By Stephanie Zacharek
By Stephanie Zacharek
By Voice Film Club
By Chris Klimek
By Stephanie Zacharek
By Alan Scherstuhl
By Amy Nicholson
By David Konow
The Montreal World Film Festival ran for 10 days through Labor Day, and the Toronto Film Festival picked up a few days later and carried on for another 10. Twin colossi of the Great White North, they each unspooled some 300 movies, and, as in the past three years, I once again had the bleary-eyed good fortune to scale both summits. Scale is perhaps not the right word: I did not, after all, see 600 movies. Forty is more like it.
Nor did I find the peaks all that exhilarating. I encountered no masterpieces. On the other hand the high view was invaluable. Great films may not be rampant, but, if nothing else, I discovered that there sure is a lot of bustle on the international film scene, with fresh names cropping up, along with the usual slew of stalwarts.
The most interesting entry I saw in Montreal was Of Freaks and Men, directed by the Russian Alexei Balabanov, whose work is new to me, even though his films have played the festival circuit before. (His 1997 film Brother was Russia's biggest commercial success that year.) Set in turn-of-the-century St. Petersburg, Of Freaks and Men (in Russian) is a disturbing, expressionist black comedy featuring, among others, a maker of pornographic photos, a blind wife, a mistress, and a pair of Siamese twin boys. The tone is leering yet distanced. While the film's high-society setting might indicate some kind of political agenda, Balabanov is far too eccentric to be a social satirist. Frequently he comes off like Kafka with hormone shots; more often he's just gnomic. Movies that flaunt their obfuscations are my least favorite kind, and yet I found myself being drawn into the strangeness of this escapade. And Balabanov has a feeling for pathos that most mumbo-jumbo artists lack. When one of the Siamese twins slowly expires, the helplessness of his brother--and his awareness of his own imminent death--is excruciatingly moving.
Another film that tries to balance disparate tones is Roberto Benigni's Life Is Beautiful. Benigni is Italy's most famous--and exportable--movie comic. (He's turned up in a couple of Jim Jarmusch movies, 1986's Down by Law and 1991's Night on Earth.) I've often enjoyed his curlicue movements and bugged-out facial comedy, but he can be Chaplinesque in all the wrong ways--he jerks pathos. Set during the tail end of WWII, Life Is Beautiful (in Italian) is a "comedy" about a sweet couple and their little son who are sent to a concentration camp. It would take a comic artist of genius to bring this off without seeming either offensive or misguided. Benigni essentially works his schtick in a horrific setting; the contrast isn't shocking, it's just odd, as if we were watching two different movies that somehow got spliced together.
Tom Tykwer's Run Lola Run (in German) is a film I enjoyed for its kinetic charge. Lola (Franka Potente) has 20 minutes to get the necessary Deutsche marks that will save her in-hock-to-the-Mob boyfriend's life. In three interconnecting what-if? scenarios, we see Lola sprint nonstop on her mission. Tykwer's camera style and sensibility is a cross between Brian De Palma and Chuck Jones; his work has such dazzle that it's a shock to realize he also has a feeling for character. He makes you care about Lola. With her punk red hair and lean racer's body, she's a sprinter propelled by her own ardor. What a girlfriend! Every guy should be so lucky.
The most controversial movie I saw in Montreal was Jeanne Labrune's French folie à deux drama Si Je T'Aime . . . Prends Garde à Toi--in English, Beware My Love. Maybe you have to be French, or at least French-Canadian, to get this film. Nathalie Baye is a writer who meets a man (Daniel Duval) on a train who eventually becomes her lover. He's so unstable and possessive that after a while you realize she's at least as nuts as he is for wanting to keep him around. But the film presents their nuttiness as something transcendent. We're supposed to think these two are acting out some primal ritual of passion. All it looked like to me was a lot of hair-pulling and face-slapping.
Unlike Montreal, which feels like a European fest, the Toronto shindig is crammed with marketeers and Hollywood types. Jeffrey Katzenberg of Dreamworks SKG showed up for the closing night screening of his studio's Antz. Tom Cruise, sporting his stubble, was on hand to promote Without Limits, which he produced. And so on. As an antidote to all this hustle, a lot of critics found refuge in small and esoteric fare. I mean, why shuffle off to see Home Fries when you can see that acclaimed new Brazilian movie?
As it turns out, a lot of the highly touted small stuff had its share of Hollywood-style sentiment. Walter Salles Jr.'s Central Station (in Portuguese), for example, was promoted as one of those "up from the streets" social dramas in the manner of Hector Babenco's great Pixote (1981). What I saw was something else again. It's about an orphaned boy and an old woman who works in the Rio de Janeiro train station; she writes letters on behalf of the illiterate poor. They connect up to find the boy's errant father, and the whole trip becomes one of those allegorical jaunts that you just know is going to end in heartbreak. With a little jimmying, this movie could easily be adapted for Hollywood: Call it Grand Central Station, and cast Anne Bancroft and whoever the new Macaulay Culkin is. The one genuine article in the film is the performance of Fernanda Montenegro, Brazil's premier movie actress, as the old woman. The movie may be mushy, but she keeps her ballast.
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