So which rides have been destroyed by the Universal fire? Has City Walk been affected? Any decent photos posted? No time to process this, having gotten off the ferry and now behind the wheel of a rental on 95 north.

Getting on on Air France 777 now (1:03 pm), having missed the 10:15 am flight. (Don’t ask.) Before every flight, I cross myself and ask God Almighty not to seat me next to a morbidly obese person. There are at least two whales in line right now, and I’m feeling a very slight apprehension about this. There are thousands of people in Paris who look well-fed or stocky or fat, but I’ve seen no Jabbas. You might expect otherwise in a foodie city like Paris, but nope.
Update: No fatties but Doug Liman is on my plane. He’s returning from a trip to three African countries, at least one or two of which (Rwanda or Uganda or both) proved to be fairly dangerous. He told me was arrested once, and possibly twice. I admire the cojones of anyone willing to risk the worst to order to encounter things unique, surprising, challenging. We talked about the red-clay color of Uganda’s dirt. Liman’s boot laces were untiedcand flopping around as we walked and talked. He was wearing a round-brimmed straw hat.

5.26.08, 10:05 pm. This seems more like 8:15 or 8:30 pm by U.S. standards, I agree, but the time is right.

Steven Soderbergh‘s Che, my choice for the most exciting and far-reaching film of the Cannes Film Festival, didn’t win the Palme d’Or this evening. Lamentable, dispiriting news. Instead the jury gave the coveted top prize to Laurent Cantet‘s justly admired Entre Les Murs. I was wandering around Montmartre when the news broke, and when I heard it I just swore to myself and put it out of my mind and kept waking. I didn’t have my computer with me and I didn’t care.
At least the gifted Benicio del Toro won the Best Actor prize for his portrayal of Che Guevara in the twin Soderbergh films.
Cantet has everyone’s respect, but to me his films have always seemed more quietly admirable than arousing. I’ve never gotten a lightning-bolt charge from anything he’s done. I just feel let down about this, knowing what a Palme d’Or win might have done to at least partly help Che‘s chances in finding the right U.S. distribution deal. I’m obviously thinking politically, and this just doesn’t feel right. Sean Penn and the jury members went with their idea of the best film of the festival, and that’s cool. Entre Les Murs will play at elite art theatres when it opens in the U.S. for two or three or four weeks. Connoisseurs of first-rate French cinema will pay to see it. Terrific.
Congrats to Matteo Garrone‘s Gamorra, which everyone liked for the most part, for winning the Grand Prix. And double congrats to Three Monkeys‘ Nuri Bilge Ceylan for winning the Best Director prize. A Jury Prize went to Paolo Sorrentino‘s Il Divo. Sandra Corveloni won Best Actress for her work in Walter Salles‘ Linha de Passe, and the Best Screenplay award went to Jean-Pierre and Luc Dardenne‘s Lorna’s Silence. (Sorry, but I don’t agree with that one at all — the Lorna story did not end on a satisfying note.) The Cameras d’Or prize went to Steve McQueen‘s Hunger.
The jury obviously wanted to be magnanimous by giving a little something to everyone. They succeeded.

[Final Nice Airport post before 7:15 pm Easy Jet flight to Paris.] I heard some scuttlebutt this afternoon about which films and filmmakers might win some Cannes Film Festival awards on Sunday evening, the principal buzz being that Steven Soderbergh‘s Che may — I say “may” — be in a favoring position to win the Palme d’Or.
The talk is that jury honcho Sean Penn is presumed to be advocating the Soderbergh, in large part because of his lefty political views. The Che downside, I’ve been told, is that Spanish-speaking cineastes up and down the Croisette are said to be down on it because of the “accent salad” rap — i.e., complaints that very few in the cast of Soderbergh’s film speak with a convincing Cuban accent. (Referring, I presume, to The Argentine.) No telling how jury member Alfonso Cuaron feels about this.
The other pro-Che factor, according to Envelope columnist Pete Hammond, is that Harvey Weinstein is vocally pushing for it with jury members.

I’ve just emerged from the semi-nourishing, semi-tortured Fellini-esque Chinese box mindfuck-dreamscape that is Charlie Kaufman‘s Synecdoche, New York…and the press conference is just starting. [Ten minutes later] Kaufman has just explained the title’s pronunciation: Syn-ECK-duh-kee. At least that‘s settled.

“When I was in school I’d go to an art house and everyone there would be in their 60s. Today I go and they’re all in their 80s.” — Roadside Attractions’ Dustin Smith at today’s independent distribution panel at the American Pavillion (which doesn’t have wifi as we speak).

The second half of Che, also known as Guerilla, just got out about a half-hour ago, and equally delighted although it’s a different kind of film — tighter, darker (naturally, given the story). But I’ve been arguing with some colleagues who don’t like either film at all, or don’t think it’s commercial. Glenn Kenny and Kim Voynar feel as I do, but Anne Thompson is on the other side of the Grand Canyon. Peter Howell is in the enemy camp also.

I know I predicted this based on a reading of Peter Buchman‘s script, but the first half of Steven Soderbergh‘s 268-minute Che Guevara epic is, for me, incandescent — a piece of full-on, you-are-there realism about the making of the Cuban revolution that I found utterly believable. Not just “take it to the bank” gripping, but levitational — for someone like myself it’s a kind of perfect dream movie. It’s also politically vibrant and searing — tells the “Che truth,” doesn’t mince words, doesn’t give you any “movie moments” (and God bless it for that).
It’s what I’d hoped for all along and more. The tale is the tale, and it’s told straight and true. Benicio del Toro‘s Guevara portrayal is, as expected, a flat-immersion that can’t be called a “performance” as much as…I don’t know, some kind of knock-down, ass-kick reviving of the dead. Being, not “acting.” I loved the lack of sentimentality in this thing, the electric sense that Soderbergh is providing a real semblance of what these two experiences — the successful Cuban revolution of ’57 and ’58, and the failed attempt to do the same in Boliva in ’67 — were actually like.
Oh, God…the second half is starting right now. The aspect ratio on the second film is 1.85 to 1, but the first film was in Scope 2.35 to 1.

The moral undercurrent in Nuri Bilge Ceylan‘s Three Monkeys — a quietly devastating Turkish family drama about guilt, adultery and lots of Biblical thunderclaps — is in every frame. It’s about people doing wrong things, one leading to another in a terrible chain, and trying to face or at least deal with the consequences but more often trying to lie and deny their way out of them. Good luck with that.

Hatice Aslan, Yavuz Bingol in Nuri Bilge Ceylan’s Three Monkeys.

I was hooked from the get-go — gripped, fascinated. I was in a fairly excited state because I knew — I absolutely knew — I was seeing the first major film of the festival. Three Monkeys is about focus and clarity in every sense of those terms, but it was mainly, for me, about stunning performances — minimalist acting that never pushes and begins and ends in the eyes who are quietly hurting every step of the way.
It’s a very dark and austere film that unfolds at a purposeful but meditative (which absolutely doesn’t mean “slow”) pace, taking its time and saying to the audience, “Don’t worry, this is going somewhere…we’re not jerking around so pay attention to the steps.”
A 50ish politician named Servet (Ercan Kesal), fighting off sleep as he drives on a narrow country road, hits a man and kills him. Freaked, he drives off without calling anyone. The next day he convinces the quiet-mannered Eyup (Yavuz Bingol), his longtime driver who’s abut the same age, to confess to the crime and do the jail term, promising to give him a lot of money in addition to paying his salary to his wife Hacer (Hatice Aslan), and son Ismail (Ahmet Rifat Sungar) while he’s in stir.

Except Servet soon takes advantage of Eyup’s absence of having it off with Hacer in a what-the-fuck recreational sense. (He’s a politician, after all.) The plot thickens when Ismail, a morose downhead to begin with, learns of the affair and starts twitching with anger and grief and guilt, not knowing what to do or say. Then Eyup gets out of jail and immediately starts to sense the after-vibe. Then we realize that Hacer hasn’t indulged with the boss out of lust or boredom or to keep him sweet but because she’s obsessively in love with the creep. (Good God.) Then matters get even worse.
Every step of the way you’re reading the characters, absorbing what they’re feeling or looking for, guessing what they might do, feeling their vulnerability, pulling for them, wanting to see it all come out right or at least end in a way that won’t result in more pain or ruination.
Ceylan and his cinematographer Gokhan Tiryaki are into filling their frames with muted but luscious browns, grays, blacks (lots of black) and faded greens. The visuals are such a bath that Three Monkeys almost deserves a standing ovation for this alone. But it’s the unstinting sense of engagement with the moral cost of what’s being done and lied about and covered up that matters. It’s heavy material, all right, but it’s not a reach to call it the stuff of classic tragedy. The script (by Ceylan, Ebru Ceylan and Ercan Kesal) is right up Will Shakespeare’s alley.

Nuri Bilge Ceylan

And ohhh, that thunder! Four or five times it growls and rumbles like God’s angry symphony. Lightning, too, at the very end.
I think Three Monkeys is fundamentally a political film because it’s telling an eternal political truth, which is that people with money and power rarely pay for their wrong-doings — they simply arrange for someone down the food chain to take the rap. And then sometimes they fuck the rap-taker’s wife for good measure.
The (mostly) static camera work and powerful quietude of Three Monkeys reminded me every so often of Cristian Mungiu‘s 4 Months, 3 Weeks and 2 Days, which played here last year and won the Palme D’Or.
I’m not sure if Three Monkeys is a masterpiece — I’m still sifting it through — but I knew all along I was watching an exceptional, very powerful, high-end thing. It’s the kind of film that plays like gangbusters inside the Grand Palais but will barely be seen in commercial cinemas, and may even irritate the ADD crowd. It’s not going to do much business in the States, I’m guessing — some critics, I’m told, were saying they bored with it as they talked things through at the bottom of the steps outside the Salle Debussy — but it looks to me like a sure contender for the Cannes Film Festival’s Palme D’Or.

You absolutely have to put Hatice Aslan at the very top of the list of Best Actress winners here. I don’t care what comes along between now and Friday the 23rd — her performance is knockout stuff. Ditto Yavuz Bingol for Best Actor. I read somewhere that Ceylan, in the tradition of Robert Bresson, doesn’t use professional actors; I read somewhere else that he uses friends who are actors– just not famous ones. I’m sure someone will point out what an ignoramus I am for not knowing this stuff chapter and verse.
It’s obviously early to be talking Palme D’Or winners, but when a film has the Unmistakable Right Stuff, you know it right away. Moral fortitude, razor-sharp vision and stylistic sure-footedness of this calibre are impossible to ignore.
Originally a photographer, Ceylan seems to me like the Satyajit Ray of Turkey. His hallmarks, to quote from a recent Turkish Daily News article, are “a strong minimalist shooting style, themes of alienation and” — I didn’t know this until recently — “strong autobiographical elements.” The piece adds that Ceylan’s cinema “is not for those who view cinema as a form of entertainment, but for festival-followers who revere art-house filmmaking.”

Except — hello? – great art-house movies are something very close to entertainment. They take you out of yourself and into a realm that adds to your empathy and understanding of life’s infinite sadness. They turn you on with their mesmerizing style and condensed capturings of instantly recognizable human folly. When films of this sort really deliver they satisfy in ways that stay with you for decades. They add meat to your bones.

The concerns about wind and rain delaying the flight didn’t pan out. Air France #39 is pulling away from Dulles gate #42 as we speak. We be cool. Two wailing babies in my section. Isn’t it fair to put crying babies and their parents in the luggage area below the seats? I’m speaking as a father of two boys. I’ve been there. I used to be mortified when my kids disturbed others.