Beziers, France

Friends: I'd endured the exasperating muddle of Montpeilier's traffic clogged streets in year's past, so I gladly opted for the benign bypass around this Mediterranean metropolis. Even if it meant a few extra miles, it would still be a time and mind saver. After I was about half-way around the city I came to an intersection with only two options--to the city center or to a city in a direction opposite to where I wanted to go.

So I was subjected to another mini-nightmare of urban mayhem trying to navigate my way through a French city of windy streets and less than adequate road signs. But I was pleased to shortly find myself on a bike lane and not long afterward came upon a rack of rental bikes similar to those that were introduced with such resounding success in Paris last summer. They seem to be a hit in Montpelier too. I saw quite a few in use and always by someone with a broad grin, delighted to have the opportunity to be riding a bike and passing the bumper-to-bumper motorists. A brand new tram line was another measure city planners have taken to combat the menace of the automobile, though not to much effect so far. Not even gas at over ten dollars a gallon has inspired the car-bound to give up their addiction.

Though I have no qualms of sharing the highways with the cars, especially here in France where the locals are most accepting of the bicycle on their roads, I am looking forward to a little break from the exhaust and the noise. I will ride along the Canal du Midi starting here for 50 miles or so. The Canal is a UNESCO World Heritage site. I will bypass Narbonne, a Tour de France Ville Etape, about 20 miles south of Beziers, waiting to visit it in July. I swung north a bit yesterday up to Nimes, which will be the arrival city for the stage that departs from Narbonne. Nimes is a moderate-sized city that has hosted the Tour quite a few times in its 100 year history, so it was no big deal to it. There were no banners hanging yet, heralding the Tour's arrival, nor had the Tourist office even hung the Tour's official poster or have any information out yet on the Tour coming to town. Still I was able to scout out the city and at least find the main boulevard where the finish will be held and the next day's stage will start. I also visited the city's famed 24,000 seat Roman amphitheater, built in the first century AD. Gladiators did battle there. Now it stages bull fights, just one of a handful of such places in France. Beziers is another.

I also made a slight detour on my way to the Pyrenees to visit the small town of Baux-de-Provence, about 30 miles before Nimes. It was there that bauxite, which is what aluminum is made from, was discovered in 1821. Bauxite took its name from this town. I was curious to see what memorials there might be to its discoverer. I expected a statue of the man and a plaza at the least in his name. But the only acknowledgement of the town's relation to bauxite was a small, discreet plaque in the tourist office. The small town is much more famous for having a thousand year old fortress complete with huge catapults atop its rocky hilltop. It is one of the most popular tourist attractions in Provence, totally dominating its bauxite roots. The last bauxite mine closed in 1989 and none are available for tours. Nor is there is a bauxite museum, though there have long been plans to develop one. The French have museums for anything and everything from the mundane to the renowned all over the place. That bauxite, a French discovery, doesn't have a museum is quite an oversight, a virtual national scandal.

As I continue to decompress from twelve days of non-stop cinema and continue to digest the 75 movies I saw, there is only one movie that I am truly sorry I missed. It was the French film "Welcome to the Land of Shtis," which played in the market. It had been in release in France for several months and as the Festival wound up surpassed "Titanic" as the most popular movie in French history, not only in money made but in the number of tickets sold. Over 20 million people, about a third of the country's population, have seen the movie. Its popularity wasn't the cause for my regret, but rather a still from the movie that accompanied the story of the film's success showing two French postal workers astride the yellow clunker postal bikes racing one another. Until then I hadn't realized that the film featured a bicycling postman. The film's description in the program just said it was about a postman who requested a change of location and was most reluctantly sent from the balmy south of the country to its inhospitable northwestern quarter. When the bicycle photo ran, the film no longer had any screenings. Word is that Hollywood is already working on a remake.

Later, George

Day 12

Friends: Coming at the end of the festival "The Class" caught everyone by surprise. It was considered just another token French entry rounding out the field of the 22 films in Competition. But no one could quibble with its choice as the knockout winner of the festival. Sean Penn said it was a unanimous choice among the nine jurors. The jury did remain faithful to the unwritten rule to parcel out just one award per film, so its brilliant lead couldn't be acknowledged with an award. But Benico Del Toro as Che was equally brilliant, and another unanimous choice of the jury for best actor. Rare is it that any winner is a unanimous one, so that speaks volumes.

Generally the jury's second favorite film receives the best director award. Last year Julian Schnabel won the award for "The Diving Bell and the Butterfly." The year before it was the director of "Babel,' and the year before that Michael Haneke for "Hidden." This year's best director went to Nuri Bilge Ceylon for "Three Monkeys." I was in full accord with these first three choices. But their four other official awards and two honorary awards were rather mystifying. The Italian actor/director Sergio Castellitto must have been a dominant force on the jury, may be with some mafia clout, as the Italian mafia films "Gomorra" and "Il Divo" won the awards for second and third place. That had to violate an unwritten rule about spreading the awards among countries. Even more senseless was the Dardennes winning best screenplay for "Lorna's Silence." Best actress went to the Brazilian mother in "Linha de Passe." That was more an endorsement of the film than her performance, good as it was. Speculation was Penn's jury would be dominated by political motivations, thus awarding "Che" best picture. That may have happened if "The Class" hadn't come along. But the best actress award bore such undertones. There must have been strong support for Catherine Denueve for best actress dividing the jury, so she was given a token lifetime achievement award as was Clint Eastwood. Eastwood didn't bother to return to the festival to accept, though Denueve did.

The awards ceremony was followed by Barry Levinson's "What Just Happened?" starring Robert DeNiro as a big-time Hollywood producer. DeNiro was there to present the best picture award. He got to walk up the red carpet, such as he does in his movie, as a movie he is behind is selected for the festival, though the person putting up the money for the film, Catherine Keener, threatens to withdraw it if the director doesn't change the ending. It is a fierce battle to get the director to make the change, which concludes with the death of a dog and Sean Penn. It is just one of several wars DeNiro is fighting in the movie. Another is to get Bruce Willis to shave his beard for a role he is paying him $20 million for. DeNiro genuinely seemed to be enjoying himself in this fun, light-hearted movie on the rampant egos in the movie industry and what it takes to get a movie made. I declined to stay to the end, as I wanted to see the Argentinian film "Woman Without a Head" by Lucretia Mortel, her third film after "The Swamp" and "Holy Girl," neither of which I cared for though the high-brow critics love her.

I had been joined by Charles of Facets for the awards ceremony and the following film and we both were a little reluctant to leave it prematurely, but we felt duty-bound to pay our respects to Mortel's film. As with Ceylon's "Three Monkeys," the plot is triggered by a car accident. A middle-aged woman hits an object. It seems to be a dog, but she fears it was a person. The movie is her torment that she may have left someone dead. This was much less obtuse than her previous films, but this too has more snob-appeal than anything.

And that wrapped up the festival. As Charles and I were lingering outside the Palais along came Michael Phillips of the "Tribune" and Patrick McGavin of "Screen" magazine. They had just finished filing their final stories of the festival. They echoed our sentiments about the jury's selections. Phillips was particularly incensed about the award to the Dardennes, calling it the worst of their scripts, the last half a travesty. Ceylon's previous film "Climates" had been his favorite film two years ago. He didn't like "Three Monkeys" as much, but was still pleased with the award. He too had had no forewarning of the greatness of "The Class." We were all puzzled why the jury overlooked the Israeli film "Waltz with Bashir." Phillips said someone asked the jury about it in the post-awards ceremony press conference. Three of the jurors spoke up saying that it was in consideration. As we lingered Phillips took a call on his cell and stepped aside. When he returned he said, "It was the BW--beautiful wife. That's how Irv Kupcinet used to refer to his wife."

I had begun my day at nine a.m. for the marathon four plus hours of "Che." It had been so talked up I arrived at the theater before eight a.m. to make sure I got in. There were about 20 people before me, but not too many more showed up by the time they let us in. Del Toro thoroughly captured the charisma of Che. There is very little of Castro and none of Che's amours, not even his wife. Rather the movie concentrates on Che the idealist and why he was so beloved. The first half of the movie ends abruptly as Che is on his way to Havana, the revolution complete. There is one last scene of him reprimanding a soldier for having made off with someone's luxury car. He orders him to turn around and return it. The second half of the movie, or part two, as speculation is the movie will be released as two separate movies, was Che's year in the jungles of Bolivia trying to foment a revolution there. This straight chronological tale, in contrast to the first half, which hops backward and forward in time and place, was particularly riveting knowing the end that awaited Che. What will become of this movie is anyone's guess. There is great clamor for it to be cut and reduced to a single movie. There is also talk that Soderbergh could lengthen it with a third full length movie of the several year gap between the time period of these two movies. Che as a frustrated bureaucrat, driven to escape the office and be out doing what his heart demanded, could be as important as these two bookends.

After twelve days of non-stop cinema I am happy to have two months on the bike ahead of me. Its on to the Pyrenees.

Later, George

Day 11

Friends: There were shouts of "Bravo" and sustained applause after the morning screening in the Palais of "The Class," a most moving and impeccably realistic depiction of a classroom of 14- and 15-year old students in a Paris school. If there weren't an unwritten tradition of limiting films in Competition to just one award this could sweep best picture, actor, director and script honors.


First-time actor, Francois Begaudeau, who is the author of the book the movie is based on, can't be denied the best acting award for his extraordinary performance playing himself, a teacher who is part master-of-ceremonies, part stand-up comic, part lion-timer and above all a committed educator. He fully engages his classroom of semi-rebellious students, mostly children of immigrants. He challenges them and treats them with respect, while maintaining his authority and his distance. There wasn't a speck of phoniness or cheap dramatic devices that most such films are prone too in this film by Laurent Cantet, whose previous film, "Heading South," starring Charlotte Rampling, made the Top Ten list of Robert Kennedy of cranesareflying.com.


One of the highlights of this year's festival had to be the promenade up the red carpet later in the evening of the 25 students, amateur actors all, for its formal gala presentation. This was a 130 minute movie that wasn't too long by any shot. The French system of education is astonishingly farsighted. One of the teacher's points is that the students must behave in a manner to "make society run smoothly." A few days ago a young French woman tried to butt in line ahead of me, pretending she was friends of a couple of young women. An older French woman behind me immediately reprimanded her. They exchanged a few words, the young woman holding her ground, but when the older woman used the word "morality," she shamed her into going to the back of the line. "The Class" gives a glimpse of the training that the French receive in schools in such matters. I have seen countless examples of the French concern for the greater good in my travels here the past four years. It is one reason that I have returned year after year. It takes extreme talent and commitment for a teacher to be as good as the one in this movie, but the glimpses of the other teachers in the school show that they have a similar regard, though not necessarily possessing the talent of the featured teacher.


Philip Seymour Hoffman might have been a candidate for best acting honors in "Synecdoche, New York" if it weren't for Begaudeau's performance or the disaster of a movie he ended up. Hoffman plays a theater director suffering from one outrageous physical malady after another and one huge mental disability in a hallucination of a movie that doesn't amount to much more than a heap of masturbatory drivel. Charlie Kaufman, writer of "Being John Malkovich" and other such wildly original and imaginative films, fails miserably in his first directorial effort.

Hoffman's life is disintegrating as his wife, played by Catherine Keener, runs off to Germany with Jennifer Jason Leigh and his young daughter. He wins a MacArthur grant which allows him to put on a grandiose production. He wants to do something of brutal honesty. He can think of nothing better than his very own miserable life. He's still working on it 20 years later with his life and the movie unraveling in parallel universes. Hoffman remains curiously watchable, but as one character comments about the play they are working on, "This is tedious, this is nothing."


The star of "My Magic" by Eric Khoo of Singpore also had people calling for best actor considerations. He too was a first time actor, a magician discovered by Khoo. He plays a drunk single father who is incapable of supporting his young son. He works in a bar cleaning up, and quickly downing any left over drinks. His one talent is the ability to endure pain. He eats glass and razor blades, swallows and spits fire, and penetrates his skin and tongue with nails. He resumes his career on small-time basis at the bar he works at, finally bringing home a few dollars. It wasn't always easy to watch his self-mutilation. The movie was a polished enough effort to be included in the Competition category, but not much more than showcasing this guy's freak talent.


There were only two choices of movies at eight p.m. this night and both were shots in the dark--the unveiling of the best film in The Director's Fortnight and in the Un Certain Regard categories. Since it was easier to get into the Un Certain Regard that is the theater I opted for. I had seen eight of the 20 films in its category compared to three of the 22 in the Director's Fortnight, so it was a greater risk, but since I had liked all of them, if I had to see one again, that would have been okay.


Fatih Akin, who won best screen play here last year with "The Edge of Heaven" was the president of the jury. He said there were so many good films this year they made a special request to award five rather than the usual three films. Their first four awarded were "Johnny Mad Dog," "Tyson," "Cloud Nine" and "Tokyo Sonata," all of which I had seen. And the winner was "Tulpan," which I hadn't. A good many people left the theater after the award. Four of the five directors were still on hand to accept their awards. James Tobeck said he had forewarned Tyson that their film was to receive an award. Tyson was in London announcing a fight and was going to mention the award on the telecast.


"Tulpan" took place on the steppes of Kazathstan. Tulpan is a young woman we never see who is the object of affection of a shepherd. The shepherd's father has tried to arrange their marriage but Tulpan refuses, saying she doesn't like the shepherd's big ears. They try again, bringing a photo of Prince Charles with Diana comparing their ears. That doesn't matter. This German production may not have been as good a movie as "Tokyo Sonata," which was given the runner-up prize, but it received extra credit for its submersion into this gritty isolated world. There is a graphic scene of the birth of a lamb, two young children straddling the naked back of their father squeezing blackheads and showing each off to him.

Tomorrow I'll start off my day with the four hours of Soderbergh's "Che," which seems to be the favorite for the Palm d'Or based as much on its ambitions and subject matter as its quality. It may be my only chance to see it in its entirety as there are calls all round to condense it. I have seen 17 of the 22 films in Competition. Unfortunately three of the five I haven't seen are replaying at the nine o'clock time slot tomorrow and a fourth, Eastwood's, overlaps with the second half of "Che," so I won't be able to see them all, as I have managed in year's past.

Later, George

Day 10

Friends: Documentaries are hot. Ten per cent of the films in the market are documentaries, including two that recently played at Chicago's Landmark, "Plant B-Boys" and "Young at Heart," both looking for more distribution. It seems like anybody with a camera these days is making one, except Werner Herzog, who has gone back to feature film-making. Hell, even Madonna had a doc here on orphans in Malawi. She said she would like to have adopted all of them, but settled on just one. Jury President Sean Penn requested a screening of a documentary on volunteers for the tsunami of a few years ago.


Established, veteran feature film-makers are giving the genre a try, as well as nobodies. I saw one of each today, upping my total to 15 of the 68 films I've seen these first ten days of the festival. Abel Ferrera is the latest big name director to go documentary, choosing the Chelsea Hotel in New York as his subject with "Chelsea on the Rocks." This legendary Bohemian hotel is on the rocks because it was recently sold by its long-time owner to a corporate concern.

After his revved-up introduction to the film, I doubted Ferrera could keep his strong, unrestrained personality out of the film. He tries for a while, limiting his presence to only his laughter and some gasped expletives in the background, but then he is on prominent display interviewing and walking around the hotel with Milos Foreman and the former owner of the hotel. Foremen lived there for two years without paying rent as a young director, long before he directed "One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest," because the owner had faith in him, and liked to support artists. Countless artists stayed there on a short- and long-term basis over the years.

Ferrera interviews many of the current long-term residents while recounting the lore of the hotel, even re-enacting the saga of Sid and Nancy with a couple of actors. That was about the most effort he put into the project. This was more proof that making an above-average documentary takes more than just having an interesting subject.


"Marina of the Zabbaleen" was an even stronger example of a failed attempt. The fascinating subject of garbage pickers in Cairo couldn't even save this documentary. There is very little of the garbage picking, as it concentrates on a family that lives in the Village of Recyclers of 30,000 residents alongside the Cairo dump. There is footage of the hard work of various residents sorting the garbage--metal and paper and food for pigs--but mostly it dwells upon the not so interesting everyday activities of a family the American film-makers befriended-- taking their young daughter to the dentist, going to church and so forth.


"Il Divo" by Paolo Sorrentino was far from a documentary, though it recounts the life of long-time Italian premier Giulo Andreotti who was tried for being involved with the mafia. This was the second film in Competition portraying the stranglehold the mafia has on Italy. This highly stylized and dramatized portrayal of the now 89-year old Andreotti didn't please him at all. It does not try to be conclusive as to whether or not he was involved with the mafia during his 40 years as a prominent politician up until a few years ago, but implies that, as that court decided, he was not.


I succeeded in gaining entry to both the Director's Fortnight and the Critic's Week theaters for the first time this year. After failing to get into the Palais for Charlie Kaufman's "Synecdoche, New York" at 8:30 this morning, I zipped up to Director's Fortnight for "Monsieur Morimoto," a whimsical tale about a homeless elderly Japanese artist in Paris. The film begins with Morimoto being evicted from his apartment. He doesn't seem concerned. He hardly speaks any French, just a few phrases ("me wanderer", "no money", "slight perspiring") . He manages every day to befriend some other wayward soul who gives him a place to sleep, though he never stays at one place more than one night. This plays again tomorrow night at 10:30 when there is nothing else playing in the drastically slimmed down schedule. I might actually sit through it again.


I wasn't so lucky with what I saw at the Critic's Week. I went to see the 10:30 p.m. screening of its award winner. I'd only seen two of the seven films in this sidebar, so had my fingers crossed that the odds were with me that the winner would be something I hadn't seen. Unfortunately it was the Bosnian film "Snow." I had seen it, though with just French subtitles. With nothing else available to see, I sat through it a second time, the English subtitles giving a little extra illumination into the very slight story. It was one of quite a few films I've seen whose locations were more interesting than the story.


My big winner for the day was "Adoration." I am delighted to report that Atom Egoyan has rediscovered his unique, slightly perverse voice that he had abandoned in his last few films, buckling to commercial interests. Like his early films that brought him acclaim, though not much money, "Adoration" has an intricate, mysterious plot sprinkled with dazzling Egoyanesque surprises along the way. A high school kid who lives with his tow-truck-driving father writes a story at the urging of his Arabic French teacher, played by Egoyan's wife, about a Palestinian husband who planted a bomb on his pregnant Canadian wife before she was to fly to Israel from Toronto. The incident took place about 18 years before. The student said that he was the child in her womb. The story causes quite a stir among his classmates and beyond when it shows up on the Internet. His teacher had way more motivation that we can imagine for urging this boy, who is way too smart for his own good, to write the story. I don't know if it will win any awards, but I won't object if it does.

Two days to go with the selections greatly reduced. The last day will only be the repeat of the 22 Competition entries along with the closing night film, "What Just Happened," by Barry Levinson with Sean Penn and Robert DiNero. It played at Sundance and wasn't that well received.


Later, George


__._,_.___

Day 9

Friends: There is no denying now at this point, deep into the festival, that Cannes 2008 will be remembered for its less than stellar crop of films. There has been much to like, but no real standouts. For the first time ever Sony has found nothing worth acquiring. Last year it picked up "The Counterfeiters" and "The Band's Visit." I was hoping they'd find at least "Tokyo Sonata" to their liking, as Sony's films generally end up at Telluride, but evidently this Japanese film does not have enough commercial prospects for them. Miramax too has found virtually nothing worth its while, only acquiring the opening night film "Blindness."


In my desperation to find some hidden gem I was less patient today with lackluster efforts, bailing out early several times, upping my total for the day to eight films. I was helped by failing to gain entrance to the Tarantino master class, a 90-minute conversation with a French critic on his career, including clips from his films, in the 1,000 seat Debussy. Last year's subject was Scorcese, and it was one of the highlights of the festival. Getting in line 90 minutes ahead of time wasn't quite enough. But being shut out of that allowed me to slip in a couple extra films. If I'd only abandoned "WC" after 45 minutes rather than an hour to get in line for Tarantino, I would have gotten in, as I came within 40 people of gaining entrance.


I actually should have left "WC", an Irish drama about two wash room attendants one male, a recent ex-con, and the other female, a Russian immigrant who had been forced into prostitution, after 15 minutes. It was clear from the start that what I hoped would be a captivating oddity was a waste of time. The cast was riddled with actors impersonating, rather than submerging themselves, into their characters.


It was a stark contrast to "Ballast," an American independent whose African American cast in a small southern town all looked as if they could have been playing themselves, and with passion. A 40-year old guy who has just lost his twin brother and business partner to suicide can't find the will to get up and tend to their business--a small gas station and market. He doesn't even care when his brother's 11-year old son comes around with a gun demanding money for his crack habit. The boy's mother loses her job when she is beat up by the drug dealers her son owes money to. These three lost souls struggle to get their lives back on track.


"Wendy and Lucy" is another American independent, though with a bigger budget and the backing of Larry Fessendon, with first rate performances all around. Wendy is a young woman on her way to Alaska from Indiana with her dog Lucy to work in a cannery. She's stuck in a small Oregon town when her car won't start and Lucy has gone missing while she has been booked and detained for shop-lifting. She is befriended by a security guard.


I aborted "Confession of a Killer" after 45 minutes so I could make sure to get into a documentary on Nick Nolte. "Confession" was exactly that, a hired killer giving a confession to a priest. This American independent by a young French American director/actor was stylish and hip with fast-editing and split screens and upbeat music that I could have endured to the end, but I was most concerned about seeing the Nolte doc. I wasn't expecting Nolte to be there, so I was startled when my reading was interrupted as I awaited the start of the film when someone asked if they could take a picture of the grizzled, pink-faced guy sitting in the aisle in front of me. It was Nick himself. He didn't bother to announce himself before this market screening in the one-third filled 150-seat Bory theater. I was the first one to be seated, 45 minutes before the screening was to start.


Nolte, wearing a Panama hat, interviews himself, wearing an open-necked white shirt. The questions aren't all softballs either. Twice he brings up his arrest for drunk driving and his famous mug shot, considered the "Best celebrity mug shot ever." Nolte doesn't want to respond to the question. Nolte the interviewer says, "Don't get pissed off, I'm just asking the questions." Later he tells the full story. He tells how in the '80s cocaine was considered an acceptable drug in Hollywood and that he'd snort it on the set off the script as he was prepping his lines. Early in his career he was considered the next Brando. Brando was a friend. Nolte's performance in "Q & A" was one of Brando's favorite of all time. The film is interspersed with comments from actors and directors he worked with, including a bit too much of Ben Stiller trying to be funny. He flashes the People magazine cover that declared him the "Sexiest Man Alive," as if he was forced to, as he tries not to take any of this too seriously, while giving a good illumination of his career and what makes him tick.


With the crowds thinning, as Thursday is a getaway day for many after spending a week here, there were spare seats in the Palais for the first time since last Friday for the morning's competition screening of "Frontiers of Dawn," a star vehicle for French heartthrob Louis Farrel directed by his father. Garrel plays a photographer who falls in love with an actress during a shoot in her apartment. Her husband of six months is off in Hollywood working on a film. She explains,"I got married on impulse. I often do stupid things." That's a forewarning of things to come in a film that goes on and on in fairly predictable French fashion with a lot of blah, blah blah and a dollop of surrealism thrown in. The screen goes blank from time to time as the plot jumps forward. After about 90 minutes, someone applauded after one of these breaks, implying he anticipated the credits to follow, though he well knew they wouldn't. He earned laughs from the audience, appreciating his gesture. There was more applause after the next break and the next. And then as if to spite the end-craving audience, the director ended the movie with a much unanticipated and unappreciated conclusion.


If the film had only ended at that 90-minute mark, I would have been able to see "Able Danger" over at the Grey in its entirety. Instead I had to miss its first 30 minutes. I wasn't too concerned, as the only reason I wanted to check out this Brazilian-financed American independent about a journalist in New York City uncovering a 9/11 plot was because the blurb in the program mentioned the journalist "has to cycle like a maniac" to escape his pursuers. I assumed that would be towards the end. But I was rewarded with cycling throughout the movie, as that is how the young journalist gets about the Boroughs, regularly crossing the Brooklyn Bridge. This semi-campy effort, shot stylishly in black and white, actually had some appeal. With luck, it could turn up at Facets.


Later, George

Day 8

Friends: I was looking forward to "The Delta," a Hungarian film about incest in an isolated waterland, as much as any film on this year's schedule. The director's previous film, "Joanna," was easily the most audacious film here two years ago, an operatic tale of a nurse in a hospital who cures terminal patients by having sex with them. And the early word on "The Delta" was that it was another exceptional effort having won awards at Hungary's recent film festival,

In contrast to the outrageous excesses of "Joanna" this was restrained, minimalist film-making with little dialogue and not a great deal going on, just a lot of nail pounding as the young brother and sister, who've only just recently met, build first a long pier in the waterlands of "The Delta" and then start in on a house. Their affection is much restrained and mostly just suggested. Their living together in isolation disturbs the locals. Sometimes such minimalist fare works and often it doesn't. This is more dull and dreary than poetic and poignant. It was a disappointment, not only in tone, but with its occasional flares of violence.

Mike Tyson wasn't the only titanic athlete to attend this year's fest and to be featured in a documentary. Soccer great Maradonna was also in attendance with Serbian director Kusturika's documentary on him. And next year Michael Jordan could be here as Spike Lee announced plans of doing a documentary on him. Lee is here seeking funding for it a WWII pic he just finished, showing eight minutes of it to buyers. He says there will be African Americans in his war movie, unlike Clint Eastwood's Iwo Jima pair.

Kusturica has an ego to match Spike Lee's and Maradonna's and features himself as much in his documentary as he does Maradonna. Its more like hanging out with Maradonna than giving his full story as James Tobeck did so well in Tyson, keeping himself totally out of the way even though he was more a friend of Tyson's than Kusturika was of Maradonna. They don't even share a language. He communicates to him in English with a Spanish translator. The movie is heavy on music, Kusturika's, an entertaining song by Maradonna about his life story and the Sex Pistols. "God Save the Queen" is played repeatedly throughout the movie, partially to ridicule Britain and their claiming of the Falkland Islands off the shore of Argentina. Kusturika spent a couple of years trying to get enough footage to complete this movie, commenting at one point that he almost felt like a stalker. He pads the movie with excerpts from many of his own movies that remind him of aspects of Maradonna's life. It was entertaining and watchable, but all too much of a vanity project that one expects more from unknown directors.

"Snow" explored Kusturika's home region, the breakup of Yugoslavia. Taking place in Bosnia in 1997 it focused on a handful of woman in a rural area that has lost all its men to the war. The women are struggling to survive and live not knowing the fate of their husbands and fathers and brothers. It very well depicts their life and region and adds the drama of developers wanting their land.

Africa is the subject of the Italian documentary "Maybe God is Ill" based on the book of the same name. This began as if it could be something exceptional featuring the music of a South African singer bemoaning the ills of her country. Her and other's music is interspersed throughout and there is lots of beyond the ordinary commentary. I thought it could turn into a Chris Marker film essay, but that was too much to hope for. It was still very worthwhile. Early on the documentarian's driver advises them not to roll their windows up as they drive around Johannesburg, as the windows of their car won't shatter so easily if they are left a crack open. Among other things, the filmmakers take a portable movie theater to villagers and show them an astounding old Italian movie that I would very much like to see myself, "Miracle in Milan" with people flying over the town's renowned cathedral on broomsticks.

I was drawn to "Absurdistan" not only by its title but the blurb describing it as a battle between the women of a town and the men. The men are lazy creatures who only want to drink and have sex and don't do anything when the pipeline of water leading to the village slows to a dribble. The women declare "no water, no sex," and set up a barbed wire fence through the middle of town to separate the sexes. This farcical tale had the pomposity, silliness and flare of a Kusturica film.

Its always a danger that there will be no English subtitles at the Arcades theater. That usually isn't a risk when its showing a French film, but that wasn't the case with "A Faint Trembling of the Landscape." My French is good enough to make sense of a film if I have to read French subtitles, but not good enough to catch more than a word or phrase if all I have is dialogue. This film was supposed to be about a geological incident that causes the locals of a town to reflect on higher issues. I had no sense of that. I could tell though that it was less than a mediocre film.

Subtitles weren't much necessary for "Liverpool" an Argentinian film about a sailor who returns to his home in Tierra del Fuego at the tip of South America to search for his mother. There was virtually no dialogue in this film, just extended shots of the lead doing the most mundane of things--putting on his clothes, eating and perpetually swigging hard alcohol. It was all tedium. It was nice to have another snow-covered landscape to gaze upon though.

Later, George

Day 7

Friends: Today was a day of unfulfilled promises, but still a couple of finds. I had to wait a week for a second attempt on the lone bicycling film of the festival--"The Field of Stars." The cyclist, a 17-year old aspiring racer, is the last of the handful of characters and story lines to be established in this Spanish feature that takes place in a small coastal town. He appears twice early on, almost as an apparition, riding hard on his bicycle rising up out of a mountainous mist and one other time sitting in his bedroom with a signed rainbow-striped World Championship jersey of his hero Oscar Freire on his wall.

His riding turns the head of an older man who eventually becomes his mentor. Its not until his sister, who is a social worker at the local home for the elderly and who has a couple of suitors, greets him before he sets off on a prolonged training ride that the movie takes up its bicycle theme. We suddenly have an upbeat music sound track to go with close-ups and aerials of him riding a narrow road through the mountains--just what I was hoping for. After he starts training in earnest under the tutelage of a former racer he wins the local junior championship. But the cycling is just frosting on a movie with too many inconsequential subplots--the love story, the fight over an inheritance, evil developers. It was nice to see some genuine cycling, including video highlights of some of Freire's sprint victories, but this was mediocre fare that will never be heard of.

From the moment this year's slate of films was announced, the foremost question was could the Dardenne brothers deliver another of their powerful stories of every day characters under duress that have twice claimed the top prize here. From the start it appears that they have once again with "The Silence of Lorina." The drama is immediately compelling as an Albanian woman, who has paid a Belgian to be her husband so she can gain citizenship, is plotting with her handler to kill him so she can marry a Russian and collect 10,000 euros for a second marriage of convenience. Her husband is a junkie. It will be easy to give him an overdose. But he's trying to kick the habit and she suddenly feels some compassion for him and prefers to simply accuse him of beating her and divorcing him. Her handler does not approve. But she is a woman with her own mind and is determined to save him. After leaving rehab, her husband decides to buy a bicycle to help him stay off the heroin. "I'll ride all day," he says. "It'll give me something to do." I was thrilled to have a surprise bicycle movie on my hands. But we only see him ride off and never again on his bicycle. And then the movie fizzles out. It had a great set-up, but then dramatically falters. Not likely to be any awards for this effort, nor many Top Ten lists.

"24 City," a Chinese documentary about a huge factory that is being demolished to be replaced by an apartment complex, likely receive any awards from the jury. The eight talking heads of the film, five real and three fictional, are all former workers or people who had lived in the vicinity. This was a stretch to have been included in the Competition category. There are a few striking images, including workers streaming into the factory complex on their bicycles, but the interview subjects, other than the fictional ones, aren't very interesting.

The day's two Un Certain Regard films were both extreme doses of unrestrained, ultra-realistic violence and brutality and terror. The young protagonist of "The Bastards" from Mexico is so sinister looking that when he arrived earlier in the day at the Nice airport 30 miles away the customs officials refused to believe his story that he was an actor attending the festival. He was given three body searches and then a police escort to the festival to confirm that he was who he claimed to be. He is one of a group of Mexican immigrants (most likely illegal) hanging out across the street from a Home Depot in southern California waiting to be picked up for work. He is among six selected for a construction job digging a foundation for a house, and then later that evening he and a friend are off on another most unlikely job, though what it exactly is and who employed them is never revealed. It involves breaking into a woman's home. Michael Hanake would have approved.

The violence and mayhem is so realistic in "Johnny Mad Dog" of juvenile soldiers in Liberia running amok that a representative of Liberia assured the audience before the screening that it was save to visit his country. One wouldn't think so after seeing this. These boy soldiers are so crazed they terrorize one and all, even UN soldiers, and don't hesitate to kill, rape and plunder. This was remarkably well done.

"Grown Ups" would make a nice antidote to "The Bastards" and "Johnny Mad Dog." This pleasant, gentle French comedy of a divorced father and his 17-year old daughter vacationing in Sweden was nice, harmless entertainment. The father, a librarian, brought along his metal detector. He is so proud of it he wants to demonstrate its powers to the two women whose house they are staying at. He asks for one's earring and then tosses it in the weeds, and then can't find it. He's not too happy when he notices another vacationer with a metal detector identical to his own. The girl has a flirtation with a Swedish boy and the father too becomes enamored with the women they are staying with.

It was another seven film day though I certainly could have done without "The Listening Project," a documentary by some young American who travels the world asking people what they think about America. It was sheer drivel.

Later, George