean. Images of Hilton are all over the house (her face is even emblazoned on throw pillows), and yet Hilton tells Buchanan that she’s proud of the nouveau riche-ness of the place.

“I designed everything in the house, so it was really cool to see it on film,” Hilton says. “That house is like my dream house. I worked so hard on every detail.” Good effing God.

It’s Saturday, 5.8 at 6:30 am — a big day for me because Joel and Ethan Coen‘s Inside Llewyn Davis screens this evening at 7:30 pm at the Salle Debussy. I’ve been waiting on this for a long time, ever since I read the script and posted a favorable review in early March 2012. I’ll also be catching Arnaud Desplechin‘s Jimmy P. (Psychotherapy of a Plains Indian) at 8:30 this morning and Rebecca Zlotowski‘s Grand Central at 11 am. I’m on the fence about Laura Lau‘s Bends, which screens at 2 pm…but maybe.

TheWrap‘s Lucas Shaw is saying that The Great Gatsby opened well last weekend ($51 million) and is expected to hold strongly this weekend because (a) general audiences don’t care about the mixed or troubled advance buzz, (b) their responses to Baz Luhrman‘s film, as implied by Rotten Tomatoes ratings, are significantly more positive than those of the critics, and (c) Gatsby is serving an older female audience that is otherwise being ignored with all the comic-book superhero CG action crap that the studios always serve in May-June-July.

But here’s a fourth factor: Leonardo DiCaprio‘s Gatsby is a touching figure. He’s such a clueless romantic in a sense — so constipated and totally persuaded by the importance of appearances and so in love with Daisy and yet so delusional about her true nature that your heart goes out to him. He’s so far from getting it that you want to take him aside and give him a pep talk and maybe offer some advice. You feel for him. Which is more than you can say for Robert Downey‘s Tony Stark.

The Weinstein Co. invited press and buyers to a Majestic Hotel preview of the company’s 2013 films. The crowd was shown trailer/footage reels for Ain’t Them Bodies Saints, Fruitvale Station, The Butler, August: Osage County, Mandela: Long Walk to Freedom, The Grandmaster, Grace of Monaco, Salinger, Only God Forgives, James Gray‘s The Immigrant and One Chance, a drama about opera-singer Paul Potts.

Grace of Monaco star Nicole Kidman, Ain’t Them Bodies Saints costar Rooney Mara, the Fruitvale Station guys (Ryan Coogler, Michael B. Jordan, Octavia Spencer, Melonie Diaz) and Mandela: Walk to Freedom director Justin Chadwick and costar Naomie Harris joined Harvey Weinstein on stage for the presentation.

Based on the trailers shown, the likeliest Weinstein Co. Oscar contenders are John Wells‘ August: Osage County and Ryan Coogler‘s Fruitvale Station. If you ask me Twenty Feet From Stardom, which the Weinstein Co. acquired at Sundance, is a likely Best Documentary Feature Oscar contender but today’s presentation was about future releases. Ain’t Them Bodies Saints, which I saw at Sundance, is going to be a sizable critical hit and a likely Spirit Awards nominee.

Yesterday’s word on Ari Folman‘s The Congress was a little iffy and head-scratchy so I didn’t make the effort to catch it as soon as possible. I’ll get around to it — Folman is a major filmmaker and attention must be paid — but I’m not going to sprain an ankle doing so. And then Indiewire‘s Eric Kohn sent me his review this afternoon, which raised my interest levels somewhat.

“Has there ever been a movie so aggressive toward Hollywood power structures?,” Kohn asks. “From Budd Schulberg‘s 1941 novel ‘What Makes Sammy Run?’ to Robert Altman‘s The Player, storytellers have constantly assaulted the studio system, but Folman makes its evils come alive with phantasmagorical effects that force viewers to see the argument from the inside out.

“The Congress rails against commercialism with an absurdly far-fetched premise rendered in the bright palette of a Ralph Bakshi movie and a wandering surrealism that echoes Naked Lunch. Yet it’s also a wholly original and thoroughly surprising fusion of sensory overload and liberal philosophy bound to confuse and provoke in equal measures.”