Reviews

Re-working Raskolnikov as a listless but poor goth girl/would-be comic book artist in Sao Paolo, Brazil may have been an ingenious idea. Maybe it would have worked as a farce or a dark comedy. But setting up the expectations of a contemporary reworking of CRIME AND PUNISHMENT, NINA shows little understanding of the source material. It's an attempt at a radical reinterpretation that completely misses out on what made Dostoevsky's novel so brilliant. In the novel, the crime is deliberately planned out, committed without remorse. The punishment comes later. Here, it's a crime committed in the heat of the moment where the after-effects are an immediate loss of sanity. It's not simply that the film lacks the psychological depth of the Dostoyevski novel - that would be like complaining that a pond is shallow compared to an ocean - but that we are directed to feel sympathy for Nina. But why should we? We are not given any reason to other than images of her eating cat food. As a portrait of the difficulties facing Brazilian youth, the film serves as its own worst enemy since, in the case of its protagonist, it makes the difficulties appear to be self-imposed. Director Heitor Dhalia also wants to have it both ways - Nina steals from a blind man but then she gives part of her loot to a woman who's been violently thrown out of a cab for not having the money to pay for the ride. And I have nothing wrong with unlikeable protagonists (they can make for compelling films) but that the film attempts to elicit feelings of sympathy for her while not giving us any reason to. As a "descent into the mind of someone losing their mind", the film lacks the urban suffocation of the masterpiece of the genre, Roman Polanski's REPULSION. Attempts at creepy atmospherics feel forced (a product of the sound design/cinematography) and lacking any emotional depth or resonance.

By far, the highlight of the film is Myrian Muniz as the landlady from hell who plays the part with repulsive perfection (her evil wench is reminiscent of Anne Ramsey of THROW MOMMA FROM THE TRAIN and THE GOONIES fame).

Yet another stab at making a contemporary adult (as in intended audience not porn) version of the Grimm brothers' fairy tales. Past efforts have gone in two directions - a focus on the psychosexual dimensions as in Neil Jordan's IN THE COMPANY OF WOLVES or emphasize the trashy, lurid aspects as in Matthew Bright's FREEWAY. Or do both like in Francois Ozon's LES AMANTS CRIMINELS. GRIMM hints at both but ends up going in neither. It's just way too restrained for its own good. Weird but not strange enough, dark but not dark enough, lurid but not lurid enough, the film ends up being pointless and tedious. Opening with clear Grimm Bros inspiration as our two protagonists are abandoned in the woods by their father, the film quickly abandons its early premise (as well as its promise) and loses any focus as they arrive in Spain. A sure sign of a problem is the best thing I can say about the film is its inspired choice of a set - the use of an abandoned Wild West ghost town leftover from Spaghetti Westerns.

As a fan of Hijo de la Novia, I found Luna de Avellaneda to be a complete disappointment. When I voiced my mixed feelings about this film to Argentines, they invariably accused me of not understanding the film because I'm not Argentine. I can argue with them on that since I understood the references they were accusing me of missing (the importance of social clubs in Argentine society, the ill-effects of neoliberal privatizations, etc,etc.) but, at the end of the day, a film needs to speak beyond its intended audience. But this is a problem with the ghettoization of national cinemas - faced with steamrolling Hollywood productions that they can't compete with, local industries attempt to counter-program with self-consciously nationalistic productions that attempt to reach the largest possible domestic audience. It's a lose-lose situation since instead of getting challenging foreign films (at the end of the day, the best antidote to Hollywood) we get films like Luna de Avellaneda (or, even worse, Patoruzito). On the bright side, recent years have witnessed a renaissance in Argentina cinema.

The film itself is structured around a fairly obvious metaphor - the social club clearly is meant to represent Argentina. A once glorious past is faced with a brutal and uncertain future. In this sense, the film taps into the heavy nostalgia that is pervasive in Argentine culture (ie. the tango). That the social club will be privatized is a clear analogy with the brutal effects of neo-liberal policies in the country over the past two decades. The problems with such heavy-handed symbolism is, well, heavy-handed symbolism.

At the end of the day, I don't let Hollywood movies get away with cheap sentimentality, so I certainly won't let foreign films get away with it either.

I find nothing more baffling than the "success" of Amos Kollek. I put success in quotations because it's in relative terms - Thankfully unknown in the US (and best known in his home country for being the son of someone), he appears to have developed a following in France and perhaps Germany as well.

They seem to find something endearing about his low-budget indie features that begin with 1997's SUE. A quick glance at Kollek's filmography makes one realize that he was, at that point, a B-movie filmmaker whose career was going nowhere when he decided to jump on the indie bandwagon about a half decade too late and take his own stab at no-budget "gritty" indie films set in New York. I actually happened to see his first film, 1985's GOODBYE, NEW YORK - a horrible stab at comedy that makes most Israeli films from the 80's look good in comparison (a feat in and of itself).

QUEENIE IN LOVE is horrendously written, incompetently filmed, and badly acted. The plot setup is a middle-aged man's fantasy (here's to you, Kollek) and the way it plays out is even worse. Kollek shows no understanding of the New York milieu he films in yet Europeans praise his films for their local authenticity.

Many things can be said about the slightly bizarre taste of the French. But at least Jerry Lewis had some deranged talent. And Mickey Rourke? Well, he's Mickey Rourke. But Amos Kollek? You have to be kidding me.