Wish me luck.

(photo swiped from Jeff Wells’ Hollywood-Elsehwere, “Make me miserable. Make me damp. Drench the festival. Have an umbrella at the ready or die. Misery loves company. Cats and dogs. Little rivers and flash floods on the streets. Philippine monsoon. Apocalypse Now. At around 1:30 or 1:45 pm it stopped raining and it started pouring, you see. It didn’t come down in sheets, but almost that. Right now there 20,000 people in this town with damp socks.”)

“Folman juggles live action with animation, earth-toned reality with candied fantasy, to spin the tale of Robin Wright (played, naturally, by Robin Wright), a Hollywood actor on the wrong side of 40, gazing glumly at her youthful self on the Princess Bride poster. Wright’s career is in the doldrums, but here comes salvation. The all-powerful “Miramount” studio wants to scan her, sample her and preserve her in aspic. The actor becomes a character, owned by the studio. As for Wright, she is free to step off the carousel and slide into obscurity. Her subsequent travels lead her to the animated zone of Abrahama, where her alter-ego has become the industry’s highest-grossing digital star.

Small wonder the Cannes organisers elected to shunt The Congress from the main competition to the more esoteric environs of the neighbouring Directors’ Fortnight selection. Folman’s film is a queer fish indeed; the director’s equivalent of that difficult second album. The plot grinds its gears and tries on different hats. At times the metaphysical musings lead it wildly off track and deep into the rough, though there is always enough ambition and eccentricity to keep the journey interesting.

Another film being talked about here is Stranger by the Lake. Here, Variety’s Boyd van Hoeij’s says,

“The secluded beach bordering an aqua-colored expanse of water is the stage for both death and desire in “Stranger by the Lake,” the career-best feature of Gallic scribe-helmer Alain Guiraudie (“The King of Escape”). Though it contains explicit scenes of gay sex, this is essentially an absorbing and intelligent exploration of queer desire spiced up with thriller elements after one of the studly nudists goes missing. Shot in lush, deceptively serene widescreen tableaux, this improbable cocktail makes for entrancing viewing, though the sight of ejaculating members will make it an extremely hard sell theatrically.

Set during summer, “Lake” opens at the titular cruising location — one it wisely never leaves, creating an almost Aristotelian unity of time, place and action — as the handsome Franck (Pierre Deladonchamps) parks his car, walks to the beach, strips and goes for a swim. While in the water, he notices Henri (Patrick D’Assumcao), a portly, middle-aged man, sitting far removed from the other, all-male and often naked sunbathers. Franck joins Henri for some small talk before abruptly interrupting their exchange to follow the muscular, mustachioed Michel (Christophe Paou) into the nearby woods.

Was it last year or the year before when I saw Ebert and Chaz walking across that same floor in the Palais du Festival? Then she was smiling. You never saw them apart. Things have changed here at Cannes in some ways. In other ways they haven’t. After four years of coming here I now recognize so many of the faces of people I’ve seen before but don’t yet know. They are distinctive in that European way of letting nature take its course. In America we try to beat back age.

I saw the face of a woman I’d taken a picture of two years ago. When I’d seen her I’d assumed she was a patron, maybe, or a tourist. She stood out because she wears her gray hair unchanged. She is maybe in her mid 60s. And she’s still a journalist coming to Cannes to work the festival. We see what we want to see.

A few of the faces turn my way and briefly flicker with recognition. We may see each other every year but we’ve never said hello. I wonder how long we’ll all keep coming here and not saying hello.

Seeing Chaz on the same day as Farhadi’s The Past amounted to a melancholy that would not be helped by the sudden storm that blew the sunlight away. You’re not allowed to feel sad here, of course. With so many people wanting to attend, and the close proximity of the Mediterranean you’re obligated to enjoy yourself, or at the very least, appreciate the time you get to spend here.

Most of the festival machinery so far has operated smoothly. The only real inconvenience being the unending rain. What most of us wouldn’t give for one full day of a sparkling sea beneath a gleaming sun. By the time Jaws screens on Tuesday for the Cinema de la Plage the sun might have finally come out. Spending the night on a wet, sandy beach freezing your ass off isn’t the right setting for Jaws. But a clear night with a shimmering surface of sea just a few feet away watching Crissy go night swimming? What could be better.

After seeing Asghar Farhadi’s The Past, I spent several hours in the wi-fi room since I’d secured a nice spot on one of the sofas. The chatter in there is usually about saving seats and how annoying it is when someone puts their computer down and then disappears for hours. I joked with a man sitting next to me about it so when either of us had to leave our spot we’d ask the other to reserve it. A minor detail turned into a running joke.

The coffee at the bar poured freely. But no food is allowed in the wi-fi room. It would be among the most disgusting places in the Palais if it were. As it is we junk up the room with our piles of equipment, press materials, empty coffee cups, the plastic spoons they give you to stir in the little straw full of sucre. On the large TVs the press conferences play feeds from the day’s screenings. We hear fleeting quotes from various directors and actors. Most of the interesting remarks came from Farhadi, naturally. When asked whether he is more comfortable directing films in Iran than France, he said that Gabriel Garcia Marquez would never be asked that question. He went anywhere to write.

I had to kill time until the Weinstein sizzle reel event but as the time approached the sun started to come out, to flirt a little with exhibitionism. Not enough to celebrate yet, Saturday was expected to rain all day. My friend, Living in Cinema’s Craig Kennedy was nice enough to attend the Weinstein event with me. My lifelong affliction with shyness usually has me canceling out of attending things like this, but who could pass up a chance to see footage from upcoming movies. Plus, free food and drink.

By the time the rain today had ended, Cannes was beginning to look again like the city it is meant to be — baked in golden light, at the mercy of the gentle lapping of the Mediterranean. Craig and I were drawn towards the water if, for no other reason, to take photos in that light, the magic hour.

Standing there, on the concrete dock, watching the French also drawn towards the water experience this brief sun shower, I looked out at the yachts in the bay. Those mysterious, Gatsby-esque boats are as much a part of Cannes as the medieval city on the hill, the Italian invasion of pizza, the glittering dresses on women, the little dogs, the fog of cigarette smoke and the past, always the past, Hollywood’s past, cinema’s past, Cannes’ past. To be here is to always look forward while still reaching back.

The sea was restless as it coughed out the last minutes of the storm that just moved through it. But what a thrill to see the sun light up the waves. What a thrill to see a French teenager throw his body in the air in a series of backflips across the sand, a sun dance.

For a brief moment I saw what Cannes must look like August, when the French really do flood the beaches for their month-long vacations. It took me a while before I realized how long it had been since I’d heard a television blaring at me. And was that the reason I felt so calm here? In America, you are never left alone with your thoughts. Always somewhere there is a voice on an ad broadcasting the news of the day or the latest anxiety about our diets, our health, our children, our dwindling fertility, our economy. We feast on worry there. The French, not so much.

After drinking in the sun of that afternoon, Craig and I walked back to our flats. My host family had wanted to have a drink with me and I was sort of dreading it. Again the shy affliction, you see. But how nice to sit down with them, have a glass of red wine and just talk. I felt the urge to reach for my phone and check my email but I realized I’d left it behind in my room.

They have a fifteen-year-old son who looks a little like Ben Whishaw. I thought of my own fourteen year-old daughter back home and how much I missed her. Then I wondered if I’d brought her along what kind of memories she’d have built… you know, meeting the fifteen-year-old boy? the beaches of Cannes? Best not to go there. We talked about how computers and games are overtaking our teens and how little of the world they experience now. I guess it’s a problem everywhere.

My host couple had met and grown up in Bordeaux but moved to Cannes a few years back. “Do you like living here?” I asked. The woman said yes, it’s better for the kids. The man paused a bit, looking a little like he missed the action but then reluctantly said with his expression how could anyone not?

I had to say as I headed back to my room, the red wine tugging me down to sleep, that he was right. Being here can produce bursts of happiness that pushes back the clouds and lights up the sea.

Tomorrow would be a screening of one of the films that makes flying thousands of miles worth the trip. The Coen brothers’ Inside Llewyn Davis. All the same, I’m already starting to feel the tiny dings of homesickness. I hope to keep them at bay for one more week.

I decided that if I saw Chaz again I would tell her what seeing her meant to me, how inspiring her mere presence was. She’s moving forward anyway, even as the past wraps in tangles at her feet.

Media people and other types flooded into one of the back rooms of the Majestic hotel. One well-dressed woman headed for a gala screening later that night was pleading with a publicist to let her in, showing her an invite (someone else’s) on her ipad. There had to be hundreds in that room as trays of champagne made the rounds and guests dined on fried fish, pate, and other sorts of tiny hors d’hourves. It wasn’t particularly fancy but it was a nice break from the usual free coffee in the wi-fi room.

After we saw Kidman and Jordan walk in, we were herded into a screening room where Harvey Weinstein stood before the group to offer up their 2013 slate. As we sat down other famous people came into the room and took their seats up front – Fruitvale’s Octavia Spencer was there, with the rest of their cast. Weinstein called on Nicole Kidman to intro Grace of Monaco first since she is a jury member and had to get away to see a film. He then introduced Rooney Mara who was there to represent Ain’t Them Bodies Saints. Eventually everyone who was there in connection with a Weinstein Co film would come up on stage before giving the room over to the clips.

Most of what we saw we’ve seen already, including the trailers for The Grandmaster, Fruitvale, and August: Osage County. We saw new clips from Ain’t Them Bodies Saints, which looks fantastic. We got an extended look at what to expect from Grace of Monaco. Right now it looks hit or miss I’d say. It looked a bit like a tough sell to me but one has to see the whole film, of course. The Butler is also a tough sell to the media crowd. It seems to have staunch opposition already — you know, it’s not cool enough? It looks too Oscary? The real story of who the butler really was and what he did is overshadowed by their vague annoyance at the project. I, in turn, find myself annoyed at their annoyance so I’ll just wait and see on that score but needless to say it has an upward climb already with critics and bloggers and no one has even seen it yet.

The documentary Salinger was also one of the sneak peeks at something new. It plays like a thriller as the filmmakers try to nail down who Salinger was. If you don’t already know what happened to JD Salinger’s life, and all of those tawdry details, this one will be quite the experience.

Once again The Weinstein Co. has a full plate heading into Oscar season, with a couple of major film projects that could be Best Picture contenders. This early out, it’s looking most promising for Fruitvale Station and August: Osage County. There are standout performances like Rooney Mara and Casey Affleck in Ain’t Them Bodies Saints, Kristen Scott Thomas’ startling supporting turn in Only God Forgives, Oprah in The Butler, potentially Kidman in Grace of Monaco, certainly Michael B. Jordan and Octavia Spencer from Fruitvale, and of course, Meryl Streep (at the very least) from August: Osage County.

All in all I’d say the event was a success, and a bit of a hat trick for Weinstein Co, considering they didn’t have the hotly anticipated, unseen slate they had last year.

The Past is the kind of film that leaves you changed by the time the credits start to roll and like everything else in this filmmaker’s style, the credits take their time, disclosing a moment that is as important as every other. Farhadi’s A Separation was among the best reviewed films of the year when it debuted two years ago. That film was about the new and old Iran, about separating from an oppressive culture that could not move forward. The Past is about another kind of separation, how we let go of past loves, how children learn to cope with new families as they pick up the pieces from broken marriages.

Like A Separation, The Past dives in and out of different storylines, filling in seemingly meaningless bits of information until each one is put together like pieces of an intricate puzzle, one that ultimately reveals a vivid truth. The film opens with two people reconnecting after time apart. We don’t know anything about them except that they knew each other once. An excellent Berenice Bejo, displaying ten times the range she showed in The Artist, plays the lost love of Ahmed (Ali Mosaffa) who has come back for reasons unknown. Those reasons take their time to be divulged because Farhadi prefers to have us get to know the characters before we hear of their troubles.

Farhadi never gives any character, or actor, the short shrift, each has space and time to move through the various emotions that wash over them as we find out more and more about why their lives turned out the way they have. Eventually, and by the end, we’ll wonder whether those lives will remain intact or break apart. Rather than boring us with us with superficial resolutions, Farhadi takes us deeper and deeper into the story, finally unearthing the sticky business of love.

The Past is a reminder of what kind of storytelling is possible without an over reliance on focus groups, or studio execs muddying the waters. Farhadi is a confident storyteller; he knows what he wants to say and he takes his time saying it. This gives the actors freedom to explore. They alternate between emotional outbursts and serene acceptance.

Some might be inclined to see the film as a soap opera because many of the dramatic details are surprising pieces of information. But all of these secrets that are slowly divulged were there at the film’s start. It is a matter of finding the right moment to let the audience in on it. That is, perhaps, Farhadi’s greatest gift as a writer. As a director he is none the less brilliant, especially in how he depicts a world so real you feel as though he simply stuck the camera into someone’s private home. Drawers full of junk, unexplained piles of stuff everywhere, absent the look of a set designer. It feels as if you are a fly on the wall, watching the drama play out.

The Past is less architectural than A Separation in that it relies more on the turns of emotion. But like A Separation, much is built on the faulty foundation of a lie. Probably no other filmmaker has so thoroughly examined the powerful impact and subsequent collapse of lying, even when the best intentions are at play. The truth will always give you complete endings to things. But a lie can bring false hope, or misconceived ideas. Undoing that lie is ultimately what The Past is about.

Farhadi’s film will be tough to beat for the top prize at Cannes, the Palme d’Or. This, because it is the kind that justifies this festival, a reminder of the pure power of story. All too often now we have our stories dictated by those who only have audience satisfaction in mind. Few and far between are those that meditate on who we are at our core. It takes wisdom and experience to get there. It only takes a couple of hours of your time to drink it in.