“Is it too real for you?” growls Gang of Four-like punk band Fontaines DC over a twangy bassline on the “Bird” soundtrack as we cruise the streets of Gravesend, Kent, east of London. How is this so real? Piloting an electric scooter is the shirtless and heavily tattooed Bug, played by Barry Keoghan, last seen in “Saltburn” wearing much less clothing. Clinging to him is 12-year-old Bailey (Nykiya Adams), her daughter from a previous relationship (a bit of a stretch, age-wise, but sure).
Ever the optimist, Bug plans to sell the hallucinogenic slime he extracts from the back of a toad he imported from Colorado to finance his impending wedding on a three-month adventure. And despite having an elaborate curly centipede tattooed on his face and neck, he's bummed that Bailey let a friend cut his hair before the big day. He's entering a sullen adolescence like a hot comet and isn't thrilled about having a new stepmother.
It's all in keeping with the studied miserablism of British director and Cannes darling Andrea Arnold (“American Honey”). Each interior of “Bird” is seedier than the last; every door seems designed to be kicked down by a violent boyfriend.
Nykiya Adams in the movie “Bird.”
(Atsushi Nishijima)
Is it too real for you?
Not really, not really. And that's before Arnold introduces us to Bailey's creepy friend Boo Radley, the mysterious main character (Franz Rogowski of “Passages,” deepening his brand of bug-eyed strangeness), who, in a long-telegraphed moment of protective vengeance, sprouts. huge CGI wings that were already painfully suggested.
“Bird” is part of what could be described as Cannes' reality problem. Or so it seems (it's only half the battle) as we ping-pong between screenings of revered directors who leap into the abyss, abandoning their former penchant for verisimilitude. Emerging from the praise for George Miller's “Furiosa: A Mad Max Saga” came the admission, shared by many, that it simply wasn't physically convincing: Too lacquered and digitally refined, the grungy tactility of “The Road Warrior” was long gone. . Any hope that Francis Ford Coppola would reproduce the warmth of his best films was dashed by the sprawling “Megalopolis,” an urban fantasy that recalls Rome as New York and that, despite its delicious madness, could use a little subway courage.
Maybe reality is overrated. It's tempting (but all too easy) to impose a coordinated aesthetic on any edition of a film festival, and early entrants hope to compile their scattered experience of watching multiple films a day into a broader sense of coherence. Still, this was restless work. Many of the offerings in the first week of Cannes seemed like products of the pandemic and, as such, exuded an air of desperation.
Richard Gere and Uma Thurman in the movie “Oh, Canada.”
(Cannes Film Festival)
“Oh, Canada,” full of Paul Schrader flashbacks (slow even at 95 minutes long), is expressly about crumbling notions of reputational reality. A Hollywood lion in a fascinating winter, the ever-watchable Richard Gere plays Leonard Fife, a celebrated left-handed documentary filmmaker who looks like Errol Morris, who, although suffering from the final stages of cancer, agrees to a filmed interrogation by some of his students. more devoted. . You already anticipate that some of these interviews will not go Leonard's way as Schrader's métier, the language of self-critical doubt, finds voice.
Was he a draft evader who fled to Canada on principle to escape military service? Was he a faithful family man? No points for guessing correctly about those two. Meanwhile, a deeper truth emerges, more about the inexorable passage of time than integrity. Gere, reuniting with Schrader for his first collaboration since the exuberant strut of the '80s “American Gigolo,” is a fragile, vulnerable presence here, enhancing Leonard's thick voice and attenuated virility. “I have a temper and a Gemini!” she sputters, clinging to his prize while the rest of his life becomes an invention.
Please, Yorgos Lanthimos, show us how it's done: if we are going to have a Cannes invaded by fantasy, let one come from the creator of “Poor Things” and “The Lobster”. The Greek director has chosen an unfortunate moment to do a faceplant. “Kinds of Kindness,” while exciting its audience with its opening credits set to the Eurythmics' meandering, punchy “Sweet Dreams (Are Made of This),” slacks off into a dull trio of mediocre mini-movies that lack the emotional weirdness that Lanthimos usually has. serves as a barrel.
From left, Margaret Qualley, Jesse Plemons and Willem Dafoe in the film “Kinds of Kindness.”
(Atsushi Nishijima/Searchlight Images)
It's not the fault of the actors, many of whom take on triple duty in three fragile, gruesome stories about, sequentially, murderous micromanagement, cannibalistic survival, and an obsessive cult. The cast bravely launches into the flat-toned violence: Jesse Plemons, Emma Stone, Willem Dafoe, Hong Chau, and a particularly committed Margaret Qualley (who hopefully filed for workers' compensation). The weak link, however, is the script by Lanthimos and Efthimis Filippou, who, despite hoping to return to their dark and suggestive “Dogtooth” days, can't seem to link their usual meanness with any kind of depth.
Lanthimos has never made a movie so gratuitously brutal (prepare for a fried thumb served on a plate), nor has he made one so foolishly obvious, relying on that sinister, jangly piano note from “Eyes Wide Shut” and a playful cast to shoehorn it in. . He is clearing his throat. It's more of a collection of memes than a sustained reflection.
One filmmaker, however, has captured the floating reverie in which Cannes seems lost: Zambian-born Rungano Nyoni, whose confidence in creating a mood becomes clear in the exquisitely haunting “On Becoming a Guinea Fowl.” (Appearing in the Un Certain Regard section, his drama revolves around several others in the official competition.) It begins in the middle of the night, a sequence you never want to end, as Shula (Susan Chardy) drives home. from a party, she stops. There is a body on the road. Turns out it's her uncle Fred. A talkative and drunken cousin, Nsansa (Elizabeth Chisela), shows up and lends him unwanted company.
The film then delves into the rituals of mourning: organizing a funeral, cooking for the bereaved, performatively grieving, all carried out in a state of shock. Nyoni's debut, the 2017 surreal comic satire “I Am Not a Witch,” took a sharp stick to the eye of African mysticism, dragging a solemn girl into unwanted witchcraft while other women remained tied to traditional roles. Here the connection is colder and more disturbing. As Shula enters water-flooded rooms, the film veers toward a trance-like menace, echoed by Lucrecia Dalt's scratchy, experimental synth score.
We also learn more about guinea fowl than we ever imagined, including how this plump species warns the rest of the flock of danger. Shula, lost in her stubbornly vague memories of her half, cannot free herself from her uncle's past. And when the final showdown comes (several women and girls chirp an animalistic warning), the hair on the back of your neck stands up.
Suddenly, Cannes became too real after all.
