Category: 4. Joe Bendel

By Joe Bendel. If someone is said to have an artistic temperament, it usually means they are not just creative, but emotionally tempestuous. The term certainly applies to Frédéric and his wife Angèle. They will dazzle and disturb Frédéric’s hanger-on friend and his lover with the sort of emotional games that have become the hallmark of under-sung auteur Philippe Garrel’s work. Presumably his final collaboration with both his son Louis and late father Maurice (1923-2011), Philippe Garrel’s That Summer (trailer here) screens this weekend during the inaugural First Look at the Museum of the Moving Image in Astoria, Queens.

Frédéric is a wealthy and talented French painter, who never sells his work. Angèle is a major Italian movie star, garnering the best reviews of her career. They are everything the penniless and untalented Paul is not. Yet, for some reason the artistic couple befriends the dubious actor and his girlfriend Elisabeth, inviting them into their home in Rome. The needy Elisabeth has attempted suicide in the past, but she will be a model of stability compared to their hosts.

Initially, Frédéric and Angèle seem like a perfectly compatible and loving couple, but over the course of the summer, their mutual contempt degenerates into a repeating cycle of infidelity and petty cruelty. For the most part, Paul and Elisabeth are spectators rather than participants in the proceedings—an audience for the imploding marriage as performance art.

As is often the case with Philippe Garrel’s films, Summer is often uncomfortably intimate. However, it is never as squalid, lurid, or coyly obtuse as some of his previous films, including even (or especially) his arguably best known, I Can No Longer Hear the Guitar. The dolce vita environment of Rome certainly helps here.

Garrel’s son Louis also does some of his best work as Frédéric. More Byronic than petulant for a refreshing change, he is strangely engaging throughout. Unleashing her inner diva, Monica Bellucci radiates sexuality, while reveling in the melodrama of it all. Unfortunately, Jérôme Robart and Céline Sallette are rather dull as the sponging guests. Perhaps that is required of him to serve as the narrator. However, Elisabeth’s established psychological issues are never really conveyed or followed-up on in a substantive way.

Appearing briefly as Frédéric’s long deceased grandfather, a frail looking Maurice Garrel adds a redemptive coda, bringing meaning to the film. Indeed, it is always interesting to see the son and grandfather interact in the middle Garrel’s films, starting with 1989’s Emergency Kisses, in which all three starred.

Nouvelle Vague veteran cinematographer Willy Kurant’s gives it all a pleasing look, basking in the vivid blues and greens of the couples’ photogenic abode, while John Cale’s piano soundtrack always sounds politely refined. Frankly, Summer might be a good entry point into Garrel’s filmography. Though hardly action driven, it moves along at a reasonable clip for such decidedly arthouse fare. (Bellucci also has an early nude scene, so for some viewers it pays off quickly). Considerably better the response at Toronto would suggest, That Summer is complex and intriguing film, definitely recommended to discriminating viewers when it screens this Friday (1/13) during First Look at the Museum of the Moving Image.

Posted on January 9th, 2012 at 7:36pm.

By Joe Bendel. To unwind, Ali Alavi spends his weekends in the forest, relying solely on his hunting rifle to provide sustenance. He is not the sort of man to be toyed with. Indeed, when the repressive Iranian state pushes him to his breaking point, he pushes back in the Iranian-born French-based Rafi Pitts’ quietly incendiary The Hunter (trailer here), which opens this Wednesday in New York at the IFC Center.

Alavi is an ex-con, convicted of an unnamed and therefore dubious crime. Forced to work as a late shift security guard, only his reputation as an expert hunter and marksmen affords him a measure of respect from his coworkers. One fateful day, he returns from his hunting trip to find his wife and daughter missing. Over the following weeks, Alavi endures a Kafkaesque nightmare, as the police and various bureaucrats callously keep him waiting hours on end with little or no information.

According to the official story, his wife was killed in the crossfire between the police and so-called “rebels,” as the government refers to the democratic Green movement protestors. It is clear to everyone with eyes that the despised police are responsible, but they refuse to acknowledge culpability. Only the distant hope of finding his daughter keeps the slow-burning Alavi in check. Once her fate is determined, he commits a shocking act of violence Pitts dares viewers to condone.

At this point, Hunter becomes something like a fugitive thriller with more than a touch of the absurd, as two bickering corrupt cops apprehend Alavi in the woods he knows so well, only to get thoroughly lost. It is actually a masterful third act that never goes where you quite expect it to, while remaining true to the grim realities of contemporary Iranian society.

Clearly, Alavi’s hunting is a conscious strategy to maintain his masculine self-worth in an emasculating environment. It also makes him dangerous. With his close-cropped hair, wiry build, steely gaze, and 1970’s sports sedan, Pitts, serving as his lead actor, somewhat resembles an Iranian Steve McQueen (the star of 1980’s The Hunter). He is one bad cat, viscerally intense and totally credible in the action-oriented scenes.

Frankly, there is much we can assume about Alavi from what Pitts implies. The greenness of his car and the décor of his home may or may not be coincidental. Yet, unlike many people we observe on the street, he never seems very optimistic about the 2009 election. Perhaps he has seen this all before and suspects what is coming.

Neither a pure thriller nor strictly a naturalistic social protest film, The Hunter could be considered the Iranian version of the Falling Down (the high-water mark of Joel Schumacher’s career). If not an outright call for violent resistance, it explicitly suggests that the pent-up rage of average Iranians is deep and widespread. It ought to chill the Islamist mullahs to their cores. A genuinely powerful and challenging film, The Hunter marks an excellent start to the New Year. Highly recommended, it opens this Wednesday (1/4) in New York at the IFC Center.

Posted on January 3rd, 2011 at 2:42pm.

By Joe Bendel. Festival season now starts a little earlier. An adaptation of Joseph Conrad’s first novel will be the opening night film of the inaugural edition of the first film fest of the year, and is sure to make critics and scholars sit up and take note. Of course, it is hardly Chantal Akerman’s first film, but it is something of a departure for the Jeanne Dielman, 23 quai du Commerce, 1800 Bruxelles auteur. Fittingly, Akerman’s foray into tropical malaise, Almayer’s Folly, kicks off the first annual First Look series at the Museum of the Moving Image in Astoria.

There is something elusive about Conrad that doggedly resists the transfer to the big screen. Yet his work has been a siren call to filmmakers, resulting in flawed masterworks like Apocalypse Now and Lord Jim. Such is the case with Akerman’s Folly, except less so.

As per Conrad, Kaspar Almayer is an unhappy man. He married the mixed race daughter of his adventurer mentor, Captain Lingard, in hopes of a prospective inheritance. Instead, Lingard has frittered away his fortune and sanity in search of a rumored treasure. Trapped in a loveless and impoverished marriage, Almayer’s only solace is his daughter Nina, but her resentment of westerners’ arrogant and abusive ways very definitely extends to her father.

Frankly, learning of a new Conrad film adaptation is sort of like hearing an out of shape friend has entered a marathon. You admire their ambition and hope they pull it off, but remain skeptical. If nothing else, Akerman completely nails the atmosphere of exotic alienation. Watching Folly will make viewers feel like a corpulent western expatriate sweating profusely in a cream-colored suit. However, a little of that humid torpor goes a long way.

Clearly, Folly was conceived as a mood piece, but the narrative slack is awfully conspicuous. At times the cast seem more like props for Akerman to pose than actors interpreting characters. Still, Aurora Marion palpably radiates bitterness and contempt as Nina and Stanislas Merhar has some quietly forceful moments as Almayer.

Set in Malaysia but filmed in Cambodia, Folly is indeed something of a mixed bag. Yet it is undeniably intriguing to watch a filmmaker of Akerman’s stature take on the enigmatic Conrad. While it can certainly drag in-the-moment, it is a fascinating film to look back on as a whole. Of note to serious cineastes, Folly is an impressively high profile launch for the first ever First Look. It screens once and only once (second looks are up to somebody else) this Friday (1/6), with Akerman in attendance at the Museum of the Moving Image’s historic Paramount Studio home.

Posted on January 3rd, 2011 at 2:40pm.

By Joe Bendel. The tiny Sicilian island of Linosa looks like a Mediterranean paradise. Unfortunately, regular work can only be found there two months out the year. In addition to tourists, illegal immigrants from North Africa have also been flocking to the isle, further complicating the local economy. Indeed, immigration is the driving concern of Emanuele Crialese’s Terraferma (trailer here), which has been officially submitted by Italy for Academy Award consideration as the best foreign language film of the year.

Filippo is not too bright, but the kid has not had a lot of breaks in life. After his father was lost at sea, his grandfather and uncle have waged a cold war over his future. The old salt-of-the-earth Ernesto wants Filippo to be a fisherman like his father before him, whereas the smarmy Nino offers his nephew seasonal work catering to tourists. Unsatisfied with either dead-end option for her son, Giulietta resolves to leave the island after the upcoming season, a decision that does not sit well with Filippo.

Even though Filippo remains determined to stay, a series of disparate new arrivals will challenge his family’s traditional way of life. First, his mother rents out their home to three tourists from the “dry land,” including the very noticeable Maura. Soon thereafter, Ernesto and Filippo fish out several drowning Ethiopians from the sea, secretly sheltering the pregnant Sara and her young son. For their efforts, Ernesto’s boat is confiscated. From this point on, Terraferma is not very subtle.

That water sure is blue, though. Not merely background color, the deep azure sea is a critically important visual element for the film. Crialese pointedly contrasts images of tourists playfully diving off pleasure cruisers with that of illegal immigrants desperately abandoning sinking makeshift vessels. It is heavy-handed, but striking.

Dazzlingly lensed by Fabio Cianchetti, Terraferma captures all the natural beauty of Linosa. He also evokes the chiaroscuro effect of old masters in several hushed scenes of good Samaritans ministering to the despised huddled masses. There are plenty of bikini shots as well, not that anyone will ever confuse the film with Beach Blanket Bingo.

Cianchetti’s camera also loves Mimmo Cuticchio, both an award winning puppeteer and an accomplished actor. Resembling a wiser, more weathered Andrew Weil, Cuticchio has the perfectly seasoned gravitas to serve as Ernesto, the film’s proletariat moral compass. Filippo Pucillo does not have any of that going on as his namesake. Granted, the twenty year-old is supposed to be immature, but one starts to wonder how he has gotten this far in life. Conversely, Donatella Finocchiaro plays mother Giulietta with a convincing world-weary earthiness, despite not looking particularly matronly. Former model Martina Codecasa also shows a bit of unexpected substance beyond mere eye candy as the topless sunbathing Maura.

Terraferma is mostly quite effective as a bit of fun in the sun with a guilty social conscience, though the spectacle of throngs of prospective asylum seekers overwhelming Filippo’s “borrowed” skiff like a horde of zombies nearly undermines the message. Regardless, it is an absolutely lovely looking film. Indeed, both the lush visuals and simplistic humanism ought to appeal both to Academy voters and to prospective distributors.

Posted on December 28th, 2011 at 8:57pm.

By Joe Bendel. In 1930, Yugoslavia’s national football (a.k.a. soccer) team had quite a run during the very first FIFA World Cup. If you think Serbia still remembers with pride that celebrated team consisted entirely of Serbians, you would be correct. The story of how a team of underdogs played their way into the tournament, in spite of a Croatian boycott, is dramatized in Dragan Bjelogrlic’s historical sports drama Montevideo: Taste of a Dream (sometimes also subtitled as God Bless You, trailer here), which has been officially submitted by Serbia for Academy Award consideration as the best foreign language film of the year.

Serbia is a long way away from Uruguay. With the memories and repercussions of WWI still very fresh for the newly formed country of Yugoslavia, the team requires a serious patron to underwrite their journey, like the king. He will need some convincing. Unfortunately, the national team is a motley bunch, largely overlapping with Belgrade’s sort of-kind of professional club, conveniently owned by their chairman. There is hope though when they sign the poor but cocky Tirke Tirnanić, who can do just about anything with a soccer ball (from here on, we’re sticking with the American vernacular). Still, he has a good heart, always looking out for the film’s Oliver Twisty narrator, Stanoje, a street urchin who must wear a leg brace.

Naturally, Tirnanić has a rival on the team, the comparatively well-heeled Mosha Blagoje Marjanović. Initially they clash over differences of style and then over two women: Rosa, the good girl barmaid and Valeria, the vampy artist. It is pretty clear who should be with whom, but somehow they get mismatched.

Montevideo might be an Oscar long shot, but a forward-thinking art-house distributor should snap it up fast. It is easily one of the most commercial films in contention. Soccer continues to grow in popularity, with American fans tending to be rather internationalist in their outlook (so subtitles should be no problem). As sports films go, Montevideo has plenty of on-field action to satisfy enthusiasts, as well as two beautiful women. Of course, it is also totally manipulative. It is a sports film, after all.

Despite his baby-face, Petar Strugar makes a convincingly dashing rogue as Marjanović. While Miloš Biković’s nice guy right-winger (that is his position) comes across as something of an earnest stiff, such is the nature of sports movie protagonists. On the other hand, Nina Janković is downright fascinating as the nuanced troublemaker, Valeria.

A lovely period production, Montevideo captures all of Belgrade’s old world charm. Nemanja Petrovic’s design team’s attention to detail shows in every frame, while cinematographer Goran Volarevic gives it all a lush, nostalgic look. Still, given recent history in the Balkans, the occasional flash of nationalism remains a little scary, as when the crowd spontaneously bursts into the Serbian anthem after a pivotal game.

While a tad long at one hundred forty minutes, it is quite entertaining in a pleasingly old-fashioned way, with an appropriately hot and swinging-ish soundtrack. Considerably better than last year’s best foreign language Academy Award winner, Montevideo ought to have a further distribution life regardless of what Oscar does.

Posted on December 28th, 2011 at 8:56pm.