_Return to Montauk_ is an unauthorized "sequel" to the late Swiss writer Max Frisch's semi-autobiographical _Montauk_. Max's former benefactor Walter plays a large role in the book. Stellan Skarsgard endears as the aging Max who is like a eager teenager when he is with the ladies. Nina Hoss' delayed entrance as Rebecca, his elusive object of yearning, is truly worth the wait. She is the Jeanne Moreau of our times. Rebecca contrives to spend the night with him in a Montauk hotel where they once stayed. There, on the white sand, a stone's throw from the iconic lighthouse, Hoss delivers a powerhouse monologue that shatters his hope of a long-term reunion.
It is an absolutely electrifying performance, one can that recalls Nastassja Kinski's in _Paris, Texas_. As she jumps from wistful half-smiles to resignation to sadness, all within a matter of seconds, Hoss's gestures become so tender and lifelike -- utterly unpredictable yet jolt you with the shock of recognition. She has a way of averting her gaze, or cradling her boot on the bench, that tells you every word comes from deep within her, is drawn from heart-felt experience. Indeed her mannerisms remind me of a Slovenia woman I once knew, who has passed away... Nina Hoss has played so many sphinx-like ciphers in one-note movies directed by the overrated Christian Petzold, one almost forgets how good she can be.
In fact, all the actors are extraordinary and unforgettable. Manhattan is perhaps the star supporting player; we are treated to the city at its most glamorous and its most grim. Max stays at the Algonquin Hotel even though he is broke; he is above it all, glides along in taxis and airplanes, globe-trots from city to city giving speeches, chasing dreams and women interchangeable to him. In contrast, the ladies who work and pine for him love him deeply and steadfastly. They never forget a thing about him. At the end of the film, Max finally understands this. In a moment of self-recognition even rarer in cinema, he realizes he will never change.
The film begins and ends at JFK. Those of us still keeping the faith remember that Schlondorff's _Homo Faber_ also begins and ends in airports. _Homo Faber_ was his first adaptation of Max Frisch's novels; he showed the Swiss writer a rough cut before the latter's death, and Frisch "loved it." That was also the first "art-house" film I discovered for myself 30 years ago. Watching this extraordinary, deeply felt, lived-in sequel to another work by Frisch felt nothing short of the validation of my movie-going life.
It is an absolutely electrifying performance, one can that recalls Nastassja Kinski's in _Paris, Texas_. As she jumps from wistful half-smiles to resignation to sadness, all within a matter of seconds, Hoss's gestures become so tender and lifelike -- utterly unpredictable yet jolt you with the shock of recognition. She has a way of averting her gaze, or cradling her boot on the bench, that tells you every word comes from deep within her, is drawn from heart-felt experience. Indeed her mannerisms remind me of a Slovenia woman I once knew, who has passed away... Nina Hoss has played so many sphinx-like ciphers in one-note movies directed by the overrated Christian Petzold, one almost forgets how good she can be.
In fact, all the actors are extraordinary and unforgettable. Manhattan is perhaps the star supporting player; we are treated to the city at its most glamorous and its most grim. Max stays at the Algonquin Hotel even though he is broke; he is above it all, glides along in taxis and airplanes, globe-trots from city to city giving speeches, chasing dreams and women interchangeable to him. In contrast, the ladies who work and pine for him love him deeply and steadfastly. They never forget a thing about him. At the end of the film, Max finally understands this. In a moment of self-recognition even rarer in cinema, he realizes he will never change.
The film begins and ends at JFK. Those of us still keeping the faith remember that Schlondorff's _Homo Faber_ also begins and ends in airports. _Homo Faber_ was his first adaptation of Max Frisch's novels; he showed the Swiss writer a rough cut before the latter's death, and Frisch "loved it." That was also the first "art-house" film I discovered for myself 30 years ago. Watching this extraordinary, deeply felt, lived-in sequel to another work by Frisch felt nothing short of the validation of my movie-going life.