Could there be a better week for Sacha Baron Cohen to release a film called “The Dictator”?

A few days ago, Cohen parked a camel on the Croisette at the Cannes Festival, in what seemed like the first act of a cult of personality. Paring a touch of showmanship, a frisky film, and the spotlight of the festival, the star of “Borat” all but declared himself the worldwide ruler of comedy.

Like many public rituals under totalitarians, “The Dictator” is long on stagecraft but a little thin on purpose. It’s not clear why this film needed to be made or released, except that a strongman has to appear on the balcony from time to time just to let the people remember his power.

Nevertheless, such elaborate escapades can be a source of amusement. There’s a great deal to be laughed at in Middle Eastern dictatorships, like random executions and nuclear proliferation. So in a theater as in totalitarian life, there are moments when a person must laugh to himself. Then every once in a while, that laughter becomes a big public chuckle. And that’s when you wonder if the secret police are on the way.

A dictator must adapt to succeed. Cohen has departed from the comedic-documentary he used effectively in “Borat” and repeated in “Bruno.” There are only so many times you can get away with that formula. “The Dictator” is a more conventional narrative satire, a make-believe tale of a Middle Eastern dictator who gets dumped in New York by a scheming underling and must recover his place in the world of totalitarianism. Faux-cumentary or not, Cohen still appreciates a good fish out of water.

In matters of torture, one should suspect Cohen prefers shock treatment. It’s Cohen’s only tactic. His trick is to go further into bad taste than anyone else would go. Some Arab groups are already offended, not without cause. The movie’s most riotous laugh arrives at the discovery of self-pleasure; it will leave you gasping as well as laughing.

“The Dictator’s” title recalls the Chaplin film, a satire of Adolf Hitler released on the brink of war. Appropriately, there are a few moments of fairly good physical slapstick comedy, alas a silent movie. The “Dictator” is a little like Harold Lloyd meets “There’s Something About Mary.” So get your mind around that one, and enjoy the movie.

Screen Comment is at Cannes reporting daily from the screening room and the press conference. Follow us on Twitter.

The Un Certain Regard (U.C.R.) program was officially launched during a brief ceremony tonight in the Debussy theater. Festival programmer Thierry Frémaux, who as per Cannes’ tradition emcees the U.C.R. premieres, brought the members of the jury on stage tonight before a screening of Lou Ye’s film “Mystery.” Jury president Tim Roth, flanked by actress Leïla Bekhti (pictured), Tonie Marshall (a director and producer), Luciano Monteagudo (an Argentine film critic) and Sylvie Pras, who manages the Centre Pompidou in Paris and runs the Festival de la Rochelle.

Roth opened the evening by clamoring “welcome to socialist France,” though he didn’t get the response he might have expected, at least right away—maybe people didn’t hear him. Everyone in the packed theatre was pretty much silent until he said, “it’s about f-ing time,” and then a lot of people in the room clapped and hollered.

Frémaux then introduced a five-minute teaser of a documentary film made about Sean Penn’s involvement in Haiti, “Operation Haiti.” The “Milk” actor has been on the island since early 2010, right after the earthquake struck. He will give a press conference tomorrow along with Paul Haggis and Petra Nemcova, all of whom have founded N.G.O.s to help with the reconstruction effort.

We should be feel grateful that our most visible and talented actor should have been implicated so enduringly in an event history will probably show to have been one of the worst tragedies of the last twenty years. That the Cannes Festival is giving Penn a stage is warming to the soul.

Afterward, filmmaker Lou Ye and the cast of “Mysteries” said a few words before the screening began.

Every year, awards are handed out to the U.C.R. winners during a ceremony which takes place on the Saturday before the close of the festival.

Judging from the line of people waiting to get into a still-closed Théâtre Lumière (seating capacity: 2,281) at 7:45 this morning the anticipation was high for Jacques Audiard’s return to the Croisette, “Rust and Bone.” It was in this same theatre that three years ago we discovered the history- and career-making “A Prophet,” one of the best films made in the last twenty years. One can’t help wondering if the self-effacing Audiard felt any sort of pressure, this second go around. One thing’s for sure: the hatted cineaste raised the bar too high with that triumph of cinema he conjured back then, his own two-headed monster.

The film is good, very very good, but its characters leave something to be desired. Stéphanie (Marion Cotillard) plays an Orca trainer at the equivalent of Seaworld in an anonymous French city in the south. After a devastating accident she awakes unable to walk. From her pit of despair she calls Alain (Matthias Schoenaerts), a bouncer at a club she used to go to, and a tenuous relationship ensues between the two.

Play the game of anticipation from here, guessing when Alain will grasp that Stéphanie wants more than just the occasional grunt of acknowledgment from him. She’s developed a liking toward him, we guess, although Audiard studiously keeps us in the dark about anyone’s true feelings, but remains undemanding—aloof, even—so as not to scare the guy away.

Schoenaerts’s Alain, a rough-cut question-mark of a man, sometimes alpha, sometimes zeta, trips and falls all over his life and that of a son, until he lands a job as security guard. He’s moved in with his sister in the South of France (don’t get jealous, it’s the wrong side of the tracks she’s in) after what appears to be a disastrous previous chapter (the film opens with him and the kid hitchhiking, and then riding on a train, going through trash receptacles for food). A prize-winning kickboxer, he participates in street fights to pad his monthly income under the weary gaze, at first, of a Stéphanie who will later become the fights bets-taker and impresario, likely.

If you base yourself on “A Prophet” there’s something single-sided, deceptively simple about Stéphanie and Alain’s characters, which leaves you hollow. Stéphanie especially does not evolve significantly from her days as a trainer to becoming wheelchair-bound.

That said, it’s immediately recognizable with “Rust and Bone,” you’re on master filmmaker territory. Production design, dialog, plot, speed nothing overwhelms the other, this ship advancing steadily towards its conclusion. Jacques Audiard may be our most vital filmmaker living today. A great new film, though not one whose characters reach the intellectual complexity of Malik (Tahar Rahim) in “A prophet.”

There are a million stories to be told about post-revolutionary Egypt but they won’t be told by an Egyptian filmmaker.

The narrative of Yousry Nasrallah’s “After the Battle” which he wrote himself and which premieres today in Cannes, held promise: as Egypt is still in the throes of revolutionary fervor an unlikely connection forms between two people from different ends of the social spectrum, people who, under normal circumstances, might not have met. Nasrallah mostly retooled his earlier effort “Women in Cairo,” however, and updated some of the characters leaving others intact.

As it were, the people chosen to perform the main roles seem like they would be better used elsewhere, like on television (lots of good actors on television) their performances uninspiring–it’s hard to care about what happens to them or at their hand. Maybe this was just a misscast film? Like in “Women of Cairo” Nasrallah does not make cinema, at least not something that would recognizable through its grammar or the ability to leave a lasting impression. Instead he combines genres together, mashing documentary with T.V. and fly-on-the-wall reporting. Give us buoyant performances, give us catharsis, give us cinema! The characters and the way the story is told remain pedestrian, never soaring past what the French would call “fait divers.”

To be sure, parallels can to be drawn from Nasrallah’s previous effort “Women of Cairo” and “Battle.” A strong female protagonist who has to navigate the hostile male environment of muslim societies in an attempt to resolve a problem (often altruistic in nature), the instability of men-women relationships with its echo of a society in turmoil, the tug-of-warring between secular Western culture and ancient Middle Eastern mores (with the role of women at the heart of the discussion). So many good elements ripe for poignant drama, so what keeps “Battle” from being a good movie?

Maybe it’s the repetitive nature of certain scenes (women regularly holding their own town meetings to air out the grievances of the day) or the many confused (and confusing) sequences which quickly pile up without advancing the cause of the film.

For holding a mirror to his nation’s plight at the risk of reprisals Nasrallah should be commanded, just like any other filmmaker willing to expose the infamies going on in the Middle East. But “After the Battle” lacks the sense of urgency and spirit that’s expected in cinema and as such failed to make a connection.

If Standard & Poor’s assessed film production values Wes Anderson would remain a AAA-rated cineaste year in and year out. The level of detail that went into every square inch of “Moonrise Kingdom,” which had its premiere here in Cannes a few hours ago, is above perfection. But “Moonrise” fails on other levels. Adult characters wretchedly watch as their kids go about resolving the problems of their day (only to finally prevail, at the very end), and we watch along with them without really ever understanding the whys and the hows of their inertia. “Moonrise” isn’t without its tender moments but its flaws are many.

It’s difficult to get into “Moonrise” because adults don’t get invited to the party. This is a movie for kids about kids. The plot, conjured entirely by Wes Anderson and committed to paper in collaboration with Roman Coppola, never rises above the level of the story books which Suzy (newcomer Kara Hayward) lovingly reads to her pre-teen beau Sam (Jared Gilman) after they escape, her from dull family life and he from the unfriendly boy scouts he settled at summer camp with.

The adults (played by Bill Murray, Frances McDormand and Bruce Willis) seem more like distant wardens unversed in the mysteries of childhood than active caretakers. They do stiff and awkward well, the memo from head office apparently got through. Did Anderson tell everyone during the first cast meet, “I need you to play stiff and awkward. If you’re not willing to play ball, please leave”? It’s hard to achieve chemistry between characters in this way.

The only actor who helped perk things up was Edward Norton’s performance as Scout Master Ward. He’s got game, jumping into action to find his missing boy scout, and yet appears more like a grown-up kid than anything else, sulking alone in his tent when things don’t go his way.

The rewards of “Moonrise,” and most other Wes Anderson films (since he adheres to the same modus operandi), are few and far between.

His films are useful, he captures American life like no one else and transports us into another life state–and besides, we can never have enough real auteurs in America, especially as the old guard steadily declines. But the childlike viewpoint which he reliably assays in all his films is only superficially interesting. You can show the world from a child’s perspective, all the while keeping it relevant to an adult audience. But there’s another problem.

A subplot in which Suzy’s mother (McDormand) is having an affair with the local cop (played by Bruce Willis) leaves you wondering why it was written into the story. It adds nothing to the story except to stoke the flames slightly further when the big dramatic denouement ensues. Aside from a very strong beginning in which scenes relay information to us in rapid-fire fashion and we’re efficiently told what to expect (a very bearded Bob Balaban acts as a narrator and one-man Greek chorus). The score, which was written by French composer Alexander Desplat fills “Moonrise” with stamina and poetry (Desplat is behind the original score for no fewer than six films this year at Cannes). Perhaps the film’s strong musical score is its own saving grace?

An interesting musical fact about the premiering of “Moonrise Kingdom” at Cannes: in a scene early on in the film there’s a Noah’s Ark Church Pageant whose costumes were influenced by “Carnival of the Animals,” according to Anderson. And “Carnival” was authored by French composer Saint-Saens. As it were, Saint-Saens’s opus is also where the Cannes Festival’s theme music was taken from. It’s a nicesymbol to launch the festival with, although “Moonrise Kingdom” was unconvincing.

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Comic book mavens rejoice, for Marvel Studios has concocted a heady and wonderful sensory brew in “The Avengers.” Weaving together the origin stories of Iron Man, Thor, Hulk, and Captain America, “The Avengers” packages a star-studded cast, one that could easily have imploded under its own weight, into a fleet-footed, yet cohesive, plotline.

Nefarious forces from other worlds threaten Earth, led by the sneering and magnetic trickster god Loki (Tom Hiddleston). Their machinations revolve around a MacGuffin called the Tesseract, a dark energy source that doubles as a portal to dimensions unknown. Nick Fury (a growling Samuel Jackson), leader of top secret organization S.H.I.E.L.D., loses custody of the Tesseract when Loki breaches a top secret S.H.I.E.L.D. facility. Facing world-ending calamity, Fury summons the ensemble cast – gee-whiz action follows.

Audiences by this point expect a certain level of F.X. amazement in superhero flicks. In this regard, “The Avengers” predictably offers big fights, loud explosions, and discomfiting scenes of New York City getting disasterized. These elements capture the moviegoer’s immediate attention, but amount to far less than a good movie (sorry, “Battleship”). “The Avenger” transcends the blockbuster bloat, however, with Zak Penn and Joss Whedon combining efforts to forge a screenplay that offers more than colorful destruction. In fact, you may find yourself wanting more of the interstitial moments of dialogue than said mayhem.

As an example, Captain America (square-jawed Chris Evans, spandex included) dovetails surprisingly well into the 21st century story. When the Captain asks if his stars and stripes uniform is a bit too much, Nick Fury frankly replies that “I think everyone could use a little ‘old fashioned’ right now.” This could have just been a throwaway chuckle, but the theme percolates through the story and emerges in resonant moments, like when the Captain orders a few NYPD officers to “establish a perimeter” amidst alien-induced chaos. The officers smirk at first, but after seeing the Captain in action, cynicism gives way to belief.

Similarly strong development occurs for the other superheroes as well. They may not be fully fleshed out personae, but their flaws and virtues are crystallized with a precision that honors their Marvel comic origins. Robert Downey, Jr. reprises his role as a wisecracking Tony Stark; Chris Hemsworth as a nigh-Shakespearean Thor; Scarlett Johansson returns as the Black Widow. In a switch from Edward Norton, Bruce Banner is played by Mark Ruffalo, who brings a subdued, oddly Marlon Brando-like intensity to the role. The Hulk, of course, is a green C.G.I. mirage but while ludicrous-looking, this green giant provides some of the most crowd-pleasing moments, smashing things and people with a ferocity that turns the vicarious into the refreshingly immediate.

“The Avengers,” of course, is not be-all, end-all perfection. The hectic pace can become too much, feeling like director Whedon is rushing us along a series of required steps that get us to not only the ending, but the obligatory glimpse of a forthcoming sequel. And unlike the other recently released Whedon title, “Cabin in the Woods,” the storyline here is straightforward, and thus forgettable. It would also be best not to think too much about the phenomenon that is “the Avengers.” Consider the movie as a global revenue-generating machine with marketing tie-ins that even include augmented reality apps for Walmart, and you may feel more unsettled than wondrous.

Gripes aside though, this is an Experience worth the capital letter. We now live in an age where the icons of comic books can be breathtakingly conjured on screen, from flying aircraft carriers to bow-and-arrow-wielding superheroes.

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What would the Cannes Festival be without a little fracas? Some kind of polemic has been making the rounds of the French media this week concerning the lack of women filmmakers in the official selection at the Cannes Festival–twenty-two films, by male directors all, are vying for awards this year. Things turned nasty when Virginie Despentes, Fanny Cottençon, and Coline Serreau (a screenwriter-director, actress and director, respectively) published a letter in Le Monde decrying the situation.

Their tone is, to understate things, one of derision and sarcasm. And we should consider ourselves (and when I say “we” I mean the editorial “we,” not the brotherhood of men) lucky that they did not sit around a tiny man doll and savagely poke it while doing incantations.

Ladies, women make just as many bad movies as men do. Instead of so much defeatism, celebrate the festival programmers who manage each year to choose the twenty or so best films (out of thousands of not so good ones).

Not ones to be caught discriminating, in their “J’Accuse” the Sœurs Fachées manage to shoot down both the Cannes Festival and the Cesars (France’s answer to our Academy Awards) in flames by fingering both organizations for allegedly not inviting women to the party—at the last Cesar Awards, no woman was nominated in the best film or best director categories.

I wonder about this public scolding. Do it serve any purpose except to highlight further the problem being griped about? What’s the motivation behind this?

For starters, this is France, the country where protesting is a national sport, owing to the fact that socialism has strong roots here (and is stronger than ever from here on since François Hollande was elected) and the union mentality of us against them prevails. Every pretext is usually a good one to stop the presses, dismantle the machinery and lock the gates. And when you’re protesting, no work is getting done.

In their letter the Gallic dissenters declare, “gentlemen like depth in women, but only where plunging necklines are concerned.” This is the kind of cliché, however true it may be, that mitigates any pretense at seriousness. They then lament the fact that women are used to host movie awards and that that’s about the only job they can hope to get. Well, ladies, who do you want to host your next award show, Jack Palance? Yes, I know, he can do single-handed push-ups—but he’s dead (rest in peace, Mr. Palance).

Then they take us back in time to the seventies by bringing up the fact that women’s buttocks adorned posters then, and why would women bother even becoming filmmakers when their natural graces are so clearly in demand? Fair enough.

But if you’re going to write a convincing letter better not reference an ad published in 1976 in your conclusion–it’s a tenuous argument at best. And things haven’t changed much, women still bare a lot in ads nowadays. But your reference to 1976 is pertinent, for another reason.

The year before, France’s parliament voted the Veil Law making abortions legal. Two years later, International Women’s Day was recognized by the United Nations. That decade was the heyday of feminism, great advances were made for the cause of women.

The kind of self-pitying, unconstructive rant that was published in Le Monde belittles these accomplishments.

To the three I say, put your money where your mouths are: launch a fund and start a young women directors workshop, at La Femis (France’s most eminent film school) or elsewhere, in order to present one of your graduates’ projects at festivals.

Or better yet. Make a movie.

And now let’s watch Jack Palance doing one-armed push-ups.