Philomena

E quando l'anno è finito e una pensa di aver già visto tutti i film belli che c'erano da vedere, ecco che spunta la sorpresa, la pellicola che lascia il segno, la storia che conquista: Philomena di Stephen Frears.
In vacanza in Italia, devo ringraziare per la visione del film in lingua originale il Cinema Apollo di Milano che, molto saggiamente, ha deciso di proiettare (e spero continuerà a farlo) alcuni film nella loro lingua madre. Ho purtroppo assistito, mentre ero alla cassa, a scene di gente che SE NE ANDAVA perché scopriva che il film era in inglese... Ecco, poi un giorno scriverò un lungo post in cui esprimerò tutto il mio malcontento nei confronti delle persone che rifiutano di vedere i film in lingua originale con la scusa ridicola che non riescono a leggere il sottotitolo e a godersi le immagini... ma oggi soprassederò (e comunque, Povera Italia! Altro che paese europeo...).

Stephen Frears, il regista di Philomena

Tanto vale ammetterlo subito: a me Stephen Frears piace un sacco. Inglesaccio di Leicester, classe 1941, è un uomo famoso per il suo parlare chiaro, la sua ironia e una certa vena dissacratoria. Uno di quei registi a cui mi sono affezionata da giovanissima e che non ho mollato più (nel 1983 ho visto una cosa sua stupenda: Loving Walter, un film per la TV con Ian McKellen, che è uno dei miei più forti ricordi cinematografici).  Tendenzialmente, a Frears perdono tutto, anche alcuni film veramente brutti che ha fatto nella sua carriera (specie negli Stati Uniti, come se la lontananza dal Regno Unito gli facesse male). Ma, di sicuro, Frears non ha bisogno di farsi perdonare questa sua ultima prova, che ho trovato assolutamente perfetta.

Philomena (Judi Dench) e Martin (Steve Coogan)

Philomena è ispirato ad un libro scritto dal giornalista inglese Martin Sixsmith: The Lost Child of Philomena Lee (Il bambino perduto di Philomena Lee), in cui viene raccontata la storia vera (!) della signora Lee. Rimasta incinta giovanissima nell'Irlanda super cattolica degli anni '50, viene spedita dal padre, che la ripudia, in un convento di suore, dove Philomena dà alla luce un bambino, Anthony. Quando il bimbo ha pochi anni, secondo una prassi in uso all'epoca nei conventi irlandesi, viene dato in adozione ad una coppia di facoltosi americani. Dopo averlo cercato invano per moltissimi anni, la donna, che nel frattempo si è fatta una famiglia, decide un giorno di raccontare quanto le è accaduto alla figlia. Per una serie di circostanze, un ex-giornalista della BBC, Martin Sixsmith, si interessa alla storia di Philomena, ed insieme a lei inizierà la ricerca di questo figlio perduto attraverso l'Irlanda e gli Stati Uniti, un vero e proprio viaggio di scoperta dai risvolti emotivi del tutto inaspettati.

Non so a voi, ma a me sembrano sempre più rari quei film dalla struttura narrativa semplice, confezionati in maniera piuttosto classica, che ti regalano un paio d'ore di cinema bellissimo e sincero. Philomena, certamente, non è un film di rottura, di invenzioni registiche indimenticabili, di sconvolgimenti intellettuali, ma è un signor film dalla F maiuscola, con una sceneggiatura solida ed armoniosa (scritta per altro dall'attore principale del film, Steve Coogan, insieme a Jeff Pope), dialoghi intelligenti, pieni di ironia, mai sdolcinati o ammiccanti, attori che manco ve lo sto a dire (che della bravura eccezionale di Judi Dench cosa si potrebbe scrivere che già non sia stato scritto?) e una regia talmente discreta e al servizio della storia che è una gioia starla a guardare. 

Philomena Lee (Judi Dench)

Detto questo, Philomena nasconde una forza deflagrante che cresce con il procedere della storia e con le scoperte che questa donna semplice e un po' ignorante ma dalla dignità rara (sullo schermo e nella vita reale) è costretta a fare. Mai banale, mai ricattatorio, il film riesce a dire magnificamente quello che ha da dire, con un'intensità di sentimenti - veri, forti, non quelli incolori che spesso abbondano in certi filmetti - a cui è difficile resistere. La figura di merda che riesce a far fare alla Chiesa Cattolica Irlandese è esemplare: ragazzine rimaste incinta per pura ignoranza sessuale costrette a partorire tra atroci dolori e a lavorare sette giorni su sette per espiare le loro "colpe", bambini strappati alle loro madri e venduti al miglior offerente, suore stronze che nemmeno a 50 anni di distanza riescono ad ammettere la loro cattiveria e ancora pensano di poter giudicare gli altri e di guardare il resto del mondo dall'alto della loro (presunta) superiorità morale. Ma, per fortuna, niente e nessuno può intaccare la figura di questa donna che ha lottato tutta la vita per ritrovare una parte così fondamentale di lei stessa. 
L'irresistibile Philomena ci fa capire che, se la giustizia divina davvero esiste, all'inferno - di sicuro - non ci marcirà lei. Evviva!

12 Years a Slave

When I thought about a perfect Xmas movie to write about today in my blog, I unexpectedly thought about the new Steve McQueen film, 12 Years a Slave. 
I had the chance to see its avant-première a couple of weeks ago in a Paris cinema and I was eager to share my feelings about it with my readers.
Nobody else, I guess, would consider it a good movie for the Xmas time, but I do.
I am fed up with Xmas stories and fairy tales, I’d rather prefer to talk about an awful, tragic, real story: maybe it is not a bad idea to face the inhumanity of human beings on Xmas day! 

Solomon Northup (Chiwetel Ejiofor)

Steve Mcqueen, a British film-maker, is famous for his tough movies. From the story of Bobby Sands, the IRA revolutionary who starved himself to death (Hunger), to the story of Brandon, a NY sex addict (Shame), McQueen is not exactly the entertaining movies kind-of-guy. And I sincerely love him for that. For his third movie, he decided to go even “closer to the bone” relating the true story of Solomon Northup (the film is based upon Northup’s autobiography, having the same title). 
Northup, in 1840, was a free black man living with his family not far away from New York. A fine violin player, a well respected man in his community. One day, he accepts the job offer of two gentlemen, not knowing that the offer hides the most dreadful humbug: he has been sold as slave and sent to the Southern states to work in cotton plantations. The shock, for this cultivated man, is unspeakable. For 12 long years he will be obliged to work in the worst human conditions and be subject to the cruellest physical and mental punishments by his owners. When the hope is almost lost, Northup has the chance – unlike so many other slaves – to get back to freedom and write about his uncommon story...  

Northup (Ejiofor) and Epps (Fassbender)

If your reference in movies about slavery is Gone with the wind or The Colour Purple, well, forget about them, but if you want to know what really meant to be a black slave in the United States of America around 1840, well, this is the right movie for you. As it was the case for his previous films, McQueen is not here to gild the pill. Slavery is a shameful stain on American history, and it will always be. No matter what. This a story of rage, of survival, of dignity. McQueen shows it with his particular way of filming: very rigorous plans, scarce music, no useless scene, no-frills. He goes to the core of the story, straight away, without even giving you a chance to escape. Furthermore, this is not, at all, a heroic kind of movie. Northup is not better than any other slave. He is just more cultivated than they are. Which is a minus, not a plus, in a situation like this. The less you know, the less you feel, the better it will be for you. Northup is speechless, as we are, witnessing the misery, the cruelty, the non-sense of the whole situation. He is not brave, he is barely able to survive, keeping a feeble hope to go back to life and human condition.

Epps (Fassbender), Patsey (Nyong'o) and Northup (Ejiofor)

McQueen should be also complimented for the incredible cast he has been able to assemble. This is the best cast of the year: to play Solomon, he has chosen a great but underestimated (until today, I hope) British actor, Chiwetel Ejiofor, whose performance is absolutely astonishing. It could have been so easy to overdo to play this character, but Ejiofor follows the path of a perfect understatement. In the role of a female slave, the newcomer Lupita Nyong’o, an actress from Kenya, grab you heart and never let it go, becoming pretty quickly unforgettable. Also actors having minor roles here are unforgettable: Paul Giamatti as the pitiless slaves seller, Paul Dano as the awful slaves manager in one of the plantations, Benedict Cumberbatch as a more human plantations owner, and Sarah Paulson as the cruel wife of Mr. Epps, the last owner of Solomon. To play Edwin Epps, the bad, bad guy of the story, McQueen turned to his acteur-fetiche, the German-Irish actor Michael Fassbender, proven that their relationship will be remembered as the Scorsese-De Niro liaison of modern time. Fassbender, perfect Southern accent and eyes injected with the red of hanger and booze, is a strange kind of persecutor: tortured by his feelings for a black slave, he is struggling in a more human way than expected. This is what great actors manage to do: you want to hate them but in the end you feel sorry for them… 
The only feeble point in this chain of fabulous actors is, as usual, Brad Pitt: having the charisma of an artichoke, his 5 minutes on screen are simply soporific.

Bass (Brad Pitt)

The UGC Les Halles, the cinema where the avant-première was taking place, informed people buying tickets on their site that Steve McQueen would have been present to the screening. When the film was over, a couple of people arrived, announcing a “big surprise”: McQueen couldn’t make it, but the two main actors, Chiwetel Ejiofor and Lupita Nyong’o, were there. I guess that the audience was still so shaken by the movie, that seeing in flesh and blood the two actors was kind of an emotional shock. Ejiofor and Nyong’o were welcomed by a standing ovation and a long, long and big applause, and they were sincerely overwhelmed, looking at each other in disbelief.

Nyong'o and Ejiofor at the screening in UGC Les Halles, Paris - December 10

Well, I want to use this image, so simple but powerful: real feelings created by fictional scenes, to wish you a Merry Xmas, dear readers.
I hope it will be as human as possible!

A dinner with Kurosawa

Apparently, Japanese film-maker Akira Kurosawa was not only a world-renowned cinema director, but also an expert in the culinary arts.
I have learnt this during my last visit to Tokyo (so many nice things happened during that trip, did you notice it?), when two friends were kind enough to bring me out for dinner in one the four (!) Kurosawa restaurants in town.
There are, as a matter of fact, four different places where you can eat Kurosawa’s favourite food: Nagatacho Kurosawa (named after its pristine location, specialized in shabu-shabu), Teppanyaki Kurosawa (where they serve grilled fare on hot plates), Keyaki Kurosawa (specialized in buckwheat noodles) and Udon Kurosawa (specialized in wheat noodles). To cut a long story short, it is clear that Kurosawa was a real "Buongustaio", as we say in Italian. Since I am always looking for cinematic experiences that go beyond cinema and since I am a huge fan of Japanese food, I was particularly happy to try the Nagatacho Kurosawa restaurant in a lovely autumn evening:

The incredible thing about this place is that you really have the feeling of going back to the Edo Period: the restaurant has been designed “to evoke the image of samurai living and eating among the patrons”, as their brochure explain, and they’re quite right about it.
At the entrance, a picture of Kurosawa is welcoming the guests: 

And everywhere in the restaurant, both in the Soba Noodle Corner:

 

as well as in the Japanese Rooms:

posters of his movies give you the feeling of being on a film set or that Kurosawa himself could arrive at any moment to point out his favourite plates...

 

 

Since my friends had shabu-shabu at home the previous night (but unfortunately I wasn’t with them!), we decided to avoid the "special" of the place and to try other kind of dishes. 
In the end I was so happy we opted for this other option, because I had so many delicious, unforgettable things during that dinner. I can’t name them, so don’t ask, but have a look, readers, and let me know if you don’t feel like taking a plane to Tokyo right now just to try them as well:

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I was in love even with the little ikebana I found in the restrooms (I'm hopeless, I know):

All this to let you know that being a cinema freak does not only mean spending hours in dark places or visiting cemeteries, but sometimes also means having great dinners in amazing places. 
Kurosawa docet!

Ozu's Memories

Yasujiro Ozu, my favourite Japanese film-maker, died 50 years ago today, December 12.
For a weird coincidence, this was also the day he was born, 110 years ago.
I have always been in love with his cinema, since the first time I saw Tokyo Monogatari (1953), one of his masterpieces, when I was very young.
His cinema is made of very few elements: simple stories, essential dialogues, many moments of silence and minimal camera movements.
Ozu’s movies are basically the opposite of many today’s movies, where everything is going fast, camera movements are hectic, dialogues are excessive and very often stories are over complicated and also extremely stupid. Ozu’s understatement is proverbial: the expression “less is more”, could have been invented for him.

Tokyo Monogatari (1953)

During my last trip to Japan (at the end of October, beginning of November), I decided to go to visit Ozu’s grave in Kita-Kamakura, a small city not far from Tokyo (just one hour by train). 
I didn’t know much about it, just that his tomb was located inside the Engaku-ji, one of the five most important Buddhist temples of Japan. I was sure to recognise his grave, though, because I saw it in Tokyo Ga by Wim Wenders (a movie entirely dedicated by the German film-maker to Ozu) and also because on the grave the only visible thing is one of the most beautiful kanji (ideograms) of Japanese language, MU (NOTHING):

     無
What I didn’t expect, that lovely autumn afternoon entering the gate of the splendid Engaku-ji, was how difficult it would have been to find Ozu’s grave...

The entrance of Engaku-ji, Kita-Kamakura

The woman who was selling the entrance tickets gave me few indications, in Japanese, that I managed to understand (believe it or not). At that stage, I thought it would have been super easy. I started walking on the right side of the park, as she told me to do, and then I started climbing some stairs. Apparently, the grave was somewhere there. In fact, there was a small space with few tombs. I looked at them, one by one, but no sign of Ozu’s one. Going up the hill, I realized that there were many of those little spaces full of graves and I started to have some serious doubts about the possibility of actually find the one I was looking for. The truth is, I wasn’t finding the grave but I was finding so many amazing and beautiful places that I wasn’t too worried about it:

 

 

 

But eventually I said to myself that I had to find a solution, and quickly. 
It was at that right moment that I saw two old Japanese women walking towards me. I approached them and I explained what I was looking for. It was one of those moments where the fact of having studied Japanese for five years at the age of 20 looked like the best idea one could ever had in life.
They understood me and they told me they knew, more or less, where the grave was. After 5 minutes walking, we arrived in front of a chart full of small drawings. It was a chart of the graves and each one of them had the name of the dead inside. The two women, after a while, recognised the kanji of Ozu’s name and then they showed me the way. Of course, without those two lovely women, it would have been impossible, for me, to find it. I immediately thought that Ozu himself or some weird cinema god sent them to me. When we arrived in front of it, they waved good-bye and they left me, with one of those marvellous gestures Japanese culture is full of. Like in a Ozu’s movie, they used a simple tact: they understood that was a special, intimate moment, and they left me discreetly. Oh, I’ll never forget them! And so, there I was, at last, on the grave of my favourite Japanese film-maker:

I stood there for a while.
Mentally saying silly things to Ozu. Very silly things like: “Hey, I came to see you! From Paris! It is a long, long way, you know? I hope you appreciated. Oh, and, by the way, you deserve this trip because you have made some of my favourite films of all time. Thank you! Thank you so much, Ozu-san!"
Yes, this is a confession, I say things like that in front of film-makers graves. This is what people mean by being a cinema freak. A real one!

Happy like a child, I kept walking into the temple’s park, out of joy for that moment near Ozu’s grave but also out of joy for the beauty of every single thing I could set my eyes on in that amazing place:

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

When I saw those monks passing by, I really thought, for a moment, to join them: I just wanted to live there, to stay there for ever, near Ozu, surrounded by the peace and the splendour of Japanese nature. But then I had a doubt: Can Buddhist monks go to the movies? 
Not knowing the answer, I preferred to take the train and go back to Tokyo.

Grazie a Flavio Parisi per avermi suggerito di andare a Kita-Kamakura, a Takuji O'Hara per avermi dato tutte le indicazioni per arrivarci (e avermi detto la traduzione di "tomba" in Giapponese), e a Giorgio Amitrano per l'amore che condividiamo per questo regista.
 どうもありがとうございます