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.

I’ve been feeling completely adjusted to European time, so I was surprised a few minutes ago to find myself suddenly waking from a nap while sitting on the outdoor balcony of the Grand Palais. Okay, I was slumping but more or less in an upright position in a chair with my Macbook Pro and camera in my lap, and my open black tote bag at my feet. (I’m not presuming that any journalist would take advantage but you never know.) It’s a very strange feeling to wake up from a dream in the sunlight, sitting, dressed, surrounded by others…”what?”

I hate frivolity. I despise escapist “fun.” I loathe corporate-supplied nothingness. And I abhor CG movies in which anything can and does happen and no rules apply and people fly through the air like winged squirrels and everything is meaningless eye syrup. I agree somewhat that Rob Marshall‘s Pirates of the Caribbean: On Stranger Tides, which I caught this morning, is a little more like the first one and therefore more tolerable, etc. But I mostly hated the first one, you see.

Johnny Depp, Penelope Cruz

So how did I get through the damn thing (i.e., all two hours and 17 minutes ‘ worth)? Through selective concentration on aspects I found appealing.

(1) The incessantly rich, razzle-dazzle composition of the photography. Everything you see in each and every shot has been lit within an inch of its life, finessed to a fare-thee-well, sprayed and misted and gone over with a fine tooth comb. No visual element has been left to chance or under-utilized. The problem, of course, is that it’s all in the service of cancerous swill.

(2) I realized early on that in the realm of fountain-of-youth action-adventures, this inch-deep hodgepodge makes Steven Spielberg‘s Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade look like a masterwork, an art film, a movie with a near-soul, an Alexander Korda 1940s classic.

(3) The verdant and altogether splendorful Hawaiian locations (Kaua’i, Oahu).

(4) Some of the 3D shots are appealing, but mostly the 3D element is just okay. None of it staggers. Honestly? I could’ve rolled with a flat version.

(5) The only 100% sincere performance is given by Sam Claflin, playing a missionary (Sam Claflin). The mermaid he falls in love with (played by Astrid Berges-Frisbey) is pseudo-topless in much of the film, which is to say impressionistically. She’s carefully covered in old-style ’50s fashion, like Maureen O’Hara‘s big scene in Lady Godiva. Why would a Disney film include a topless mermaid in the first place? What’s the point?

(6) I spent a lot of time thinking about all the hundreds of millions that have been pointlessly spent making these films and even more pointlessly earned in theatres worldwide, and about what Johnny Depp and Jerry Bruckheimer made (and will earn back-end) on this one, and what they paid Penelope Cruz and how much Geoffrey Rush pulls down, etc. And what kind of food was served on the set and where everyone stayed when they shot in Hawaii, England and Puerto Rico. What kind of per diems did they receive?

(7) Ian McShane‘s performance as Edward “Blackbeard” teach is an eye-level, steady-as-she-goes, only slightly japey turn. I relaxed somewhat when he was on-screen. McShane seems to actually sink into the role to some degree; he’s goofing along with everyone else, of course, but in a somewhat restrained, steely-McShane sort of way.

(8) The CG evocations of old London are nicely done. I just wish the camera could’ve held still for four or five seconds so I could’ve absorbed a bit more detail.

(9) The absense of Orlando Bloom and Keira Knightley isn’t a problem. At all.

Do I have the character and resolve to “just say no” to this morning’s 8:30 am screening of Pirates of the Caribbean: On Stranger Tides? Which a critic friend told me is “awful”? I’d like to think I have the character to shine it, but I guess I don’t. But journalists were talking about sleeping in on Saturday morning last Tuesday night. The damn thing runs 2 hours and 17 minutes. Bottom line: if I can get my hate on, it’ll probably make for a half-decent piece.

The Paul Bowles version of what I was trying to describe would be called “four o’ clock in the morning Croisette courage.”

One of two clips captured of Weinstein Co.’s Harvey Weinstein at this evening’s Martinez Hotel product reel & mike-time presentation. Black-and-white silent footage from the highly-anticipated The Artist was shown. Sarah Jessica Parker introduced a five-minute reel for I Don’t Know How She Does It. The Wu Xia gang showed up and took a bow. But there was no Iron Lady footage!

After it ended I retired to the Martinez Hotel bar/lounge to upload videos and photos. This is definitely one of the Hot Babe meccas. They stride through the lobby in groups of twos, threes and fours. And they all sit in the bar for two rounds, spending 13 or 14 or 15 euros per drink. And then they leave. The guys in this place are all older, Euro-coozy types — longish hair, black loafers or pumps, slick duds and smoothie attitudes. Some guys, okay, are on the youngish twentysomething side, but not that many.

The only differences between Dave Germain’s white pass and my pink-with-a-yellow-dot pass are (a) the whites get to sit in a speciaily reserved row (or two or three) at the rear of the Lumiere and/or Debussy, and (b) something else that I can’t remember. Free tickets to black-tie screenings?

I don’t know the Wu Xia guys that well but Weinstein Co.’s Pantea Ghaderi helped out: (l. to r.) Takeshi Kaneshiro, director Peter Chan, Donnie Yen, Wei Tang, Kara Hui.

Let’s have a little understanding and…well, I was going to say “compassion” for Osama bin Laden‘s penchant for porn. Even mass murderers have libidinal longings, etc. Day in and day out at that grungy Pakistan compound…you can imagine the frustration. Sexual hunger has always been a great leveller, and now — hallelujah! — the Great Dead Fiend has been revealed on a certain level as just another middle-aged bearded guy with a bone-on.

But which porn stars did he like exactly? Or what types? Western blondes, down-home Southern girsl in cutoffs, veiled Muslim wives? To think that Osama bin Laden and LexG had something in common…the mind reels.

The legend is that the prolonged stress of shooting John Huston‘s The Misfits (’61), and particularly the delays caused by the relentlessly insecure and drug-dependent Marilyn Monroe, basically killed Clark Gable. The 60-year old Gable suffered a heart attack two days after filming ended and died ten days later. But he also smoked like a crazy man and reportedly drank a lot.

The Misfits was also the last completed film for Monroe. She was dead of a barbituate overdose 18 months after it opened in February ’61. The Wiki page says just about everyone involved disliked The Misfits — Monroe and costar Montgomery Clift, certainly. And it didn’t make very much money. No wonder — it’s more than a bit of a downer. The Bluray will soon street.

Nanni Moretti‘s Habemus Papam, which screened this morning at 8:30 am, is about a newly-chosen Pope (Michel Piccoli) feeling overwhelmed and depressed and unable to pick up the sceptre. The tone is basically one of dry, highly restrained farce. Moretti told a journalist earlier this year that it “contains a painful core but [is] wrapped in a light tone.” That about says it. It’s simultaneously gentle and whimsical and melancholy, and a bit silly.

I suppose Habemus Papam will be seen in some Roman Catholic circles as a impudent tweaking of the lore of Vatican City, etc. But it didn’t strike me as nearly caustic or judgmental enough.

Piccoli is playing an old man who’s not only depressed but a little bit stupid, trembling and confused and enduring much stress and confusion in simply trying to explain what and who he is, and why he feels so exhausted, etc. I don’t care if some depressives act like this — it’s boring and frustrating to watch.

And yet the 85 year-old Piccoli gives a touching performance. I’ll give him and Moretti and the film that. But otherwise I was underwhelmed. I’ve since gotten the sense that I wasn’t alone.

Variety‘s Dave McNary is reporting that the Weinstein Co. has acquired U.S. distribution rights to The Iron Lady, the Margaret Thatcher biopic directed by Phyllida Lloyd and starring Meryl Streep. The intention is to release it later this year and — count on it — mount a front-and-center Best Actress campaign for Streep.

The main Lady issue concerns the one-two combo of director Lloyd, whose handling of Mamma Mia! makes her seem an unlikely provider of a presumably solemn-minded drama about Thatcher’s tough times at 10 Downing Street, and Iron

Lady rewriter Abi Morgan, whose description of herself as an example of “Thatcher youth” suggests that she and Lloyd may be looking to soften or at least emotionalize their portrait of Thatcher.

The question is whether their film will ultimately be seen as Academy-quality, which of course would push Streep into front-runner status, or perhaps as a bit too Thatcher-friendly by the British press, which could result in a backlash.

If the film’s rep becomes that of a good-enough drama that is primarily a forum for a tour de force Streep performance, then who knows? It may be that the ultimate function of The Iron Lady will be to warm up Academy voters so that Streep’s sure-to-be-powerhouse performance as Violet Weston in John Wells‘ August: Osage County, which the Weinstein Co,. is planning to release in 2012, becomes an unstoppable Oscar force.

Short version: Streep wins for The Iron Lady in February 2012 and August: Osage County in February 2013, or two years in a row. Or she wins for Lady but not for Osage because of the “Meryl again?” factor. Or not for Lady because the movie might not be good enough but the acclaim for her Thatcher performance results in a lock-down, don’t-even-think-about-not-giving-her-the-Oscar win for Osage. I’m figuring it’s gotta be one of these three.