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Metronom, the debut effort by Romanian director-writer Alexandru Belc, is a spot-on, nearly perfect political drama about a pair of Bucharest-residing lovers in their late teens (played by Mara Bugarin and Serban Lazarovici) whose relationship is tragically perverted by Romania’s secret police.

It’s not a Cannes competition entry but part of the Un Certain Regard line-up, but if it were a competition film it would be a top Palme d’Or contender, at least in my book.

Set in October 1972, Metronom doesn’t particularly resonate with our present catalogue of political horrors, but serves as a time-capsule reminder of the beastly oppression of the Nicolae Ceaușescu regime, which ran Romania from early March of 1965 until Ceaucescu’s overthrow and execution on 12.22.89.

The story is principally told in personal, emotional and intimate terms, and is focused on the ins and outs of the relationship between Ana (Bugarin) and Sorin (Lazarovici). The inciting incident scene, which doesn’t happen until roughly the 45-minute mark, is a party in which they and their high-school-age friends listen to a Radio Free Europe broadcast by rebel DJ Cornel Chiriac (1941-1975).

Chiriac’s shortwave radio show, “Metronom,” delivered uncensored news from the non-Communist west along with contemporary rock music, and thus was feared and, as much as possible, suppressed by the Securitate.

As the party kids listen they decide to write a “thank you” letter to Chiriac for providing an anti-Commie view of the world, both topically and musically. Such an act, of course, was regarded by the bad guys as subversive and criminal, and so before you know it (and I mean while the party is still going on) the goons bust in, arrest the kids and take them down to headquarters to sign confessions about the letter.

Did someone rat them out?

That’s all I’m going to say about the plot, but what happens certainly has a significant effect upon Ana and Sorin’s relationship. Let’s just say that the last 55 minutes of this 102-minute film are quite chilling. This mood is complemented by Tudor Vladimir Panduru’s shooting style, which follows the standard Romanian-cinema aesthetic — plain, unfussy, longish takes.

I’ll admit that Metronom tried my patience here and there. Some shots seem to last too long. Bugarin’s performance is hard to read at times,. During the party scene there’s an announcement by Chiriac that rock superstar Jim Morrison has died in Paris, which is a problem given that the Doors frontman passed on 7.3.71, or roughly 15 months before the party scene in question. And near the end there’s a post-interrogation scene between Ana and her best friend Roxana (Mara Vicol) that doesn’t quite stick the landing.

But otherwise Metronom is quite riveting — an emotionally relatable story of state terror that sticks to your ribs.

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Last night I attended a midnight screening of Brett Morgen‘s Moonage Daydream, a splashy, busy-bee, all-over-the-place, paint-splatter documentary about the great David Bowie, who passed a little more than six years ago.

I was filled with excitement as I walked up the red-carpet staircase, and less than a half-hour into it I was feeling…well, partially impressed but increasingly deflated. It starts off like a house on fire, but it wore me down with all the frenetic energy.

It’s strictly for Bowie fans who know the whole story, but I wanted clarity and focus — stuff that would broaden my Bowie vistas, and certainly deliver more than just an audio-visual assault with clips of this and that. Early on I was going “okay, enough with the Ziggy Stardust concert footage…move on to something else, Jesus.”

I know how this sounds, but because it was late I wanted a little meditation and reflection, and I began to feel annoyed by the absence of the usual-usual — no calm-down portions, no talking-head perspectives (which are stylistically old-hat, of course, but comforting), not enough focus on Bowie’s films or stories about the making of them. And I really wanted to see footage and anecdotes and whatnot from the pre-Ziggy period (late ’60s to Hunky Dory).

There’s a brief section in which Bowie is heard talking about his half-brother Terry, who turned young David onto the cooler subterranean side of things, culturally and musically. Poor Terry eventually succumbed to schizophrenia and spent the rest of his life in med wards. I related to this as my late sister Laura also went schizy (in her mid teens) and suffered a similar fate.

Within 15 minutes I noticed three or four Zoomers getting up and leaving. And then a couple more. After 35 or 40 minutes a friend I attended with did the same. I quit just past the one-hour mark. No way was I sitting through all 134 minutes. It was fucking 1 am, I’d been up since 7, I’d written all day and then seen the Park Chan-wook and the Cronenberg…later.

It’s not that I don’t respect Morgan avoiding conventional doc schemes, but Moonage Daydream doesn’t let you breathe and is scattered all over the map, or at least as far as the first hour is concerned.

How could there be negative reactions to this trailer for Mission: Impossible – Dead Reckoning Part One? It looks great, especially the footage of Tom Cruise riding on horseback through sand dunes, dressed in Middle-Eastern commando garb?

The only negative I can think of is the fact that this Paramount release doesn’t open until 7.14.23 — 14 months hence.

In a 5.22 chat with Deadline‘s Anthony D’Alessandro, Armageddon Time director-writer James Gray delivered a neat assessment of the stink factor in mainstream gladiator cinema.

He basically said that CG comic-book spectacle films are systematically draining the poetry, music and gravitas out of the moviegoing experience.

Once in a blue moon a big franchise film will hit the magic button and deliver something transcendent. One example was last December’s SpiderMan: No Way Home, which I said over and over should be Best Picture-nominated. But mostly they don’t do this. Mostly they just make money.

Gray argues that the big studios “should be willing to lose money for a couple of years on art film divisions, and in the end they will be happier.”

In less extremist terms, Gray is suggesting that the big boys should consider reverting to the ’90s and early aughts system in which specialty divisions made smaller films — films that weren’t expected to bring in huge profits but didn’t necessarily lose money. Which means, of course, that above-the-title talent would have to accept lower fees for making these films. (And there’s the rub.)

HE version: The studios should at least be willing to make smarthouse flicks with a reasonable shot at breaking even or becoming modestly profitable.

Francois Truffaut once said that when one of the films produced by his company, Les Films du Carrosse, reached break even he and his colleagues would pop open a bottle of champagne.

#Cannes2022 ‘Armageddon Time’ Director James Gray On Why Studios Should Be Able To Lose Money On Art Specialty Divisions https://t.co/SgodYB80uM pic.twitter.com/Zno5g6uVQz

— Deadline Hollywood (@DEADLINE) May 22, 2022

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So far the 2022 Cannes Film Festival has felt weak. Okay, pretty good but not good enough. A pair of triples (R.M.N., the first half of Triangle of Sadness) but in terms of terms of excellence or ambition or primal goading madness, no homers or grand slams.

You know what probably would have been regarded as an exercise in primal madness if it had been screened at this festival? Andrew Dominik‘s Blonde.

Cannes topper Thierry Fremaux saw it and wanted it, but the longstanding Cannes-Netflix contretemps was insurmountable.

Pedro Almodovar, quoted by Jordan Ruimy on 5.10:

“I must be one of the few to have seen Blonde, Andrew Dominik’s great film, where Ana de Armas plays Marilyn Monroe in a chillingly real way.

“There is a sequence (if it does not disappear from the final cut) of the harassment she suffered in the hands of President Kennedy. The sequence is explicit enough to make you feel Marilyn’s revulsion and pain.

“The film is a novel by great writer Joyce Carol Oates, it tackles Norma Jean Baker more so than [the]’Hollywood creation ‘Marilyn Monroe‘. Norma Jean fought all her life for men around the world to understand that Marilyn was the result of her extraordinary work as an actress.

“Shortly after, when Norma Jean, already a zombie, was invited to famously whisper-sing ‘Happy Birthday, Mr. President.’ I can only imagine how poor Norma must have felt, in the face of patriotic duty, to sing ‘happy birthday’ to the same man who abused her (as seen in the film) dressed in a skintight dress that became iconic.”

Wait a minute…JFK is shown “abusing” Monroe? What’s that supposed to mean? That he muscled or mauled or raped her or something? He was a thoughtless, rambunctious user as far as women were concerned, but the energy required to abuse a famous movie star wasn’t required of the President of the United States at that time. All he had to do was wink and raise an eyebrow. I don’t believe Almodovar.

A passage from the Oates novel, from a chapter titled “The President’s Pimp”:

“Sure, [Peter Lawford] was a pimp.

“But not just any pimp. Not him!

“He was a pimp par excellence. A pimp nonpareil. A pimp sui generis. A pimp with a wardrobe, and a pimp with style. A pimp with a classy Brit accent. Posterity would honor him as the President’s Pimp.

“A man of pride and stature: the President’s Pimp.

“At Rancho Mirage in Palm Springs in March 1962 there was the President poking him in the ribs with a low whistle. ‘That blonde. That’s Marilyn Monroe?”

“Lawford told the President yes, it was Monroe, a friend of his. Luscious, eh? But a little crazy.

“Thoughtfully, the President asked, ‘Have I dated her yet?'”

On 7.19 Kino Lorber will issue a 4K “special edition” Bluray of Delbert Mann‘s Marty (’55). It will include the correctly framed 1.37 version, which Kino issued in 2014, along with an 1.85 version — a political concession to the 1.85 fascists who screamed bloody murder over the boxy.

In a 7.28.14 HE post titled “Marty Is Boxy After All…Glorious!,” I included an explanation from Kino Lorber vp acquisitions and business affairs Frank Tarzi:

“We looked at [Bob Furmanek]’s research and then screened Marty at 1.85, and didn’t like what we saw,” he said. “If I cropped some of the close-up scenes down to 1.85 I would be cropping half of their face off. I could see [going with] 1.66 but I still think 1.33 is better. We got attacked on Home Theatre Forum and Facebook. I couldn’t believe the tone of [some of the posts]. For a two-week period we were being crucified.”

Tarzi says he’s “very happy” with the boxy Marty. “1.85 just would have been too severe, he believes. “We did several tests. There’s one closeup scene in which Marty’s is on the phone, asking the girl for a date…by the time the camera stops getting in tight, the face covers the whole frame. Cutting that down to 1.85 would have been incorrect.”

Today’s trio: Riley Keough’s War Pony (2:15 pm), Ruben Ostlund’s Triangle of Sadness (4:30 pm) and Cristian Mungiu’s keenly anticipated R.M.N. (10 pm).

Didn’t like and therefore haven’t mentioned — Arnaud Desplechin’s Frere et Soeur, Jerzy Skolimowski’s EO.

Can’t wait for Sunday afternoon’s screening of Ali Abbasi ‘s Holy Spider.

On the Cannes red carpet for George Miller’s new movie, the woman in front of me stripped off all her clothes (covered in body paint) and fell to her knees screaming in front of photographers. Cannes authorities rushed over, covered her in a coat, & blocked my camera from filming pic.twitter.com/JFdWlwVMEw

— Kyle Buchanan (@kylebuchanan) May 20, 2022

Last night Tatiana was fired up by recent contrasting samples of the human character — the odious Charles Bramesco on one hand, and a good-samaritan gummie buyer on another. Here’s her essay, received this morning:

“I guess I am totally addicted to cannabis-infused gummies. No gummies = no sleep for me. Realizing the possibility of going back to Moscow or moving to Paris or London in the near future, where marijuana is illegal, the idea of quitting this addiction has been on my mind lately.

“One recent evening, when the 150th container of gummies was empty, I thought: Great, that’s the right moment to start to fight the bad habit! I did my best, but was unable to fall asleep till 4 am. Next evening I thought: Okay, I didn’t sleep enough last night, my body is exhausted and now I will do better. Nope! Awake until 4 am again. So next evening I gave up. I decided to buy gummies but reduce the intake.

I arrived at The Artist Tree on Santa Monica Blvd., 15 minutes before closing. The receptionist always asks for ID and only after that you are allowed to enter the area of buying stuff.

I knew this rule, but that evening I had my tiny Chanel purse, where I could fit only my credit card and iPhone and ten dollars, hoping that the photo of my ID would be fine. But the receptionist said that only physical ID could be accepted. I said that I have been their loyal customer for almost five years, that I am completely unable to sleep without those gummies and maybe they can save me and sell at least two gummies for one night.

“There were three people behind me: a tall, slender, pretty woman in white pants; beautiful hair below her shoulders; she looked like a rockstar to me. And two well dressed and nice looking gentlemen with her. The woman partially overheard our conversation and asked me: What do they want? I said desperately: They want my ID. Then I showed her the empty box from gummies and told her, that I was very unhappy because I am unable to sleep without them. And I din’t have time to walk home to pick up my ID and back then, because they were about to close.

“The tall rock star said, ‘Don’t worry — I will buy them for you.’ I said, ‘No, no, thank you very much, but I have only ten dollars in cash and the gummies cost $27 and I will be fine.’ “But you can’t sleep without them, right?,” she said. “Yes,” I answered, ‘but I will feel very bad that I owe someone money. Unless I can send it to you through Zelle right now.

“It was no biggie, she insisted. No worries at all, it’s nothing. She took the empty box from my hand and asked one of the gentlemen to get them. I didn’t know what to do. I was so grateful to that woman and begged her to take at least ten dollars I had. Looking at my desperation, she took it.

“Three minutes later the gentleman was back with my medication, I hugged her warmly and my heart was about to jump out of my chest. I said that I wish I could do something nice for her. She said, ‘You are very sweet, I am so sorry for your trouble with sleeping. No worries about the money. Go to church, that will be enough.’ I said that I would definitely do that. I left the store and ten seconds later I realized that I didn’t even know her name. I rushed back in and asked her name. It was Janice.

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I haven’t been on the James Gray train for years, but early Thursday evening I saw Armageddon Time, his latest, and I was seriously, solemnly impressed. It’s the first really good film of the 2022 Cannes Film Festival.

It’s a modest little moral tale — concisely written, very well acted (especially by first-timer Michael Banks Repeda plus Jeremy Strong, Anthony Hopkins and Anne Hathaway) and ridden with echoes, laments and (from its 1980 perspective) dark projections.. And it’s definitely a Best Picture contender — of this you can be certain.

Armageddon Time is Gray’s best film — the most unaffected, straight-shooting and plain spoken — in a dog’s age. I was a Gray fan during his peak decade (The Yards, We Own The Night, Two Lovers), which happened between ‘98 and ‘08. I fell away in the 20-teens but now I’m back, as is Gray himself.

Largely autobiographical, Armageddon Time is basically a Queens-based family drama, set in the fall of 1980 and focused on the moral and creative growing pains of 11-year-old Paul Graff (Repeda).

In its own unpretentious, quietly on-target way it grapples with ethics and ethnicism, grandfather comforts, morality, racism, the Age of Reagan and the early seeds of Trumpism, brutal parenting, “life is hard” and “the game is rigged.”

I don’t know why I’ve decided to call it “a modest little Truffaut film,” but that’s the phrase I’ve been using since last night.

It’s a film about a kid dealing with family demands (particularly a brutal father) and being sent to a Forest Hills prep school and absorbing the first whiffs of late 20th Century evil in this country — Reagan, Trump, elitism and the ever-present component of half-hearted, laissez-faire racism.

A friend asked last night if it’s woke and I said it’ll certainly strike a chord with wokesters, but it’s “not really a woke film…it’s certainly not about woke Hollywood lecturing the middle of the country or anything in that vein.

“It’s Gray telling an honest, unpretentious story of his own childhood. It’s simple and real and I believed it.

“Racism and unfairness in life are real — you can’t just swat them away like a fly. It’s not about today’s deranged left. It’s set in 1980. ‘Woke’ wasn’t a thing 42 years ago. It wasn’t a thing ten years ago, and was barely a thing give six or seven years ago.

“Stop trying to define everything by today’s toxic cultural terminology,” I concluded. “Respect this movie for what it does and doesn’t do. It’s not playing any tricky or underhanded games.

Variety‘s Elizabeth Wagmeister, Matt Donnelly and Elsa Keslassy are shocked, shocked to discover that Woody Allen, Gerard Depardieu and Johnny Depp are featured in a celebrity mural on the 2nd floor of La Pizza, a popular eatery adjacent to the Cannes marina.

They’ve co-authored a 5.19 article that basically says “gasp!…why hasn’t La Pizza eliminated these three from the mural, particularly since we — crusading trade-paper wokesters casting a vigilant eye — don’t approve?”

Here’s something that I don’t approve of: Waggy, Donnelly and Keslassy falsely stating that Allen “was accused of rape by his then 7-year-old adoptive daughter, Dylan [Farrow], in 1992.” From the get-go the accusation has been about sexual molestation, not rape, and for three decades there’s been a mountain of evidence and testimony casting doubt upon the validity of Farrow’s claim.

“The La Pizza mural stands in conflict with recent changes trying to be implemented at the Cannes Film Festival,” the trio asserts, “[given that the festival] has attempted to become more inclusive to women and people of color (although progress has been slow). Festival organizers are making efforts to catch up to the industry at large, which has attempted to implement sweeping changes in the era of #MeToo.”

It's always been strange to me that the unofficial "first stop" in Cannes – dinner and Chianti at eatery La Pizza – features a mural of several cancelled men. @EWagmeister @ElsaKeslassy and I investigate. https://t.co/smYcgXhwqr

— Matt Donnelly (@MattDonnelly) May 19, 2022

I avoided watching this Marvel trailer yesterday; today I gave in. I’d rather watch a self-referencing Marvel comedy than a movie that that deals with this central figure (Tatiana Maslany as a female Hulk lawyer) more or less straight. A nine-episode Disney series, She-Hulk: Attorney-At-Law pops on 8.17.22.

It’s taken me nine and 1/2 years to finally get around to buying Richard Crouse‘s “Raising Hell: Ken Russell and the Unmaking of The Devils,” which was published on 1.1.12. It’s now in my Kindle archive. I’ve seen this 1971 film six or seven times. I own a British DVD of the restored 117-minute version, but where’s the Bluray version? Why hasn’t Criterion released one?

From Josh Stillman’s 10.1.12 EW review: “The story of 1971’s The Devils‘ is an unpleasant one. Based on Aldous Huxley’s book The Devils of Loudun’ and a play by John Whiting, the film details an episode of alleged demonic possessions and exorcisms — and the innocent priest who was executed for heresy — in 17th-century France. And that’s just the plot line.

“The real story of The Devils took place behind the camera, in the movie’s production process and its reception among censors, critics, and audiences. The intensity of the shoot cost director Ken Russell his marriage and tested the nerves of its stars, British screen legends Oliver Reed and Vanessa Redgrave.

“Later, after facing numerous cuts from the British Board of Film Censors for material deemed inappropriate (or, according to the Catholic Church, blasphemous), The Devils received an abysmal response from critics, was banned in several countries, and basically vanished for three decades.

“In recent years, though, the movie’s seen a bit of a resurgence. Fan sites are popping up and bootleg copies with fewer cuts have surfaced (Russell lamented that a fully uncensored version simply doesn’t exist); critics, for their part, have begun to see the film in a different light, hailing it as a provocative masterpiece in league with A Clockwork Orange.”