“Bill Murray looks old,” one English journalist said, almost conspiratorially, to another at the Wifi Cafe in the Palais des Festivals after the Tuesday morning press screening of Jim Jarmusch’s charming “Broken Flowers.” I understood why he used hushed tones: To speak negatively of Mr. Murray, who began his second career as an indie-film grand seigneur with Wes Anderson’s “Rushmore” (1998), is almost blasphemous. Critics praise the actor for being “soulful,” “melancholy,” “minimalist.” Yet agree with the Brit: Bill Murray’s act is old. What many call soulful often registers instead as sardonic; his “minimalism” rings as little more than boredom.

In “Broken Flowers,” Mr. Murray is in full middle-aged morose mode as Don Johnston, a taciturn ladies’ man who’s made a bundle in computers. Don receives a pink epistle from an anonymous former girlfriend, which shows that the sad sack is the father of a 19-year-old son. Don’s Ethiopian neighbor, Winston (Jeffrey Wright), an amateur sleuth, takes great interest in this letter from an unknown woman and drafts a travel itinerary for Don, who crosses the country in search of the ex-paramour who wrote the missive.

Mr. Murray’s usual repertoire of hangdog looks predictably provoked hearty chuckles and applause. But even I could tolerate this gloomy schtick, thanks to the stunning performances of the actresses who play the exes: Julie Delpy, Sharon Stone, Frances Conroy, Jessica Lange, and Tilda Swinton. Never known for subtlety, Ms. Stone is remarkably tender as Laura, a professional closet organizer raising a teenage harlot. Almost unrecognizable, Ms. Swinton burns with rage and bile in her less than five minutes of screen time.

“Jarmusch wasn’t kind to any of those actresses,” one New York critic said to me afterward – an assessment that puzzled me. If anything, Mr. Jarmusch (who also wrote the screenplay) crafted for each woman a meaty, if minor, role; a mini-showcase for her talents to complement – and often surpass – Mr. Murray’s pared down style. Mr. Jarmusch dedicates his film to the French filmmaker Jean Eustache, whose “The Mother and the Whore,” the director says in the press notes, “is one of the more beautiful films about male/female miscommunication.” “Broken Flowers” is one of the more beautiful films about actor/actress give-and-take.

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Paternity is also the theme of Wim Wenders’s torpid “Don’t Come Knocking.” Howard Spence (Sam Shepard), a dissolute movie star, disappears from the set of his latest Western, trekking first to Nevada to see his mother (Eva Marie Saint) and then Butte, Mont., where he reconnects with an old flame (Jessica Lange) and meets his grown children (Gabriel Mann and Sarah Polley) for the first time. Scripted by Mr. Shepard (who also wrote the screenplay for “Paris, Texas,” Mr. Wenders’s vastly superior 1984 film), “Don’t Come Knocking” snoozily recounts how the hard livin’ hero tries to give up hootch and hookers to make good.

At least things were a little more momentous at the “Don’t Come Knocking” press conference. Mr. Shepard was making his first appearance at Cannes to promote Mr. Wenders’s film. Wearing sunglasses and smoking a cigarillo, the airplane averse Mr. Shepard explained that he’s “gotten some drugs” to help with his fear of flying.

A reporter from Athens, addressing no one in particular on the panel, asked whether a line from the film – “I think I like movies better than life” – rang true. Ms. Polley was the first to respond: “I don’t think I’ve ever felt that way, actually.” Mr. Shepard quickly followed: “But I think many people do. Look at this – why are we all here? There’s a sense that movies have replaced life. C’- mon, admit it.” In the middle of day nine of the festival, no one could possibly disagree.