Goya's Ghosts

BEWARE THE EUROPEAN CO-PRODUCTION!

This isn't the first time financiers from several EU countries got together an international cast and an A-list director to film a historical epic -- in English, of course (ever mindful of the international box office)-- in order to make a fast Euro. The fact that the end product is an embarrassing, unhistorical mess, wildly uneven in tone and execution, is irrelevant.

Irrelevant to all but us poor souls who expected some art or insight from the great director Milos Forman's take on the complex, larger-than-life Spanish painter Francisco Goya. Sadly, Forman is there solely to pick up a paycheck, casting his actors adrift in an unsubtle morass of a screenplay that swings from comedy to drama so many times they should hand-out Dramamine at the door. At its BEST, the movie's historical re-creations look no more authentic than a History Channel documentary (without the Di-Tech commericals). I cannot conceive of damning it with any fainter praise than that.

Forman tries to draw paralells between the torture policies of the Spanish Inquisition and France's precipitous invasion of Spain with the Bush administration's torture policies and Iraq fiasco, but his digs are obvious and lame (and soon passed over). Because the ridiculous plot does moves at a fast clip: fifteen years pass before the make-up artist can finish Natalie Portman's ageing make-up (it looks like it was smeared-on with a putty knife).

Poor Natalie Portman suffers the most by this general incompetence of this production (both in the story and in her performance): seeing her being stripped and tortured by the Spanish Inquisition, after her ordeal in "V for Vendetta," and I can only hope she is interviewing new agents. Stellan Skaarsgaard is a cipher as Goya -- but the weak-willed title character is merely a spectator in his own film. If you want an artistic treatment of Goya's life and art, rent Carlos Saura's moody and surreal "Goya in Bordeaux" (2000). And Randy Quaid as the King of Spain? Randy Quaid??

I make a distinction for the professional actors because apparently the movie is stuffed with cameos by European aristocrats (to please those demanding investors, no doubt). That explains the several unnecessary close-ups of non-speaking characters, serving only to lengthen an already interminable film. Not that this unsophisticated eye would recognize any of them, but it does give this ill-conceived production one notable, if dubious, distinction: it has to be the first 'Euro-Trash Vanity Pic'!

Stop the Presses!!

Watts Gains "International" Passport

Reuters/Hollywood Reporter

By Borys KitFri Jul 13, 2:52 AM ET

Naomi Watts has signed on to star opposite Clive Owen in "The International," an action thriller that Tom Tykwer is directing for Columbia Pictures.
The plot centers on an obsessive Interpol agent (Owen) who spearheads an investigation into one of the world's most high-profile and powerful banking institutions in an attempt to expose them for worldwide arms brokering, corruption and murder. Watts will play a Manhattan assistant district attorney who partners with the agent to take down the bank. Eric Singer wrote the screenplay.

Watts, who most recently starred in "The Painted Veil," next stars opposite Viggo Mortensen in David Cronenberg's "Eastern Promises."

>>She will re-define how to portray a pretty, yet tenacious ADA (for all those past & future Law & Order chicks)!!

An UPDATED Guide to My Music Links

Here is a brief synopsis of each of my musical links (at left) and why I like them!
NON-CLASSICAL:


Sarah Harmer: This Ontario native is Canadian and proud of it! By staying true to her roots, she is producing some of the most genuine rootsy and folk-y music on either side of the border. And she's a redhead.






Idgy Vaughn: the next big thing to come out of Austin, this small town, Midwestern gal is the real deal. And she's a redhead.

Melissa Auf der Maur: Redhead...Canadian....(sensing a theme here?)






Mindy Smith: a country-ish Nashville artist for those of us who don't listen to C&W radio--and who don't happen to think that Carrie Underwood is the second coming of Dolly-or Tammy- or Loretta~!!! (But Mindy's videos do appear on CMT).







Nellie McKay (pronounced 'Mu-KAI'): a New York original: a militantly animal-loving Vegan who, at age 21, already has two double-CDs under her belt. Put her in the hands of a judicious producer , and she could be the next Diana Krall for the tweeners.



CLASSICAL:
the claremont trio: This picture says it all. I love these young, fun-loving Columbia grads!
(and they have a blog like mine)







Hélène Grimaud: She's French.
If you need another reason to like her, she loves wolves.





Hilary Hahn: In her spare time, she reads German poetry in its original German! (you gotta love that!) And she plays a mean violin. And she has the best blog of any classical musician I know.

Paris, je t'aime

"J'n't'aime, pas!" -- foreignfilmguy

Porquoi? (you ask) . . . The ads promise "18 stories by 21 directors" (I still haven't figured out the math on that one). It doesn't take a gourmand to know that is waay too many chefs to make a souffle, which is exactly what these cinematic vignettes amount to: light and airy to be sure, but not substantial enough to make a meal. (I wrote this before I read Stephen Holden's NYT review, where he makes a culinary comparison, too. We both must have seen it on empty stomachs).

I knew going in the track record for these omnibus films wasn't good: a collection of shorts by multiple directors are always graded on their worst episode. ("New York Stories" and "Aria" come to mind). Director Jim Jarmusch is the only director I can think of with a talent for this genre: he's done two, the latest being "Coffee & Cigarettes," and I walked out of both with a positive impression.

And here, the worst is very, very bad. How Bad? French mimes-bad!

Yes, you read that correctly: by the fourth episode a French director resorts to the oldest French cliche imaginable -- two mimes miming their way around Paris! If that doesn't leave a bad taste in your mouth, an even more tiresome vignette is yet to come: something to do with karate-chopping Asian hairdresssers. (I stopped paying attention early on). Pointless, incomprehensible, and stupid. And having nothing to do with Paris, as far as I could tell.

Obviously, no one in control of this venture had the power to say "Sorry, Christopher Doyle; your segment sucks so we're cutting it for the good of the movie" (they'd have to change those ads to '17/20', which they should have done anyway, since Doyle is a cinematographer, and obviously not a director). Which is a shame, because each weak entry dilutes the power of what precedes it. I'd love an extra five minutes with Juliette Binoche, for example, who plays a grieving mother, or the odd couple in Monmartre whose chance meeting opens the film.

Those were intriguing characters you wish you had more time with, like the immigrant domestic played by Catalina Sandino Moreno, or Fanny Ardant and Bob Hoskins as a bickering married couple. But there time on screen is over much too soon.

Some directors were able to create little gems with their limited time: the directors who 'got it' are mostly Anglos, curiously (Joel & Ethan Coen, Wes Craven's sweet interlude over a grave in a cemetery: sweet because the cemetery is Pere Lachaise, the grave Oscar Wilde's, and the couple Emily Mortimer and Rufus Sewell). But the three directors who best captured the essence of life, love and Paris are:

3) Tom Tykwer's recap of an entire relationship in the space between two phone calls that actress Natalie Portman makes to her blind boyfriend ("Faubourg Saint-Denis") .

2) the great Alfonso Cuaron's tracking shot of Nick Nolte's energetic conversation with a female companion (Ludivine Sagnier, regrettably filmed in shadows and from a distance) as they walk down a street in 'Parc Monceau'. The subject of their dialogue isn't revealed until the clever payoff at the end.

1) and perhaps the best: Alexander Payne's view of the city through the eyes of a very American tourist ("14th arrondissement"). This Denver postal worker narrates, in her hilariously beginner's French, what it is that makes this city unique, succinctly capturing the allure the City of Light has for all of us foreigners. Now that's a touching love letter, in any language.

My one-word review of 'The Sopranos' finale:

PERFECT.

(and don't trust anyone's opinion who hasn't watched the final scene at least three times)

A reminder . . .

To whom this blog is dedicated:

the lovely

Naomi Watts

-- expecting her first child --

(which will make me naoMI's LiFelong fan!)

"The perfect date movie ... if you're dating a nun!"

That is my official 'blurb' for the German documentary "Into Great Silence," a behind-the-scenes look at the daily lives of a group of cloistered Carthusian monks living on a hillside monastery in the French Alps. I welcome any publicist to use my quote to promote this film to a wider audience.

(It was either that or "A must-see movie for anyone considering joining a monastery!"--but I didn't think that would apply to as many in the movie-going public).

It's a hard sell to begin with: imagine spending 162-minutes with a bunch of Frenchmen who pray all day. That's what's in store for you when you buy a ticket to Philip Groning's work -- no narrator, no interviews, no musical soundtrack -- but I do recommend it as a tonic to both modern life and modern (i.e. Hollywood) movies. Every time I watched a novice kneeling in prayer on a wooden pew in his 'cell', I couldn't help but think how many CGI-laden shots Imust be missing in a comparable length of celluloid in 'Spiderman 3.'

The movie has a simple-enough structure: intercutting scenes of daily chores around the monastery with scenes of solitary prayer and group services. So a chapel service illuminated only by candlelight precedes scenes of chopping wood, shoveling snow, and feeding a group of feral, and in their own way, cloistered cats. (Even they don't make a sound).

The deliberate pace of these monks as they carry-out their mundane chores (I had had enough the second time the monks had their heads shaved) slowly reveals that even in these simple acts they reveal devotion and commitment to the lives of service they have chosen. The film's beauty lies in the details: chopping celery on front of a magnificently sunlit window; cutting fabric for vestments that will clothe the novices who are about to enter into this strange world; the snow; the stars; the Alps. The cinematography renders these scenes into something more profound

But the camera angles and lighting are sometimes too conspicuous by their artistry. At the same time, Groning's unyielding commitment to stay at a respectful distance, even in the rare glimpse of what these monks do to 'unwind' (sliding down a snow-covered hillside, still in their vestments); the camera stays a good quarter-mile away, rendering inaudible their shouts of joy. This detachment ultimately undermines the filmmaker's intention: we never gain an understanding of why these men have chosen to renounce modern society; what goes on in their minds day after day; what are they praying-reflecting-thinking about these countless hours, while the rest of humanity continues on with their lives, literally just beyond the walls of the monastery?

Groning doesn't allow the audience to learn more about these men by not engaging with them in any way -- an interview with the blind monk nearing the end of his life is too short, and arrives much too late -- by not even sharing with us the moments where they do interact (they have not taken a vow of silence, so they must communicate with each other). In spite of the length of time you spend with these remarkable men (and throughout the film, you get to stare directly at each one of them for a nice, Warholian moment), you walk out of the theater wishing your last 3 hours of observation provided more insight into the men you were observing.

The state of world cinema -- Part Trois!

I've been promising this post for the last six months--but now is the perfect time to blog about French Cinema! Mas oui! My brother tried to boost the stature of Latin cinema by denigrating the recent contributions of the French. To that I answer: Le cinema francais--c'est magnifique!

[This post is dedicated to the two best French speakers currently residing in the great state of Oklahoma: my nephew, Blaine Palmer, and Marie-Luce!!]

True, I will be the first to admit that the French entry into the Academy Award sweepstakes was a disappointment: Daniele Thompson's Fauteuils d'orchestre (that's Avenue Montaigne to us Americans -- because the distributor apparently doesn't trust us to want to see a movie called "Orchestra seats"). When the best attributes of a movie are the street scenes of Paris--well, then it's simply a travelogue. The charming lead performance by the slightly androgynous (I mean that in a good way!) gamine Cecile de France cannot save this far-fetched, too-cute snapshot of Parisian life. Are we supposed to care about the scary-looking theater usher who listens to bad French pop music (is there any other kind?) on her iPod during classical music concerts? I sure didn't! And what is Sydney Pollack doing in this movie!?!? He looks more uncomfortable here than he did in Eyes Wide Shut!

But this movie is The Sorrow and the Pity compared to Francis Veber's latest French 'comedy' La Doublure ("The Valet.") In spite of its clever opening credits and a great cast -- with a cameo by Karl Lagerfeld hisownself-- this movie has all the weightlessness of Pret-A-Porter, which also tried to slide by on its mise-en-scene (might as well use all my French expressions while I have the chance). It reminded me of the cute Fifties-throwback "Down with Love", only I don't think Veber was aiming for nostalgia here. Veber is clearly running out of ideas, as this movie limps to a conclusion without ever mining its comic potential, in spite of the star-studded contributions of Daniel Auteuil ("Cache"), Virginie Ledoyen, and Kristin-Scott Thomas ("The English Patient"). I say comic, yet I only got one of its in-jokes: a mistaken identification of a young hot model of today to the Eighties model Ines de-la-Fressange (I remember her!) by a clueless middle-aged character. And the contribution of that same pianist-(not model)-turned-actress, Alice Taglioni, proves once and for all that the most beautiful French model can have all the personality of your typical American model; i.e, none! Sacre bleu!

Even the latest French import to generate a buzz -- the lamely-titled "The Page Turner" -- is a major disappointment: all set-up, without a satisfying payoff! I'm not wishing the creepy young girl go all 'Fatal Attraction' on her nemesis (even though the filmmaker practically leaves a breadcrumb trail for that scenario) but to have it end with such an unsatisfying, wimpy conclusion is such a sucker-punch to the audience, you have to think the director deliberately set you up for a Hollywood ending, then pulled the rug out from under you, you silly Americans!

But I am here to praise French cinema -- not bury it! This past year we saw the triumphant return to US screens of both the restored Rules of the Game and Army of Shadows: two supreme classics by Jean Renoir and Jean-Pierre Melville, respectively. Sure, forty years is a long time between classics, but the list of promising French directors with the potential to create a classic is long: Francois Ozon, Cedric Klapisch, Andre Techine, Lucas Belvaux, Laurent Cantet, Bruno Dumont, Claire Denis, Cedric Kahn, Claude Miller, Patrice Leconte, Arnaud Desplechin, even enfant terrible Gaspar Noe. I won't deny that the most-compelling movies in French of late are not by Frenchmen: Micheal Haneke's Cache and La pianiste; Indigenes; the Dardennes brothers of Belgium. But the old timers still have some life in them: Claude Chabrol, Jacques Rivette, Eric Rohmer (all admittedly past their prime), and my favorite, Patrice Chereau.

So I stick by my conclusion: The State of French Cinema? C'est si bon!

Volver was robbed!

That is my last word on the Best Foreign Film Oscar race of 2006. After having seen all five nominated movies, I can now say that Almodovar's latest is at least the equal of two of the nominees -- the excellent "Pan's Labyrinth" from Mexico, and the eventual winner from Germany, "The Lives of Others" -- and is clearly superior to the other three: Denmark's Efter Brylluppet ("After the Wedding"); Algeria's Indigenes ("Days of Glory"); and 'Canada's' "Water" (which is about as Canadian as the Blue Jays starting lineup!).

I found Indigenes to be the best of the three (I will discuss it in more detail in a later post entitled "Fighting the Good Fight"). Like Water, Efter begins in the subcontinent of India, leaving the audience off-balance momentarily. Not to worry: when the action shifts to Kobnhavn (Copenhagen) the movie slides into familiar Dogma territory: emotionally intense scenes of angst and anger, scripted by the sure hand of Lars von Trier-acolyte Anders Thomas Jensen, whose string of hits begins with 1999's Mifune, and extends to 2004's Brothers and the upcoming Red Road (premiered U.S. in the at the AFI-Dallas Film Fest in 2007). Only this film has a musical soundtrack (thankfully); one of the strange charms of the movie is being introduced to the Donald Trump-like character of listening to "It's Raining Men" on his car radio--then later dancing to it at his birthday party! [Picture a bunch of straight, white Europeans getting down with the gay anthem in the land of the midnight sun!]

There are fine performances all around, especially by the lead actor, (a Danish Viggo Mortensen!) and the actress who plays his daughter. That cannot mask the flaws in the movie's structure and technique, including an unnecessary, too-pat ending. In Volver, you know from the start you are in the hands of a master: so you sit back and let him take you wherever he wants to go.

It speaks volumes to the lameness of the Hollywood Foreign Press that, with the wealth of good foreign films in competition, their lack of imagination led them to nominate two 'American' films: Letters from Iwo Jima and the execrable Apocalypto, in their Foreign Film category.

The State of World Cinema -- Part Deux!

It has been awhile since I picked up on this theme...but as Film Festival season kicks into high gear, this past week I have seen movies from Denmark, Turkey, Italy, Argentina, and Slovenia, and all I have to say is....The Slovenian Film Industry has a LOT of catching up to do!! OY!

I went to my first "WorldFest Houston 2007" film, offensively-titled -- for an ostensible 'comedy' -- "Labour Equals Freedom" (or 'Delo Osvobaja' for you Slovenian speakers) on the recommendation of IMDB-critic Matija from Ljubljana, who called it "The Best Slovenian Movie. EVER." Well, I am just glad that Matija is qualified to make that assessment, and not me! A very depressing look at life in a post-EU Balkan country, it bills itself as a comedy, without having a single laugh in it! That takes ___ (whatever the Slovenian word for 'balls' is). It has nothing to recommend it.

I could say the same thing about the Turkish and Argentine films I saw, but I will not: because "Climates" (IKLIMLER) and "Glue" do not totally suck..
The first, because it is the product of an accomplished, talented director: Nuri Bilge Ceylan, who can wring emotional truth out of characters and situations that are otherwise lifeless and unsympathetic. It helps that he is directing his stunning wife in a series of gut-wrenching scenes that only hint at her character's inner turmoil. It is a great performance; unfortunately, the movie is not 'about' her, but about the selfish, self-absorbed male character (played by the director himself), who asks for, and receives, Zero sympathy from the audience (remember the dude in his last film "Distant" (Uzak)? He's positively loveable compared to this loser!!) -- A prize to any of my readers who actually DO remember the dude from Uzak!!-- It also helps that several scenes are shot with the stunning backdrop of Turkiye in all its diverse and seasonal glory.

"Glue" is a first feature by a London-trained Patagonian filmmaker Alexis dos Santos, who succeeds in showing the world that his country's teenagers are as vacuous and uninteresting as teenagers everywhere. If you've seen Larry Clark's overrated "Kids", you've seen this movie. The blurb says it will "take you back to those awkward and excruciating teenage years" -- well, I'm sorry, I never sniffed glue while giving my best friend a hand job! (I guess I missed out). Seen as a totally-improvised home movie (that started out as a short), rather than as a fully-formed theatrical release, I guess it does have moments of artistry. I just don't see the humor in a jilted wife beating up her rival while calling her an "oily f**ing puta" (but again, I was in the minority in the audience).

Ever the glutton for punishment, stay tuned for more exciting film festival features!!