Does not grab.
This was clearly a carefully crafted film (despite the microphone appearing several times in frame - which really tears down the 'fourth wall'. Do film-makers still make that mistake?), whose success and failure both seem to be down to leaving the 'creatives' unattended with the film.
Indeed it feels very much as though the actors, screenplay writers and editors all indulged themselves to the full, and made a film without the interference of meddling businessmen who dare participate in the process of making this 'art'. But they actually perform a role those businessmen, a role of taking the film back to those who will consume it. There's only so much a viewer will pick up in the first screening of a film, and an actor, director, even editor, can easily lose sight of this.
Which is what has happened here.
We linger for a long time on Tilda Swinton's naked aged person, which helps the plot none, nor me in my chair, nor Tilda in her Woodstockesque grassy love scene, nor anyone. I would have rather seen the (underpaid in my opinion, whatever he was paid) plucky male protagonist naked, close-up. And indeed I might ask, as we are discussing a film which challenges formulae of film-making, why didn't we see more of him instead of Tilda and her distracting evidence of a lumpectomy winking at you.
While my wife liked it a lot, I was left ruing my inability to sleep on planes, trains, and now cinemas. What is it with chairs?
Two post-scripts: first, there is not a flicker of a sense of humour anywhere to be found. Nada. This should ring alarm bells.
Second. Tilda is wonderful, but let's not join some credulous reviewers in praise of her new-found ability to speak Italian and Russian. If we hear her speak three words of Russian and 100 words of Italian in the film, rest assured, that is probably as much Russian and Italian as she can speak.
Indeed it feels very much as though the actors, screenplay writers and editors all indulged themselves to the full, and made a film without the interference of meddling businessmen who dare participate in the process of making this 'art'. But they actually perform a role those businessmen, a role of taking the film back to those who will consume it. There's only so much a viewer will pick up in the first screening of a film, and an actor, director, even editor, can easily lose sight of this.
Which is what has happened here.
We linger for a long time on Tilda Swinton's naked aged person, which helps the plot none, nor me in my chair, nor Tilda in her Woodstockesque grassy love scene, nor anyone. I would have rather seen the (underpaid in my opinion, whatever he was paid) plucky male protagonist naked, close-up. And indeed I might ask, as we are discussing a film which challenges formulae of film-making, why didn't we see more of him instead of Tilda and her distracting evidence of a lumpectomy winking at you.
While my wife liked it a lot, I was left ruing my inability to sleep on planes, trains, and now cinemas. What is it with chairs?
Two post-scripts: first, there is not a flicker of a sense of humour anywhere to be found. Nada. This should ring alarm bells.
Second. Tilda is wonderful, but let's not join some credulous reviewers in praise of her new-found ability to speak Italian and Russian. If we hear her speak three words of Russian and 100 words of Italian in the film, rest assured, that is probably as much Russian and Italian as she can speak.
- rory-campbell
- Jun 24, 2010