Tokyo Monogatari

Zazie parte per il Giapppone... a presto, amici!

Zazie is leaving for Japan... see you soon, dear friends!

La Bocca del Lupo

Ci sono giorni in cui succedono cose strane, impreviste.

Giorni in cui ricevi la semplice mail di un amico che ti propone di andare con lui e la sua ragazza a vedere un film Italiano che proiettano al Centre Pompidou e tu rispondi sì perché ne hai sentito parlare, perché l'orario è comodo e perché sai che il fim è ambientato a Genova (città nella quale hai vissuto per tanti anni).

E' quello che è successo a me ieri sera, ed è così che mi sono imbattuta in uno dei film più incredibili che abbia mai visto, La Bocca del Lupo (http://www.mymovies.it/laboccadellupo/) di Pietro Marcello.

Vincitore del 27° Festival del Cinema di Torino, presentato all'ultima rassegna Berlinese, il fim di questo giovane regista casertano (Marcello ha solo 30 anni), dimostra ancora una volta e se ce ne fosse bisogno che la creazione di un'opera d'arte non ha nulla a che vedere con i soldi, con un cast di attori stellari e con il sempre più frequente "potevamo stupirvi con effetti multicolori".

Per fare un bellissimo film ci vogliono idee originali, ci vogliono le palle di credere a quelle idee e di non scendere a stupidi compromessi, ci vuole una visione unica del mondo, e il saperla trasformare in immagini, possibilmente con un certo stile.

Alla Bocca del Lupo, non fa difetto nessuno di questi elementi.

Un film che in uno dei periodi storici più cupi, squallidi e ordinari della storia del nostro paese, ci dimostra che la speranza è sempre l'ultima a morire, che i talenti ci sono, eccome se ci sono, le cose da dire pure, in abbondanza, e che i miracoli avvengono ogni giorno, solo che non tutti sono capaci di vederli.

Pietro Marcello (ma chi è? dove è stato fino ad oggi? perché mi sono accorta solo adesso di questo regista, che pare abbia già fatto un altro piccolo film altrettanto bello ed originale di questo?) i miracoli li fa vedere pure a noi.

La Bocca del Lupo è un oggetto-film molto particolare, voluto (udite! udite!) dalla Fondazione San Marcellino - gesuiti di Genova (Santi Subito!) per documentare la loro attività di aiuto agli emarginati della città.

Opera brevissima, dura soltanto 70 minuti, è un impasto bizzarro di documentario-fiction-immagini di repertorio-immagini rubate a vecchi film-momenti verità.

All'inizio si fa fatica a capire cosa stia succedendo. C'è una voce off che legge i versi di una poesia di Franco Fortini (e già è miracoloso che 1-la voce off 2-una poesia letta ad alta voce non creino quell'effetto da Tonino Guerra ultima maniera che ti fa cascare le braccia al secondo verso), ci sono immagini di repertorio dei primi del 900 con la gente che fa i tuffi in un posto che potrebbe essere una cittadina qualsiasi della Riviera di Levante e una nave enorme che salpa per chissà dove, ci sono scene di poveri derelitti che vivono vicino a degli scogli, e poi a poco a poco si fanno strada le voci di due uomini. Una ha un forte accento siciliano, è Enzo, e l'altra è la voce di un uomo che sembra quella di una donna, è Mary. Sono loro, per la verità, i veri protagonisti della storia, ma il film te lo fa capire gradualmente, introducendo nel frattempo altri elementi, altri gesti, e un'altra protagonista assoluta, Genova.

Il regista ci mostra la parte di città più martoriata, oscura e vera, quella del Centro Storico, di Sottoripa, di via Pré, dei vicoli infestati dai topi, abitati dalle trans, tempestati di bar di infima categoria e gente perduta. Eppure c'è qualcosa, nel suo modo di farcelo vedere, che riesce a trasformare il sordido in elemento talmente umano da risultare spiazzante. Così è la scena delle trans che parlano per strada in un pomeriggio qualsiasi e prendono un po' in giro un vecchietto che si diverte come un matto a stare con loro, così è la scena del Frisco Bar, dove un improbabile gruppo di loosers si trasfigura ballando sulle note dell'Eau à la bouche di Serge Gainsbourg (con il barista che un attimo prima sembrava catatonico e un attimo dopo balla a ritmo manco fosse Fred Astaire in un film di Vincent Minnelli).

Poi, all'improvviso, come una specie di puzzle che si compone pezzo per pezzo, tutto si fa più chiaro: Enzo è un uomo che ha passato quasi tutta la sua vita in carcere (è quella, la bocca del lupo che dà il titolo al film), ma che in carcere ha anche conosciuto l'amore della sua vita, Mary, un transessuale. Dal loro primo incontro in prigione una ventina di anni prima (lei gli ha cucito dei pantaloni in cambio di un pacchetto di sigarette), non si sono lasciati più. Mary, che grazie a lui è riuscita a smettere di drogarsi, lo ha aspettato pazientemente nei periodi in cui lui era dentro, non hanno mai smesso di inviarsi lettere d'amore (di cui possiamo sentire alcuni stralci durante il film), e poi hanno cercato di realizzare insieme il loro sogno, quello di una casetta in campagna dove passare il tempo con i loro cani, coltivando un pezzetto di terra.

E' solo alla fine del film che riusciamo a vederli uno accanto all'altro, ed è praticamente la prima volta che possiamo guardare il volto di Mary.

E' questo il momento più alto di tutta la pellicola: di fronte alla telecamera, Enzo e Mary raccontano la loro storia, il loro amore, ed è una cosa impressionante vedere quest'uomo siciliano, vero uomo del sud di quelli di una volta, parlare con orgoglio di come abbia protetto in carcere il suo amore transessuale, di quanto abbia lottato perché fosse rispettata e ben trattata. Mary lo guarda come se di fianco avesse Johnny Depp, perdutamente innamorata. E' commovente il suo sguardo ed è commovente il fatto che, quasi impercettibilmente, dopo che per tutto il film ha parlato di se stessa al maschile, passi al femminile con grande naturalezza, come se si stesse finalmente lasciando andare, raccontando del suo grande amore.

Quando Enzo e Mary finiscono di parlare, e lo schermo viene invaso dalle immagini di una Genova che non esiste più e i versi di Franco Fortini ritornano come una litania, ho avuto la sensazione che tutti, nel cinema, stessero per mettersi a piangere. E' invece partito un grande applauso. In cinque anni che vivo a Parigi, non mi era mai capitata una cosa del genere.

Sarà pure stato un film della rassegna Le Cinéma du Réel.

A me, è sembrato un sogno.

Un grazie speciale a Marco e Adriana per avermi proposto di vedere questo film insieme a loro. A buon rendere, ragazzi!

The Gods Weep (but the blogger is very happy!)

This is a cinema blog, I know.

But I would like to make an exception and to talk about a play.

Yesterday night I went to Hampstead Theatre, London, to see The Gods Weep, the new work by Dennis Kelly, considered one of the most talented British playwriters of these last years.

I'm not a huge fan of theatre, and I prefer to declare it now, straight away. My knowledge of it is very poor and every time I go to see a play, there is a specific reason: an actor I love who acts in it.

In the recent past, I went to see Gabriel Byrne playing in New York, Ralph Fiennes playing in London and, well, JEREMY IRONS, twice, always in London.

In 2006 Irons was playing in Embers, written by Christopher Hampton and based upon a Sandor Marai's novel. I went to a matinée and then I waited for Mr. Irons outside the Duke of York's Theatre, in the warm springtime afternoon, for at least 1 hour, but he never appeared. With my great disappointment, of course. It was the first time in my life that I could see him in flesh and blood, on stage, and I was mesmerized by the event.

Yesterday night, it was the third time in my life, and I was even more mesmerized.

Irons plays Colm, a man who created, in 30 years of hard work, a big empire. The First Act takes place in a Board Meeting Room. Colm has gathered all the most important members of the company to announce a big decision: he is handing over complete control to Richard and Catherine, his two CEOs, but he's keeping for himself just a country, the one his son Jimmy is taking care of. Everybody is shocked by the news and his son is very upset, but Colm's decision is taken and he is not going back or change his mind about it.

As soon as this is clear, a battle of power starts between the members of the board, at first in a subtle and sneaky way, but soon enough bursting into a very violent and unsettling conflict.

The Second Act tells the story of this war. Nobody is immune to it, not even Colm, who has been serioulsly injured by his own son and can only escape from the fury surrounding his actions' consequences.

The Third and last Act opens on an apocalyptic scenario: the world is a dead land, where people have to struggle to find food and repair from the bad weather (the atmosphere actually reminded me of a British TV series of the 70s, a masterpiece called The Survivors). Colm, who asked helped to the only person he shouldn't: Barbara, the daughter of a man whose life has been destroyed by Colm himself, has the time to think about what he did. About the horrible things he has created, about his inability to feel love and to give love, about the misery and despair which are the only inheritance he is leaving. He is able to understand all this thanks to Barbara's behaviour: her dignity, her strenght, her pity and courage. But it is too late for Colm and his redemption, and maybe for the one of the rest of the world as well.

The Gods Weep is a very particular play, a strong experience, a real challenge for both the actors and the audience (we're talking about a 3 hours long play). This is a physical experience, I assure you. I spent the whole second act feeling afraid. I was so scared that the actors could actually be seriously injured. The fight is so real, it's almost unbearable.

The incredible set decoration, simple but very powerful, helps to create and reinforce the atmosphere of great fear generated by the story (I adored the effect of the Board Meeting Room's table going down and becoming a platform of war).

The language of the play is extremely strong as well. Impossible to count all the fuckings and cunts I heard, not to mention a couple of chilling monologues that Irons pronounces about his wife and son. Everything here is unsettling and disturbing: life is not a long quite river for Mr. Kelly, this is undoubted.

I really enjoyed this play, I love the way it changes from one act to the other, it is so unexpected. Sure, it's easy to believe in everything you see when you have in front of you the actors of the Royal Shakespeare Company. They were ALL so amazing, but I particularly admired Joanna Horton, who plays Barbara (she had a small part in Fish Tank).

But, of course, this play wouldn't be the same without the presence of Jeremy Irons, who demonstrates here, once again (not that he needed to), his versatility and his unlimited talent.

I know what you are thinking, right now, you are thinking (after one adoring post on him, after I have written at least 10 times in this blog how much I love him) that I am not objective. And it's true, I'm not, when it comes to Mr. Irons, but it doesn't matter, because he really is the most amazing actor. He is so cold and pitiless in the First Act, simply perfect in his representation of a greedy business man (the Armani suits and his outstanding class as a bonus), he is so fragile and defenceless in the Second Act and he is simply magnificent in the last one, where he wins back his humanity, demonstrating to be able to love: his performance in the final 5 minutes of the play left the whole audience speechless (and me, crying).

By the way, I was luckier than the last time I waited for him.

He appeared in the lobby of the theatre after only half an hour and he spent at least 20 minutes talking to me, the most charming and sweetest man on planet earth.

I thought about a Summer of many years ago, when I used to wake up every Sunday morning at 7 am because the RAI was showing Brideshead Revisited at that non-sense time. It was a pre-DVD, pre-VHS era (yes, I am that old), and at that stage I already seen the entire series once, but I simply coudn't bear the idea of not being in front of the screen looking at it while it was passing.

I can't really explain you why, it was like a bond, a sweet obligation, a personal matter between Charles Ryder and I.

And, apparently, it still is.

Was this a reward to my devotion? A small tribute to my craziness? I don't know, but while the Gods were weeping, I was having the time of my life.

Less than Zero

One simple question: WHY?

And I can imagine just the following three possibilities:

1 - Heavy gambling debts

2 - The richest cachet of cinema history

3 - A temporary mental illness

If it is not one of the above mentioned causes, I really DON'T/CAN'T understand why on planet earth Daniel Day Lewis could have accepted to play in a film like Nine by Rob Marshall.

Day Lewis, the GOD of acting, a man who changes accent at every movie, a man who played just with his left foot, a man who almost became a professional boxeur to play a boxeur, a man who spent weeks in jail to feel closer to Gerry Conlon, a man who scared to death the whole world playing the bad guy in Gangs of New York, a man who made look cool working in a Beautiful Laundrette of Brixton, a man who was simply irresistible playing a stiff dandy in A Room with a View (Cecil Vyse, I love you and I always will!), a man who left the audience speechless for his talent in There will be blood (I still have to find the right adjective to describe what he was able to do in that role, but I don't think it has been invented yet), my other favourite actor together with Jeremy Irons since I was 17, HIM, reduced to work in a movie where his producer is played (ok, ok, I'm using big words, here) by RICKY TOGNAZZI!!!!!

Stop the world, I want to get off.

NOW!

Based upon a Broadway musical vaguely inspired by 8 1/2 by Fellini, this movie tells the story of a big crisis. The one of Italian filmmaker Guido Contini, once a genius but now a director looking for inspiration and for a new story that could bring him back glory and success. Besides the problem of not having any idea for his next film (something he has in common with Rob Marshall?), Contini has to face other minor problems in his private life: his wife is sad because he is cheating on her, his lover is sad because she doesn't feel loved enough, his muse is pissed off because she doesn't have a script to work on and, on top of all that, he has to resist the assaults of an American journalist from Vogue who desperately wants to have sex with him (well, who can possibly blame her?). Poor Contini tries to escape this mess going away from Rome, but the mess is following him and he will be forced to take some decisions (at last!).

Nor the catholic religion neither the sweet memory of his dead mamma or the good advises of Lilli, his costumer designer and long-time friend, help him to find a solution, though. In the end, he looses everything: the wife, the lover, the muse, the film. But, after a couple of dark years in which he has the time to know himself better (and to grow a beard that is the only reason why it's worth to arrive till the end of this torture), here it is: back with a new and (apparently) great movie!

There are so many things I didn't love in Nine that I really don't know where to start.

First of all, every single detail, scene, character, dialogue looks/sounds extremely false. Everything is so fake that it is just unbearable (starting from Day Lewis exaggerate Italian accent). I've never seen/heard so many banalities about Italy and Italians all together in a single movie. Nothings is missing: the Vespas, Via Veneto, the beautiful women, the latin lovers, the priests, the prostitutes, Positano, il Vaticano, the mandolins in the background and... Sophia Loren!!! (in the worst role of her entire career). Strangely enough nobody is eating a pizza. The scene must have been cut at the final editing. Not to mention some of the songs with original refrains like Be Italian! or Cinema Italiano! repeated a hundred times.

Of Fellini's complex, grotesque and unique universe nothing is left here. The doubts, the deep pain, the despair, the lust that Fellini was able to transform in unforgettable cinema sequences, here are transformed in coarse, kitsch, loud and overloaded musical moments. Subtlety is not the favourite word in Marshall's vocabulary.

The presence of practically the whole Italian cinema (who's missing here?) in the movie is simply ridiculous. From Martina Stella playing badly, very badly the tipical Italian bimbo to the pathetic caricature of the Italian producer played by Tognazzi (you can't see the difference with that awful advertisement passing at the Italian TV a while ago). The only one who manages to give to his small part a charming touch is Valerio Mastandrea. Bravo!

But let's talk about the rest of the cast.

Nicole Kidman is playing the muse, but soon enough she will be able to play just the mummy. Is she still alive or we need to call some ER doctors? I thought she couldn't do worse than her part in Australia but she proved me wrong. Penelope Cruz is the lover and, ok, she is gorgeous, and nice and actually good, but in this movie she is such a damned cliché. Kate Hudson is the Vogue journalist and she is not even beautiful. What she is there for, exactly? Judi Dench (Lilli), well, is Judi Dench. She is perfect, as usual. She just needs to change her agent. The only one I really loved, is Marion Cotillard, Contini's wife. She is a very good actress, her role is nicely written and her two songs were the only two musical moments having a bit of heart and style. Maybe it is because you think about Giulietta Masina, looking at her, but finally I felt something and not just irritation when she was on the screen.

And Day Lewis? Well, he is going around, looking visibly lost.

In one of the last scenes, Contini is talking with Lilli and he said (thinking about his behaviour towards his wife): "I should etch idiot on my forehead, shouldn't I?"

For being part of a movie like that, yes Daniel, you definitely should.

I'd like to thank Nandina for giving me the idea of the gambling debts and for resisting with me until the end of the movie.

Kafka on the shore

I seriously considered for a moment the idea of calling this post A SINGLE MAN who had AN EDUCATION as a GHOST WRITER, but then I changed my mind, because I know which is the only movie I really want to talk about, and this is the new Polanski movie. I have seen these three pictures basically the same week and I have to say that, having spent half of my life seated in cinemas, there was no doubt, for me, about the greatest one.
Still, I want to say something about the other two.
An Education is the most disappointing movie I have seen in a while. I sincerely don’t understand all the fuss about this mediocre film. This is a TV movie of good quality, but nothing more. Nick Hornby and his screenplay? It is better to read one of his books. Carey Mulligan, the biggest surprise of the season? C’mon guys, she was right for the role, but let’s talk about her in few years and we will see what she has been able to do in the meantime. Peter Sarsgaard? He is so devoid of charisma that the only reason why Mulligan could be so fascinated by him is attributable to her young age and her lack of taste. In other words, rent the DVD and spend a couple of nice hours looking at it, if you really want to.
A Single Man is a different case.
First feature film by fashion designer Tom Ford, the movie is based upon a (splendid) novel by British writer Christopher Isherwood. Chapeau to Mr. Ford, because this is such a good movie to be his first one, and chapeau to Mr. Colin Firth, who’s always been a great actor but here has the chance to prove it in a very subtle and complete way, but… yes, there is a but. Everything is so studied, in this movie, so planned that, in the end, the story, the characters and their feelings are suffocated by this cold perfection. This is the story of a man who has lost his partner, the love of his life, this is the story about a man who’s desperate, and you can’t feel it.
And well, I’m very sorry, but this is my favourite novel by the writer who, for ages, has been my favourite writer so, Mr. Ford, you’re not very lucky because I'm very picky here: George didn’t live in a house published in Architectural Digest – December 1962, he used to live in a house so small that he and his partner were obliged to touch each other every time they met in the kitchen. And yes, even if obesity wasn’t as bad as in the years 2000, there actually were some students having weight problems, they weren’t all top models in that California campus.
But hey, please keep going, I’m curious to see what’s coming next, Tom.

In Polanski’s world, on the contrary, perfection is just there to be destroyed. Perfection is not of this world, he seems to say, and since we are all human beings, we know it, we understand it and we feel it. Ewan McGregor, and I’m obliged to use the actor’s name because (cleverly enough) he has no name in this movie, is a ghost writer who has been hired by a big editor to write the memoirs of a former UK Prime Minister, Adam Lang. Lang lives with his wife and few collaborators in a remote American island, off the Eastern seabord. Soon after McGregor arrives there, Lang is involved in a big international scandal: he is accused of war crimes (apparently, he accepted CIA's tortures over some suspected terrorists).
Besieged by journalists and people protesting against him, Lang feels trapped. When he leaves for Washington, McGregor decides to stay on the island, where he discovers disturbing secrets (his predecessor in this job has probably been murdered, Lang is very much involved with CIA). In which kind of dangerous situation did he put himself? He will soon (too bad for him!) find out.

Polanski is the Kafka of cinema.
A brilliant one. He doesn't need that much to show you how tricky life could be.
He just needs one scene: McGregor (how good is this actor? he is so amazing!) seated in his working room, inside a house made of brick and glass, near the sea. From the inside, you can look outside, at the shore, at the beach: it seems there is so much freedom in a space like that. But then, suddenly, you feel trapped. You feel anxious, because there is something extremely scary in this apparently peaceful land, and you want to run away from it. McGregor surprises in the garden a working man putting inside his wheelbarrow pieces of wood that the wind a second afterwards throws away again. He laughs, and we laugh as well, as an audience, but are we so sure that this is so funny?
It is not, and after a second we ask ourselves a simple question: which is the reason of all this?
Because it is quite clear: we are all little insects that sooner or later, after having spent our lives doing more or less useless things, will be thrown away in the same way...
This is one of the main themes of Polanski's filmography, and it is not that weird if you think about his life, an extremely difficult and controversial one: born in Paris by Jewish-Polish parents, Polanski moved to Warsaw at the age of three. Not a very good moment to do so. His parents were both deported, his mum died in a concentration camp, he saved himself hiding from the Nazis in an incredible way. Years later, he became a filmmaker and moved to the US together with his wife Sharon Tate. He was succesfull and happy, for a while, but in August 1969 Tate (8 months pregnant), was killed by Charles Manson. Devastated by the event, he started having troubles with alcohol and drugs. In 1977, Polanski was accused of Samantha Geimer's rape (a 13 years old girl) and left the States before receiving the final sentence.
This is the reason why he has never been back to the US and also the reason why, very recently (while in Switzerland to receive an award), he has been put in jail again and he is now at house arrests.
As it was often the case, his real life reproduces his biggest fears, the ones that (as Kafka in his books) he always tries to exorcize in his movies.

Some years ago, at a private screening here in Paris of The Queen by Stephen Frears (my job has very often lovely side effects), I was lucky enough to be seated very close to Mr. Polanski.
I rarely heard somebody laughing so much and in such a loud way watching a movie.
He laughed like a person who knows that it is better to enjoy the present moment, to enjoy what we have while we are having it.
Who knows what tomorrow will bring….