So I wouldn’t be totally gobsmacked if they don’t give the Palme d’Or this evening to Joachim Trier’s Sentimental Value. They’ll look like stubborn fools if this happens, but juries have been known to argue with consensus opinion. Just to defy it, I mean.

HE arrives in Oslo around 5:40 pm, or an hour before Cannes award ceremony begins.

I was on my train for Nice St. Augustin three hours before power the Cannes power outage.

Why did Kelly Reichardt make a 1970 art heist film?, you’re asking yourself. Or an anti-heist film, which a certain Reichardt cultist is calling it.

Because The Mastermind, which I sat through several hours ago, is basically about a married, middle-class, not-smart-enough jerkoff — Josh O’Connor‘s James Blaine Mooney, or “JB” — being so inept at organizing a theft of some Arthur Dove paintings from a museum in Framingham that he’s unmistakably in the running for the sloppiest felon in motion picture history, and I mean right up there with Al Pacino‘s Sonny Wortzik in Dog Day Afernoon.

We know going in, of course, that Reichardt doesn’t do genre stuff and that The Mastermind, which is being praised, of course…we know her film will be exploring something else. It certainly isn’t Rififi, for sure. But what is it?

Reichardt is primarily interested in JB’s life being blown to smithereens when the half-assed robbery goes wrong. But why? Is it about JB’s subconscious attempt to punish himself for marrying Alana Haim‘s Terri and having two boys with her and…I don’t know, feeling trapped by this? Is he looking to thumb his nose at his straightlaced parents (played by Bill Camp and Hope Davis)?

It certainly seems to be about a form of convoluted self-destruction.

JB winds up on the run, penniless, scrounging around, snatching an old lady’s cash-filled handbag and finally being arrested during an anti-war demonstration. But to what end?

The Mastermind asks “how would a born-to-lose guy go about escaping from his life?” Suicide would be the simplest way, of course, but JB seems to lack the necessary character and conviction to put a pistol in his mouth. If he wants to join up with some hippies and run away to Hawaii or Mexico or Central America, why doesn’t he just do that? Why go to the trouble of hiring a pair of young fuck-ups to steal the paintings, knowing that in all likelihood one or both will eventually screw up and get popped and rat him out?

All I know is that The Mastermind has a little story tension going on during the first 75 minutes or so, but once the jig is up and JB goes on the lam, it has nowhere to go. The last shot of JB in a police paddy wagon conveys a little something, but the film basically peters out.

I don’t want to say any more. The film isn’t dull or uninteresting — O’Connor is always good in a grubby, glint-of-madness sort of way — but it’s basically a wash. For me, at least, but then I’m not a cultist.

I sat next to three empty Coke bottles in their early to mid 20s — a foxy girl and two short-haired dudes — at today’s 4K Barry Lyndon screening. Right away I knew they were trouble. Both guys got up to use the facilities right after sitting down, which is what frisky, ants-in-their-pants lowlifes always do.

And then Thierry Fremaux invited Lyndon costar Marisa Berenson to take the stage and share some recollections, which she did. And then the lights finally came down and the film began.

The Coke bottle trio couldn’t handle the unhurried 18th Century pacing along with John Alcott’s exquisitely lighted, old-school compositions. They watched about ten minutes’ worth before bailing. You insects…you miserable know-nothings.

“Rough Draft That Had To Be Tossed,” posted on 7.25.24:

Biden: “There’s no possibility of my being completely candid with you…it’s simply beyond the realm of my own personality and psychological makeup to explain why I did a 180 last weekend by deciding to abandon my presidential campaign…a major pivot after insisting there was no argument or force short of Almighty God that could persuade me to quit.

“How did this happen? Was it my wife, Doctor Jill, whom some of you have compared to Lady Macbeth? Did she keep me in a bubble where I wouldn’t hear more open and honest assessments?

“The truth is that I was determined to tough it out no matter what…I said this over and over in various unyielding, mule-stubborn ways…even if it meant losing and taking the whole Democratic ship and crew with me, all of us swirling down to Davy Jones locker…

“The bottom ine is that I didn’t quit out of selflessness or personal sacrifice or any of that lofty, noble, Patrick Henry stuff…I was finally told there was no path to winning, and was therefore finally persuaded that in the eyes of history my name would be mud if I let that happen…and that was it…in order to save my legacy, to avoid the utter shame of self-ruin I was shoved out, plain and simple…and I fought this like a dying wolverine…snapping and snarling and screaming…I decided to fold my tent only under extreme Irish duress…and I mean I was howling and spitting and punching my refrigerator and baring my fangs and kicking and even shitting my pants. It wasn’t pretty.

On this, my last day of Cannes ‘25, I’m shooting for four screenings.

That’s not counting the 2 pm showing of the 4K Barry Lyndon, which I want to attend because I’ll never again have a chance to see this 1975 classic projected upon a big, bountiful screen in one of finest theatres in the world. I’m figuring I can watch about 75 minutes’ worth.

For those who doubted my 5.16 declaration that Hasan Hadi‘s The President’s Cake is a very good film, consider the fact that it won the Choix du Public (People’s Choice) award earlier this evening.

When I make a call, you can take it to the bank…period.

Apart from an unfortunate, vaguely annoying decision to tell yet another story about a brutish toxic male raping a woman — certainly the reigning or default narrative of present-day feminist cinema — Eva Victor’s Sorry, Baby (A24, 6.27) is really, REALLY good.

In terms of being lulled and led along into a lesbian way of thinking to the point of feeling vaguely charmed and kind of fascinated, Sorry, Baby operates in a manner that’s more or less equivalent to Luca Guadagnino’s Queer, and that, for me, is quite an achievement.

I caught this Quinzaine headliner around 8:20 pm.

Not only are Victor’s writing and direction top-tier, but her performance as lead protagonist Agnes, a brilliant literature professor who is mostly gay or certainly bi (i.e., not averse to hetero coupling when candidates like the soft and vaguely squishy Lucas Hedges come along) is about as captivating as such a performance could be.

Victor’s dialogue leaks out in the manner of someone exceptionally bright and introspective and given to thinking out loud — confessional and candid in a cautious and hesitant way, but not overly so. It feels straight and true at every turn.

Sorry, Baby is infused with guarded but self-accepting attitudes that are basically lezzy, for sure, but it’s a quietly realistic small-town social drama that wins you over early on, and then keeps earning more and more points.

I knew it had won raves after debuting at last January’s Sundance Film Festival, but I went into tonight’s screening with doubts and trepidations. But they evaporated fairly quickly.

It also delivers excellent supporting perfs from Naomi Ackie (Agnes’s totally gay, male-loathing lover during the first half), John Carroll Lynch, Kelly McCormack, Louis Cancelmi (a Scorsese guy playing the evil animal rapist), Hettienne Park as a whipsmart civil servant in a jury-selection scene, etc.

Produced by Adele Romanski and Barry Jenkins, this is definitely a goodie.

I’m very sorry but Woman and Child, which I struggled through earlier today, is mediocre and overly strident, certainly on the part of lead actress / protagonist Parinaz Izadyar. I simply didn’t believe it. Just because it’s an Iranian film doesn’t assure quality. A family-squabbling drama, Woman and Child is way below the level of, say, Asghar Farhadi’s A Separation, to name but one example.

Where can I get this T-shirt? Seriously.

Paul Mescal, one of HE’s least favored actors (not in the least due to his sure-to-be-ruinous casting as Paul McCartney), scores again with this press conference declaration. If Mescal is starring, you can be sure that the film in question will be open to squishy, sensitive and vulnerable.

And no, it’s not “lazy” to compare The History of Sound to Brokeback Mountain. Both films are mining very similar turf.

I saw Joachim Trier’s Sentimental Value last night at 10:30 pm, exiting around 12:40 am. I was afraid it might not live up to expectations, but no worries — I began to feel not only stirred and satisfied but deeply moved and delighted by the half-hour mark, and then it just got better and better.

For my money this is surely the Palme d’Or winner. I wanted to see it again this morning at 8:30 am. Yes, it’s that good, that affecting, that headstrong and explorational. A 15-minute-long standing ovation at the Grand Lumiere, and all the snippy, snooty Cannes critics are jumping onboard.

But what matters, finally, is what HE thinks and feel deep down, and that, basically, is “yes, yes…this is what excellent, emotionally riveting family dramas do…especially with brilliant actors like Renata Reinsve (truly amazing…she really kills) and Stellan Skarsgård, Inga Ibsdotter Lilleaas and Elle Fanning topping the ensemble cast”

But I was really too whipped to tap anything out when I returned to the pad at 1:15 am. I managed a grand total of 4.5 hours of sleep, and am now at a Salles Bunuel screening of Eugene Jarecki‘s The Six Billion Dollar Man…beginning in a few.

Sentimental Value (why do I keep calling it Sentimental Gesture in my head?) is a complex, expertly jiggered, beautifully acted Ingmar Bergman-esque family drama that feels at times like Woody Allen‘s Hannah and Her Sisters but with less comic snap…it’s more of a fundamentally anxious, sad, sometimes very dark but humanist dramedy (a flicking comic edge, a Netflix putdown or two). A film that’s completely receptive and open to all the unsettled cross-current stuff that defines any shattered, high-achieving family, and this one in particular.

Emotional uncertainty and relationship upheavals are in plentiful supply.

Set in Oslo, it’s basically about an estranged relationship between Skarsgard’s Gustav Berg, a blunt-spoken, film-director father who hates watching plays, and his two adult daughters — Reinsve’s Nora Berg, a prominent stage and TV actress who’s a bundle of nerves, anxiety and looming depression, and Lilleaas’s Agnes, Nora’s younger sister who’s not in “the business.”

Gustav’s career has been slumping but now he’s returning to filmmaking with a purportedly excellent script that’s partly based on his mother’s life (although he denies this), and he wants Nora to star in it. She refuses over communication and trust issues, and so Gustav hires Fanning’s Rachel Kemp, a big-time American actress, to play Nora’s role.

I could sense right away that Kemp would eventually drop out and that Nora would overcome her anger and step into the role at the last minute. And I knew the film would explore every angle and crevasse before this happens.
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And it really digs down and goes to town within a super-attuned family dynamic…steadfast love, familial warmth, sudden tears, extra-marital intrigue, stage fright, film industry satire, thoughts of suicide…nothing in the way of soothing or settled-down comfort until the very end, and even then…but it’s wonderful.

I have to attend the Sentimental Value press conference at 12:45 pm…breathing down my neck.