VERA BROZZONI

Attending a film festival can be demanding. You get to see up to six films per day and you need to keep a fresh mind in order not to write bullshit about them. But most of the times, even very good films (in this case the likes of Hayao Miyazaki’s Ponyo On The Cliff By The Sea) or very bad ones (Guillermo Arriaga’s The Burning Plain) cannot stay in your memory for long. You need something more, you  need something extraordinary and truly memorable.

This time around I’ve been lucky enough to see two amazing masterworks that stem from totally different aesthetics/politics/ethics of film: flamboyant horror Encarnaçao Do Demonio by cult director José Mojica Marins and delicate, sublime drama Puccini E La Fanciulla by Paolo Benvenuti, one of the most refined and less known Italian directors. These are by far the best films of the festival and yet, they couldn’t be more different from one another.

Encarnaçao Do Demonio is the final instalment of a trilogy started by Marins in the 1960s with At Midnight I’ll Take Your Soul and This Night I Will Possess Your Corpse, in which the director stars as sadistic undertaker Zé do Caixao (or Coffin Joe). Forty years later, Zé is released from prison and starts again the quest for the perfect woman who will sire his offspring. He roams the hellish town of Sao Paulo and witnesses its moral degrade, made of mafia, fascist policemen and maniac priests. Plagued by the memory of his past victims, he takes a daytrip to Purgatory and sees tortures and body modifications happening live. He, of course, tortures and kills men and women alike, all those who are not ready to take on his very personal philosophy, and ends up speared by a giant crucifix.

Unexpectedly, this film is not mysogynist at all, but spreads a canopy of distrust on mankind in general. The enemy Zé fights against is corruption, greed, superstition, prepotence – how could one disagree? From the aesthetic point of view, the film boasts a wild fantasy and an accurate religious symbology drowned in a kaleidoscope of hypersaturated colours, a real feast for the eye that makes you cringe or laugh out loud.

Now let’s go on the other end of the specrum: Benvenuti stages a real episode in the life of opera composer Giacomo Puccini, whose maid Doria was accused to have an illicit relationship with him. She ends up taking her own life while Puccini is busy composing La Fanciulla Del West, then her innocence will be proved.

Benvenuti’s cinema is made of a few natural ingredients: the sunlight that fills the clear Tuscan sky and is reflected in the still canal waters, shadows that paint a parallel world and tell stories of love and death, a wooden piano, rays of gaslight. And most of all, the silence. This is a film of few dialogues, some (magnificent) transcriptions of La Fanciulla Del West for piano solo, and lots of silence that weighs more than words. The actors’ bodies seem suspended in the thin air, and the real life melodrama superimposed on the progression of the opera gradually becomes more abstract and poetic.

It may seem strange that both these films have left such a strong impression on me. But actually, they are both specimens of “extreme cinema” in their own personal way, both uncompromising, both avant-garde, both difficult to watch. And now that the lights are on, it’s time to plunge once again into ordinary films. Alas!

ahem, first of all: BROZZONI IS BACK!!!

Yes I’m back and I’m now enjoying the one and only Venice Film Festival. Oh and I got a house and a job and have been through copious relationships so… life goes on.

I arrived last night in Venice and was shocked at the average level of physical beauty surrounding me: it was a crowd of supermodels of both genders who flocked to the Lido to attend the première of “Valentino: The Last EMperor”. I didn’t watch it, but looked and smelled so bad after my trip from London, that they wouldn’t have let me in anyway. Always a dissident.

After a shower and 8 hours of sleep (a luxury I haven’t enjoyed for months) I have made my way to the remarkable “Jay”, a Filipino family drama cum a meta-media, mise en abime  treatment that reminded me of another Filipino work: “Tuhog – Larger Than Life” by the never-enough-lauded Jeffrey Jeturian.

Then, Takeshi Kitano. His latest two films (“Takeshis” and “Glory To The Filmmaker!”) were shockingly devoid of any valuable idea, mere vehicles for the director in order to half celebrate, half denigrate himself, his work, his utter lack of inspiration.  This time I gingerly treaded into the PalaLido with expectations not exactly great. I was wrong. “Achilles And The Tortoise” is an extremely complex work, again self-centered, that recaps all his cinematic past and comes to a pessimistic conclusion: not only his career has been inane and useless, but art on the whole is a path you’d better not follow (debatable). The great thing about this film is that in telling the story of painter Michiku, his alter ego, Kitano pans over all the styles that his own filmography has used: childhood poetic drama, screwball comedy, yakuza thriller, all juxtaposed in a vortex of images and emotions. Unlike his latest efforts, “Achilles And The Tortoise” makes the viewer sympathetic, it makes you laugh, cry and cringe with horror at the frequent tragic deaths the story is peppered with – and a tearjerker of an ending. Most of all, it features a plethora of paintings of all styles and sizes, painted by Kitano himself. If the filmmaker was trying to return to glory, this time he made it.

Time for dinner now but you’ll hear more in the next days.

“She brags about being a film critic and then she reviews only three films from the London Film Fest and then vanishes again… oh what a rip off!”. I know. I know you’re thinking something like that.  And I really wish I could have written more from the LFF, but the problem is that within a week I found out that

1- I have to move from my lovely house at the end of November: our landlady has passed away and we four housemates are now going to be scattered all around the place. So if you have any spare room or can be of any help, I’d really appreciate.

2- My main source of income has gone broke and cannot pay me anymore. So I’m not only househunting but also jobhunting at the same time.

You know, in this position I’m not in the mood for spending time writing reviews. Sorry, I need to sort out other things before that. But I’ll be back, oh yes I will! Now back to Gumtree, bye bye.   

Romania is the new Korea. A neglected area (as far as cinema is concerned) for years, then a generation of hyper-hype directors comes out of the mist and tell inconvenient truths about their country and the relationship between human beings. So the establishment are suddenly made aware of their presence, their films are invited to festivals all over the world and the awards start snowing. It happened for Korea a few years ago, now it’s the turn of Romania.

We cinéphiles all rememeber The Death Of Mr. Lazarescu by Cristi Puiu, that won the Un Certain Regard at Cannes 2005; great movie indeed, a merciless trip inside the hell of Romanian hospitals and the real time account of the death of a poor old chap. The year after, political comedy 12.08 East Of Bucharest won the Caméra d’Or at Cannes 2006, but personally I found it boring and slow.

This year I found myself in the same situation: I just saw 4 Months, 3 weeks, 2 Days by Cristian Mungiu the winner of the Palme d’Or at Cannes 2007, and California Dreamin’ (Endless) by Cristian Nemescu that won the Un Certain Regard award at the same festival. I know, I know, it sounds like Cannes is the only film fest in the world. The films I’m talking about have actually won many other awards at many other important festivals, but Cannes is nevertheless THE festival all film buffs must confront with; Cannes keeps having the finger on the pulse of new cinema much more than all the others, its programme never fails to provide a high quality standard, its coolness is unrivalled. Let’s try to forget that last year’s palme went to Ken Loach’s worst pamphlet The Wind That Shakes The Barley, and let’s go on with the Romanians.

Again, a harrowing drama against a dull comedy; part of the success of California Dreamin’ probably depends on the fact that its young director and editor were killed in a car crash while still working on the film (this is why it is called Endless, even if it should sound more precisely Unfinished) .  Still the matter-of-fact narrative, slow rhythm and natural, realistic aesthetics of Romanian New Wave films seem to fit dramas and thrilling real-life misadventures (like Mr. Lazarescu’s personal Calvary) much more than comedies: in fact, the humour I am referring has a bittersweet aftertaste and is mainly aimed at ridiculizing Romania’s backwardness and the naiveté of its inhabitants. Such self-irony is commendable but hardly effective film-wise, and it always sounds downplayed, restrained, weak. It seems that comedy directors are not sure what kind of genre do they want to shoot, and end up putting too much drama in what shouldn’t be drama.

OK, I’m tired to write about this. If there’s anyone out there who liked 12.08 East Of Bucharest and California Dreamin’, please post your comment. I might even change my mind if you sound convincing.

Ploy is the first film by Thai director Pen-ek Ratanaruang that I see, so I can’t compare it with his previous works nor spend words on his aesthetics and so on; yes, you’re lucky. Anyway, Ploy turned out to be a wonderful, mesmerizing film that follows its own rules: barren image composition, somber palette, a soundtrack that adds layers and layers of uncanny sounds and noises.  It could be defined a thriller of the soul, if the implications between the characters didn’t get murderous and shocking at times, with no previous notice.

Ploy is a teenager who sits in the bar of a hotel in Bangkok at 5 am: she has a black eye and is waiting for her mother to collect her a few hours later. Wit and his wife Dang have just flown from the USA, where they live, to attend a funeral. As they arrive at the hotel in the early morning, Wit meets Ploy and invites her to have a rest in his and Dang’s room, out of sheer kindness. Dang is sure that her husband has a hidden agenda and he is not able to reassure her. Ploy’s presence in the room makes old grudges come to the surface: the couple decide that they are not in love anymore and that they want to divorce. Later, while Ploy generously convinces Wit that “love does not expire like canned food”, Dang throws herself in the clutches of a deadly stalker.  Meanwhile, in a room of the hotel a maid and the bartender make passionate love .

Poetic, evocative but thrilling at the same time, Ploy throws the viewer in a world where alienation, abuse and distance are just accepted as the way it should be. Every character is a monad that never makes an effort to meet the other, and even when they say say sweet words, they keep floating in an amniotic liquid they created for themselves.  The only exceptions are the maid and the bartender, who don’t say a word but are able to express their sexuality in a natural and shameless way.  It’s not an accident that young Ploy feels somehow kin to them – nor is an accident that the sex between her and the man never happens. Violence, death, disgrace all happen off screen but their smell lingers in the wet hot air of Bangkok.

This film will probably have a very limited release but it’s absolutely worth a trip to some obscure arthouse cinema in town. keep your eyes open to catch the release date!

…I’ve started again in full steam. Sorry if my review is too long but the film deserves it. I’ll try not to get much longer than that anyway.

Catherine Breillat is a French egomaniac feminist film director whose uneven delivery spans from jewels like Une Vraie Jeune Fille (A Real Young Lady, 1975), 36 Fillette (Virgin, 1987) and Bréve Traversée (Brief Crossing, 2001) to abominations Tapage Nocturne (Nocturnal Uproar, 1979) and Romance (1999). When Romance was released I actually liked it a lot because for the first time I saw a live blowjob in a non-porn film; then I grew up and realized that it really stank. Anyway, Breillat’s films focus on female sexuality, sexual awakening and various physical experiences. Her gaze is always surgically precise and cruel and her films, as good or bad as they can be, represent a faithful portrait of female psychology and sexuality without being uber-flattering sappy melodramas à la Almodovar and without putting every possible blame on the male.
Une Vieille Maitresse (The Last Mistress) is Breillat’s latest film and masterpiece, shot one year and a half after the director suffered a major brain haemorrhage that left her partially disabled. It might sound like a cruel irony, but it even seems that in shooting this film, for the first time Breillat had to constrain herself not only physically but also poetically. The result is wonderful though: she has succeeded in fully taming the white-hot material of the script and putting it into an artistic shape, without losing an ounce of power.   
The story is adapted by the homonymous book written by Jules Barbey D’Aurevilly in 1851: young libertine Ryno de Marigny is about to marry aristocratic, virtuous Hermangarde, but the whole gossipy, snotty society he lives in knows that his real love is La Vellini, a Spanish wild and adventurous woman. One night Ryno recalls his ten years long love affair with Vellini, prompted by old Marquise de Flers, Hermangarde’s grandmother; she is dubious about the young man’s resolution to leave his feisty mistress and marry an innocent little flower. The sumptuous marriage takes place between many raised eyebrows and even seems to work – but the force of passion cannot be tamed. This is no surprise. The real surprise, a very Breillatesque one, is the happy ending!
It takes a brave director not to pepper the forbidden love triangle with tragedy, not to condemn the lover to be rejected and/or suicidal and the legitimate couple to hate each other until death do them part. The big issue for Breillat here is the invincibility of passion; society is there to observe, but  remains in the background. Asia Argento, the terribly self-conceited daughter of Italian so-called maestro of horror Dario Argento, for the first time delivers a sensitive and effective performance; the character of Vellini allows her to show off her wildest side: she growls, crawls, licks Ryno’s blood, makes love with him in front of the pyre burning the body of their baby daughter. And is believable, I swear.
Breillat does not conceal Argento’s crooked teeth nor adds grace to her roughly beautiful face, because Vellini’s furious sensuality transcends perfection; in contrast with her, the legitimate bride and groom (Roxane Mesquida and Fu’ad Ait Aattou – never heard such a hard-spelling name before) have perfect and delicate features. Power to imperfection could also be a key to experience the film:  there are goofs here and there and some incongruity (this is Breillat’s first costume drama, after all) but they add a special charm to the whole. To stress the importance of this film in the director’s career, she has reunited many of the actresses she has worked before, even in the 1980s, and has given them cameo roles: pure delight for her longtime fans. Although the film didn’t receive accolade at Cannes Film Fest this year, it will hopefully get what it deserves when released in the UK. I don’t know when yet, but I strongly recommend it.        

A few of you affectionate readers had complained that my photograph on the “About me” page didn’t show my supreme beauty the way it deserves. So now I’ve finally replaced it with a new one taken by my friend Vanessa on the Hungerford Bridge, one gloomy day of pseudo-spring. Do you like it better?

Hey! Hey! I’m still alive! First of all sorry to all those (you can’t be that many) who periodically catch a glimpse of this blog hoping to find something new and then go back to their affairs shaking their heads – sorry. I’ve been busy and most of all confused. I was depressed. I had the chance to become a Philosophy teacher in Italy. I went to Mallorca for a holiday. I attended Venice Film Festival. I am an orange belt and going to grade to green belt in December. I had my hair cut one hour ago.

But most of all, I’m going to attend the lovely London Film Festival starting this week! And I’m going to write loads of reviews here, mainly because the usual websites where I write wouldn’t publish them. Last year I ended up with reviews and interviews scribbled in my notebook and waiting to be published by any, even obscure media; this year I’m going to write whatever I want on these pages. Oh what a sense of freedom!

Anyway, to find out what I have watched in Venice please go to www.nuts4chic.com and www.openmagazine.co.uk , whereas if you are interested in my wicked side check out the marvelous www.run-riot.com blog and enjoy!

So… see you soon guys! Vera is back!

So! We’ve decided to go to the Latitude Festival in Suffolk; It’s my flatmate Richard, our friend Russ and me. Richard has a broken leg, Russ has eye problems and I am the worst driver in the world. Plan is: Richard is in Chelmsford at the moment, so Russ comes here, we (he) drive Richard’s car to Chelmsford and then to the festival.

As soon as Russ and I have loaded the boot and managed to start the car, the electric steed rushes to the junction and – no. I’m joking. The car is absolute crap and dosen’t even make it to the junction! Maybe it’s the load (tents, camping stuff plus an array of pillows for Richard’s leg), maybe the poor old thing is just breathing its last; the fact is, it’s slower than a bicycle. So I have to push it to the nearest car repair while Russ swears behind the wheel.

After leaving the car to the car doctor (who is not optimistic), we get back to my place carrying all the stuff mentioned above on our lovely persons. Quickly we search the Internet for the nearest car hire (it’s almost noon and we should be picking up Rich in Chelmsford) when Russ has an epiphany: “I left my driving licence at home”. Aaaarrggghhhhhh!

New plan is: Russ has gone home to take his licence and has already booked a car in a hire close to his place. He’s going to drive here, pick me and the stuff up and then hopefully we’ll be ready to go. I just wonder what’s going to happen next, but it’s already great fun.