Finally Father Geek gets a smuggled report out of that dark dank Nice dungeon cell that has become home, office, and lab for Dr. SOTHA, our South African Editor, captured by the French in the South of France following the recent CANNES film fest. It looks like Nurse Hollis got him that PalmPilot we furnished her to include in the Red Cross POW package she was taking the good doctor. That and the satallite uplink cel phone seem to have done the trick and eventually we will find out what went terribly terribly wrong after the Doc and Harry parted ways that last day in Cannes... Here's the start of the adventure in SOTHA's own words... we assume...

You know you didn't pay attention to the 'signs' when you find yourself typing this up in a Nice prison cell at 3 in the morning. This article serves two purposes: one to offer a perspective of a naïve first timer at the Cannes Film Festival, and two as a reference guide of what 'not' to do if you ever decide to embark on the hedonistic Odyssey that this festival has become renowned for. Let me start at the beginning:

Given that my medical practice winds down in the month of May, I'm left with a lot of time on my hands. This coincided nicely with Cannes. Having spent most of my money on a failed lizard embryonic experiment (something I refuse to elaborate on), I decided to take a cheap coach ride from London to Cannes. It's a 22 hour drive, but it gives me time for doctoral introspection. So I call and tell the travel agent one ticket to 'Cannes' please. She says, 'no problem I'll send you the ticket in the post'.

First Rule: Never assume travel agents know what they're doing---

The next day I get my ticket, but lo' and behold, it's to Caine - Germany. Since when was their a Caine in Germany? I call back, and reveal her blunder. She says, 'It's not a blunder, there happen to be a lot of people who go to Caine, Germany.unfortunately there are no tickets left for Cannes'. I rush off to a flight travel agent, and ask if there's any flights left to Cannes. 'Only one left on British Airways' says the Vincent Gallo looking agent. 'How much' I ask fearfully. '260 pounds'. I mumble a retort, 'yeah okay, but I hope you know you've just set back the lizard embryonic experiment by 2 months'. He prints out the ticket, and says something along the lines of, 'funny thing, these red boots are made out of lizard skin'. I refuse to engage this non-person in further conversation, swipe the ticket and get the hell out of there.

The ticket says I leave the next day at 8 in the morning.

---Second Rule: Never assume that your mental clock will wake you up in good time---

I get to Heathrow at 8:20 having overslept. The lady at check-in says, 'what are you a moron, the flight's left for sure'. I curse, and I curse, and I curse. Can't even get a refund on the ticket. I slowly walk away dejected, throwing items of luggage at passers-bye, assuming this whole nightmare could've been avoided, if that suicidal jerk at the train station hadn't spread himself over the rails in a desperate plea for attention. I hear the check-in girl's voice from behind, 'Sir, there's been a delay with the flight, the pilot is taking off in 3 minutes, if you rush to Terminal 26, you might make it'. 'Where's Terminal 26?'. 'It's the very last one, at the other end of the airport'. I 'Run Lola Run' it from one end to the other (rupturing a disc, hamstring and vertebrae in the process), and arrive just as they're about to close the tunnel. The air hostess says, 'Thanks for nothing, you sadist'. 'It wasn't my fault, I assumed that my mental clock still worked' I defended myself. 'Yeah, yeah, just get on the fucking plane you sadist'.

Finally, I'm on my way to Nice. It wasn't a comfortable trip, given that the very same Air Hostess served me during my 2 hour flight. 'Oh sorry did I get that coffee all over your pants.Oh Sorry that lunch dish has expired by 6 months.Oh sorry, this cabin zone does not provide in-flight entertainment.Oh sorry, your bag fell right out of the overhead compartment, and we had to search it for weapons, you'll get most of your belongings back.'

I arrive at Nice Airport, and ask one of the Vanessa Paradis looking assistants, what form of transport I can take to Cannes. 'Zeee Bus eeez ze best optioone'. 'Thank you, you're the first person who has really helpe..', 'pleeease get out of ze way, zhere are people waiiting in ze line'. She probably really likes me, but she's just doing her job, so I move off to the bus. On the bus I meet the 'Total Film Magazine' editor, Matt. I tell him how I always leave his magazine in my waiting room for clients to peruse its fine content. I tell him how I've been reading Total Film for years. I even tell him how I once used it to squat a fly. He seems impressed. I then tell him about my embryonic Lizard experiment, and the dude completely shuts down. Not a word from him for the remainder of the journey. So if it's not Coppola, Lord of the Rings, Moulon Rouge or Crush, I'm not worthy. Fine by me, but lizards don't take kindly to indifference.

I'm in Cannes. It's just as I pictured it: nude sunbathers, porn aficionados roaming the Riviera, film posters (but what's up with the ten story billboard for Van Damme's 'The Monk'?), the Palais, red carpet, Hefner's strip ship and .Abel Ferrara looking every bit the homicidal maniac his films suggest. This is too much. I need to find Harry's hotel room, and off-load what's left of my luggage (that bitch hostess is up for some Karma ass kicking.)

I decide to catch a cab, thinking the hotel is just around the corner. I show the address to the non-English speaking cab driver, and he nods affirmatively ' OUI'.

---Fourth Rule: Never assume a French cab driver has your best interests at heart ---

He starts driving.and driving.and driving right out of Cannes. 'Hey what do you think you're doing' I yell. Cue some French fury which soon shuts me up. We take a scenic detour through the South of France, and finally end up in Juan Les Pins and the Les Ambassadeur Hotel. Suddenly the French Cab Driver bursts into English and says, 'that's 250 Francs please'. Suddenly I burst into French and say, 'Excusi Moi?'. 'That's right 250, you understand English, no?'. I sigh and say, 'I understand I've been ripped off.here take half my travel allowance you fink'. A string of 'Merci's' and he's off.

I get to the hotel reception. I tell the Rita Hayworth/Kathy Bates mutation, 'I believe Harry Knowles is staying at this hotel, did he leave me, DR.SOTHA, a message?'. Without checking, she replies with an emphatic, 'NO'. 'Are you sure?'. 'Ahhhmm, Oui, Oui'. At this point I'm thinking Harry's either ditched me, or the staff are in it with the cab driver to destroy me. I go and sit on the couch in reception, and decide to wait it out. Harry's bound to make an appearance, and besides I'm onto their crooked little scheme. Half an hour later, Harry walks through the automatic doors, and I introduce myself as one DR.SOTHA. Harry is bowled over by my infectious charisma, my quite astounding intellect, and my embryonic lizard specimen. We go back to Rita Hayworth/Kathy Bates mutation, and upon Harry's appearance, she pulls out the note and key that was left for me. 'Sorree for ze misunderstanding'. How does it feel to have the conspiracy blow up in your face I think to myself.

Harry tells me he missed the 'Apocalypse Now Redux' screening. I ease his pain, by inviting him to the Coen Brother's screening of 'The Man Who Wasn't There' (organised through Michael Carvaines at USA Films - Thanks man) We catch a cab to the Olympia theatre. On the way there I warn Harry about Rule 4. We end up talking about the site, South Africa, secret Tarantino film (that never materialised), and how Alexandra DuPont is almost certainly in love with me. Once we get there, various people recognise Harry, and begin to talk film. Nobody recognises me, which is understandable, given that I left my uniform behind. It worked out well, because I hate the limelight. All that adoration, love, and beautiful PR women gushing all over you, makes me want to spend more time with psycho air hostess.

Harry and I start convulsing with joy, as beautiful PR woman tells us we are the first audience to see the film. Forget all that crap about me hating the limelight, beautiful PR woman just winked at me. Beautiful PR woman has something in her eye. Like I was saying fame is a fickle ideal. I try to expound on my lizard specimen to anyone who cares to listen in the theater, but beautiful PR woman then shouts to the projectionist, "run the reel NOW" whereupon I am silenced by black and white Roger Deaken images. 'I'll tell you all about it after the screening' I shout to the audience. 'SHHHHHHHH' is the chorus.

THE MAN WHO WASN'T THERE

Here's the deal with me and the Coen Brothers: I have not seen 'Blood Simple' and I'm sorry. I have seen 'Miller's Crossing' which is arguably the best gangster film ever committed to celluloid. 'Raising Arizona' is just pure comedy, and I pretty much laughed my ass off through it, but not as much as 'The Big Lebowski', 'Fargo' was cool and as real as the Coens will ever get, 'Hudsucker Proxy' is competent, but here's where I invite Talkbackers to rape my very soul, 'O Brother Where Art Thou' is disappointing considering their previous efforts. I know the majority of the world love this little 'offbeat' gem, but I just wasn't taken by it. Maybe you had to live and breathe Sturges to really get it, but I just didn't. Clooney was funny, but it just felt like a throwaway piece of corn. There I said it, I don't think it's a particularly great film, or even a good film. It's best enjoyed during a Sunday matinee screening on a double bill with Gene Wilder's 'Hanky Panky'. Remember that's just my (well-informed) opinion.

So here's the plot: Ed Crane (Billy Bob Thornton) is a small time barber, working in a shop owned by his wife's brother (Badalucco). Crane is living an apathetic existence, where life just seems to drift by in cigarette minutes. His wife, Doris, (Francis McDormand) is having an affair with the rich owner (James Gandolfini) of a local department store. Crane desperately wants a way out of this mournful way of life. The thing is he's not very bright, and if you did a Jennifer Lopez and entered the man's mind, you'd probably just sit around watching a painfully sad man scrutinising various back and side haircut options. Then one day Creighton Toliver (Jon Polito), a stranger who happens to turn up at the barber shop, offers Crane a proposition. If Crane can come up with $10,000 they can get into the burgeoning dry-cleaning business as equal partners. Crane has what at first seems like a great idea to raise the money, by blackmailing Gandolfini's character. This extortion triggers an unexpected chain of events that has woeful consequences for everyone involved. Crane ends up killing Gandolfini's character in a grizzly encounter at his office, then Doris is arrested for the murder, and later commits suicide after admitting to the embezzlement. Crane begins to realise that his scheme hasn't quite worked out the way he planned. He then attempts to salvage whatever's left of his broken life by encouraging the music talents of a young and very beautiful woman (Scarlett Johansson - drooool.) Then there's some extra terrestrial sub-plot that comes and goes in sequences. You ever seen a film noir with flying space-crafts as one of it's subtexts? Well you will now. More complications ensue, but that's your plot in a nutshell.

Billy Bob Thornton looking like a gaunt Richard Dean Anderson (look close you can't miss it), plays it low-key, which is to say perfect. The dude is not a particularly interesting protagonist. There's not a whole lot going on in his head, he just knows that there's more to life than shaving hair, and being the victim of a lifeless marriage. Thornton smokes and smokes and smokes it up in every scene (after-all we are in a film-noir/black and white world.) --- Sidenote: According to Harry, Thornton is not a smoker, and in retrospect never inhales once in a scene (well maybe once.)--- This really is a great performance. I can just picture the Coen Brother's on the set, "Billy, clear your head, think of nothing, stare out into space, restrain facial expressions please", and damn if the dude doesn't pull it off. The Coens use a clever device with his character, for 99% of his scenes he is smoking, it's his main pre-occupation, but there is one scene where he is not allowed to smoke, and for the first time bursts into a hilarious monologue where he tries to convince the delicious Johansson into pursuing her piano playing career. I guess in a way he reminds me of Turturo's character in 'Barton Fink' in that he is also emotionally impotent. Thornton should be given the American equivalent for knighthood, after-all he is married to Angelina Jolie, and he's a pretty good actor too.

Francis McDormand is the female version of Philip Seymore Hoffman. She doesn't seem capable of a bad performance. Try as she might, she just can't get away from the 'I'm always brilliant' stereotype. With frustration creeping in at the constant accolades levelled at her, I bargain that she now takes up an acting role opposite Jean Claude Van Damme to prove the critics wrong. 'I told you I was shit', she'll be telling Total Film magazine after the premiere. I can sympathise. Anyway, she delivers yet another (yawn) brilliant performance opposite Angelina Jolie's husband. She actually looks damn fine in this too. She's usually in a body-hugging 2 piece, and usually does all the talking. Francis McDormand the blonde bombshell? You can count on it.

James 'I rule HBO' Gandolfini, is suitably creepy in a small role at the beginning of the film. He plays a slimy department store owner who is having an illicit affair with Angelina Jolie's husband's wife. I'm sorry, but this guy is Tony Soprano, and as far as I'm concerned this was Tony Soprano playing a slimy department store owner. As far as I'm concerned there is no James Gandolfini. It's just another name that Tony Soprano assumes to avoid the tax-man. So when you see the credits in the beginning, don't be fooled when it says starring, 'James Gandolfini', the Coen Brothers are well aware of Soprano's tax evasion techniques and agreed to change the title. So, Tony Soprano was convincing playing a slimy department store owner. Having said that, Tony Soprano in real life would never succumb to a stab wound to the neck, which is how Angelina Jolie's husband kills him in this fictitious film.

Tony Shalhoub is a fantastically quirky creation who plays the best lawyer in town, hired by Crane (aka Thornton aka Angelina Jolie's husband) to defend his wife against the murder charges brought against her. Shalhoub shines in the role, twisting the events of the murder to suit his case with a gleeful abandon. His whole take on 'perspective' and how one answer only leads to a thousand questions is hysterical. It's a typically outlandish Coen Brother's creation and Shalhoub does it justice.

Scarlett Johansson next to Alexandra DuPont is the love of my life. ---Big deal, she had a part in the Horse Whisperer and now she has a small part in this film. Get over it.--- I won't get over it, because I have maintained that since her part in the Horse Whisperer, this is a star in the making. I'm talking like Kirsten Dunst/Christina Ricci/Winona Ryder break out material here. Oh go ahead make fun of my wild prediction, but a few years down the line, when she's donating a kidney to my institution because she's already conquered the world of film and now wants to do charity work, you'll be retracting statements for a living. Yes, she's absolutely wonderful in this. She's probably in the funniest and most unexpected scene in the film too. If you don't want to know, then skip the next three lines. ......... She tries to give Angelina Jolie's husband a blow job while he's operating a moving vehicle, and it sends them skywards into a picturesque field. Scarlett, I do give a damn.

Roger Deakin's photography is absolutely God awful..catch your breaths, I'm just kidding. It's just that everyone who's seen the film has been waxing on about how great the cinematography is. They're right. You see I'm a provocateur. It really breaks my heart when I have to agree with the masses. The cinematography is gorgeously shot in black and white, in a kind of subtle spoof of film noir's of the past. If you're an expert on the genre you'll recognise the acute angles, the menacing shadows, and the artistry of the sumptuously staged set pieces. Deakin's brings Circa 1949 Santa Rosa, California to life. I suppose this is a tip of the hat to Hitchcock's 'Shadow of a Doubt', which was also set there. Costume design by Mary Zophres should also receive high praise (specifically that two piece that McDormand squeezes into.)

Finally, the Coen Brothers don't disappoint with this ambitious tale of listlessness gone awry. Their writing bravura has not diminished (discounting 'O Brother Where Art Thou' ofcourse), and some lines of dialogue should be wrapped up and cryogenically frozen for distant civilisations to enjoy. All the quirky, eccentric, oddball, idiosyncrasies that the Coen Brother's thrive on are here for all to enjoy. The film does tend to idle along sluggishly at points, with the 116 minute running time feeling more like 3 hours. However, given that you're seeing these events unfold through a strangely mundane protagonist, I guess makes sense aesthetically if not always engagingly. 'The Man Who Wasn't There' mostly reminds me of 'Barton Fink', stylistically and thematically (gimme a break I don't get to use filmic references often in the wards.) They both reveal their stories in elegiac episodes, and their main characters are both ill at ease at breaking through the barrier firmly lodged in their heads. I like 'Barton Fink' better, but 'The Man Who Wasn't There' will age gracefully.

Great, the movie's over, and I can now expound on my lizard experiment to the audience. Everyone suddenly rushes through the doors, leaving me and Harry to contemplate why. I put it down to minute scheduling, and we take another long-winding cab ride through the South of France to the Les Ambassadier Hotel. Rita Hayward/Kathy Bates mutation says, 'I hoope you had a niice day, weee want the best for our residents'. 'Sure you do', I respond ironically.

I must stop typing now, because a French Warden has alerted the inmates that it's time for Jester hour. Each inmate has 5 minutes to come up with a funny sketch/routine for the owner of the prison. If he likes you, you get to go back to your cell. If he doesn't (like a Gerard Depardieu impersonator yesterday) you get shot. Apparently these are legitimate rules and regulations enforced by King Henry some 500 years ago. Trust the French to stick with tradition.

If you think day one was nothing more than a comedy of errors, wait till you get a load of day 2, where things started to get dark and sinister.

DR.SOTHA REVO AND OUT