Reviews

It's possible that 'cinema' (or "the movies") could be one of Tornatore's thematic preoccupations. Given that the director of CINEMA PARADISO made THE LEGEND OF 1900 at the time when cinema was celebrating its first 100 years, it is possible to read the film as a reflection on the state of cinema as it enters its second centenary.

One can't say for certain. For the most part the film concentrates on telling its story. However, the scent of metaphor hangs in the air. Just below the surface lies a resigned nostalgia hinting that the "greatness" of cinema may be a thing of the past. Like a big old rusting passenger ship consumed by an indifferent ocean, the brilliance and splendour of cinema has sunk to the bottom of a sea of mediocrity. THE LEGEND OF 1900 suggests that cinema has been reduced to churning out repetitious and facile dead-in-the-water crowd-pleasers, one lumbering TITANIC after another, and it does so by being exactly that.

There is a pivotal scene near the end of the film where Max (Pruitt Taylor Vince) talks to the character known as '1900' (Tim Roth) within the rusted bowels of the abandoned ship (the worn-out wreckage of cinema). 1900 has never been on dry land. The ship is the only reality he has ever known, and he refuses to leave. As it creaks and groans beneath them, Max tries to convince him by describing the world beyond the vessel as a place of infinite choice, but he knows that 1900 will never accept the mediocrity of dry land (modern-day commercial movies). There is no place in such a world for the true artist. 1900 will go down with the ship (the discarded notion of cinematic art) rather than compromise his true nature.

So, did Tornatore intend THE LEGEND OF 1900 as a denunciation of big-budget commercial Euro-puddings, cleverly making the film in the vacuous style of its worst excesses (i.e. criticising the likes of TITANIC by emulating them), or did he simply make a vacuous film? I suspect the latter. As one of the characters says, 'You're never really done-for as long as you have a good story, and someone to tell it to'. Maybe he meant to say, 'someone to SELL it to'.

Chantal Akerman's haunting masterwork is not for those looking for clearly drawn narratives and characters, but for those willing to commit two hours to observation and contemplation, D'EST could be an extremely rewarding experience. There are moments when the poetic minimalism of this perceptive film feels like epiphany, but passive viewers may walk away empty-handed. It could be described as an existential meditation on memory and endurance, and while that may not sound exactly riveting, D'EST is, nevertheless, film-making of the very highest order, a work of art expanding the boundaries of the language of cinema.

This powerful, revealing study of Chinese rural politics depicts a system in which corruption, fear, and opportunism thrives. Within the small farming community in which the film is set, there is a growing culture of distrust and duplicity, one that fosters a low regard for life and self-worth. One is tempted to draw a parallel between the village and China itself, but it's just as tempting to draw a wider parallel with the aspirations of globalization. This film is a damning indictment of the ageless human impulse for power and the corruption that inevitably follows in its wake - one of the very best films of the year that no one saw.

CRY WOMAN shares a similar cinematic aesthetic with the films of Jai Zhang-ke, (especially Jai's excellent UNKNOWN PLEASURES), with its use of naturalism (particularly noticeable in the acting and camera-work); direct, unadorned images; gritty contemporary settings; and distinct sociopolitical overtones. The performances are broader (as is the humour), but the steady trajectory towards the final, darkly cathartic, moving conclusion is very well handled. This is an excellent example of sixth-generation filmmaking.

I've read many reviews and comments about this film, but few seem to grasp what this film is really about.

Some have rightly pointed out that it is a film about the consequences of vigilantism, a film about revenge and (as Clint himself said) how 'evil begets evil'. But the ending has confused, even annoyed many people. Some have expressed concern that the message seems to be that it's OK to commit murder as long as you do it in the name of your family. They wonder what Eastwood and Helgeland were thinking to devise such a 'hateful and evil' message. But this is a most important and searching question, for it focuses on the crux of the film.

The Corleone family in THE GODFATHER films (the ultimate vigilante's) were a law unto themselves - any action was justifiable if it was in the interest of 'the family'. This is a creed most would recognise as hateful and evil. In MYSTIC RIVER, we watch a vigilante story play itself out, culminating in a patriotic street parade inter-cut with what seems to be a justification for vigilantism. This is not mere irony. Eastwood portrays a community in which vigilantism has a place, a community not so different from those in Western sagas where lawless frontiers were tamed by men who spoke with the barrel of gun. He is drawing a contemporary analogy.

It's no coincidence that some of the characters are mute. Muteness is part of the subtext of the film, referring to having no voice or refusing to use the one we have. Nor is it coincidental that in the final few minutes we observe mute communication (through eye contact and hand gestures) between characters who seem to be expressing a mute acquiescence.

In MYSTIC RIVER, Eastwood asks us to examine our own muteness - our own 'hearts of darkness'. The film ends with the camera (the viewer) plunging into the dark and murky Mystic River, suggesting that we are on the verge of plunging headlong into dark irreconcilable waters. The film is an allegory that warns against ideas and actions that lead people, countries and governments (!!) into political vigilantism.

I wouldn't call MYSTIC RIVER a great film, but because of the importance (and potency) of the message, it deserves serious consideration for its disturbing and daring subtext.

In just over an hour, Sokurov achieves in ‘Mother and Son' a wholly satisfying balance between the aesthetic, emotional, and spiritual elements that inform this simple but extremely profound film. In many ways the film is reminiscent of Andrei Tarkovsky, but where Tarkovsky was more specifically Christian in his metaphysical leanings, Sokurov suggests a kind of "humanist mysticism", an elegiac hymn to the natural rhythms of life and death, and the fragile poignancy of human love. As a celebration of life in the face of death, ‘Mother and Son' portrays the journey we must all eventually face with a simple naturalistic acceptance, and is perhaps the closest thing one might find in cinema to what I can only describe as a sort of "non-religious sacredness".

Sokurov's approach here is very ‘pared-down'. While the dialogue is kept to an absolute minimum, the soundtrack is extremely expressive and is an essential element of the work - the wind, the sea, the "music" of the earth, provide a brilliant counterpoint and commentary to what is seen. The look of the film is remarkable, inspired by the paintings of Caspar David Friedrich, but while the images are indeed beautiful, they are never merely "picturesque". From beginning to end, Mother and Son is a work of genius.