I missed Lee Chang-dong‘s Burning in Cannes, but caught it late last month in Manhattan. A chilly Patricia Highsmith-meets-F. Scott Fitzgerald drama about class envy and resentment, Burning is creepy, thoughtful and mystifying in a good way. It percolates and resonates and stays with you.

But it’s a half-hour too long (148 minutes) and suffers, I feel, from an underwritten protagonist (Jong-su, played by Yoo Ah-in) who’s allegedly a writer but doesn’t talk like one, and who regards everyone and everything with a kind of dazed, open-mouthed stupor.

Fitzgerald and William Faulkner are referenced by Jong-su, but he looks and behaves more like a lazy student than a writer hungry to say something. At one point he notes that South Korea is full of Jay Gatsby types — that’s the sum total of his insights shared in the entire film. Plus he dresses poorly and has a dorky flat-top haircut. Sorry, bruh, but will you close your fucking mouth, please?

The film starts intriguingly when Jong-su falls for Hae-mi (Jeon Jong-seo), whom he vaguely knew and found unattractive as a teenager, but he soon realizes she has a rich, blase. socially connected boyfriend named Ben (Steven Yeun) who drives a Porsche.

Jong-su, Hae-mi and Ben became a kind of odd trio, hanging out and going to parties, etc. Around the halfway mark Ben casually reveals he’s into burning rural greenhouses, presumably as an expression of sociopathic contempt for the middle and lower classes. Then Hae-mi disappears, and Jong-su begins to wonder if Ben might have killed her for sport.

Based on “Barn Burning,” a 26 year-old New Yorker short story by Haruki Murakami, Burning will open in New York on 10.26 and in Los Angeles on 11.2 before opening nationwide on 11.9.

It wasn’t for lack of trying, but I missed this morning’s 9:15 screening of Yann Demange‘s White Boy Rick. I packed last night (the Mountainside requires an evacuation by 10 am) but not entirely, and I didn’t rise early enough. My energy levels were probably lessened on some level by the not-so-hot reviews thus far. I’ll just have to see it in Toronto.

I’ll be catching a noon screening of Olivier Assayas‘ Non-Fiction at the Pierre, and then a 3:45 pm screening of Ed Zwick‘s Trial By Fire at the Herzog. Maybe. Presumably.

Chris Willman and I will be heading out of town by sometime around 6 pm, give or take. I have this idea about driving all the way to Monument Valley, which should take around four hours. The idea would be to stay at Goulding’s or The View and awaken to all that John Ford splendor. And then drive all day Tuesday and into the evening before reaching Los Angeles.

Memo to Gold Derby‘s Tom O’Neil: Suddenly and out of the blue, Can You Ever Forgive Me‘s Melissa McCarthy is 2018’s leading Best Actress contender. Easily, no question, hands down. But Gold Derby editors are a bit confused about the contenders in The Favourite. Colorfully eccentric and emotionally affecting as Olivia Colman‘s performance as Queen Anne is, her role is essentially supporting. The queen is the object of everyone’s attention, but she’s malleable, flighty, unstable and bed-ridden half the time. The lead protagonists, the duelling characters with steel and assertiveness, are played by Rachel Weisz (Sarah Churchill) and Emma Stone (Abigail Masham). You’ve got to move Colman into the Best Supporting Actress category (I currently have her as the second-rated Best Actress contender but she belongs in supporting, where she would be the top contender) and move Weisz and Stone into Best Actress competition.

A warm and relaxing time was enjoyed by all at Universal’s First Man gathering at the Sheridan Bar (6:30 to 9:30 pm). The usual journalistic suspects (myself, Pete Hammond, Sasha Stone, Chris Willman), Santa Barbara Film Festival honcho Roger Durling plus director Damien Chazelle, First Man costar Olivia Hamilton, screenwriter Josh Singer, producers Frank Marshall and Kathleen Kennedy, et. al. Delicious food and desserts in the rear salon, lotsa joshin’ and good cheer. Everyone got a good laugh out of the First Man ubiquitous flags tweet [below] that appeared early this morning.

(l. to r.) First Man screenwriter Josh Singer (also winner of the Best Original Screenplay Oscar for Spotlight), producer Frank Marshall (also celebrating The Other Side of the Wind) and wife-producer Kathy Kennedy, director Damian Chazelle, producer Sid Ganis and wife Nancy Hult Ganis.

I’ve just come out of a late-afternoon screening of Joel Edgerton‘s Boy Erased, and it’s quite good all around — palpable story tension, dramatically satisfying, superb performance by Lucas Hedges, taut script, emotionally affecting, much better than The Miseducation of Cameron Post. Thumbs up, big applause when it ended, good job by all.

The only slightly jarring element (for me, and I say this with discomfort) is Russell Crowe‘s resemblance to Gerard Depardieu, William Howard Taft, Orson Welles and Andy Devine.

But slightly more impressive was Marielle Heller‘s Can You Ever Forgive Me? (Fox Searchlight, 10.19), a real-life Manhattan drama about alcoholism, desperation and forgery that really delivers the goods. We’re talking Best Picture material here. Melissa McCarthy grand-slams as late journalist-author Lee Israel, dealing totally straight cards with zero laugh lines — her greatest performance ever (the highlight is a court scene in which she confesses her sins) and a guaranteed slam dunk for a Best Actress nomination with an almost-as-likely Best Supporting Actor nomination for costar Richard Grant.

HE reader on Colorado Avenue: “How do you feel?” Me: “Fast and loose, man.” HE reader: “In the gut, I mean.” Me: “I feel tight but good.” [Bonus points to anyone identifying what film this dialogue is from.]

Roma maestro Alfonso Cuaron, Boy Erased director-writer Joel Edgerton in Herzog theatre lobby, prior to this afternoon’s Erased screening.

White Boy Rick producer John Lesher. I told John that it takes character and cojones to wear a cowboy hat.

Legendary director Werner Herzog, Alfonso Cuaron prior to Boy Erased screening.

Following this afternoon’s Palm screening of Marielle Heller’s Can You Ever Forgive Me, Melissa McCarthy and Richard Grant kicking things around.

I’m going to hit three Telluride films and one party today — Marielle Heller‘s Can You Ever Forgive Me at 1 pm, Joel Edgerton‘s Boy Erased at 4:15 pm, a 20th Century Fox soiree for First Man at the Sheridan Bar, and Ralph Fiennes‘ The White Crow at 7 pm. That should fill the day up. Tomorrow’s slate includes a 9 am screening of The Other Side of the Wind, and then Olivier Assayas‘ Non-Fiction at 1 pm, and then we’ll see after that.

The White Crow director & costar Ralph Fiennes, first-time-actor Oleg Ivenko (who portrays the legendary Rudolf Nureyev) during last night’s Sony Picture Classics dinner at La Marmotte. Pic was written by David Hare.

I was hoping that Rob Garver‘s What She Said: The Art of Pauline Kael, which I saw three nights ago, would deliver some degree of enjoyment. It’s much better than that. I found it wonderfully alive and attuned, electric, bracingly intelligent, well-honed and about as spot-on as a doc of this sort can be. If you’ve any passion for film or particularly the glory days of personal-vision American cinema (late ’40s to early ’80s), this is essential viewing and a whole lot of fun to sit through.

Filmed four years ago, Garver provides a rush of immense comfort and stimulation with perfectly timed, just-right film clips and talking-head dialogue to explain and depict what was going on in the legendary critic’s life and head over a half-century period. The effect, for me, is ecstatic. Razor sharp and smooth as silk and yet always with a drill bit…it goes right into the whole novelistic tumult and miasma of that wonderful period in film criticism (’60s to early ’80s)…making sense of it, cleaning it up and making it all perfectly understood.

Here’s an excellent review from The Hollywood Reporter‘s Todd McCarthy.

And here are quotes that I typed as I watched it on my Macbook Pro:

Kael: “The world is divided between the people who get deep pleasure from doing a good job, and those who are just trying to get through the day. There are a great many critics who belong to the latter category, who are scared of their readers, scared of their editors, scared of the movie companies and with some justification, but are never good enough to conquer their fears. The point would be really to try and strengthen your own writing style and develop some more courage, because then you’re in a better position.”

Quentin Tarantino: “The way Pauline described Band of Outsiders…she said it was as if a bunch of movie-mad young French boys had taken a banal American crime novel, and translated the poetry they had read between the lines…that is my aesthetic! Right there! That’s what I hope I can do.”

David Edelstein: “I disagree violently with that term…I am not a Paulette.…I am a Paulinista…I have learned from her approach and applied it in my own way.”

Kael: “Every good critic is a propagandist…there’s no other way to play the game.”

Observation: “Pauline was a west coast girl, and somewhat lacking in deference to authority. What she couldn’t achieve in art, she was able to achieve in movie reviews…she said I want to loosen my style, to get away from the term-paper pomposity that we all learn at college…I wanted sentences to breathe, to have the sound of a human voice. [Before Pauline] New Yorker readers were used to this rather genteel rolling prose. Pauline didn’t believe in categories…she was very much against snobbish art-house cinema…she embraced popular cinema…only bad critics impose an academic formula…what Pauline Kael called the gentlemen critics…she wrote like someone who had bought a ticket and found a seat and watched it with a crowd.”

Early last evening I saw Yorgos Lanthimos‘ The Favorite (Fox Searchlight, 11.23), and came away mostly pleased. All the things it’s been praised for so far — the comic perversity, All About Eve by way of Peter Greenaway, Dangerous Liaisons and Barry Lyndon lite, amusingly brittle performances (Rachel Weiss, Emma Stone, HE’s own Olivia Colman), the scabrous humor, Robbie Ryan‘s handsome cinematography — are there in abundance. I mostly had no beefs.

Lanthimos hasn’t backed away from his generally perverse sensibility, but The Favourite is certainly his most accessible, audience-friendly film.

Colman (whose performance in Tyrannosaur was so worshipped by this columnist that I raised money to pay for press screenings that Strand Releasing wouldn’t pop for) will definitely snag a Best Supporting Actress nomination, and Stone, who’s being currently tributed by the Telluride Film Festival, may also land a Best Actress nom. Perhaps Weiss also. Or all three will.

Set in the early 1700s, The Favourite is about a pair of shrewd, ruthless schemers — Weiss’s Sarah Churchill and Stone’s Abigail Masham — plotting and back-biting in order to gain favor with and power from the emotionally volatile, constantly-health-challenged Queen Anne (Colman).

For the first hour or so The Favourite is…well, not entirely “great” but a delightfully wicked hoot. It put me in reasonably good spirits. A critic sitting near me was laughing heartily and having a great old time; ditto most of the audience.

But somewhere around the 75-minute mark and until the end (basically the last 45 minutes) the film slows down and then begins to run out of steam. By the 100-minute mark I was muttering under my breath (a) “I’m starting to not care all that much who wins this battle of courtly influence” and (b) “let’s wrap this up already…why does it have to be two hours?”

Lanthimos began to try my patience in the way that Whit Stillman‘s Love and Friendship had. The laughing critic downshifted into chuckling, and then into silence.

28 or 29 years before Donald Trump announced his candidacy in 2015, John Hughes and Dylan Baker created “Owen” — everyone’s idea of a hinterland Trump supporter, or certainly mine. Do they even make tin-buckle galoshes any more? My mother always made me wear them during rainstorms and snowfalls. Hate and humiliation.

Amazon is apparently serious about not ever releasing Woody Allen‘s A Rainy Day in New York. They’re scared of how the “always believe the victim” crowd will react if they open it, despite the Moses Farrow essay and the overwhelming evidence that Allen is no child molester. Amazon washing their hands is a way of saying (a) they don’t believe Moses and everyone else who’s shared a sensible evaluation of the accusation, or (b) they’re cowards. If and when they walk away they’ll be officially condemning an innocent man.

There’s an exhibit of Roma images in a Telluride gallery on Colorado Ave. I dropped by after finishing my Destroyer review. I needed a break and it gave me one.

By my sights, Alfonso Cuaron‘s Roma is much, much more than just a series of hauntingly beautiful, silver monochrome, to-die-for capturings of life in Mexico City around 1970 and ’71, and particularly that of a certain middle-class family (more or less based on Cuaron’s own) going through various trials and struggles and annoyances, including a constant supply of dog turds in the sheltered driveway of their two-story home.

At first it seems like Roma might be too laid back, too slow — a cross between Eric Rohmer‘s watching-paint-dry aesthetic and a black-and-white Nuri Bilge Ceylan film.

But as the incidents and details accumulate the scheme becomes clear — we’re getting to know this brood (an aloof doctor father, a spirited but resentful wife-mom, three young brothers, a sister and two live-in maids) and their realm in a bit-by-bit, layer-by-layer fashion, and gaining more recognition and understanding as it builds and moves along, everyone and everything becoming sharper and more dimensional in stages.

The strategy begins to pay off with greater and greater dividends around the halfway mark, and the last third is just wow, wow, wow, wow. And it’s not just the family that sinks in but the whole culture of Mexico City and the swirl of sexual and political events, characters and currents of that era, and especially how the infamous Corpus Christi massacre of 6.10.71 affects the fate of one of the maids, Cleo (Yalitza Aparicio), in a devastating way.

Put another way, Roma isn’t just one killer Alexa 65 shot after another, although you could theoretically ignore the particulars and just trip out on the widescreen coffee-table photo book art of it all. It’s a movie that doesn’t appear to be following a narrative through-line (or more precisely a collection of through-lines) until it gradually begins to do that, and then the hook is in and you realize that Roma owns you.