Sunday, October 22, 2017

My Chicago International Film Festival Diary - Final Entry

My final trip to the Chicago International Film Festival started with some minor drama - suburban trains were running late due to track construction, I had lost my admission ticket to the afternoon's screening - but all was eventually resolved.  I bypassed the energizing walk along the river and took a cab, which deposited me at the front of the AMC 21 Theater in record time, and the friendly, efficient CIFF volunteer staff replaced my ticket with little fanfare.

The inconveniences were well worth the trip.  The final film on my agenda, In the Fade, may be the best of the four I saw at the festival this year.

I know Diane Kruger has been a steady presence in films and television for the last fifteen years or so. But before yesterday, if you'd asked me what she'd done, the only role I could have brought to mind was Bridget von Hammesmark, the doomed German actress in Inglorious Basterds. That all changes now; Kruger gives a stunning, ferocious performance here as a grieving, traumatized woman whose Turkish immigrant husband and young son are killed by white supremacist bombers.  She won the Best Actress prize at Cannes this year and - depending on how this film is received when it opens in the U.S. in December - she could be an Oscar nominee. (She certainly should be.)

The handful of reviews published so far for In the Fade (from other festivals where it has appeared this year) are almost universally laudatory towards Kruger, but dismissive of the film as a whole, calling it formulaic and predictable.  I can't agree, and I don't share those critics' jaded reaction to the extended courtroom scenes in the middle of the film.  I found the rhetoric employed by the bombers' defense attorney to be unnervingly evocative of the debased political discourse we've seen in our own country as late, while the prosecuting attorney's passionate plea for common sense and decency felt especially cathartic. That timely relevance made for some pretty riveting viewing.

Through those courtroom, scenes, Kruger is a powder keg of barely controlled fury and horror - you can't take your eyes off her. The actress navigates all the stages of grief, despair, trauma, vengefulness, and resignation with impressive emotional stamina.  Her character is equal parts broken-hearted and bad-ass - a tricky kind of duplicity to pull off, but Kruger dives deep to find the character's shattered soul and makes every step of her journey heartbreakingly transparent.

The denouement here is shocking and depressing as hell (and I won't give it away), but the trip there is gripping and powerful.  I give the credit equally to Kruger and her director, Faith Akin, whose earlier work I haven't seen but am determined to seek out now.

In the Fade is Germany's official submission for the 2018 foreign-language Oscar.  I still think BPM is film to beat for the trophy, but I full expect to see this one on the final list of nominees come January.

Thursday, October 19, 2017

My Chicago International Film Festival Diary, Part 2

The difference between attending the festival on a weekend and attending on a weekday is all in the audience.  Weekends bring a mixed crowd of young-to-middle-aged filmgoers.  On a late Tuesday morning, the audience is dominated by affluent older women. While waiting on line for the first matinee, I am surrounded by: precisely, expensively bobbed silver haircuts; capes and jackets that appear to be a Gold Coast boutique's riff on Chico's outerwear; emphatically delivered opinions on books ("A Gentlemen in Moscow" is, apparently, required reading) and Vanessa Redgrave (who "is absolutely beautiful and does nothing about it," and is "at least 83!'). Editorial comment: Redgrave turned 80 this year - but it does seem like she's been around forever!

Anyway, the first film of the day is Barrage, a tense family drama in which Isabelle Huppert and Lolita Chammah (Huppert's real-life daughter) play a long-estranged mother and daughter competing for the affections of Chammah's young daughter (Themis Pauwels).

Barrage is Luxembourg's official submission for the Oscars' Foreign Language film trophy, and I suspect that is because: 1) Luxembourg is a small country with a small film industry and not much else to submit; or 2) the presence of Huppert mere et fille gives the film an aura of prestige that it wouldn't have earned otherwise.

It's not that the film is bad, exactly.  It's well -acted and engrossing, but not especially revelatory.  Chammah shows up after years away to reclaim the daughter she left with her controlling mother.  The two slowly bond on a trip to a family chalet in the woods, where Chammah decides to discard the pills she keeps to 'keep dark thoughts away.' (Huppert is a supporting player here with a relatively small role.)

There's a muddled, muted feeling to the proceedings - the stakes are never too high, the consequences never too dire - and the dialogue among Chammah, Huppert and Pauwels is suggestive and alllusive, rather than explicit, about long-simmering family conflicts.  All of which is admirable to a point, and not unusual for a European film. But sometimes you really long for something about these people and their anger to be made startlingly clear. Maybe that's the result of my American conditioning or maybe it's a valid criticism; I'm still trying to work that out.

There's also a bizarre dream sequence awkwardly inserted late in the film, of which director Laura Schroeder admitted, in the post-screening Q&A, that she didn't really know whose point of view is represented (an odd comment from a writer/director).  Still Schroeder was so earnest and sweet, especially when admitting that she had stayed for the final screening of her film because she loved Chicago too much to leave earlier, that I find it difficult to be hard on her.   I wish her well, but I don't expect to see Barrage on the Oscar shortlist.

The other film I saw was God's Own Country which marks the promising debut of director/screenwriter Francis Lee.  It's been widely touted as a British Brokeback Mountain, a comparison which I guess was inevitable for a film about two young men who fall in love while working outside with sheep.  In truth, it's a far different story - more about how a good relationship forces its young, unfocused protagonist to grow up and deal with the responsibilities of his life than about furtive, forbidden passion. And without giving too much away, it's far more hopeful than the earlier film.

Johnny (Jason O'Connor) is a frustrated and lonely young man, working the family farm alone as a result of his father's debilitating stroke - and handling his duties none too well. His life is a blur of drunken nights, furtive assignations with other closeted young men, and stand-offs with a father who has no patience with his son's lazy carelessness.

Enter a Romanian migrant worker brought in to to help Johnny on the farm. Alec Sacarenu is handsome with soulful, chocolate brown eyes and his character, Gheorge, is as wise, gentle and patient as Johnny is adolescent and mercurial.  The two fall into a physical relationship while out and away in the hills; upon their return, the relationship deepens. There are further plot developments which force Johnny to come to grips with his life and his desires.  I'm not about to deliver spoilers here, but let's just say it all plays out to a satisfactory conclusion, although not without obstacles to be overcome along the way.

Nothing surprising there, but the journey benefits from Lee's handling of atmosphere and his eye for lovingly rendered details of the rural life and landscape.  Cinematographer Joshua James Richards creates beautiful shots of moody, gray Yorkshire skies that enforce Johnny's sense of bleakness and loneliness. The cast also includes a quiet, beautiful performance by an almost unrecognizable Gemma Jones as Johnny's steadfast mother.

My experience of the film festival isn't just about the films, it's also about being in Chicago.  I'm in the city infrequently these days; to my horror, I've become one of those suburbanites who rarely wanders into Chicago and limits her visits mostly to well-traveled venues.  Still, on a crisp, sunny October morning, there is no better sight than that from the Riverwalk. I strolled all the way from Wells Street to the east side of Michigan Avenue on Tuesday morning.  The Riverwalk was quiet - a few joggers, a scattering of tourists with cameras, the cafes and bars not yet open for business - and the magnificence of the architecture along the river was splendid to see against a brilliantly blue sky. It set the tone for my day and made me happy.  The films I saw were just the icing on the cake.

Tuesday, October 17, 2017

My Chicago International Film Festival Diary (Part 1)

I kept a long-standing promise to myself this year, and actually scheduled a week off work around the Chicago International Film Festival.  So far, I have four films on my agenda with the option to spontaneously head into the city for anything else that strikes my fancy.  Here's my first report.

I headed to the River East AMC theater for the first time on Sunday - a cool, cloudy day following a Saturday deluge of heavy rain.  The Chicago River had spilled over its banks and splashed into the outdoor cafes along the city's Riverwalk, which were closed and ghostly quiet that morning.  

The audience was also surprisingly sparse at the late morning screening of BPM (also known as 120 Battements Par Minute in France). Director Robin Campillo's drama about AIDS in early '90s Paris took the Grand Jury Prize at Cannes this year, and it's not hard to see why. The film is stirring and heartbreaking in equal measures, with very strong performances and expressionistic visual imagery that is at once sad, profound and beautiful.

The film opens at a meeting of ActUp Paris,the Gallic counterpoint of the USA's radical anti-AIDS activist group.  A earnest young man looks directly into the camera and outlines the rules of order for the group's weekly meetings; it's soon reveled that he's talking to a group of new members, but the scene also helps the audience comprehend the many fast-paced, debate-filled meeting scenes that follow. 

This same character is seen throughout the film on the edges of the group's actions (protest marches, disruptions of speeches and public events to throw fake blood or the ashes of dead AIDS victims on 'all talk/no action' scientists and politicians). He never seems to really participate, but rather looks on his fellow activists with wonder and obvious admiration.  He is clearly the stand-in for Campillo, who directs BPM with a cool, documentarian's touch. It's full of righteously angry characters given to fiery debates, yet the film itself never feels angry or polemical.  It does, however, have energy and a well-calibrated rhythmic intensity as it cycles through scenes of Act Up meetings, dance clubs, and intimate encounters between the two lovers at the story's center.  These particular types of scenes recur at predictable intervals, and yet the shape and focus of those scenes evolves as the stakes become more desperate. 

The stand-out in the cast is Nahuel Perez Biscayart, who portrays one of the most spirited members of Act Up  - and whose illness progresses most quickly.  All the young actors are good, but it's Biscayart whose presence and energy light up every scene he's in.  

Most of the audience sat through the entire closing credits crawl before leaving the theater, which for me is proof of BPM's emotional power; you can't get up and walk away from it easily.  This is France's submission for next year's Best Foreign-Language film Oscar. I'm going out on a limb and predicting that it will not only make the nomination's shortlist, but that it will actually win.

By the time BPM concluded, the sun had come out in Chicago.  I had nearly two hours to kill before another Metra train would head back to the northwest suburbs, so I took my time strolling down Michigan Avenue and State Street, popping into stores along the way.  It was maddening.  As is usual for a Sunday, the streets and stores were filled with tourists. Only these weren't the usual folks who drive in from Indiana or Wisconsin for the weekend; today's tourist trade was largely European or Asian and they were clamoring to scoop up clearance-priced designer handbags at Macy's, bargain-priced gewgaws at Nordstrom Rack, chocolate at Dylan's Candy Bar, makeup at Sephora.... you name it. Their near-manic quest to scoop up American consumer goods was startling.

Later, as I struggled to cross the DuSable Bridge, squeezing myself between out-of-towners snapping selfies in which the Trump building would loom ominously behind them, I had an uncharitable thought. "These damn tourists...." the thought began, and spiraled downward from there.

When I had finally settled in with a bowl of tomato basil soup at the Corner Bakery on Wacker Drive - blessedly uncrowded in mid-afternoon and largely tourist-free - I was able to see the irony in my irritation. Surely someone in Prague... and in Rome... and Verona... and Venice... had felt the same away about ME this past summer!

Tuesday, August 15, 2017

On the Road: Venice, the City That Wishes You'd Stay Home (or does it?)

This is the second in a series of "off topic" posts inspired by my recent choir trip to Europe. However, I promise to tie this to at least one movie!

Venice has become the persnickety old maiden aunt of Italian tourism - one with a parlor full of valuable antiques that she's trying to save for the "good" company, all the while railing and swatting away at the ruffians who crowd in, dripping melted gelato and pizza grease, scattering litter and snapping selfies. She throws modest shawls over the spaghetti-strapped shoulders of young women entering her churches and demands that you don't dawdle too long on her picturesque bridges. And no one pays any attention to her warnings.

Venice regularly tops lists of cities that want tourists to stay away, and their pleas are not working. The city averages 60,000 day-tripping visitors a day.  That's a whopping lot of people packed onto a relatively small set of tiny, bridge-linked islands. It's also sinking into the Adriatic Sea at a rate of 2 millimeters per year, one presumes under the massive weight of all those tourists.

Nevertheless, the Venetians battle valiantly to make tourists respect their city for the centuries-old showpiece of history, commerce, architecture and art that it is - and not treat it like the Italian pavilion at Epcot.  They've passed ordinances banning picnicking and the sale of fast food in heavily visited areas.  There is even a law forbidding you to stand too long on any bridge, so as not to bring the pedestrian traffic to a halt.  I can assure you, not one of these ordinances is being enforced. I personally witnessed a  couple scarfing a huge, shared bag of potato chips while sitting directly under the "No Picnicking" sign in St. Mark's Square, and I had a hell of a difficult time getting past the selfie-snappers blocking all but a narrow passageway in the middle of the Accademia Bridge.

It was a very hot, very tourist-packed July day when our group arrived in Venice.  But my first experience of the fabled "La Serenissima" was very different.

In February 2000, I tagged along on a friend's ski club trip to Austria.  I had no intention of skiing  the Alps - I could barely manage the smallest green hills in Michigan and Wisconsin- but I totally wanted to be part of the optional day trips.  One of those was to Venice. We left Innsbruck on a bus at 5:30 in the morning and got back around 11:30 that night.  I never once regretted the lost sleep.

When we arrived just across the bay from Venice around nine that morning, the city was enveloped in fog. As we piled into a motorboat to taxi over to St. Mark's Square, the fog began to lift - and all those famous, beautiful, 15th century buildings of Venice slowly emerged from the mist.  It was indescribably beautiful, like entering a dream world.  The air was chilly and damp, and the day was gray, but it hardly mattered.  I was in a daze all day: wandering the labyrinthine streets, taking a long gondola ride that passed under every famous, fabled bridge on the Grand Canal. There were virtually no other tourists in the city that day, and the streets seemed to belong just to us and the locals.  Just as we were getting on the boat that would take us back to our bus that evening, the fog rolled back in behind us, covering Venice in mist once more.  I have never had a more magical day as a traveler.

It was a blazing hot July day when I returned to Venice along with my choral group, and there were massive hordes of tourists everywhere. The views were still beautiful, if a bit harder to take in. After a trip to the Murano glass factory and a guided visit to St. Mark's Square, we were free to wander on our own.  And I had a plan.

The infamous Peggy Guggenheim had long captured my imagination.  The niece of Solomon Guggenheim, founder of the famous museum in NYC, Peggy was a lover of abstract art - and abstract artists - in every sense of the word.  She had money and a discerning eye, and she amassed a brilliant personal collection of works by Picasso, Kandinsky, Duchamp, Dali, Pollock and many others in her villa on the Grand Canal.  She was bold and unconventional. She had two husbands, two children, and many lovers, but was most devoted to her dogs. (The Venetians called her "L'Americana con i cani" - the American woman with the dogs) and she was buried among them in the courtyard of her villa. After she died, her home was opened to the public as a museum where her collection was showcased.  And, for years, I had been dying to get a look at it.

So I went off my own in search of Peggy's treasures (no other abstract art lovers in the group!).  It was an easy trip at first - although I had a map in hand, I could find my way to the Accademia Bridge by following signs posted at the end of every block.  But once over the bridge, I was lost.  I'm convinced that Ms. Guggenheim didn't really want anyone to visit her former home, because she made it so hard to find!  I wandered the surrounding neighborhood for nearly a half-hour before figuring out that I needed to wander down a tiny, narrow "street" that was barely wide enough to let two people pass each other, then into a small piazza, and then into another tiny "street". The Collection lay behind wrought iron gates just off that ... let's call it an alley, which is what it really was.

Was it worth the stressful trip? Yes! Absolutely!  My only regret is that my confusion in getting there reduced the amount of time I could spend admiring the impressive collection of masterworks. I was also interested to see the bold, imaginative (and somewhat disturbing) work of Guggenheim's daughter, Pegeen, to which an entire room is devoted. Here's the infamous statue that sits outside the villa, facing the Canal: "Angel of the City" sculpted by Marino Marini. If you look close, you'll see that this little guy is, umm, really excited to be looking out on to the Grand Canal.

Because I had taken almost all our allotted free time to visit the Collection, I had missed lunch and was ravenous by the time I ran into a group of fellow choristers headed to a famous gelato spot. This wound up being my lunch:

This is the specialty of the house at Gelateria Nico on the Grand Canal: a small brick of chocolate hazelnut gelato dunked in a tall glass of whipped cream. This is about as brilliant as dessert gets, and I wolfed it down in mere minutes.

Our entire group concluded the day with a gondola ride and dinner.  Our gondolier was young and handsome, friendly and mildly flirty with the group of middle-aged women he steered around the canals.  He claimed not to be a singing gondolier, but with a little encouragement he favored us with a few bars of a pop ballad and proved to have a lovely, rich baritone voice.  He was such a good sport and so nice that I had to wonder if all this talk of tourist-hating Venetians might be a bit overblown.  I reflected on a day in which I'd encountered no attitude or impatience from anyone in a service role. In fact, when I'd stopped for a bottle of water at a pizza place earlier, the woman who served me was effusively friendly and offered me an enthusiastic "grazie!" (Maybe because I ordered "acqua, per favore," using Italian rather than my own language?)  Perhaps that persnickety old Zia Serenissima is softening and getting used to the ruffians in the parlor after all.

Movie tie-in: Where do I even start?

My whole love affair with Venice started long before I ever set foot in the city - at the movies.  How many times have you seen that famous landscape?  Think of Summertime, A Room with a View, Don't Look Now, The Talented Mr. Ripley...  The list goes on and on.

Not to mention the fascinating documentary Peggy Guggenheim: Art Addict.

But I'm going to pick Lasse Hallstrom's Casanova, a thoroughly silly and highly enjoyable romp starring the late Heath Ledger in the title role, Sienna Miller as his love interest, and whole ensemble of wonderful actors (Jermey Irons, Oliver Platt, Lena Olin among them) having a merry time in a most romantic setting.

It's hard to make a movie in Venice that doesn't capture its beauty, but Casanova is one I recall giving the sunniest, most beautiful views of a city that is all about beauty.  And it's far and away the most fun film on this list.  Rent it and enjoy yourself.

Sunday, July 30, 2017

On the Road: Reflections on Prague - Then and Now

Sometimes, this blog is about movies... and sometimes it's about the life in between them.  As regular readers know, that life in-between occasionally involves travel.  Here is the first in a series of observations from my recent trip to Europe - a performance trip made by my community choir.

But I promise - I'll find a movie association for every one of these post!

I first visited the Czech Republic in 2001; my memories of that trip are spotty and impressionistic now, but the overriding, lingering impression I retain is of a country not yet entirely comfortable with tourists - especially American tourists.

In Prague, you could sense the aspiration to attain (or, more correctly, regain) status as a world-class cosmopolitan city, but there was still ample evidence of the austerity and deprivations of the Soviet era. I recall our cab driver pointing proudly to an abstract sculpture on the site where a statue of Joseph Stalin had once stood. "Stalin, bye-bye!" he crowed exultantly and waved. The hotel to which he delivered us was spartan but clean and comfortable, and gave the distinct feeling of having been converted to lodgings from some other kind of establishment.  The tiny baths in our rooms were obviously converted closets that one had to step up and into from the room where we slept.  The hotel dining room resembled a high school 'cafe-torium' and the breakfast buffet food was portioned out in plastic bowls and cups arrayed neatly on humble trays.

We took a dinner cruise on the Vlatva River.  A trio of men played Sinatra tunes and I think some people danced.  The buffet featured a desultory array of dishes and ample supplies of fresh apples, bananas and pears.  A hostess explained to us that the fresh fruit was still seen as a great treat, having been so hard to come by during the years of Soviet occupation.

One Saturday night while we ate dinner in quiet pub, I watched a television variety show hosted by a pair of middle-aged women: one an aging, ditzy blonde and the other a sturdy, sardonic character actress. Imagine a sketch-and-music show co-hosted by Goldie Hawn and Margo Martindale and you'll have some idea of it.  They sang a opening song about being buddies, performed a comedy sketch in which they played witches.  I didn't - and still don't - understand a single word of Czech, but I could follow the comic beats in everything they did.

The formula for a television variety series may have been universal, but our face-to-face interactions with Czech service people were far less intuitive. English wasn't widely spoken there at that time; if a Czech person knew a second language, it was more likely to be German. So maybe it was the language barrier - or maybe it was the vehemence with which the teetotalers in our group refused the complimentary shots of becherovka proffered at every meal - but we managed to piss off a whole series of waitresses, clerks and ticket agents.  Their surly glares felt personal at the time, but in retrospect, they probably weren't. This, after all, is a country that uses Franz Kafka as the iconic face on its tourist trinkets.  Even our tour guide at Prague Castle was dour and gloomy, muttering his dissatisfaction with Vaclav Havel's government as he led us into the courtyard. I joked to my friends that the Czech tourist industry needed a little instruction on guest relations from the folks at Disney , but privately I felt rather embarrassed at having, however unintentionally, offended our hosts.

Still, the city was as incredibly beautiful as I had heard - a mixture of perfectly preserved 18th century Baroque buildings and gorgeous Art Nouveau architecture, all trimmed with endlessly interesting decorative details: murals, statues, religious icons, wrought iron frills and flourishes.  Here's an example (and no, this is not where we stayed - then OR now):

I also recall a perfectly delicious dessert we consumed at a cafĂ© in Old Town Square: a crepe filled with fruit and ice cream, drizzled with chocolate and topped with a generous dollop of whipped cream.  In retrospect, it doesn't seem a spectacular concoction. But it was the whole experience: the late afternoon sunshine, the cheerful bustle of tourists beneath the famed Astronomical Clock , the sweetness of the dessert and the smiling disposition of the first friendly waitress we'd encountered in Prague - that made it so memorable.

Flash forward now to 2017:

My first impression of Prague when we arrive on a Friday morning is that tourist-driven consumerism had definitely taken hold of the city. Our hotel on Wenceslas Square was sleek and modern with good-sized rooms and an Andy Warhol portrait of Franz Kafka behind the front desk.  The Marks and Spencer store I remembered from my previous visit as the lone, isolated outpost of Western consumerism has been joined by H&M, Sephora and many other merchants easily recognizable to American mall shoppers. The square was unusually quiet for a Friday  - most Prague denizens being out of town on a national four-day holiday weekend - but by the weekend, the streets were fairly clogged with tourists from all over the world. Also, there were numerous buskers and tourist-trinket-scammers, the likes of which I don't recall seeing at all in 2001.

The city is infinitely more welcoming to English speakers than in 2001 . Every sign and menu is in English as well as Czech, and everyone from the impeccably dressed young woman who sells me garnet earrings to the waiter who brings us salads and peach iced tea for our first lunch, speaks the language more or less fluently.  If servers are not quite universally warm and effusive, they are unfailingly polite. No glares, no surliness. (Then again, there is almost no one in our group who will turn down a shot of becherovka - a potent liquor, redolent with cinnamon and cloves, that goes down smooth and allegedly aids digestion.)

With the group, I revisited Prague Castle, and this time our friendly guide, Pavel, has only lovely things to say about Vaclav Havel, which was a kind of relief.  Like so many tour guides, Pavel brandishes a red umbrella high above his head so we can find and follow him in the crush of the many tour groups jostling for space and good photo set-ups.  His only fault is that he cannot walk slowly - his red umbrella bobs so far of ahead of us that we sometimes can barely keep him in sight.

We discover the delights of becherovka and Pilsner beer, while we learn to avoid Czech wine.  We learn that a dish called "Moravian Sparrow" is, in fact, roast pork in a delicious onion and garlic gravy. We sit in a friendly pub one afternoon and pick our way through a sort of Czech charcuterie plate of various cheeses, pork, ham and pickles. But sadly, we never get a chance to sample trdelnik, the ubiquitous dessert of ice cream served in a cone made of fried, sugar-dusted dough.  Maybe I'll be back in another 16 years to try it....

And of course, this being a choir performance trip, we sang - first in St. Nicholas Church on Old Town Square, then on the following night at San Salvator Catholic church just off the Charles Bridge. Our audiences are mostly comprised of appreciative tourists, many of whom film us on their phones. (So now we are the stars of vacation videos all over the world!) Also, just one word: ACOUSTICS!!! We never get this kind of sound at home - it's a real joy to hear our voices reverberating through these spectacular spaces.

We took a dinner cruise one night on the Vlatva, just as my friends and I had done before - and not much had changed.  This time, the music was provided by a duo - one man on clarinet, the other on banjo - which gave the sensation that our river cruise was taking place over the endlessly rolling credits of a Woody Allen movie. There was again fresh fruit on the buffet - grapes and apple wedges - but also a large of array of tasty meat, fish and vegetable dishes. We happily spread out on the top deck in the evening air, drinking wine and watching the gorgeous cityscape of Prague roll by. This one delightful evening was exactly as I had remembered it sixteen years earlier.

Movie Tie-In:

All those gorgeously preserved 18th century buildings made a perfect backdrop for the 1984 film version of Amadeus.  Czech-born director Milos Forman used Prague as a very convincing stand-in for Vienna in the exterior shots, and filmed some interior theatre scenes there as well.

In fact, the real Mozart had a connection to Prague: his opera Don Giovannni premiered there in 1787, where it received a rapturous reception.  The theater where it was performed still stands today, a commemorative plaque on the door and a statue of the Commandant character just outside (both of which I stupidly failed to photograph.)  A slightly altered version of Don Giovanni was performed in Vienna the following year to slightly more reserved applause.

In the interest of dramatic license, playwright/screenwriter Peter Shaffer totally fudges this information in Amadeus, where Salieri informs us that the opera opened and closed in the same week in Vienna, a failure and a flop. So now you know the REAL story.

Thursday, February 23, 2017

Oscars 2017: So, We're Doing This Again...

It's Oscar time again. Pardon my asterisks, but I am completely out of f***ks to give.

It's not that 2016 wasn't a fantastic year for films (It was!) or that the really great ones aren't up for any Oscars (Many of them are!).  It's just that ... I'm SO DONE with 2016 and I'm tired of celebrating anything to do with it.  Outside of the cinema, 2016 was a thoroughly crap year that I don't want to revisit - even through film clips and ESPECIALLY not through a weepy "In Memoriam" montage. (Frankly, just the experience of living through 2016 felt like being trapped in an "In Memoriam" montage that just kept rolling and getting sadder and sadder.)

Also, I'm REALLY TIRED of talking about La La Land. And I loved La La Land!  It was at the top of my list of the best films of 2016. But it doesn't merit the level of bickering and controversy it's generated. Seriously, everyone needs to chill out and rent The Young Girls of Rochefort this weekend. (Get a clue, people - it's not based just on Hollywood musicals!) Meanwhile, I will keep trying to get the melody of "City of Stars" out of my head, where it's been stuck for over three months now.

But... I'm a film blogger who writes about the Oscars every year, so I'm digging deep for the motivation to give you my annual "Good, Bad, Undeserving and Overlooked" assessment of this year's nominees. (Disclaimer: as of this moment, I still have not seen Lion, Nocturnal Animals or Elle. Watch this space for late-breaking updates, as I plan to finally see at least one of those in the next 48 hours...)

Before we begin, a word about this year's host: I have only the highest hopes for Jimmy Kimmel, who seems like the perfect choice to helm this year's ceremony.

Last year, at the height of the #OscarsSoWhite controversy and Chris Rock's edgy hosting gig, I predicted that "we can probably expect an old-fashioned, crowd-pleasing white host in 2017." I fully expected that host to be Billy Crystal; even so, I wasn't entirely off the mark. Kimmel is the easiest to take of the network late-night hosts: funny but not too edgy, naughty but not smutty, topical but without the bite or sting of pointed satire.  He occupies a comfortable, enjoyable middle ground between the exuberant ass-kissery of Jimmy Fallon's "Tonight" show and the barbed political takedowns on Stephen Colbert's "Late Show."  Kimmel's emcee chops were developed over years of hosting  the American Music Awards and the Emmys. He'll be funny, and he'll keep the show humming along nicely, without too many Trump jokes. And despite the fact that I enjoy a good laugh at the President's expense, I'm actually looking forward to that.

And now, on to the nominees. Due to my overwhelming Oscar ennui, I'm keeping it to bare-bones predictions and shout-outs this year. No long-winded essays or cries of shock and outrage - just the facts, ma'am:

Best Supporting Actress
     Will Win:  Viola Davis for Fences
     Should Win: Viola Davis for Fences
     Overlooked: Julianne Moore for Maggie's Plan (Because she was so funny! After playing so               many silently suffering women, we forgot she had such wicked comedy chops.)

Best Supporting Actor
     Will Win: Mahershala Ali for Moonlight
     Should Win: Mahershala Ali for Moonlight
     Overlooked: Hugh Grant for Florence Foster Jenkins (best performance of his career), Alden             Ehrenreich for Hail Caesar! (he stole the film!), Ralph Fiennes for A Bigger Splash (his                       happy dance to the Stones' "Emotional Rescue" alone merits the nomination)

Best Actress
     Will Win: Emma Stone for La La Land
     Should Win:  Natalie Portman for Jackie
     Overlooked: Molly Shannon for Other People (she's come a looong way since SNL), Susan                  Sarandon for The Meddler (a lovely performance in a underseen, underrated film), Amy Adams        for Arrival (because how is she not on this list?)

Best Actor 
     Will Win: Casey Affleck for Manchester by the Sea
     Should Win: Denzel Washington for Fences
     Overlooked: Tom Hanks for Sully (contrary to popular belief, he does NOT play every role the              same), Joel Edgerton for Loving (every bit as great as his nominated co-star).

Best Director 
     Will Win:  Damien Chazelle for La La Land
     Should Win: Barry Jenkins for Moonlight OR Mel Gibson for Hacksaw Ridge
     Overlooked: Pablo Larrain for Jackie 

Best Picture
     Will Win: La La Land
     Should Win: Does it matter? La La Land is going to win and that's fine, although I'd also be               happy to see Moonlight take the top prize.
     Overlooked: Jackie and Allied.

Tuesday, January 17, 2017

A Kangaroo at the Vatican and Other Surprises

So here's something that actually happened on last night's episode of The Young Pope: the Pope ordered a kangaroo to be let loose in the Vatican Gardens.

Not just any kangaroo, mind you, but the one sent to him by the good people of Australia as a congratulatory gift on his ascension to the papacy.  A kangaroo that whimpered and growled quietly inside his crate until Pope Pius XIII gently summoned him forward with a whisper of "C'mon, sweetie..." and a beckoning hand gesture not unlike that shown in pictures of Jesus bringing Lazarus back from the dead.

Is it wrong that I laughed out loud for a full 30 seconds during this scene? Or that I broke out in fresh peals of laughter all over again every time we saw someone walking or sitting in the gardens, thinking "Now'd be a GREAT time for that kangaroo to show up and kick those cardinals in the head with his giant kangaroo feet!"

HBO's advertising for its miniseries, The Young Pope, suggests scintillating prestige television drama. But the actual show suggests that writer-director Paolo Sorrentino dropped acid, then decided to make a mash-up of Angels and Demons and The Devils, but without the sex or Tom Hanks.  It's gorgeous, but not salacious, shocking not because it's dishing up prurient details, but because it ricochets from straight-faced seriousness to Cloud Cuckooland without warning. The titular young pope doesn't swear or screw around (although he does enjoy cigarettes), but he demands a Cherry Coke Zero for breakfast and makes it clear that a regular Diet Coke simply won't do.  He gives his first address from his balcony at night and in silhouette so that no one can see his face and bellows like Ned Beatty in the "You have meddled with the primal forces of nature" scene from Network. Also, that kangaroo thing.

Another thing that actually happened in last night's episode: Diane Keaton - playing Sister Mary, the nun who raised Lenny in an orphanage and is summoned to Rome to be his personal assistant - gets a late-night visit in her room by the pope.  She opens the door, not wearing a prim, nun-like nightgown buttoned up to her neck as you might expect, but a flimsy robe over a T-shirt that announces in bold letters, "I'M A VIRGIN. THIS IS AN OLD SHIRT." (And, in case you're wondering, she retains that status when the scene is over. Like I said, nothing freaky going on here.)

Jude Law plays the former Lenny Belardo, now Pius XIII with a little bit of slippery charm and a whole lot of sociopathic menace. It's as if his Dickie Greenleaf character from The Talented Mr. Ripley was resurrected and swathed in papal robes, only now he's scarier. He's actually uncomfortable to watch; every minute feels like Pius XIII is about half an inch away from a full psychotic break.  I guess that's evidence that Law is great in the role, but ... yikes!

On the other hand, you'd be hard pressed to find a mini-series so visually sumptuous. Cuckoo-bird though he may be, Sorrentino has an unerring eye for shot composition and the dramatic use of color. The shots of St. Peter's Basilica are unbelievable - in some cases, literally so.  Those close-ups and overhead shots of the Pieta would be impossible in reality, since the Michaelangelo sculpture is kept behind bulletproof glass.  Are these CGI shots? (Because if so, they're much better than the God-awful-obvious CGI kangaroo.)

Sorrentino made the acclaimed 2013 film, The Great Beauty - a rambling, gorgeous meditation on modern Italy that opens with one of the greatest party scenes in movie history. Then he made the 2015 film Youth (also playing on HBO this month) which was also gorgeous and seemed to be about something, but finally had no discernible point whatsoever.  With just a couple episodes down, it's still too early to tell if The Young Pope has a viable through-line, or whether it, too, will be an accumulation of visually arresting absurdities with little ultimate meaning.

But I've decided that I'm in for the whole ride. The Young Pope won't be to everyone's taste, but for me, it's already headed towards my personal pantheon of exuberantly nutty Over-the-Topness - a collection which includes Kenneth Branagh's Mary Shelley's Frankenstein, those Cate Blanchett biopics of Elizabeth I, the opening scenes of Heaven's Gate and pretty much all of Ken Russell's career.

And I really hope the kangaroo is back next week.