In case anyone was wondering where Mike D'Angelo went after leaving Time's Up New York--and I'm sure that's about, oh, none of you--he's still out there fucking things up for the rest of us. As a fitting epitaph for this year's Cannes, I offer this bit of genius. Boldly, the widely loved Mr. D'Angelo has made a daring choice for his own personal (hairy) Palme d'Or: yes, that's right, after sitting through the latest Dardennes, Hou Hsiao-hsien, Egoyan, and Haneke, he still would have awarded the top prize to Robert Rodriguez's Sin City, because, you see, "for sheer formal bravado, nothing else in Competition could match it." Then he mentions that Jean-Pierre and Luc Dardenne would receive the Grand Prix as consolation. I suppose one could make the argument that the two films would represent two extreme poles of filmmaking, aesthetically as well as emotionally, and that they're both indicative of cinema's capability to harness sensation in wildly differing ways. But then you could also easily say that one is worthless misogynist tripe wrapped up in clunky sub-Romero comic book cum-shots while another furthers one of the most sublime humanist oeuvres in recent cinema history. You be the judge.
Oh really, can I be the judge? Thanks dude. OK, D'Angelo should stop trying to justify his latent adolescent fanboy tendencies by decrying other "fanboy wankfests," and swearing it's not usually his sort of thing. Either wholly embrace your stash of Creme de la Face or Squirters Vol. 17 tapes hidden in those Arnaud Desplechin video sleeves or just shut the hell up.