Earlier today I tried to catch a 5:15 pm screening The Snows of Kilimanjaro at the Salle Bazin. This is what I saw when I arrived 15 minutes before showtime. I went to the end of the line and stood and waited and stood and waited. I knew I’d never get a seat but I toughed it out to the end. And then I said “eff it” and got on the train to Juan-les-Pains.

Late this afternoon I took a quick ride between Cannes and Juan-les-Pains, except the train decided not to stop at Juan-les-Pains and dropped me off at Antibes instead. So I impulsively asked Sasha Stone and her daughter Emma to join me there, and we had a pretty good time detoxing and sipping rose and roaming around the marina area and contemplating the Picasso museum exterior.

Any and all theories about why Paul Feig and Judd Apatow‘s Bridesmaids exceeded expectations this weekend to earn an impressive $24.4 million are hereby requested. The expectations were between the low teens and $16 or $17 million. So what happened? Was Saturday Night Live‘s” Kristen Wiig the big selling point? The girlie poo-poo humor? Or what? And what were the gender and age breakdowns?

The film’s B-plus from Cinemascore is a result of it not being a start-to-finish laugh riot so it’ll probably drop at least 40% next weekend, but still…

Here’s an excellent analysis of John Ford‘s The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance by N.Y. Times critic A.O. Scott. Spoiler whiners are hereby advised that Scott reveals the third-act secret in this 49 year-old film.

Have you read my review, Cedric? I put the word “minor” in the headline. Lord…please don’t let me be ignored.

Two days ago Deadline‘s Michael Fleming reported that Ryan Gosling will star in and direct a remake of Taylor Hackford‘s The Idolmaker (’80). Gosling will be playing Ray Sharkey‘s role, I presume, which was based on rock-music promoter and manager Bob Marcucci.

The first two-thirds of The Idolmaker are brilliant. It’s probably my favorite Hackford film, closely followed by Against All Odds. Marcucci discovered and managed Frankie Avalon and Fabian, among others.

Michel Hazanavicius‘ much-anticipated The Artist, which just finished showing in the Grand Lumiere, is a winning “success,” and at the same time a half-and-halfer — a film that delivers beautifully but also leaves you wanting in certain ways. It’s a black-and-white silent drama with dashes of humor (i.e., I wouldn’t call it a dramedy) that’s first and foremost a tribute to the lore and sheen of 1920s Hollywood. And that much is fine.

If you’re any kind of film buff it’ll work for you and then some, but I’m not so sure about the under-45 set. Monochrome plus no dialogue are obviously stoppers for the majority of filmgoers out there. Let’s face it — The Artist would have seemed like a quaint exercise if it had been made 35 or 40 years ago by Peter Bogdanovich.

My basic impression is that The Artist is a very well-done curio — an experiment in reviving a bygone era and mood by way of silent-film expression. Is it a full-bodied motion picture with its own voice and voltage — a film that stands on its own? Not quite. But it’s a highly diverting, sometimes stirring thing to sit through, and the overall HE verdict is a thumbs-up.

The Artist has been very carefully assembled, but chops-wise it’s not strictly a revisiting of silent-film era language. It visually plays like a kind of ersatz silent film — technically correct in some respects but with a 2011 sensibility in other ways. It has a jaunty, sometimes jokey tone in the beginning, and then it gradually shifts into drama and then melodrama. But it tries hard and does enough things right that the overall residue is one of satisfaction and “a job well done.”

Shot in Los Angeles, the story of this French-financed production recalls the plots of Singin’ In The Rain and A Star Is Born with a little Sunset Boulevard thrown in.

It takes place in Hollywood between 1927 and 1931 and focuses on George Valentin (Jean Dujardin) a Douglas Fairbanks-y silent film star who stubbornly refuses to adapt to the advent of motion-picture sound, and Peppy Miller (Berenice Bejoa), a Janet Gaynor-like or young Joan Crawford-y actress whose career takes off with sound.

Hazanavicius uses an entire passage of Bernard Herrmann‘s Vertigo score in the final act, when Valentin is at his lowest ebb.

It’s interesting that Dujardin strongly resembles Fredric March, star of King Vidor‘s A Star Is Born (1937). It’s doubly interesting that Dujardin apparenty gained weight for the role, as his appearance today (i.e., in the press conference inside the Palais) is definitely slimmer.

John Goodman plays a studio chief, James Cromwell plays Valentin’s chauffeur, and Penelope Ann Miller plays Valentin’s unsatisfied wife.

From the Wiki page: “Director Michel Hazanavicius had been fantasizing about making a silent film for many years, both because many filmmakers he admires emerged in the silent era, and because of the image-driven nature of the technique.

“According to Hazanavicius his wish to make a silent film was at first not taken seriously, but after the financial success of his spy-film pastiches OSS 117: Cairo, Nest of Spies and OSS 117: Lost in Rio, producers started to express interest.

“The forming of the film’s narrative started with Hazanavicius’ desire to work again with actors Jean Dujardin and Bereenice Bejo, who had starred in the OSS 177 films. Hazanavicius choose the form of the melodrama, partially because he though many of the films from the silent era which have aged best are melodramas.

“Filming took place during seven weeks on location in Hollywood. Throughout the shoot Hazanavicius played music from classic Hollywood films while the actors performed.”

Jean Pierre and Luc Dardenne‘s The Kid With The Bike, which I saw early Saturday evening, is being reflexively praised here and there because (a) it’s a low-key but entirely competent teenaged kid-desperate-for-paternal-support film, but (b) mainly because the Dardennes are highly respected big wheels within the Cannes journalistic community.

If The Kid With The Bike had been made by an unknown younger director and shown under Un Certain Regard or Semaine des Critiques, positive reviews would result — it’s an honest, well-made film — but it wouldn’t cause much of a stir.

Believe me, The Kid With The Bike is nothing to do mad cartwheels over. Yes, the Dardennes are first-rate scenarists and straight shooters; they know exactly what they’re doing every time. And their film ends well. But Cannes critics are, I feel, kneeling forward and kissing the proverbial ring. There’s nothing wrong with that in a general sense as long as there’s perspective.

Yes, I took an instant dislike to Thomas Doret, the red-haired lead character called Cyrill, when I first saw the trailer. This feeling deepened when I saw the film. I disliked his obstinate-woodpecker personality and the dogged, loon-like tone in his voice. If I ran into a kid like this in real life I would excuse myself fairly quickly, you bet.

Honestly? While the decision of his youngish kitchen-chef dad to abandon Cyrill and go his own way because he has very little money is reprehensible and pathetic, on a certain level I sympathized. Some men are just weak or selfish or naturally un-gifted at parenting (like my own dad), and some kids are just irksome. My heart goes out to any kid dealing with parental neglect and/or abuse, but on the other hand life is hard and sometimes cruel. Some of us are dealt shitty cards, but we have to play them as best we can.

Cyrill, it’s clear, is emotionally damaged and heading for some kind of downward swirl, perhaps into crime or becoming an abuser on his own. So on one level it’s admirable when a kind-hearted, fair-minded hairdresser named Samantha (Cecile de France) agrees to become Cyrill’s weekend care-giver, but on another level it’s a bit…puzzling?

She’s expressing a standard maternal instinct, but I found it curious that a youngish, attractive woman’s life would be so otherwise bereft of passion and commitment that she would leap into this kind of relationship. And I found her willingness to suddenly dump her somewhat selfish-minded, not-especially-bright boyfriend when he says “it’s him or me” too abrupt.

I felt that the whole film was a bit too simplistic and on-the-nose. I went with it, but I also felt that I was being fed a plate of honest but under-cooked contrivances by a couple of talented but (this time around) under-inspired chefs.

There isn’t much time with the Dardennes brothers‘ The Kid With The Bike starting at 7:30 (i.e., 85 minutes from now) but the absolute best film I’ve seen at the 2011 Cannes Film Festival is a somewhat chilly, jewel-precise study of an Austrian child molester. Markus Schleinzer‘s Michael (pronounced “miKAYel”) isn’t “pleasant” to watch, but it’s briliiant — emotionally suppressed in a correct way that blends with the protagonist, aesthetically disciplined and close to spellbinding.

Because the titular character, a 30something office worker (Michael Fuith) is an absolute fiend and because the film acquaints the audience with the behavior and mentality of a child molester in ways that are up-close uncomfortable, a fair-sized portion of the crowd in the Lumiere theatre was booing when it ended. Those were the chumps in the cheap seats — the moralists. The people who know from film and especially a powerhouse flick when they see one were clapping, of course.

Michael is easily the most gripping and cunning film I’ve seen here. It operates way above and beyond the raw brushstrokes and the imprecise, at times florid manner of Lynne Ramsay‘s over-praised We Need To Talk About Kevin. Don’t even talk about Ramsey’s film at this stage.

The story is basically about how and when Michael’s evil behavior will reach out and take him down. That’s where the story tension is, and why it holds you in its grip. This guy is going to suffer some payback sooner or later. You can sense that early on.

A milquetoast fellow in nearly every respect, Michael has a regular dull office job where he’s liked (from a certain distance) and respected. But in his modest home he keeps a young blonde boy (David Rauchenberger) prisoner in a basement room and uses him on occasion. The film never pushes your face in the ugliness of this crime, but it let’s you know exactly what’s going on. And every person whom Michael knows at the office and those in his grown-up family…nobody knows who and what he is. He’s very careful, of course. Fastidious, cautious.

That’s all I have time to say except that Michael, so far, is it for me — the cream of the crop.

Michael director Markus Schleinzer, center, with cast (l. to. r.) Viktor Tremmel, Ursula Strauss, Michael Fuith, David Rauchenberger, Christine Kain and Gisella Salcher –Saturday, 5.14.11 in Cannes.

Approaching the Debussy theatre, the second largest within the Grand Palais, along rue Jean de Riouffe. I stumbled over something or someone at the very end. There’s a nice little cafe on this street that I pass by every morning; I’ll sometimes stop in from a quick cappucino before an 8:30 screening.