After Lee’ accidental on-set killing, speculation of a curse elevated this grungy revenge fantasy to cult status. Its violent, cartoonish energy still holds power
Just over 30 years ago, emerging action star Brandon Lee – son of Bruce Lee – was killed by a prop gun accident, fatally shot in the stomach on the set of this Gothamesque revenge fantasy thriller. It was a desperately sad event that generated more spurious talk of a family “curse” (Bruce died at age 32), rather than a conversation around movie location safety, which continues to be a problem to this day.
Now The Crow, which was released in 1994, a year after Brandon’s death, has been rereleased for its 30th anniversary. Brandon had largely finished filming and the movie was completed by finessing certain scenes in rewrites and using stunt doubles and digital superimposition of his face, which was camouflaged by the rainy, murky cityscapes and the eerie whiteface makeup. Now, audiences can savour once again the irony of a movie bringing its star back from the dead in a story about someone coming back from the dead. Screenwriters David J Schow and John Shirley adapted the hugely successful comic book series by James O’Barr, which drew on his real-life anguish at his fiancee being killed by a drunk driver, and also his memories of a newspaper story about a couple getting killed by a robber for their engagement ring.
Reuniting the stars of Black Narcissus, this movie about a back-room boffin attached to a bomb disposal unit finds the film-makers pushing gloriously against genre conventions
Kathleen Byron and David Farrar were unforgettable presences in the 1947 Powell and Pressburger classic Black Narcissus, playing a hysterical nun and the taciturn colonial agent with whom she is peevishly infatuated. The film-makers reunited these remarkable performers two years later for this intimate, intense wartime drama thriller; brilliant on the emotional misery, low-level dread and petty office politics of wartime government. It takes place mostly in London’s noirish darkness and rain, except for the sensational final sequence in the bright sunlight of Chesil beach in Dorset.
Adapted from an autobiographical novel by military scientist Nigel Balchin, The Small Back Room is a work that shows the film-makers pushing – brilliantly – at the conventions and constraints of a regular wartime period drama. Any number of British directors might have wanted to take on this story. But the Powell and Pressburger authorial flourishes are irresistible.
Sean Baker’s story of an erotic dancer who marries a Russian oligarch makes a terrific surprise Palme d’Or winner – though more reward for Mohammad Rasoulof might have felt better
This was a Cannes that turned out to be about love, and the Palme d’Or went to a love story that knocks down the whole idea of a Cinderella romance, while also, in some mysterious and delicate way, passionately believing in it.
Sean Baker’s Anora is superbly acted by its star, Mikey Madison, who plays an erotic dancer and escort in New York called Ani (short for Anora) who finds herself in an exclusive commercial relationship with the wastrel son of a Russian oligarch, called Ivan, played by Mark Eidelstein.
Twenty years ago, no one was a bigger beneficiary of the Michael Moore documentary boom than gonzo doc comic Morgan Spurlock who royally punk’d the McDonald’s corporate giant with his uproarious 2004 film Super Size Me. It was a piece of cheek that took advantage of the anti-corporate, anti-fast-food feeling that had been growing, especially in this country since the McLibel trial.
He embarrassed the McDonald’s organisation and single-handedly pressured them into withdrawing their mega-portion policies and even into offering unconvincing “healthy” options. He forced it to eat a triple Mac of shame with a side order of contrition. And it was happening in a pre-social-media age when this kind of proto-viral populist uprising was very difficult to create.
The exiled director’s story of officialdom’s misogyny and theocracy in his home country may be flawed, but its importance is beyond doubt
Mohammad Rasoulof is a fugitive Iranian director and dissident wanted by the police in his own country, where he has received a long prison sentence and flogging. Now he has come to Cannes with a brazen and startling picture which, though flawed, does justice to the extraordinary and scarcely believable drama of his own situation and the agony of his homeland.
It’s a movie about Iranian officialdom’s misogyny and theocracy, and sets out to intuit and externalise the inner anguish and psychodrama of its dissenting citizens – in a country where women can be judicially bullied and beaten for refusing to wear the hijab.
The Seed of the Sacred Fig begins as a downbeat political and domestic drama in the familiar style of Iranian cinema, and then progressively escalates to something extravagantly crazy and traumatised – like a pueblo shootout by Sergio Leone.
Iman (Missagh Zareh) is an ambitious lawyer who has just been promoted to state investigator – one step short of being a full judge in the revolutionary court. He gets a handsome pay rise and better accommodation for his family: wife (played by actor and anti-hijab protester Soheila Golestani) and two student-age daughters (Setareh Malek and Mahsa Rostami).
But the promotion almost immediately brings disappointment and tension: Iman, a thoughtful and decent man, is stunned to discover that he is expected to rubber-stamp death-penalty judgments without reading the evidence. He is told that he must now be secretive with friends and family who could be threatened and doxed by criminal elements as a way of pressuring him.
Most fatefully of all, he is issued a handgun for his family’s protection, apparently without any training or guidance as to how to use or store it. Naive Iman casually leaves it lying around the house and tucks it in the back of his trousers like a Hollywood gangster. (Are Iranian prosecutors really allowed to be so casual with firearms?)
When the anti-hijab protests explode in Iran, whatever liberal scruples Iman once had are suppressed. He coldly rebukes his daughters over dinner for their rebellious feminist views and accuses them of falling for the propaganda of enemies and foreign elements. “What foreign elements?” his daughters demand – but Iman sullenly refuses to elaborate. (Here is a flaw in the film, surely – in real life, Iman would make some very specific, ugly, paranoid claims.)
When his wife and daughters help a terrified young female anti-hijab protester who has been shot in the face by the police, this too must be concealed from Iman. And then, catastrophe – Iman’s gun goes missing and, with increasing resentment and fury, he suspects one of the women of his family has taken it and is lying to him. His toxic outrage bleeds into the fabric of the film itself.
Cannes film festival Payal Kapadia’s glorious Cannes competition selection is an absorbing story of three nurses that is full of humanity
There is a freshness and emotional clarity in Payal Kapadia’s Cannes competition selection, an enriching humanity and gentleness which coexist with fervent, languorous eroticism and finally something epiphanic in the later scenes and mysterious final moments. Kapadia’s storytelling has something of Satyajit Ray’s The Big City and Days and Nights of the Forest; it is so fluent and absorbing.
All We Imagine As Light is the story of three nurses in modern-day Mumbai: Prabha (Kani Kusruti), Anu (Divya Prabha) and Parvaty (Chhaya Kadam). Each has come to the big city from smaller home towns. Prabha and the younger, flightier Anu are roommates and Anu (having only just moved in) is already asking the more sober and sensible Prabha to cover her share of the rent. She is also causing some scandal among the more gossipy elements of the hospital on account of her Muslim boyfriend, Shiaz (Hridu Haroon). Meanwhile, the older Parvaty, a widow, is being threatened with eviction because a property developer has bought her apartment building and her late husband did not leave her the documentation that would prove her resident’s right to remain, or at least to get compensation.
Cannes film festival Gilles Lelouche’s new movie aims for a Springsteenesque blue-collar energy but buckles under the weight of its own naivety
Gilles Lelouche’s new film is a giant operatic crime drama of star-crossed lovers and hurt feelings; it’s very French, but aiming for some blue-collar Springsteen energy. There are some good performances, and a very serviceable armed robbery scene. But Beating Hearts suffers from a lack of subtlety and bloat, with an increasingly insistent cry-bully sensitive-macho ethic, and a colossally inflated final section belatedly reassuring us of the film’s belief in the power and importance of love. In the end it is sentimental and naive, particularly about the legal consequences of beating your husband half to death in a phone box, however abusive he has been. And I had a strange taste in my mouth after a late scene in which the heroine, working on the checkout of a supermarket where her boyfriend is employed in the loading bay, coolly tells the obnoxious manager who’s been yelling at him for lateness, that her man is an ex-con who could go around to his house to scare him and his family if he wished. (Is the audience supposed to give a pro-underdog cheer?)
Lelouche, with co-writers Audrey Diwan, Ahmed Hamidi and Julien Lambroschini, has adapted Irish author Neville Thompson’s 1997 novel Jackie Loves Johnser OK?, transplanting the action from Ballyfermot near Dublin to a northern French town dominated by its oil refinery. Clotaire is a tough kid from the neighbourhood; he is played by Malik Frikah as a teen and later by François Civil as a grownup gangster. He and his other dropout mates amuse themselves by hanging around shouting facetious abuse at the girls getting off the school bus in the morning; this includes Jackie, played by Mallory Wanecque and later by Adèle Exarchopoulos. They meet-cute when she fearlessly stands up to him and talks back; there is a spark and soon they are deeply in love, with badass Clotaire doing wild and crazy things like stealing a box of Jackie’s favourite kind of pudding for her from the food wholesaler’s van.
While Jackie works hard at her studies, Clotaire gets involved with a gang run by scary drug dealer La Brosse (Benoît Poelvoorde) and he winds up going to jail for 10 years, taking the rap for La Brosse’s son shooting a security guard; he only got caught because he hung back while the others made their getaway, nobly trying to revive the fatally injured man. Of course, he loyally keeps quiet and does his time, but feels he is the innocent, injured party. No-one points out to him that as an armed member of a gang collectively committed to violent crime his innocence isn’t quite as pristine as all that. He comes out to find La Brosse’s creepy son running the show and Jackie now married to a beta-male salaryman, trying to convince herself she’s happy – and his emotions boil over.
The first act of the film has verve, showing the teen destinies of Jackie and Clotaire at first thrillingly united in rebellion and romance. The next act shows Clotaire using his inside knowledge of the oil refinery (where his father had just been laid off) to help La Brosse steal the wage delivery; it’s the apex of his criminal career, and that too has energy and punch. But then his post-prison life becomes uglier and meaner and then very unconvincing about what happens when you have a romantic road-to-Damascus change of heart about your criminal career. (The police might still want to question you about your recent unfinished criminal dealings, and your former colleagues in crime will be nervous about what you might say to them.) Civil and Exarchopoulos (and Frikah and Wanecque) give it everything they’ve got and that is a great deal. But this can’t prevent Beating Hearts being an unsatisfying experience.
Glen Powell plays a mild-mannered professor posing as a contract killer to catch would-be criminals in this diverting noir comedy loosely based on a true story
For this thoroughly entertaining comedy thriller, Richard Linklater finds the distinctive and weirdly uncomplicated register of sunny geniality that he so often gives us – when he’s not working on more demanding movies like Boyhood or the Before series. And yet the question of criminal violence presented in terms of goofy unreality gives this film the flavour of something by the Coen brothers.
It is loosely based on the true story of Gary Johnson, an undercover law enforcement officer in Houston, Texas. Johnson specialised in posing as a “hitman” in exotic disguises, setting up meets with people who wanted other people offed, secretly taping them while they said so explicitly leading to them being charged with conspiracy to murder, while always at risk of having the charge overturned due to entrapment.
Cannes film festival A young man on the run from a mob boss lands an unlikely job in a brutally functional love motel and starts a passionate affair with the manager’s wife
As motel names go, it’s certainly more portentous than “Bates”. But destiny of a sort, shaped by class and money and family abuse, is waiting for the hero and heroine of this movie. This is an erotic noir thriller from Karim Aïnouz; a noir lit mostly by bright sunshine, shot with garish glee by Hélène Louvart. It takes place in a brutally functional love motel near the beach in the north-eastern Brazilian state of Ceará; this is a place from which the couple are fated to be expelled naked, like Adam and Eve from the Garden of Eden.
Motel Destino is co-written by Wislan Esmeraldo and Mauricio Zacharias and directed by Aïnouz who had a film in the Cannes competition just last year, an atypically florid historical costume drama called Firebrand, with Jude Law as the fleshily hindquartered Henry VIII. This is a leaner, meaner movie and Aïnouz is more engaged. Heraldo, played by Iago Xavier, is a young guy employed by a drug-dealing mob matriarch along with his brother, who is trying to dissuade him from his plans to leave the neighbourhood and try his luck in Sāo Paulo.
Cannes film festival Miguel Gomes’s beguiling and bewildering story follows a jittery fiance fleeing his intended across the British empire, and her hot pursuit
Once again, Portuguese auteur Miguel Gomes delivers a film in which the most complex sophistication coexists with innocence and charm. It is at once very worldly and yet unworldly – in fact almost childlike at times. It is elegant, eccentric and needs some time to be indulged. The British characters are played by Portuguese actors speaking Portuguese, except for a few rousing choruses of the Eton Boating Song, which is in English. (There is more literal casting for other nationalities.) And yes, it is six parts beguiling to one part exasperating. But quite unlike any other film in the Cannes competition, it leaves you with a gentle, bemused smile on your face.
The story, co-written by Gomes, could be adapted from something by Somerset Maugham, but is in fact an original screenplay. (I was also reminded of Jane Gardam’s colonial novels or Evelyn Waugh.) In colonial Burma during the first world war, Edward (Gonçalo Waddington) is a minor British functionary in Rangoon, unhappily waiting for the arrival of the London boat, on which is the woman to whom he has for seven years been engaged: Molly (Crista Alfaiate). But Edward gets cold feet and before Molly arrives, he flees to Singapore, where he runs into his fiance’s rackety cousin in the bar of the Raffles hotel, and allows this seedy and excitable man to believe that his own extraordinary, furtive behaviour has something to do with spying.
Living like a hobo, Edward goes on to Bangkok, Saigon, Manila and Osaka, from where he is expelled by Japanese authorities for his suspected connection with US naval intelligence. Then he goes to Shanghai, Chongqing and Tibet where he sees pandas in the trees and meets an opium-addicted British consul who tells him the empire is finished and that westerners will never understand the oriental mind. But the formidable Molly is hot on his trail and not to be deterred.
Cannes film festival The heroine is a victim of her own beauty in this exercise in languorous image-making that is too conceited to allow any emotional investment
Paolo Sorrentino, for over 20 years one of the most vibrant and distinctive film-makers, is coming close to self-parody with this new film, which conceitedly announces its own beauty at every moment and finally drifts into an unearned elegiac torpor. It’s an exercise in style, with much bikini-clad gorgeousness and languorous image-making. There are some very exotic touches and though the camera movements are less hyperactive and angular than in his early work, this does not necessarily signal a new maturity; the lessening of flourishes might simply expose something rather facile.
We are in permanently sunny Naples and Parthenope, played by Celeste Dalla Porta with an unchanging Mona Lisa smile, is a young woman from a well-off Neapolitan background who is haunted by a tragic incident in her past, when her two older brothers were both incestuously obsessed by her beauty. Now she is destined possibly to be an academic anthropologist, as her professor (Silvio Orlando) is profoundly impressed by her intellectual brilliance. He himself is a shy, divorced man living with his son, who is unseen and evidently has some kind of burdensome medical condition. Yet when Parthenope finally does lay eyes on this son, and reacts with spiritual rapture, it is one of the film’s most tiresome and fatuous moments of sub-magic-realism.
Cannes film festival Sean Baker’s tragicomedy features Madison as an escort betrayed by a bratty oligarch’s son who she marries in a film that offers a more realistic take than Pretty Woman
What would Pretty Woman look like if it bore the smallest resemblance to the reality of sex work? Maybe something like this, Sean Baker’s amazing, full-throttle tragicomedy of romance, denial and betrayal. It’s a non-love story which finds its apex in a Las Vegas wedding chapel in the middle of the night and then, with a terrible inevitability, slaloms downwards into the most extraordinary, cacophonous uproar of recrimination unfolding in what is more or less real time. The hangover outlasts the party by many days.
The heroine is Anora, though she prefers Ani, a New York escort and table dancer played with vocal snap and physical grace by Mikey Madison (Manson groupie Susan “Sadie” Atkins in Quentin Tarantino’s Once Upon a Time in Hollywood). One night, the club manager comes into the women’s dressing room and says a high-roller is out there, asking for a dancer who can speak Russian. Ani, who is from an Uzbek background and whose grandmother spoke Russian, volunteers.
Cannes film festival Seven world leaders – including Charles Dance’s dozy US president – are trapped in a forest in this amusing but bizarre apocalyptic comedy
Cate Blanchett has supplied the strangest moment of this year’s Cannes film festival; for Brits of a certain age, anyway. Her character reverently invokes the name of the late Roy Jenkins, Labour grandee and former chancellor of both the exchequer and Oxford University. Blanchett plays a fictional German chancellor called Hilda Ortmann who mentions Jenkins as the first president of the European Commission allowed to attend a G7 summit (which, as political trivia connoisseurs would say, is “one for the heads”.) Perhaps in her next film Blanchett can do a big speech about Peter Shore.
Rumours is an amusing drawing-room absurdist comedy, co-written and directed by Canadian film-maker Guy Maddin with his longtime collaborators, the brothers Evan and Galen Johnson. The title is inspired by the 1977 Fleetwood Mac album, because of the emotional crises that are said to have accompanied its recording. The setting is a forest in the German town of Dankerode in Saxony where a fictional G7 summit is taking place. Seven government heads have gathered to discuss an unspecified (but apparently ecological) crisis and to draft a lengthy and fantastically unhelpful communique which, as Hilda murmurs to her French counterpart, President Sylvain Broulez (Denis Ménochet), should be worded vaguely enough so they are not committed to any specific action.
The US president Edison Wolcott is ageing and somnolent; he is played by Charles Dance, confusingly with his own English voice, and the script has a joke about Dance being apparently unwilling (but surely not unable) to do an American accent. British PM Cardosa Dewindt (Nikki Amuka-Bird) is stressed because she had an affair at the last G7 summit with troubled Canadian premier and ladies’ man Maxime Laplace (Roy Dupuis), who also carries a torch for European Commission secretary-general Celestine Sproul (Alicia Vikander) and has a moment with Hilda. Rolando Ravello plays the nervy Italian PM Antonio Lamorte and Takehiro Hira plays Tatsuro Iwesaki, the modest, shy Japanese premier.
Cannes film festival Elaborate necrophiliac meditation on loss and longing stars Vincent Cassel as an oncologist who has founded a restaurant with a hi-tech cemetery attached
David Cronenberg’s new film is a contorted sphinx without a secret, an eroticised necrophiliac meditation on grief, longing and loss that returns this director to his now very familiar Ballardian fetishes. It’s intriguing and exhausting: a quasi-murder mystery and doppelganger sex drama combined with a sci-fi conspiracy thriller which comes very close to participating in that very xenophobia it purports to satirise. And among its exasperating plot convolutions, there is a centrally important oncologist who was having a possible affair with the hero’s dead wife and who had also been her first sexual partner as a teenager – but who never appears on camera.
Yet for all this, the film has its own creepy, enveloping mausoleum atmosphere of disquiet, helped by the jarring electronic score by Howard Shore. We are in Toronto of the present or near future in which a wealthy and stylish widower and entrepreneur called Karsh (Vincent Cassel) has founded a restaurant with a cemetery attached: a state of the art burial place where people can bury their loved ones with a new “shroud” whose thousands of tiny cameras can record and transmit real time, 8K pictures of the body’s decay, which you can watch on your smartphone.
Cannes film festival Ali Abbasi’s film presents young Donald as an amoral narcissist, wastes the talent of Jeremy Strong and includes a grisly rape scene that is quickly glossed over
Donald Trump will not be the smallest bit worried by this genially ironic, lenient TV movie-style treatment of his early adventures in 70s landlordism, property and tabloid celebrity – and his own apprentice relationship with dark legal sorcerer and Nixon intimate Roy Cohn, the bully whose connections added to Donald’s wealth and who taught him to lie to others and himself and never admit defeat. There had been many rumours here in Cannes before this film screened about its rape scene, of which, more in a moment.
Director Ali Abbasi has given us fascinating monsters in the past with Holy Spider and Border but the monstrosity here is almost sentimental, a cartoon Xeroxed from many other satirical Trump takes and knowing prophetic echoes of his political future. It’s basically a far less original picture, its ambience borrowed from Scorsese and Coppola – with Donald’s deadbeat elder brother Fred even getting a “Fredo” scene where he gets embarrassingly, tearfully drunk at a big event, like the loser he is. And like so many film-makers these days, Abbasi will keep swooning over the picturesque sleaze of 70s New York.
Cannes film festival Moore plays a fading Hollywood star whose career is set to be axed by misogynists when she’s offered a secret new medical procedure
Coralie Fargeat, known for the violent thriller Revenge from 2017, now cranks up the amplifier for some death metal … or nasty injury metal anyway. This is a cheerfully silly and outrageously indulgent piece of gonzo body-horror comedy, lacking in subtlety, body-positivity or positivity of any sort. Roger Corman would have loved it. It’s flawed and overlong but there’s a genius bit of casting in Demi Moore who is a very good sport about the whole thing. And as confrontational satire it strikes me as at least as good, or better, than two actual Palme d’Or winners: Julia Ducournau’s Titane and Ruben Östlund’s Triangle of Sadness.
The Substance is a grisly fantasy-parable of misogyny and body-objectification, which riffs on the crazy dysfunctional energy of Roger Vadim and Jane Fonda with borrowings from Frankenheimer and Cronenberg. It’s about successful careers for women in the media and public life being contingent on being forced to keep another, older, less personable self locked away. But unlike Dorian Gray’s portrait, this can’t simply be forgotten about, but continually tended to. Fargeat saves up an awful reckoning for an odious media executive called Harvey, but in an interesting way locates her horror in women’s own fear of their younger and older selves.
Costner writes, directs and stars alongside Sienna Miller and Sam Worthington in a big vain slog up familiar old west alleys
After three saddle-sore hours, Kevin Costner’s handsome-looking but oddly listless new western doesn’t get much done in the way of satisfying storytelling.
Admittedly, this is supposed to be just the first of a multi-part saga for which Costner is director, co-writer and star. But it somehow doesn’t establish anything exciting for its various unresolved storylines, and doesn’t leave us suspensefully hanging for anything else.
In fact, the ploddingly paced epic ends by suddenly accelerating into a very peculiar preview montage of part two, with Costner speeding around punching people we’ve never seen before – as if someone had accidentally leant on the fast-forward button and we got to watch the whole of the second section in 25 seconds.
It certainly starts at a gallop. The various plot strands in Montana, Wyoming and Kansas entwine around a new white pioneer settlement in the 1860s American west, called Horizon, attracting any number of hardy or naive souls who don’t know or haven’t been told that the Apaches will not surrender this territory without a fight.
After a mysterious attempted slaying of a man in a remote shack (the storyline which is subject to the most conspicuously deferred explanation) we witness, on one terrible night, apaches attacking the Horizon settlement and burning it to the ground, killing many, and making a widow of a homesteader’s wife: Frances (Sienna Miller) leaving her children fatherless. It is a genuinely gripping sequence.
A retaliatory raiding party is organised by vindictive trackers who don’t care if they capture the actual apaches responsible – just any native Americans – to get the bounty cash. They are reluctantly permitted to do by the Unionist soldiers, exasperated by the existence of the Horizon township which is situated in open country almost impossible for them to defend.
They are led by modest, handsome First Lt Trent Gephardt (Sam Worthington) who supposedly experiences a romantic connection with Frances – and Miller has to pivot her character on a dime from the grief and horror of seeing her husband killed, to a state of simpering, skittish flirting with hunky Trent.
Meanwhile, the apaches are deeply divided about how to handle the thread from the settlers; hotheaded young Pionsenay (Owen Crow Shoe) is furious at his father’s lack of direct action.
Another plot strand has a gruelling wagon train led by Matthew Van Weyden (Luke Wilson) having to deal with food and water shortages, the ever-present risk of attack and a couple of lazy entitled Brits who won’t pull their weight.
Cannes film festival Eduard Limonov’s bizarre career, from rebel émigré writer in New York to leader of a fascistic, militaristic political group, is told with gusto by Kirill Serebrennikov
Fascism, punk, euphoria and despair … it’s all here, or mostly, in this hilarious biopic of Eduard Limonov, the rock’n’roll émigré Russian writer and patriot-dissident who wound up poverty-stricken in New York at about the same time as Sid Vicious. Limonov (a pen name taken from the Russian word “limonka”, meaning lime but also slang for grenade) became an angry bohemian, a sexual outlaw, a celebrated adulte terrible in French literary circles in the 80s, railing against the prissy liberals and mincing hypocrites. Then he returned to Russia and became the leader of a violent group called the National Bolshevik Party. Tactfully, nobody here points out the similarity to “national socialist party”. It was if someone had given Michel Houellebecq a machine gun.
Ben Whishaw gives a glorious performance as Limonov - funny, dour, crazy, sexy, boiling with unhappiness and apparently bipolar (although this diagnosis is something else that doesn’t seriously occur to anyone). And maybe always, at the back of his mind, worried that his writing is not good enough to make him immortal, and that posing, PR, situationist outrage and political violence are his real vocation. Inevitably his autobiographical fictions are compared by a New York publisher to Travis Bickle in Taxi Driver (Limonov says he hasn’t seen it), but he winds up being a grizzled conflation of Ed Norton and Brad Pitt in Fight Club.
Cannes film festival Noémie Merlant’s first film as a director is relentlessly silly, self-indulgent and unsuited to its themes of misogyny and sexual violence
Here to prove that “actor project” movies are always the ones with the dodgiest acting is the otherwise estimable French star Noémie Merlant who presents her writing-directing debut in Cannes, with herself in a leading role and Céline Sciamma on board as producer and credited as script collaborator. It’s got some funny moments and there’s a great scene in a gynaecologist’s treatment room whose calm, straightforward candour completely annihilates all those other coyly shot gynaecologist scenes you’ve ever seen in any movie or TV drama. And the opening sequence is very dramatic, centring on a woman whose story is sadly neglected for the rest of the film in favour of the younger, prettier people.
But I have to say that the film is relentlessly silly, self-indulgent and self-admiring with a certain tiring kind of performer narcissism, always tending towards a jangling tone of celebratory affirmation which can’t absorb or do justice to the themes of misogyny and sexual violence that this film winds up being about. The cod-thriller scenes of corpse disposal do not convince on a realist level (though given that these corpses keep coming back as unfunny ghosts, a realist level is not needed) and do not work as comedy either.
Cannes film festival A thoroughly implausible yarn about a Mexican cartel leader who hires a lawyer to arrange his transition is carried along by its cheesy Broadway energy
Anglo-progressives and US liberals might worry about whether or not certain stories are “theirs to tell”. But that’s not a scruple that worries French auteur Jacques Audiard who, with amazing boldness and sweep, launches into this slightly bizarre yet watchable musical melodrama of crime and gender, set in Mexico. It plays like a thriller by Amat Escalante with music and lyrics by Lin-Manuel Miranda, and a touch of Almodovar.
Argentinian trans actor Karla Sofia Gascon plays Juan “Manitas” Del Monte, a terrifyingly powerful and ruthless cartel leader in Mexico, married to Jessi (Selena Gomez), with two young children. Manitas is intrigued by a high-profile murder trial in which an obviously guilty defendant gets off due to his smart and industrious lawyer Rita (Zoe Saldana); she is nearing 40 and secretly wretched from devoting her life to protecting unrepentant slimeballs, who go on to get ever richer while she labours for pitiful fees. Manitas kidnaps Rita and makes her an offer she can’t refuse: a one-off job for an unimaginably vast amount of money on which she can retire.
The 20-year failed romance between a singer and a dodgy music promoter becomes the vehicle for director Jia Zhangke’s latest exploration of China’s momentous recent history
As so often in the past, Chinese film-maker Jia Zhangke swims down into an ocean of sadness and strangeness; his new film is a mysterious quest narrative with a dynamic, westernised musical score. It tells a human story of a failed romance spanning 20 years, and brings this into parallel with a larger panorama: the awe-inspiring scale of millennial change that has transformed China in the same period, a futurist fervour for quasi-capitalist innovation that has turned out to co-exist with some very old-fashioned state coercion.
Caught by the Tides reflects with a kind of numb astonishment at all the novelties that the country has been required to welcome, all the vast upheavals for which the people have had to make sacrifices. The film shows us the mobster-businessmen who have done well in modern China, the patriotic ecstasy of Beijing getting picked to host the 2008 Olympic Games, the creation of the Three Gorges hydroelectric dam which meant so much unacknowledged pain for the displaced communities. (This latter was the subject of Jia’s Venice Golden Lion winner Still Life in 2006.) And finally of course there is the misery of the Covid lockdown.
Cannes film festival Completed just before his assisted death, the French New Wave master director talks through his ideas as illustrated in his hand-drawn scrapbook
Here is an intriguing footnote to Jean-Luc Godard’s extraordinary career - a docu-textual movie collage lasting just under an hour in two parts, or maybe two layers, completed just before his assisted death two years ago in Switzerland at the age of 91. His collaborator and cinematographer Fabrice Aragno calls it not the “last Godard” but a “new Godard”. In its way, this little double film shows us a very great deal about Godard’s working habits, and it’s a late example of Godard speaking intimately in his own person about his own creative process.
Scénarios appears to have grown out of thoughts generated by his last film, The Image Book, which emerged in 2018. Godard sketched out his storyboarded or scrapbooked ideas for a short piece, which would juxtapose images, quotations, musical cues and clips in his distinctive manner. Aragno edited and curated the film from this blueprint, then came back to see Godard and to shoot a brief sequence of the director reciting a text from Sartre to go at the end. This is the first short film we see.
Cannes film festival Yorgos Lanthimos reinforces how the universe keeps on doing the same awful things with a multistranded yarn starring Emma Stone, Willem Dafoe and Jesse Plemons
Perhaps it’s just the one kind of unkindness: the same recurring kind of selfishness, delusion and despair. Yorgos Lanthimos’s unnerving and amusing new film arrives in Cannes less than a year after the release of his Oscar-winning Alasdair Gray adaptation Poor Things. It is a macabre, absurdist triptych: three stories or three narrative variations on a theme, set in and around modern-day New Orleans.
An office worker finally revolts against the intimate tyranny exerted over him by his overbearing boss. A police officer is disturbed when his marine-biologist wife returns home after months of being stranded on a desert island, and suspects she has been replaced by a double. Two cult members search for a young woman believed to have the power to raise the dead.
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