I have to leave for the Salle Bunuel for the 10:30 pm One-Eyed Jacks screening but first I have to at least post my tweets about Olivier Assayas‘ Personal Shopper, which broke around 40 minutes ago. The mostly Paris-based ghost story starring Kristen Stewart as (I know this sounds strange) a combination personal shopper and clairvoyant. which broke around 90 minutes go. More of a spooker than a “horror film,” but absolutely fresh and world-class in that realm. On par with Robert Wise‘s The Haunting, and I don’t care if every Tom, Dick and Harry agrees with me or not. (My flat-mate didn’t care for it.) This is a knockout, trust me.

I’m presuming there are hundreds of thousands of youngish or middle-aged people out there who are more or less content to live modest lives of regularity and security in minor, out-of-the-way burghs. There are, of course, many more who dream of The Life Kardashian — fame, stardom, super-wealth. So in this era of grotesque values you have to chuckle if not guffaw about Jim Jarmusch having made a film that basically says (a) “fuck all that,” (b) “turn it down and plant spiritual growth seeds” and (c) “dare to be dull in the ironic sense of that term.”

Paterson is about a lanky young bus driver (Adam Driver) and his Iranian wife Laura (Golshifteh Farahani) who live with a subversive prick dog named Marvin in a small dumpy house in Paterson, New Jersey and generally follow routines of almost astounding modesty — not hanging with friends, not partying, not doing Manhattan clubs on weekends…none of that.

Well, maybe Laura would like a little fun and frolic but Driver’s guy, who of course is also named Paterson, doesn’t even own a smart phone. All he wants is to write poetry in a little composing book. During work breaks, evenings in the cellar. Not to become “famous” but to one day write one-half or even one-third as well as famed Paterson poet William Carlos Williams. The quiet writing life and a general reverence for poetry becomes more and more of a thing as the film develops. Paterson itself is trying to be a kind of small, minimalist poem.

A curious claim about the late Mike Nichols is made in a 5.15.16 L.A. Review of Books piece by Manuel Betancourt (“Mike Nichols’s Disappearing Act”). He writes that “Nichols’s aesthetic (or lack thereof) denied him access to the most enduring of film studies labels, that of auteur. [Because] if there was a signature to be found in his films, it was perhaps that he had none.”

Betancourt mentions that Bruce Weber‘s N.Y. Times obit stated that Nichols “did not create a recognizable visual style or a distinct artistic signature.” He also writes that “Nichols’s direction is often seen as one that merely gets out of the actors’ ways,” and that his films are known “for [a] lack of obvious visual flourishes (no dolly zooms, no distracting jump cuts) that suggest a transparent style that attempts to mimic the mere observation of reality.”

In fact Nichols was known for an unmissable auteurist signature that he relied on for about eight years (’67 to ’75) — the static, ultra-carefully composed, long-take visual scheme that defined The Graduate, Catch 22, The Fortune and particularly Carnal Knowledge.

I explained it in my 11.20.14 Nichols obit. The long-take observation was passed along years ago by longtime Nichols collaborator Richard Sylbert. This signature, Sylbert believed, was what elevated Nichols into the Movie God realm.

“On a thematic level, Top Gun is all about machismo (a major theme in all of Tony Scott’s work), and how men deal with expectations, loss, tragedy, acceptance and success. Those classic scenes in the shower (or during a particular game of beach volleyball) seem homoerotic in hindsight, but what they’re really about is men trying to one up each other, trying to figure out how to best your opponent, and always remembering that there are no points for second place.

“To say that Top Gun is one of the most macho movies ever made would be understatement; you can practically smell the testosterone on the set. I’ve often wondered if PA’s were kept solely for the purpose of spraying down the actors with water in order to simulate excessive sweat, because everyone is glistening in this film.” — from an essay by HE’s own Nick Clement about the 30th anniversary of Top Gun.

I had slight forebodings about Jeff Nichols‘ Loving, which screened this morning at the Cannes Film Festival. Mainly whether a dramatization of the once-controversial interracial marriage between Mildred and Richard Loving would amount to anything more than a rote retelling. And I worried that the combination of Southern drawls (particularly Joel Edgerton‘s) combined with the notoriously bassy sound system in the Grand Lumiere would make for difficult listening.

Joel Edgerton, Ruth Negga in “teaser” poster for Jeff Nichols’ Loving.

Well, the film is slightly better than I expected. A warm, measured, adult-level thing. I wasn’t doing handstands in the lobby but I was telling myself “hmmm, okay, not bad.”

It’s less fact-specific than I would have preferred, and there’s the usual emphasis on emotional rapport and interplay and fine, nicely underplayed performances, my favorite being Ruth Negga‘s as Mildred. And at 123 minutes it feels maybe 20 minutes too long. And if you’re at all familiar with the facts or if you happened to catch Nancy Buirski‘s The Loving Story, a 2012 HBO doc, it’ll be hard to avoid a feeling of being narratively tied down.

But Loving is a compassionate, plain-spoken, better-than-decent film that will amost certainly pick up some award-season acclaim, particularly some Best Actress talk for Ms. Negga’s kindly, sad-eyed wife and mom. I suspect she’s the hottest contender right now for the festival’s Best Actress prize.

Nathan Morlando‘s Mean Dreams isn’t blazingly original, but I found it a handsome, pared-down thing that doesn’t give in to the usual blam-blam when a gun is purchased and push comes to shove. If a cover band really knows how to perform classic Malick rock — Badlands meets Cop Car meets Ain’t Them Bodies Saints meets A Simple Plan meets No Country for Old Men — and they include a riff or two of their own then I really don’t see the problem.

It isn’t how familiar something seems as much as how spare and straight the chops feel. Take, assimilate, make anew.  And the quality of the performances, which in this case struck me as near-perfect in the case of co-leads Josh Wiggins and Sophie Nelisse, and a bad-cop, pervy-dad turn by Bill Paxton that…okay, felt a little moustache-twirly at times and yet acceptable enough in the context of greed, alcohol and obsession. Plus Colm Meaney‘s slightly less corrupt lawman plus Steve Cosens‘ handsome cinematography and a sometimes slammy percussive score by Son Lux…solid as far as it goes.

And then along came Variety‘s Guy Lodge and The Hollywood Reporter‘s David Rooney last night with pooh-pooh reviews, essentially calling it too derivative and/or not twisty enough. I felt a little queasy as I read these reviews around 11 pm last night, as if some kind of virus had gotten into my system from the wrong kind of seafood. Lodge and Rooney and whomever else are entitled to piss on anything they want but I know it when a film feels steady and restrained and is more or less up to something honorable.

So that didn’t seem right but this has occasionally felt like a kind of Twilight Zone-y festival so far with films that I’ve felt somewhat distanced if not repelled by catching a decent amount of acclaim. Maren Ade‘s Toni Erdmann is example #1 in this regard. There’s actually a belief that it’s the strongest Palme d’Or contender thus far. Words fail. May God spare me the appalling physicality and personality of Peter Simonischek‘s performance for the rest of my time on this planet.

I’m certain that despite being overly long and a lack of a compelling, complete-feeling narrative that Andrea Arnold‘s American Honey more than compensates in other ways. And I agree with the consensus (which I haven’t time to get into with the 8:30 am Loving screening breathing down my neck) about Jim Jarmusch‘s Paterson being one of the best thus far, at least in terms of knowing itself, holding back and dealing clean, reverent cards.

It’s 1 am, I haven’t posted zip for 12 hours, and I have to get up five hours hence — terrific. It’s not that I didn’t do a lot — I just couldn’t find the discipline to tap something out in the margins. I attended the American Honey press conference and caught three films (Nathan Morlando‘s Mean Dreams at the subterranean Director’s Fortnight theatre, Asaph Polonsky‘s One Week and a Day at Critics’ Week and Jim Jarmusch‘s much-admired Paterson at the Salle Debussy) over a six hour-period, and then despite trepidations I hit the Amazon party from 10 to 11 pm. Jarmusch’s was the best of the three, but you need to be fully receptive to “restrained”, “minimalist”, “subdued” and “poem-like” to settle into it. (Just saying.) I don’t mind stating I’m a huge fan of Morlando’s film, which, yes, is derivative (it’s basically Badlands meets Cop Car) but is very handsome and well considered for that effort, and I’m furious that both Variety‘s Guy Lodge and The Hollywood Reporter‘s David Rooney blew it off. All I can do now is post photos and then get up at 5 am (Monday) for more filing before hitting the 8:30 am screening of Jeff Nichols‘ Loving.

Three or four of us managed to get American Honey director-writer Andrea Arnold to hang around and answer a few more questions following Sunday afternoon’s press conference.

Carrie Fisher during Saturday’s American Pavillion press conference about Alexis Bloom and Fisher Stevens‘ Bright Lights starring Debbie Reynolds and Carrie Fisher, not just an in-depth capturing of Reynolds and Fisher’s mother-daughter relationship but a blunt, no-holds-barred portrait of the ravages of aging and coping with same.

Mean Dreams‘ Nathan Morlando during Saturday’s Deadline party.

During American Honey press conference (l. to r.) — Shia Labeouf, director-writer Andrea Arnold, Sasha Lane, Riley Keough.

Group photo at Sunday evening’s Amazon party.

Critics inside Salle Debussy awaiting the 7[m showing of Jim Jarmusuch’s Paterson.

One Week and a Day director Asaph Polonsky, also during Deadline party.

Mean Dreams costars Josh Wiggins, Sophie Nélisse following this afternoon’s showing at Director’s Fortnight.

The death of Madeline Lebeau, portrayer of the boozy, heartsick “Yvonne” in Casablanca, led to a re-playing of the “La Marseillaise” scene in Michael Curtiz‘s 1942 classic. And it hit me again that this scene really works. I never understood why Humphrey Bogart‘s Rick would act so coldly towards a woman who might have had issues but who had rocked his libidinal world only a day or two before. Maybe he wasn’t in love but why give her the brush-off? His attitude seemed unduly harsh when I first saw this film at age 15 or 16, and it still seems that way.

“Oldchella,” the forthcoming six-day classic rock festival (10.7 to 10.9, 10.14 thru 10.16) happening at Indio’s Polo Club (where Coachella unfolds every April), has been referred to as Desert Trip, which is what the promoters are attempting to call it. Yes, I agree that it’s not the age of the dog in the fight but the size of the fight in the aging dog, but I still wouldn’t attend with a gun at my back and a $1000 cash bribe. I’ve seen The Rolling Stones, Bob Dylan, Paul McCartney, The Who and Neil Young in concert before in much cooler indoor venues (i.e., minus the presence of thousands of balding, pot-bellied, sandal-wearing beefalos). Leave it there.

I fully expect Ang Lee‘s Billy Lynn’s Long Halftime Walk (TriStar, 11.11), which appears to be a kind of Flags of Our Fathers in the realm of the Iraq War, to be at least interesting if not sturdy in terms of story, thematic resonance and acting chops. But I’m definitely down with the 120 frames-per-second format, which has never been seen in a mainstream feature before. (Peter Jackson‘s high-speed Hobbit film was shot and projected at 48 fps). The only concern or question mark is Joe Alwyn (who?) as Billy Lynn. Costars include Kristen Stewart, Chris Tucker, Garrett Hedlund, Vin Diesel, Steve Martin and Tim Blake Nelson.

Three days ago smart-ass conservative essayist P.J. O’Rourke, one of the few righties I like and admire, posted a Daily Beast piece endorsing Hillary Clinton. I was too Cannes-cranked to notice. The piece conveys the thinking of a lot of more-or-less sensible, selfish guys on the right who are grappling with “whoa, wait…Trump?”

O’Rourke: “Dorothy and Toto’s house fell on Hillary. I endorse her. Munchkins endorse her.

“Donald Trump is a flying monkey. Except what the flying monkeys have to say, ‘oreoreoreo,’ makes more sense than Trump’s policy statements.

“Not that Hillary makes much sense either.

“Hillary is wrong about everything. She is to politics and statecraft what Pope Urban VIII and the Inquisition were to Galileo. She thinks the sun revolves around herself.

“But Trump Earth is flat. We’ll sail over the edge. Here be monsters.

I’m blowing off this morning’s 9 am Cannes showing of Shane Black‘s The Nice Guys.  It’ll be playing everywhere in Europe in just a few days so I can catch it when there’s nothing better to do. I might have attended the 9 am Nice Guys showing if it weren’t playing in the Salle Bazin, which is on the smallish side and thus would have required my lining up by 8:25 or 8:30 am to be assured of a seat. Not worth the hassle.