La lectora provisoria

Christoph (24-05)

Time to go to sleep. Hugs,
Christoph

AQUELE QUERIDO MES DE AGOSTO. Another winner (the surprise of this year’s Cannes is inverse enjoyment: I seem to see comparably little bad films), and the work of a true music lover. As director Miguel Gomes’concluding discussion (neatly accompanying the end credits) with him reveals, Vasco the soundman is the best person in cinema since Pablo, the cameraman, from REC.

L’HEURE D’ETE. The new Assayas, seen in the market (and apparently turned down by the Berlin idiots, where it surely would have been best film in competition), a beautful and assured work in a minor key.

CHE. Just ridiculous. It has one idea in 4 and a half hours, and even that is entirely abstract. Instead, I point you towards Richard Fleischer’s immeasurably better CHE.

LA FRONTIERE DE L’AUBE. Minor Garrel, although the second half, with its elements from the fantastic film, is quite remarkable. Otherwise, it has conceptual problems and staggering moments (often drawing laughter and/or boos from an embarassing crowd at the press screening).

LA MUJER SIN CABEZA. It is good to see somebody making fine use of the Scope format in a year where this gets used so often so thoughtlessly. (The amount of Cinemascope films is staggering, esp. in competition.) But despite her techincal prowess, each Martel film seems to give me a bit less. Reportedly booed at its earlier press screening, though clearly better than so many movies that should have been. And somehow looking forward to the director’s announced alien invasion pic.

NOW SHOWING. Doesn’t really come together in the end, even as it has some really fine scenes, especially in the first half. Sometimes the long take strategy seems an affetcation rather than organic. Still, among the fest’s four and a half hour films, easily the less tough watch. Very moving introduction by Raya Martin nearly seemed to make up for its failure though, especially as leading girl was onstage in the most incredible dress.

WENDY AND LUCY. Everybody loves this film, since it is pretty much the perfect illustration of what everbody finds loveable in US-Indie cinema. And while it does nothing wrong, it doesn’t need me too like it as well, then.

SYNECDOCE, NEW YORK. Starts amusing, then seems to baroque, maybe even bombastic, but surprisingly is quite touching in the end, probably because Kaufman’s de rigeur Chinese-box structure seems really more organic under his own direction, thus surpassing ETERNAL SUNSHINE OF THE SPOTLESS MINDS as his best work.

TULPAN. Just a touch to much (and it is a small one) of sweetness to be on par with his previous, shorter works, but animal-wise Dvortsevoy’s first feature-length film is the best of the fest (even surpasing Albert’s peeing lamb and Brillante’s porn-theatre goat), being just full of glorious sights, esp. of sheep herds and donkeys.

NICK NOLTE: NO EXIT. On the market, another find: Doc about Nolte in your usual DVD bonus material talking heads style, but batshit crazy (w/ Nolte in various incarnations absurdly “interviewing” himself, and an opening montage where the interviewees speculate about how many testicles Nolte really has 3 ? 6? more than 2?; Roseanna Arquette concludes with “one thing is for sure — Nick Nolte has balls.” Indeed.

CHELSEA ON THE ROCKS. Ending the day (and fest) on a high note with another somehwat crazy and likable doc, that may have its weaknesses, but breathes the spirit of its eponymous place and, of course, its director Abel Ferrara – who also appears and as part of a wacko welcome with masterly easy totally embarassing the annoying Fremaux. After that, what better point to leave? Now I’ve seen it all.

Chirstoph Huber (24-05)

My dear ones; here more capsules, even as it is too bad they could not be provided warlie because of internet problems. Now back home, notes on the final batch should follow soon. Enjoy. Hugs,
Christoph

THE SILENCE OF LORNA. The Dardenne Bros. disappoint big time. Lacks not just their signature style, but their commitment to materialism, and the metaphysics alone fail to make the cut. Here, draining all plausibility from their increasingly willed (cf. already the — vastly superior — L’ENFANT) setups about money, guilt etc., they end up with a film like a theoretical paper about what constitutes a “Dardennes movie”. For a good movie, I point you instead toward Russ Meyer’s LORNA.

OF TIME AND THE CITY. Others have already come out for this poetic gem. A wonderful film, and for once, one for (almost) everybody. Second best so far after J.C.V.D. (just to be dethroned, I notice in hindsight, almost immediately.)

LE GENOU D’ARTEMIDE. Straub’s tribute to the late Huillet is both a companion piece to QUEI LORO INCONTRI and a deeply moving thing in itself, but it was even surpassed by the other film on this double feature, which constitutes Straub/Huillet’s collaborative legacy, I guess, and is an aptly timeless, titanic work:

ITINERAIRE DE JEAN BRICARD. “I held my first machine gun when i was 12″. Nuff said.

LIVERPOOL. Simply a fine film. All good people seem to like it (and the evening screening went well).

TWO LOVERS. Gray, alas, stumbles, with his first foray beyond crime-drama: it’s just too thin.

THE EXCHANGE (or CHANGELING?; as screened in Cannes Competion, on the print was, in small letters, the french title “l’échange”) Even more mysterious than the contradictory statements about its title is the hostile recations by many, usually somewhat sane colleagues to the Eastwood. A marvellous exercise in classical studio baroque, set in the 30s and drawing from its great genres. Probably Clint’s best since his masterpiece SPACE COWBOYS.

EL CANTO DELS OCELLS. A wonderful work, even as its director insisted “I don’t know if it’s good or bad, but it sure is FOU.” Most wonderful Cannes moment offscreen: the sight of the three kingly Lluises rising, waving with natural grandeur to welcome their deserved applause. Majestic

LES BUREAUX DE DIEU. Walked out after an hour, even as I had sworn to
myself that I would stick it out for Beatrice Dalle (and failed; sorry,
goddess). Also, sorry Claire Simon, but I don’t get why you didn’t
simply shoot a documentary this time around.

Kent Jones, 23-05

Here’s a question: how many filmmakers construct their aesthetic approaches around their discomfort with people? That is, human beings in the flesh. That is, one to one contact. As opposed to “people” in the abstract. The other night, I ran into Dominique Paini on my way into the screening of Liverpool. The subject of monstrous artists came up, a phenomenon of which he’s had first-hand experience after his experience with Godard on the Collage de France/Voyages en Utopie project (“He’ll ask you for a lot of money, and then the project will fall apart and you’ll get blamed,” he was told early on by one of Godard’s former producers, which is pretty much what happened). And Dominique raised the point that many artists love humanity in the abstract but detest particular people. Humanity, human beings, people, mankind… the terms get jumbled up fairly often, and it’s a regular phenomenon during this particular moment, when it’s fairly easy to get by with an impressionistic relationship to language, written or spoken. And the confusion between those terms (to which we might just as well add “man” and “humankind,” and why not “homo-sapiens?”) works to the benefit of certain artists. Of whom we might ask the question: are they hiding beneath the cloak of this “abstract humanism,” or is it a real point of view? And if they are hiding, what are they hiding?

After I saw Liverpool, which I liked very much, I wondered about Alonso’s own sense of the social world, his relationship to people. I know Lisandro to say hello to, I seem around Buenos Aires and at various film festivals from time to time, and he always seems very kind and thoughtful. Of course, this is true of many of us: once we’re out of our 20s, the great majority of us have developed the machinery which enables us to carry on conversations and function as social beings. But from where is Alonso’s peculiarly distanced aesthetic spring? Liverpool illuminates something very special, which is the desire to be elsewhere. One spends half of one’s life at sea and one longs to rest on land, like Ahab lamenting his young bride. One is land-locked and one longs to sail away. Not to fly away, at least within the context of this film, but to sail over the horizon and off to another world (there’s a distinctly 19th century aura to this film).

But as always, Alonso observes his actors – or, more properly, his people. There is no sense of visible engagement with them. He follows them, remains by their side, retains a distance in order to maintain a gaze that is respectful yet intent. And I wondered: how many more stories will he find that will suit this distance? (Another example of a filmmaker with a similar potential dilemma: the much less talented Fernando Eimbcke, whose new Lake Tahoe is basically a continuation of Temporada de patos by means of widescreen and color.) Perhaps the question will be moot. Perhaps Alonso is following this particular strain in his personal make-up all the way to its end point. But how will he respond when he has to do more detailed work with actors? Is he cloaking his tentativeness? His discomfort? His trepidation? Or perhaps revulsion? (I’m not being accusatory here – many of us sometimes feel a revulsion to our fellow human beings, our loved ones, and a longing to escape – sail away – to the more seemingly manageable domain of the sum total of humanity.) Will Alonso be able wrench something new out of himself? To start afresh?

If I had to bet on either Alonso or Nuri Bilge Ceylan, I would certainly put all my money on Alonso. Ceylan strikes me as a perfect example of an artist who cloaks his own discomfort with people beneath his aesthetic. He films in long takes gilded by insistent visual choices – the lengthy close-up of the wife in the sun at the beginning of Climates, for instance, or the ending of his new Three Monkeys, when the hero, just finished with shielding his faithless family from disaster, stands on his rooftop and gazes off at the digitally reworked purplish/pinkish storm clouds gathering in the distance. And within his durations, I see nothing but duration, a use of time to hide what his own tentativeness about his characters and the actors who play them. As opposed to Philippe Garrel, for instance, in whose quietly immersive durations he allows us to become attuned to the smallest shifts in facial muscles, tics, hesitations, gestures. His new La Frontière de l’aube is, among other things, the diametrical opposite of Ceylan’s collected works.

This is a common occurrence in contemporary cinema. You see it again and again, in films as varied as La France, La Question humaine, Manderlay, or, sadly enough, the new first feature by Annemarie Jacir, the talented director of the short Like 20 Impossibles (Le Sel de la mer, in Un Certain Regard). A filmmaker has an idea and then balks at the realization that they will have to get down in the mud and get dirty with the actors, so they wind up leaning way too hard on Mathieu Amalric or Sylvie Testud and send their own movie toppling over to one side. From where does this comfortable distance originate? My instinct is that it’s a misreading of Kiaostami and Hou on the one hand, an overvaluation of Godard’s and Terrence Malick’s and Tarkovsky’s strengths without acknowledging their weaknesses. But one has to go beyond cinema, of course, and to recognize the profound longing in western society for conflict-free interaction. A very odd goal, to say the least. You see it every day in the blogosphere, but also in daily interactions. Everyone wants to agree, not out of love for their fellow men and women, but in order to avoid the messiness and unscheduled effort of conflict.

Many of the films I’ve loved here address speak to this longing. Martel’s film, already infamous on this blog, a pageant of internal and external efforts to smooth out a bump in the road in the life of a woman (literally and figuratively). And in Arnaud Desplechin’s Un Conte de Noël, the man who leaves the “dysfunctional” craziness of his wife’s family is the one who looks like the fool: that’s where the real life is happening. And I must say, few recent moments in movies have pierced me as deeply as the scene in my friend Olivier Assayas’ L’Heure d’été (playing in the market), in which a brother and sister let their more responsible sibling know that they want to sell their mother’s house, without actually saying as much: they let him do the work of articulating it and then look away. Which is something I see every day of the week. And of which, if I’m perfectly honest
with myself, I myself am guilty on a regular basis.

Mark, 22-5

Amigos,

A bit delayed, as I started writing this two days ago and for good reasons could not finish it until now, having walked out of Che after 30 minutes. I am pretty sure Quintin, you will call the film fascist. So stop being annoyed that I don’t have the time to write, okay? I could be watching Benicio Del Toro take Havana, Anyhow, this isn’t going to be very good, as I have lost all capacity to string together sentences at this point,

So, back to the recent past: The major star-studded Cannes events are usually in the Lumiere and the Debussy in the Official Selection, where every film has to have some craziness and delays. I write this after waiting outside in a packed line to see a film that I was told is total crap —Versailles— crushed against other press members as Guillaume Depardieu hobbles up the red carpet, the security guards shove everyone without a ticket aside, and don’t bother to say that the film is “complet.” Another complet disaster, I am sure, so now there is time to write something. Brief!

But yesterday afternoon was probably the most special event here, and it was at the Quinzaine. As part of the 40th anniversary, the Quinzaine produced a documentary, and invited a few former filmmakers to join in the party. By a few, I mean about 45 of them, all on stage, after extensive introductions, applause for Pierre Henri Deleau, the Artistic Director for the first 30 years, and Olivier Pere, wearing, for the first time this year, his sparkling white suit (as yet unwrinkled). Everyone was there, from Otar to Chantal, to Lisandro and Albert, with Jim Jarmusch taking his place right in the centre, tallest among all thanks to his amazing hair. (Bruno Dumont made an appearance, and sat in a row by himself with six empty seats separating him from the next person. Ah, Bruno!) So after about 40 minutes of applause and self-aggrandizement—but in a good way—they actually showed the movie, directed by Olivier Jahan, who also made the Quinzaine trailer (probably one of the best festival trailers, as well).

The documentary itself, unlike most other films in this festival, is a very easy watch—first a trip through history, with anecdotes from Delau and numerous directors, most of whom actually had interesting things to say (Werner Herzog I could listen to read the phone book). For example—who knew that the first film screened by the Quinzaine, Lucia, was not even in the program to begin with, but was substituted when a print did not arrive? Then after a very brief trip through Delau’s successors (the Portuguese guy gets only an onscreen title), we land with Olivier Pere as he puts together the selection for the 2007 Quinzaine. Included in this whirlwind of scenes of Olivier watching movies—so exciting!–is a trip to Buenos Aires, where he introduces a film at the Lugones, has a dinner at Lisando Alonso’s house, and, I discover, walks down the street with me, and I am wearing the same t-shirt in the film that I am during the projection. But seriously, maybe as a festival programmer one has a special place for this film, as the Quinzaine, despite its long and important history, is really a film festival like any other one, with the same issues, the same last second deadlines, and the same stress.

A few other brief notes from today: the Variety critic Justin Chang is a moron. I believe this with all of my heart. Well, you could also say that Albert’s film follows in the great footsteps of Pedro, who was also dismissed rudely by that same moron from Variety. All I will say about the film is that anyone who doesn’t like it does not like or understand cinema. And it is also seriously hilarious, with the most laughter in the audience for any screening I’ve attended this year. The only thing I regret is not being more careful at the party, as someone spilled red wine all over my new white suit pants. The suit is probably ruined, but the evening was worth it.

Also, the James Gray film is stupid.

Love,

Mark

PS Yes, not only do I speak Hebrew, but it was fully improvised, while everyone else was speaking Catalan. Though something went wrong with the subtitles, so I hope they have the money to make new prints and correct these important errors. And in one scene I actually went far back and came up with some Biblical Hebrew phrasing. Which probably still has errors, but I’m pretty proud of that. That scene also has my favourite shot of myself, which is a shadow of my head on a rock.

PPS Tomorrow I will wear your t-shirt.

Christoph, 18-05

Now, my de ones, more – it’s beginning to look implausible, I have to admit, lucky news:

TYSON. As predicted – 90 Minutes of Tyson talking plus a few fine archive bits; what’s not to like? Total union of director and subject makes for pure enjoyment. A truly splendid film that has already caused much complaints from purist friends. The fools!

24 CITY. Very good, even as I feel it is a step sideways for Jia – he’s pushing the doc-fiction mix into new directions, not necessarily to new results. Still, fascinating, as part of his ongoing chronicle and, famously, an easy watch. Also: use of music still as
tonishing-

SERBIS. Possibly the most entertaining competition entry so far, if not the best. Best goat appearance of the festival though. Prolongued use of infernal noise levels awesome, as is its drive.

TOKYO SONATA. Already the great film that clearly should have been in competition, preferably instead of (insert ca. 60 % of contenders). Why is Cannes too dumb for Kiyoshi Kurosawa (then again . . .)

GOMORRA. Will remain the best Italian film in the festival, maybe of the entire year. Mafia saga well served by Garrone’s usual strengths as director (unforced surrealist moments carved out of sequences with unerring sense of place).

INDIANA JONES AND THE KINGDOM OF THE CRYSTALL SKULL. surprisingly painless, actually even pretty good for the first two set-pieces. the skull is incredibly tacky, tho. john hurt really fun as the mad guy, the rest not so much. still, i must admit, not the total desaster i feared.

Love
Christoph

Peranson (18-05)

Q, F, friends enemies—

Blogging is not my forte but I will try and be light and breezy in between trying to promote a movie I haven’t seen yet. (Running off to do my first inteview in five minutes!) So far it looks like I have to take back in my predictions: there are some good films in Un Certain Regard, such as Alvaro’s beloved Steve McQueen (which will hold the title of Best British film of the Century until Terence Davies), plus something certifiably insane from my old Gijon jurymate Thomas Clay, and, last night, the wonderful spectacle of seeing two very poorly overweight men drawn to tears over the glorious reception given to Mike Tyson. The other one, James Toback, thrives on that kind of attention, and even went on stage after the film. Tyson, who referred to the movie as a “program,” said he was humbled unlike he’d ever been before. Say what you want about the film, it was a special evening. Christoph will assure you of the same when he isn’t busy praising Jean Claude Van Damme.

The Quinzaine has had a few disappointments, and the competition has been generally crap, but the best film to date, Jia Zhangke’s 24 City, went over very poorly, probably because half of the Bazin, as far as I could tell, was fast asleep. I will take one image of Jia over the entire film by Nuri Bilge Ceylan (who Christoph has taken to call “the evil Turk”), with its fake digital look and rampant misogyny. In a festival where the majority of the films, for good or evil, have been marked by long dialogue-less stretches of pensive silence (Antonioni fans are in heaven), Jia layered on the words, and surely the shock of having to read so much in the dark early in the morning hit everyone too hard. Except for the Chinese press, I guess, but they mostly got shut out of the screening—I fear there may have been a plan afoot to keep them away from anything critical of their fair leaders.

The other feast of dialogue, a feast of cinema to some, came yesterday from Arnaud Desplechin.
About halfway through I knew for certain I could skip the surely awful Woody Allen film because I found myself in the middle of one. Well, and Bergman. Someone commented earlier that Desplechin seems determined to remake Fanny and Alexander over and over again, and this is the closest he’s got, but that doesn’t even covered all the stuff that’s thrown in there, including every French actor currently working except Sylvie Testud. Yes, it is a “novelistic” film, which manages to accomplish in 150 minutes what he already did in L’aimee, and far better. I see why it is being defended, even loved, but I could never enter the film, its literary remove and madcap characterization (not to mention plot contrivance) left me cold. But maybe I just hate Christmas movies.

More later, I promise, and we will also send collectible buttons of the three kings, a set of four… they will become Ebay treasures!

Love,

Mark

PS Blindness does not suck

Christoph Huber (16-05)

And another day (well, TYSON aaaaah!! – yet to follow in the late screening)

UN COMTE DE NOEL. desplechin getting ever more baroque in that change-of-registers-mode he already practized in ROIS ET REINE. on the verge of madness at times, but vigorous filmmaking of the highest order. the first truly outstanding competition film.

CSNY: DEJA VU. seen in the market, for why should i suffer more than i should with thierry’s toastish selection? clearly neil young aka bernard shakey is the giant of US grassroots filmmakers. a heartfelt work, if not as impressive as GREENDALE. thumbs up

LA VOZAGE AUX PYRENAES. after the surprsingly amusing (and neglected) last film the larrieu brothers totally overdo it with forced origionality. azema gives one of the worst performances of the last seven years. avoid at all costs.

more soon!!! all the best,

christoph

Christoph Huber (15-05)

Hola, my dear ones!

sorry, but the first two days were just filled with work (it will be no better sunday/monday) – opening report, getting invitation for J.C.V.D: (see below), but here’s the first roundup, hope to get that along more regularly on the less filled days . . .

BLINDNESS. Bad? Of course, it’s Fernando! But, worse, one of the 7 or 12 most boring films ever made. A complete bomb.

WALTZ FOR BASHIR. more interesting than last year’s entry in the dumbed-down humanist animation sweepstakes, PERSEPOLIS, but keeps getting less and less interesting as it goes along. not totally worthless, maybe.

LEONERA. trapero a reliable competent metteur-en-scene, even as his ideas not always converge. in the middle section the thing threatens to drift apart, but beginning an finaly are strong. quite solid, overall, and so far best competition entry by a mile.

FOUR NIGHTS WITH ANNA. Skolimowski’s comeback proves thaqt auctorial vision still carres the day. excellent., if obsolete (mostly in a good, sometimes even subversive way).
J.C.V.D. A humanist masterpiece, and a great film not just for the Jean-Claude van Damme fans Will official selection provide ANY film superior? I doubt it .. .

THREE MONKEYS. Nuri Bilge Ceylan once again proves his stature among critcs is an error. Utterly forgettable, if more tolerable than CLIMATES (maybe only because I slept for half an hour), but still utterly unlikeable. Also, the HD is awful, like a bad TV transmission. Huge applause What’s wrong with people?

HUNGER. For an installatoon artist, Steve McQueen shows quite a bit of cinematic flair. Not bad, but no THE PROSONER/TERRORIST

More to come. Hugs & goodnight,
Christoph

Mark Peranson (13-05)

The Films to Beat

Four Nights of Anna (Jerzy Skolimowski)– Because Olivier Pere tells me there are two masterpieces in the Quinzaine, and this is the one that I am not in.

The Frontier of Dawn (Philippe Garrel) – Because last year John Gianvito told me that someone told him that the Garrel film is great.

Now Showing (Raya Martin)—Because someone has to go see it, and I am not counting on any other members of the Canadian press to spent 4 and a half hours in Cannes watching Filipino cinema. And if it isn’t good I am eager to call out the New Filipino Cinema as a sham.

Of Time and the City (Terence Davies)—Because the prospect of a new Terence Davies film seems to make Alvaro very giddy.

Le Genou de Artimide + Itinérarie de Jean Bricard (Straub/Huillet)—Just because.

Chelsea on the Rocks (Abel Ferrara)—ibid.

Maradona by Kusturica (Emir Kusturica)—This being an Argentine blog, I have to mention this, though did that asshole Kusturica really need to put his own name in the title? Come on.

The Films to Beat with a Stick

Indiana Jones et le Royaume du Crâne de Cristal (Steven Spielberg)—Sounds even more awful in French.

Vicky Christina Barcelona (Woody Allen)—The other Spanish film in Cannes (with just as bad an English title as the other Spanish film in Cannes).

O Horten (Bent Hamer)—The fact that Alvaro sent me this film on Pando a week ago and I still haven’t bothered to watch it should tell me that I will never see another Bent Hamer film unless I am acting in it.

Il Divo (Paolo Sorrentino)—I would rather pay to see an Il Divo concert than sit through another Paolo Sorrentino film for free.

Whatever the closing film is

General Predictions
This year’s Cannes again will lead to a general disappointment with Thierry Frémaux’s selection, with an underwhelming competition, and continued criticism of Un Certain Regard, the place that films go to die (although I am looking forward to seeing Kelly Reichardt’s film as it stars her dog). At the same time, Olivier Pere’s stock will continue to rise, as the Quinzaine will celebrate a glorious 40th anniversary with some of the best films of the festival, including, but not limited to, Alonso, Serra, Gomes, Skolimowski, and Martin. (That being said, the prospect of a Bertrand Bonello orgy film where Michel Piccoli plays a character called “The Great Hou” frightens me very much, as does that Monsieur Marimoto thing.) The Dardennes will again have the best film in Cannes, but win nothing. Sean Penn and Marjane Satrapi will beat each other to a pulp during the jury deliberations. And Blindness will not suck.