…are actually making sense or at least aren’t striking me as wildly off the mark.

Except, that is, for Jesse Plemons being handed the Best Actor trophy for playing three muted, hung-up, blank-eyed zombies in Yorgos Lanthimos’ Kinds of Kindness. This, to me, is a huge WHAT??

I’m especially pleased that one of my biggest faves, Halfdan Ullmann Tondel‘s Armand, has won the Camera d’Or.

I’d much rather listen to Deirdre’s vocal-free Beatles tracks than think about the dreaded Paul Mescal playing one of the lads in Sam Mendes’ planned quartet of Beatles films. I’m sorry but Jordan Ruimy’s 5.24 post sent me into a black pit.

Okay, I’ve popped for Delta’s onboard wifi…we’re now over the Atlantic (southwest of Keflavik) and the signal is surprisingly strong.

I’m only just starting to monitor ticket-buyer reactions to George Miller’s Furiosa (5.24) and the negatives seem higher than I expected. Many agree with my viewpoint. I called it a visually handsome but unimpressive revenge saga — shallow, overlong — in my 5.16 review.

…are going to upset me, at least to some extent. They always do. I’ll be among the last to read about the winners, as my Nice-to-JFK flight (departing 35 minutes hence) doesn’t land until 5something Manhattan time or 11sonething in Cannes

From “The Power of the Kennedy Look,” a 5.21.24 N.Y. Times piece by Vanessa Friedman:

“Robert F. Kennedy Jr., the most attention-getting independent candidate for president since Ross Perot, may not have the poll numbers to end up on the debate stage next month. But he increasingly has something else: a reputation as the electoral ‘X factor.’

“In an election fought partly through the images that inundate social media and pit archetype against archetype — Donald J. Trump, the 1980s red-tie-wearing sultan of reality TV, versus President Biden, the aviator-clad deal maker of D.C. — Mr. Kennedy offers a Rorschach test of a different kind. At least stylistically speaking.

“His look — skinny rep ties, button-downs, shrugged-on suits, shock of gray hair and weather-beaten tan — not only sets him apart. It also speaks directly to associations with the early 1960s, a golden age of promise that represents ‘vigor, wit, charisma, change, said Sean Wilentz, a professor of American history at Princeton University, and that are buried deep in the American hive mind.”

Mohammad Rasoulof‘s The Seed of the Sacred Fig, which I saw at the Grand Lumiere a few hours ago, is a political metaphor film — an embrace of Iran’s anti-mullah, anti-sexist “Woman, Life, Freedom” movement, otherwise known as the Mahsa Amini street protests.

The historic rebellion was triggered by the 9.16.22 killing of protestor Jina Mahsa Amini while in police custody. Furious reactions went on for months.

It follows that the motivation behind the widespread Cannes cheering (and I got an earful of it following today’s 3 pm screening) is two-fold.

One, admiring the film equals supporting the movement, and nobody wants to sound blase or neutral about this, myself included. And two, supporting Rasoulof during his time of trial and nomadic uncertainty has been deemed vital, as he recently escaped from Iran in order to dodge eight years of prison time, which he was sentenced to over the content of this film.

The story is basically about the older, bearded, barrel-chested Iman (Misagh Zare), a Tehran civil servant recently promoted to inspector. He’s married to Najmeh (Soheila Golestani), whose nature is basically submissive and go-alongish, and they have two college-age daughters, the politically outspoken Rezvan (Mahsa Rostami) and the sullen and resentful Sana (Setareh Maleki).

Iman’s odious job partly involves interrogating malcontents (principally students) who’ve been arrested for protesting, and in some cases placing the lives of the accused in jeopardy.

And yet Iman isn’t initially presented as a flat-out villain — he’s a defensive-minded bureaucrat who’s mainly terrified of incurring the wrath of his hardline boss. And yet he is in lockstep with the Iranian regime and therefore a bringer of harsh authority.

The first half of this three-hour film is about the tensions stirred by the protests and particularly Iman’s daughters as they try to protect a college-age friend who’s been hurt in a street protest.

The second half — here’s where the problem kicks in — begins when Iman’s pistol, which his work colleagues have given him for protection, suddenly disappears. Who stole it and why? It seems surreal that one of Iman’s daughters might be the thief, but somebody’s clearly responsible.

Iman’s strategic reactions become more and more authoritarian and then paranoid, and we’re encouraged (along with his wife and daughters) to feel more and more alarmed by his punitive thinking, which has been exacerbated by lying.

It all comes to a head when Iman drives his family to a rural Iranian village.

Boiled down, The Seed of the Sacred Fig is two movies — the first half comprised of complex social realism, and the second half (stolen gun) driven by metaphorical symbolism and the ‘22 Jina protests. It’s really two separate films, and while their content comes from the same place the styles don’t blend.

And the 180-minute length really isn’t necessary.

Critic friendo: “Cannes critics are investing heavily in praising this film…they’re going along with this emotional wave that everyone’s feeling up and down the Croisette. I’m thinking it might win the Palme d’Or.”

HE: “It’s not good enough to win the Palme d’Or. The two halves don’t blend together. It’s two separate films. It’s serious and thoughtful, but no one’s idea of a great movie.”

Critic friendo: “That’s what bothered me. Rasoulof should have adhered to the realism of the first 90 minutes. And yet everyone’s raving like nothing’s wrong and everything’s glorious. They’re all trying to duck the flawed second half.”

On my 11th and next-to-final day of the 2024 Cannes Film Festival, here’s my best-of-the-best rundown, and in this order:

1. Sean Baker’s Anora

2.  Halfdan Ullman Tendel’s Armand (yes, I promise to post an actual HE-styled review)

3.  Payal Kapadia’s All We Imagine As Light

4.  Magnus von Horn’s The Girl With The Needle

5.  Ali Abassi’s The Apprentice

6.  Coralie Fargeat’s The Substance

7.  Jacques Audiard’s Emilia Pérez (deserves respect and a certain measured approval as far as it goes)

8. Paul Schrader‘s Oh, Canada (subdued dignity, excellent writing, Richard Gere’s caustic performance).

Which of these will have the biggest impact in the States? The Baker, Audiard and Abassi.

The abrasive nature of Kirill Serebrennikov‘s Limonov: The Ballad and the generally bizarre mood and extreme brushstrokes of Yorgos Lanthimos‘ Kinds of Kindness and Francis Coppola‘s Megalopolis…not my cup.

I’m sorry for failing to catch Andrea Arnold‘s Bird…every time I checked for opportunities the app reported COMPLET or the venue was in Cannes la Bocca, the next town over which is a huge pain to get to.

At one point I was determined to catch Caught by the Tides…not so much now.

I reported the other day about being blocked by festival security from seeing Three Kilometers to the End of the World.

I was never interested in Wild Diamond, which is about a young girl looking to make her mark in reality TV.

It’s 12:45 pm and Mohammad Rasoulof‘s Tbe Seed of the Sacred Fig, the last noteworthy film of the 2024 Cannes Film Festival, screens less than three hours hence.

But my head is still spinning from last night’s surprisingly moving and undeniably artful All We Imagine As Light, a feminism-meets-impoverished-social-realism drama from Payal Kapadia, a 38 year-old, Mumbai-born, obviously gifted auteur.

Shot in Mumbai with a third-act escape to a beach resort, All We Imagine As Light is all about subtle hints, moods, observations and milieu. I knew within 60 seconds that it would deliver profoundly straight cards in this regard — one of the seven or eight humdingers of the festival.

It’s a quiet, soft-spoken, women-centric film but without any current of vengeance or payback or “look at what pathetic fools men are”…there are hints of militant #MeTooism but little in the way of thrust.  

What got me was the observational simplicity and restraint. I was deeply impressed with what can be fairly described as a reach-back to low-key Indian social realism, which is anything but the flamboyant Indian genre known as masala and regarded in some circles (I’m a little fuzzy about this term) as Dacoit cinema, which flourished in the mid 20th Century.

All We Imagine As Light, a title that’s very difficult to remember, focuses on three struggling women of varied ages who work in a second-tier Mumbai hospital (Kani Kusruti‘s 30something Prabha, Divya Prabha‘s younger Anu, Chhaya Kadam‘s 40something Parvaty).

There are only two noteworthy supporting males (a timidly amorous doctor and a bearded man recovering from having nearly drowned) — both are passive and of relatively little consequence.

The three women are all living in the massive, overflowing, sea-of-ants sprawl of Mumbai, and the tone is basically one of resignation and frustration or, if you will, “we’re all unhappy but social codes are very strict and so we believe in staying in our lanes…restraint and decorum…but we’re going a bit crazy underneath.”

And you can tell from the get-go that Kapadia knows what she’s doing.  Her film is solemn, visually plain, matter-of-fact, unsentimental — the work of a formidable, singular filmmaker who knows herself and isn’t into showing off. This is a truly masterful arthouse flick.

Languages spoken in Mumbai: Marathi (35.30% or 4.4 million people), Hindi (25.90% or 3.5 million people). Urdu and Gujarati are spoken by 11.73% and 11.45% respectively. Plus Tamil, Marwari, Bhojpuri, Telugu, Konkani, Bengali and Malayalam.

English is extensively spoken and is the principal language of the city’s white collar workforce. A colloquial form of Hindi, known as Bambaiya — a blend of Hindi, Marathi, Gujarati, Konkani, Urdu, Indian English and some invented words — is spoken on the streets.

For 11 days I’d been staying away from restaurant cuisine, confining myself to common-man vittles (sandwiches, fruit, coffee, yogurt, sparkling water, Coke Zero) in HE’s Napoleonic-era crash pad.

And then all my restraint collapsed last night, or more precisely this morning at 12:30 am, following a 10:15 screening of Payal Kapadia’s All We Imagine As Light, which I found phenomenal.

The after-midnight joint was the famous La Pizza, which serves until 2 am or thereabouts. I dove into an oven-hot Marguerite halfer plus a sizable buffalo mozarella & tomato salad. I rarely eat after 9 pm as a rule and certainly no later than 10 pm, and there I was violating this sensible regimen by three and a half hours.