Reviews

The saddest thing about this "tribute" is that almost all the singers (including the otherwise incredibly talented Nick Cave) seem to have missed the whole point where Cohen's intensity lies: by delivering his lines in an almost tuneless poise, Cohen transmits the full extent of his poetry, his irony, his all-round humanity, laughter and tears in one.

To see some of these singer upstarts make convoluted suffering faces, launch their pathetic squeals in the patent effort to scream "I'm a singer!," is a true pain. It's the same feeling many of you probably had listening in to some horrendous operatic versions of simple songs such as Lennon's "Imagine." Nothing, simply nothing gets close to the simplicity and directness of the original. If there is a form of art that doesn't need embellishments, it's Cohen's art. Embellishments cast it in the street looking like the tasteless make-up of sex for sale.

In this Cohen's tribute I found myself suffering and suffering through pitiful tributes and awful reinterpretations, all of them entirely lacking the original irony of the master and, if truth be told, several of these singers sounded as if they had been recruited at some asylum talent show. It's Cohen doing a tribute to them by letting them sing his material, really, not the other way around: they may have been friends, or his daughter's, he could have become very tender-hearted and in the mood for a gift. Too bad it didn't stay in the family.

Fortunately, but only at the very end, Cohen himself performed his majestic "Tower of Song," but even that flower was spoiled by the totally incongruous background of the U2, all of them carrying the expression that bored kids have when they visit their poor grandpa at the nursing home.

A sad show, really, and sadder if you truly love Cohen as I do.

I finally got the chance to see this film and I have to say that I am amazed: I just cannot see how there could be such a massive praise for it. Admittedly, the title is beautiful (and it's what made me watch it, ultimately), and the acting is excellent (it truly is, and not just the two girls). But it's the content that is so full of cliches that pointing at this movie as a symbol of "European cinema" as opposed to "Hollywood" is a crying shame. Are we trying to mix up "Dreamlife"'s trivial script with Fellini, Godard, Wenders?

We have Isa (the angel, who quite appropriately sells Christmas cards): she invariably does or feels the "good thing". We have Marie (the devil): abused, and therefore (sure, we can explain everything) ungrateful, arrogant, vulgar and (fortunately for us, given that she doesn't have a scrap of thing to say for the whole movie) suicidal. Marie is the one who gets naked, and she's the one who holds a threatening knife, of course. And of course the rich, spoiled kid is only doing what the morally corrupt bourgeoisie does, that is, buying his way into as many beds as he can.

I often blame myself for being too sensitive and shedding tears even for films that aren't worth it, but in this case I felt miles away from the story. The huge amount of predictable cliches kills all: such a pity for a movie whose best part is the title.

Reading the negative comments to this movie is the most baffling experience: those who hate it seem to take action flicks as comparisons, talking about holes in the plot or whatever else that is pointless, failing to understand that this movie comes closer to poetry than most. Needless to say, the script is superb and Paul Auster shows to be a modern master of the literary genre, excelling as much on the screen as he does on paper (the scenes with Dafoe and Keitel are stunning, Dafoe telling the firefly story is memorable): this movie is all about reality and exactly because it feels so real it couldn't care less about realism. I watched Lulu with an open heart and it was all clear to me, all the words made perfect sense. But criticizing this Paul Auster gem because of your typical, run-of-the-mill Hollywood expectations is nothing but a crime.

I can remember seeing "La Nuit Americaine" shortly after it came out, when I was 15 or so, and to date I only had good and intriguing memories of it. They faded, though, and so I grabbed the chance to watch it again the other night: what a pain it was, like meeting a long lost friend who no longer has anything to say because too much has changed.

Of course I am well aware of the conceptual side of the "movie within a movie", but the treatment looks so stiff, especially if compared with Godard's masterpiece "Le Mepris": the latter came out in 1963, ten years before Truffaut's movie, and is as beautiful, striking, and as modern as ever (it also beats "La Nuit americaine" in cinematography and soundtrack, ten to one). Not only the story in Truffaut's movie and the character development are rigid and undeveloped (as some other reviews point out), but the acting in "La Nuit Americaine" is downright awful. Jean-Pierre Léaud is so stone-faced that one wishes that Truffaut would fire him from the set, and the only good thing he says is when he promises himself to change job. Curiously, I found the most human acting in Truffaut himself: the rest of the cast gives close to horrible performances if compared to what the highest standards of French cinema should be.

So, I promise myself not to let this disappointment tarnish the memory of Truffaut, who *was* a great director and a great person, but if you truly want to see what a movie on movies is, then go and get a copy of Godard's "Le Mepris" to see what I mean.

An excellent Austin, Texas remake of a classic film noir. Steven Soderbergh is without question the best director of his generation with his perfect sense of timing and absolute control of style. No two movies could be more different than Soderbergh's "Schizopolis" and this "Underneath", but the common thread is an admirable taste for everything cinematic. An absolute must see.

Falling flat is what this movie does, ever since the pretentious beginning: the attempt to capitalize on a presumed genius from the slums falls short of the target simply because while saying f*** every two words is true to life for more people than we want to know, a universal 'genius' as the one portrayed by Damon is nowhere to be seen, or conceived. The kind of 'knowledge' displayed by Damon is mostly fruit of dumb and trite photographic memory, and does not have the least to do with 'intelligence': as for the mathematical part it's pure fantasy, because Ramanujan may well have lived and impressed 100 years ago (mind me, he still impresses now), but would have a much harder time if he lived today. Speaking as a mathematician, it is shocking to see how carefully the movie tries to depict low life, and how easily it falls into the most stereotypical misconceptions about 'higher learning'. Overindulgence in realistic reproduction of a southie's foul language and scars, flanked by stale and flat portrayal of the MIT mathematics department may say it all: the script authors obviously share more with f*** than with f(x).

I usually steer clear of TV movies because of the many ways you know that it's TV movies five seconds into the picture. This one got my attention because of the unusual title and its gloomy, well-crafted mood that is established from the very start. While the ever present rain confirmed my suspicions of a misplaced story (even if claiming to be set in California the movie was largely shot around a stormy Vancouver, B.C.), the dark and oppressive outdoors beautifully complement Olmos' excellent acting.

Well acted and well scripted sweet and sour comedy: smiles are never cheap in this story of a police detective (Alberto Sordi) struggling against a murder cover-up in Rome. Sordi is the perfect man to deliver his unique blend of dark humor and social awareness. The ending is true to the movie's intentions and it won't disappoint anyone. Director Comencini also deserves praise for his discreet and clean style.