The Palme d'Or has been awarded. The Cannes circus is now over, and we can get back to more important, more real, more vital things. Such as ? The wars engulfing our globe ? Rampant poverty ? Inequality ? Climate change ? Societal violence ? The news ? 

Cinema may well have its share of pigsties (sorry, Babe), gloomy stories, power struggles, domination and humiliation, but there's a whole section of the industry, which I hope is in the majority, that delivers us fucking masterpieces, ocular meteorites that pierce our skulls and kidnap our hearts. Sometimes to trample it underfoot, or to bewitch it, to kidnap it and give it back to us in a thousand pieces. So you see, I still prefer the folklore of Cannes to the perpetual horror poured out by the dailies owned by a handful of billionaires - and now I see some of you wondering whether I've moved on to Blast or Le Média... nay my dear sisters, I'm just a pasionary of the big screen. The one that keeps you from getting bored watching silly series written on graph paper. I'm not talking about films starring Didier Bourdon that are written with the same trowel as the series that populate the platforms. 

I'm talking about cinema that dares, that doesn't give a damn about rhythm, that works in constant surprise to open our eyes and capture us whole. So yes, I prefer this world, somewhat deceptive, a little disconnected. I prefer this concentrate of love and adventure to the dreary news written by journalists who only have the name. Punish me, flog me, nail me to the pediment of the Cinémathèque if you like (because after all, and this is a revelation, I frequent BDSM places), I wouldn't mind being punished in the public square and the world discovering just how much torment I can endure to defend cinema. We have to set an example and fight for what is valuable and brings joy to people. As the Cannes Film Festival draws to a close, it's also the end of spring on the horizon, with autumn on the horizon and winter about to roll in Ferrari-style. That's why, if this moment could crystallize a little and hold its days, I'd be delighted. I'm not going to comment on the Palme award right now, as I'm neither a juror nor a guest at the Festival, and I think that's a matter for those who are there. But I'm going to put in my two cents, because symbolically, I think it would be fitting for Coppola to receive it - I haven't seen Megalopolis.

I remember that in 97 (I'd say) an issue of Les Inrocks in which he was interviewed, and which I was reading on the 96 boulevard St Germain bus, already mentioned this film he had in mind and dreamed of directing. At the time, I was thinking that the guy was burnt out, that he hadn't had a hit in ages, and that he hadn't done anything significant that would have moved cinema forward. And then he comes along with a monumental work that he financed by mortgaging his vineyards and stretching out a hundred million dollars. It takes a certain kind of courage to stake his own fortune just so he can write, shoot and edit what he wants. Whatever he wants. Not worrying about investors and taking the risk of imposing his vision. It seems to me that the Palme, even if his film turns out to be a monumental dud, deserves to go to him. Boldness and courage must be encouraged. We must never stifle dreams, no matter how ridiculous they may seem to some; it's those dreams that are ridiculous in the eyes of life.

Because I couldn't mention Francis without mentioning his brilliant nephew, whose audio fountain you can stand under :