I respect the scheme and intent of Christi Puiu‘s Sieranevada, which I saw last night at the Salle Debussy, but I felt constantly under-nourished throughout the 173-minute length, and I’m afraid that translates into a no-go. And I’m saying that as a genuine admirer of the Romanian cinema aesthetic — austere, raw behavior as opposed to “acting”, long takes. I wasn’t miserable as I sat there, but there’s no way I’ll sit through it again. No. Fucking. Way.

Sieranevada is about a truckload of sullen, pissed-off behavior and enough indoor cigarette smoking to send an Olympic athlete into intensive care, but there’s too little beef. I heard someone mutter “frustrating” as everyone was shuffling out; the words I had in mind were “opaque” and “somewhat draining.”

Sieranevada is a smart film with a bold approach, but it’s not going to satisfy your boilerplate American arthouse audience, I can tell you. It’s no Four Months, Three Weeks and Two Days and it’s no Tuesday, Before Christmas either.

What did I actually get from it? I was reminded how great it can be to not have to deal with a large family. And I learned what a difficult thing it can be to find a parking spot in Bucharest without blocking someone or parking in someone else’s space and getting into a heated, nearly violent argument with the owner.

Basic Sieranevada message (apart from the basic one about families accelerating or intensifying the aging process and draining your soul): Don’t own a car, take public transportation.

Mostly occuring in a too-small, over-stuffed apartment in Budapest, Sieranevada is a real-time capturing of a family’s memorial gathering for a recently deceased uncle. The main character is a burly, graybeard doctor named Lary (Mimi Branescu) and Laura, his shrewish, high-strung wife (Catalina Moga) who doesn’t attend in order to hit the post office before 4 pm and then buy groceries at the local Carrefour.

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Woody Allen‘s Cafe Society is an attractively composed period dramedy (a few laughs but hardly a torrent) that plays it mild and steady and familiar. But it’s a fine Woody hit-list thing with a compelling if familiar moral undertow. There’s no way anyone who’s even half-acquainted with the Allen realm is going to be disappointed. Is it a bust-out in the vein of Midnight in Paris? No, but it’ll do until the next one comes along. It’s fine, it’s good — just don’t expect any big surprises.

Set in Los Angeles and New York over a two-year period in the mid ’30s, Cafe Society is a romantic triangle piece mixed with a hard-knocks, get-tough saga. It’s witty more than funny, but it’s really great when the laughs land. How many good laughs does it have? Not more than 20 or 25. I laughed maybe 10 or 12 times but I didn’t mind because it’s not about hah-hah but about fuck-me.

It’s a romance-gone-wrong thing that deals with sadness, moral ambiguity, disappointment. It’s too mired in hurt to be called a light-touch thing, but it does kind of glide along in a way that lets you know nothing awful or grotesque will occur.

It’s the story of Bobby (Jesse Eisenberg), a young Jewish guy who comes out to Hollywood in 1936 to ask his hotshot agent uncle (Steve Carell) for a job, and who soon falls in love with Carell’s romantically entangled secretary Vonnie (Kristen Stewart), only to gradually discover that her admitted-to relationship is not with a “journalist”, as she tells Bobby, but with fucking Uncle Phil.

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“In short, Luca Guadagnino has made something rare and disconcerting: a genuinely pagan film. It rejoices not just in nudity, male and female, but in the classical notion of figures in a landscape, and of the earth itself demanding frenzied worship. That is why Harry (Ralph Fiennes), having put on a Rolling Stones LP, begins to dance to ‘Emotional Rescue’ and then, clearly fettered by interior space, bursts out onto the rooftop and continues his display under a scorching haze. Who would have thought that an Englishman, of all people, would prove to be such a natural Dionysian?

“A Bigger Splash is fiercely unrelaxing, and impossible to ignore. You emerge from it restive and itchy, as though a movie screen could give you sunburn, and the story defies resolution. Penelope (Dakota Johnson), the youngest of the group, remains the hardest to fathom, and provides a final twist. None of the four could be described as affable. Yet they all seem dangerously alive, in their indolence as in their rutting, and even the speechless Marianne (Tilda Swinton) is able to enunciate, through gasps and gestures, the storm of her body’s needs and her heart’s complaint. The isle is full of noises, and they won’t die down.” — from Anthony Lane‘s recently-posted review of A Bigger Splash.

“To my mind, this embracing of what were unambiguously children’s characters at their mid-20th century inception seems to indicate a retreat from the admittedly overwhelming complexities of modern existence. It looks to me very much like a significant section of the public, having given up on attempting to understand the reality they are actually living in, have instead reasoned that they might at least be able to comprehend the sprawling, meaningless, but at-least-still-finite ‘universes’ presented by DC or Marvel Comics. I would also observe that it is, potentially, culturally catastrophic to have the ephemera of a previous century squatting possessively on the cultural stage and refusing to allow this surely unprecedented era to develop a culture of its own, relevant and sufficient to its times.” — Watchmen author Alan Moore speaking to Slovoboooks’ Pdraig O Méaloid in January 2014 interview.

My first thought was, “This doesn’t seem noisy or urgent or hooky enough.” (I’m sorry but I trust my trailer instincts.) My second thought was that I’ll always be wary of movies titles composed of two cutesy nicknames (Tango and Cash, Minnie and Moskovitz). My third thought was, “Michel Gondry is a respected, brand-name director so why didn’t this film, which opened in France 10 months ago, at least play the festival circuit”? Answer: Certain festivals blew it off. So there you go.

From Peter Debruge’s Variety 7.9.15 review: “If Michel Gondry’s movies were books, they’d come with hand-stitched covers, fold-out pop-ups and a progression of flipbook-style doodles in the bottom corner of every page. With Microbe and Gasoline, the French writer-director has wisely restrained his usual flourishes, allowing the two teenage leads in his relatively calm summer-vacation coming-of-age comedy to assume centerstage, imbuing them with creative agency rather than forcing them to compete with the film’s own style. What emerges is an admittedly small but wonderfully sincere portrait of two adolescent outsiders determined to pave their own way in the world.”

… for tomorrow it all begins. At precisely 10 am, that is, with Woody Allen‘s Cafe Society. La Pizza was loud and packed. The mood leaned toward euphoric. Formidable gathering of journalistic reach and power sitting at just two makeshift banquet tables. Hail fellows well met. The total tab was 670 euros, or roughly $32 euros per person. “Who didn’t throw in?” It began to rain starting around 9:15 pm or so. Weather projections are shifting by the hour, but precipitation-wise things are expected to be moody or spotty over the next four or five days.

(clockwise) National Post‘s Chris Knight, Deadline‘s Pete Hammond, Village Voice critic Amy Nicholson, Time‘s Stephanie Zacaharek, Talk Cinema‘s Harlan Jacobson (all but obscured by shadows, not my fault), Hollywood Reporter critic Todd McCarthy, Toronto Star‘s Peter Howell, Film Society of Lincoln Center’s Eugene Hernandez, MacLean‘s Brian Johnson (red sweater).

Indiewire film editor Eric Kohn, senior Indiewire editor/columnist Anne Thompson.

Snapped by Svetlana Cvetko.

(clockwise) The Guardian‘s Nigel M. Smith, Vulture‘s Kyle Buchanan, New York‘s Jada Yuan, Voxdotcom’s Gregory Ellwood (green T-shirt), unknown (apologies), Cinetic’s Ryan Werner.

(l. to r.) Editor/producer David Scott Smith, dp Svetlana Cvetko (Red Army, Inside Job), friendly but unnamed p.r. associate of Ryan Werner, amiable guy known not to me by sight but quite possibly via Twitter or byline.

(l to. r.) Cvetko, Werner p.r. associate, L.A. Times critic Justin Chang, amiable guy.

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The 7:30 pm La Pizza journo gathering starts now so I’ll maybe file a bit when I get back. I arrived in Cannes around 12:30 pm and did the usual-usual — lugged bags over to 7 rue Jean Mero, unpacked, picked up the press pass, forked over a small fortune for Palais Wifi ($190 euros for 12 days), hit Carrefour for groceries, napped. The first press screening (i.e., Woody Allen‘s Cafe Society) happens tomorrow at 10 am, and then it’s off to the races. I was too excited about this morning’s early morning train trip to sleep much last night — I might’ve gotten two hours’ worth, if that. I need a little night air — that’ll put the color back in my cheeks.

In a recent chat with Rachel Maddow, Bernie Sanders alluded to what has been obvious for some time, which is that (a) MSNBC is no longer the lefty Fox News channel (which it more or less was in the pre- and early-Obama era) due to corporate displeasure with revenue, and (b) that for the sake of fair and open debate such a channel needs to exist, either with the assistance of Democratic-allied interests or whomever. There’s nothing about Cenk Uygur’s assessment of the present situation that is, in my view, wrong or slanted or incomplete — this is exactly the state of MSNBC and the corporate gutting of liberal-progressive views on mainstream cable right now.

I’ve just received a late ’15 draft of Aaron Sorkin‘s Molly’s Game, an adaptation of Molly Bloom’s same-titled 2014 book about running the hottest 20th Century poker game in Hollywood (the one that Leonardo DiCaprio, Tobey Maguire and Ben Affleck frequented) until she was popped by the government for some infraction. The film is a go with Sorkin directing. Jessica Chastain will play Bloom and Idris Elba will play her attorney. I’m thinking about reading the Sorkin during this morning’s train ride to Cannes, but I’m also looking to read Tully, the new Diablo Cody-Jason Reitman project. If anyone can pass this puppy along…thanks.

I somehow missed the 5.4 announcement about Variety‘s hiring of former Entertainment Weekly critic Owen Gleiberman as their co-chief film critic in New York. Sharing co-chief status is Peter Debruge, who’s returning from Paris to review out of Los Angeles. Serious congratulations and particularly to Owen, one of the most highly charged and insightful critics around, and one of my personal favorites for the last 25 years. Owen and Peter will be reviewing at the Cannes Film Festival starting tomorrow (i.e., Wednesday). Will they be attending tonight’s La Pizza journo-critic dinner in Cannes? The odds are 70-30 favoring.

Yes, Hillary has it wrapped up. Yes, even though Bernie is ahead of Hillary in six of the nine Democratic primaries yet to come, he can’t beat or outflank her. But…but. The statistics are real — they don’t lie. There is ample data to suggest Bernie is the most favored candidate among Americans. Hillary’s favorables have fallen over the past six months, and Bernie’s have risen. I know, I know. It’s over, Hillary wins, shut up. I’m not disputing the likelihood of Hillary’s Philadelphia triumph, and I’m not saying she won’t beat Trump handily. But polls say Bernie can beat him by a greater margin. So I’m not shutting up about Bernie. Listen to last night’s Michael Moore interview with MSNBC’s Chris Hayes and [after the jump] an analysis of the situation by The Young Turk‘s Cenk Uygur.

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