In La princesa de Francia, ‘cinematic choreography’ acquires a whole new meaning La princesa de Francia, winner of Best Film in the Argentine competition in this year’s BAFICI, is Matías Piñeiro’s third Shakespearian outing, following Rosalinda and Viola. It is also one that comes with two significant variations: it has a male protagonist and it’s narrated from several different points of view. It’s also a film where the camerawork is more dynamic and visuals are as important as the dialogue. Victor (Julián Larquier) is a young theatre director with a penchant for radio broadcasts (another new addition) of Shakespearian versions. He is desired by several women at once, all of them actresses: his current girlfriend, his ex-girlfriend, his lover, his friend, and a lover he had long, long ago. After living in Mexico for a year, Víctor returns to Buenos Aires because of his father’s death. He wants to put together a small company for a project involving a series of radio broadcasts loosely based on the last play he directed. Being desired by so many women at once, it shouldn’t come as a surprise that new romantic relationships are likely to surface in addition, perhaps, to rekindling previous ones. Not that they all will indeed transpire, but there are many possibilities that could lead to both joys and disappointments — because love is unpredictable. Musical and pictorial references — Schumann and Bouguereau among them — together with an uncanny sense of mise-en-scene where less is more, gripping cinematography by Fernando Lockett, and finely-tuned performances by Agustina Muñoz, Romina Paula, María Villar, and Laura Paredes make up an unclassifiable feature where the term “cinematic choreography” acquires a whole new meaning. Not to mention the witty dialogue rhythmically uttered at the speed of light that encompasses the characters’ erratic — and sometimes circular — movements. This time, every single aspect of the language of cinema has been very well executed. And like Piñeiro’s previous features, La princesa de Francia is a highly stylized work; although it goes for a spontaneous air when it comes to the characters’ way of speaking and behaving, it also deliberately stresses its strong formalism and artifice — like some of the auteurs from the Nouvelle Vague did, as they were also concerned with sentimental liaisons. Here style predominates over content, and while the artistry is to be praised, it may also become undesirably overwhelming and somewhat monotonous for some. Perhaps more emphasis on the drama than on manners would make a more balanced feature, one that doesn’t call so much attention to its film form. Then again, that would mean making a different film from the one Piñeiro wanted to make, that is to say one, a film that would cater to a more general audience. Which doesn’t make any sense, since any artist has to express himself any which way he or she wants. Personally, I didn’t find La princesa de Francia too engaging or particularly interesting, despite its many formal achievements. But it’s precisely their formal achievements what make it quite a good film. Whether you like it or not is an altogether different issue. Where and when Sala Leopoldo Lugones (Av. Corrientes 1530) / MALBA Museum (Av. Pres. Figueroa Alcorta 3415), Friday at 8 pm. Production notes La princesa de Francia (Argentina, 2014). Written and directed by Matías Piñeiro. With Julian Larquier Tellarini, Agustina Muñoz, Pablo Sigal, Gabriela Saidón, Romina Paula, María Villar. Cinematography: Fernando Lockett. Art direction: Sebastián Schjaer. Running time: 70 minutes.
Bea (Melanie Delloye) is a young Colombian wannabe actress who lives in Buenos Aires with another young girl, and dreams about success and fame. To be more precise, she’s played a couple of bit parts — not a very rewarding experience. Like so many other actors, she wants her big break and to become a much sought-after actress. But, as is usually the case, she must earn her living before her dreams materialize. To this aim, Bea kindly takes care of an old lady and during the rest of the time she goes to theatre rehearsals and auditions of all kinds — commercials, stage plays, movies. When she meets a somewhat well-known producer, Lalo (César Bordón), she believes her chance to make it big has come. But as we all know, looks can be deceiving. Too bad Bea doesn’t find out until faced with harsh reality. So talking about actresses, the first thing that can be said about filmmaker Leonardo D’Antoni’s Aventurera is that Delloye does a moderately good job conveying some of the most significant traits of Bea. I wouldn’t go as far as saying she pulls off an intense character study, but her character is fleshed out and makes you care for her. Some conversations between Bea and her fellow actors ring true, especially those at the beginning, which sound as lines drawn from a documentary on Thespians and directors. The camera captures these conversations in a spontaneous manner. So far, so good. But this is what the story amounts to. And this is when Aventurera runs into big problems as it pictures trite, two-dimensional characters inhabit usual territory: the theatre, television and movie sets. Almost everything you see here — auditions, sexual favours, bad producers, temperamental actors — is the kind of stuff you’ve often seen before. There are no new examinations of the potentially rich material the film deals with, and there’s no persuasive if conventional drama. Soon, what Aventurera achieves when the lead character is introduced is then lost into commonplace situations. While the camerawork is appropriate, the lighting design is far from expressive — it doesn’t narrate the story in aesthetic terms, it’s just functional to the story in an elementary way, and it’s also flat, very flat. So it’s hard to keep your interest in a story with a good, realistic beginning that then resorts to uninspired, formulaic work as regards content and the way it unfolds. Where and when Centro Cultural de la Cooperación (Av. Corrientes 1543). Thursdays at 9pm. Production notes Aventurera (Argentina, 2014). Directed by Leonardo D’Antoni. Written by: Leonardo D’Antoni and Melanie Delloye. With: Melanie Delloye, César Bordón, Sebastián Arzeno, Natalia Morales. Cinematography: Leonardo D’Antoni. Editing: Leonardo D’Antoni. Running time: 85 minutes.
Nelson (Enrique Bastos) is a trumpet player who has been in the Uruguayan Air Force for over twenty years. Although he is a good musician, he feels unsatisfied because his art has only been displayed in the Air Force, always playing the same tunes. To top it all, he’s been recently dumped by his wife. Which may be compensated for by the possibility of entering a music contest meaning, hopefully, a big break. But what if he does well at the contest and then the Air Force assigns him to play at a very important event at a base in Antarctica. Would he drop out of the contest in order to fulfill his duty? Or would he continue in it and leave aside his responsibilities? Because sooner or later, that’s exactly the decision he will have to make. Solo, the opera prima of Uruguayan filmmaker Guillermo Rocamora, is a charmingly understated character study of a lonely man in pursuit of a more satisfying life, instead of being your typical story of a man with a grey life who becomes a star after overcoming all odds. So that’s the first reason that makes a singular feature with an otherwise overworked premise. The second reason would be it is its tone of general melancholy and bitter-sweetness, which permeates a languid narrative inhabited by laconic beings that always rings true. Little by little you get to know what Nelson is like, what goes on in his heart and mind, what makes him feel alive. But judging from some of his doings, one would presume there are also other sides of him that remain undisclosed. This way, opacity and transparency mix to great effect. It’s also in the silences and pauses where much of the drama occurs, as the dialogue — inserted when necessary — is somewhat scarce. Instead, there’s an invisible camera that observes the scene and allows viewers to grasp the essence of things. The ending is neither predictable nor forced. It’s the kind of ending that goes well with the dramatic arc of a character silently struggling to make a difference in his own life. Production notes Solo (Uruguay/Argentina/Holland, 2014) Directed by Guillermo Rocamora. With: Enrique Bastos, Fabián Silva, Bartolo Aguilar, Claudia Cantero, Rita Terranova, Marilú Marini. Cinematography: Bárbara Álvarez. Sound: Fabián Oliver, José Luis Díaz. Editing: Juan Ignacio Fernández, Guillermo Rocamora. Produced by Séacuático, Sudestada Cine, Volya Films. Running time: 90 minutes.
Founded by Giovanni Anconetani in the early 20th century, Anconetani is the first and only manufacturer of accordions in Latin America, a brand much cherished by most renowned musicians for the quality of its instruments. But prior to making his own instruments, Don Giovanni had arrived in Argentina as a representative of the Italian brand Paolo Soprani, a leading name in European accordions, which he manufactured, sold and even played in several orchestras. It was a meticulous task that demanded precision and devotion in equal doses, and it was carried out to perfection. Unfortunately, as a result of the War World II, many accordion pieces and parts could no longer be imported from Europe, so there was no way to keep making the instruments. However, the silver lining is that Giovanni decided to take advantage of this hardship: he founded his own factory where he and all his relatives put hands to work to make the best possible instruments of the type. And so they did. As expected, sooner than later these Argentine accordions became as valuable as the Paolo Soprani ones — if not more. The Argentine documentary Anconetani, directed by Silvia Di Florio and Gustavo Cataldi, traces the origins and development of said factory, which is now being run by Nazareno Anconetani, Giovanni’s youngest son, currently an old man who nonetheless feels, talks, and behaves like the youngest one of the bunch. Each day, with as much accuracy and devotion as his father had, Nazareno tirelessly repairs and restores old accordions that still are way better than the ones made today. As the musicians say, the purity of their sound is unparalleled. He also plays the drums with the energy and spirit of a young heart, just like he mingles with people at ease, always willing to share some quality time doing the simplest and most genuine things which give life much of its meaning. And just like Nazareno’s everyday life is admirable in its vivacity, so is the story of the factory which he warmly narrates from the very beginning when his father first stepped on Argentine soil. What makes Silvia Di Florio’s and Gustavo Cataldi’s film an appealing piece is how unobtrusively Nazareno’s energetic personality, his sweet memories and current views are rendered to viewers from a loving point of view that shows the man in total transparency. And at the same time, you get to have more than a glimpse of a trade that is performed with both responsibility and endless affection. In fact, it’s hard to think of the work without thinking of the man. So, Anconetani is not just a documentary about making instruments, or even about music. It’s goes far beyond that. Production notes Anconetani (Argentina, 2014) Written by Gustavo Alonso. Directed and edited by Silvia Di Florio, Gustavo Cataldi. Cinematography: Gustavo Cataldi. Music: Mintcho Garramone. Produced by Felicita Raffo, Andrés Logares. Runtime: 63 minutes.
Ever since his opera prima, Vil romance, Argentine filmmaker José Celestino Campusano has achieved a number of recurring traits that have turned him into distinctive auteur: a narrative that focuses on the dark side of Greater BA, parading before the camera a gallery of youths, criminals, outsiders, corrupted officials and losers involved in doomed love stories and visceral personal liaisons. Also, the emphasis is on raw feelings rather than reason as the spark that ignites the characters’ doings. As regards aesthetics, expect an austere and realistic mise-en-scene, real locations instead of studio settings, and a realistic sound design with little — if any — incidental music. Furthermore, the dialogue is fairly colloquial dialogue and non-professional actors are cast for all roles. But with his new film Placer y martirio, winner of the Argentine Competition’s Best Director Award at this year’s BAFICI, Campusano has taken quite a different road — for better or worse. This time he focuses on the emotional problems of the well-to-do members of the upper-middle class, in this case neglected women, forgetful husbands and lonely teenagers. You could say that lack of love is what ails Delfina (Natacha Méndez), a 45-year-old professional woman with plenty of money, a teen daughter, and a dying marriage. Through a friend, she meets an older man, a supposed entrepreneur — but in fact a manipulator — with whom she’ll soon have an affair, somewhat torrid at first, yet ultimately disappointing and vacuous. One way or the other, bliss is not to be found. And the change in the director’s style is also to be seen in a more conventional set of aesthetics: scenes are developed with a tighter dramatic grip, the dialogue is somewhat stylized and so is the acting, the cinematography is far more polished and the camerawork is tidier. So his previous raw, rudimentary style — which was voluntary — has vanished into thin air. Which is not a bad thing at all, for the filmmaker is embarking on a different road with enough balance and firmness to deliver a decent feature. That said, it’s equally true that the conflicts themselves are not as stirring and profound as the material allows for. In a sense, the ups and downs of these new characters are the stuff that melodrama is made of, but they are played in a low-key manner which often fails to elicit strong emotions. On the other hand, sometimes you even feel you are watching regular soap opera fare. Also, there is not a small number of clichés that take away much of the surprise element, and the morality tale itself is not persuasive. Without a doubt, Placer y martirio goes for a narrative that you may presume will become more complex, daring and deep as new films are made. So far, a number of flaws diminish the overall impact of the film’s premise.
La vida de alguien, Ezequiel Acuña’s new film, concerns the story of Guille (Santiago Pedrero), a young musician who decides to reunite the members of a band he’d created 10 years ago. And for a very good reason: a label wants to release the album they’d recorded before they separated, which never hit the market. But in so doing, he’ll realize that the former members of the band have changed quite a bit. Specifically as regards one of them, nobody has a clue as to where he is. In time, Guille meets a very cute girl, Lucía (Ailín Salas), who will also be part of the band alongside a former friend of Guille and two new guys. Just like Guille has a very hard time in putting his band together again, Acuña doesn’t seem to find a way to craft a solid script to account for the vicissitudes of the scenario of indie rock bands. La vida de alguien can be seen as a film that never goes beyond the first act: that is to say, establishing the time and space where the action takes place, introducing the characters, and exposing the main conflict. From then on, you only have a long series of scenes with the musicians rehearsing, some of them played in slow motion and with fade-outs. Other things that happen may include some small talk, a love affair to be, male bonding and more music. There are some more developed conversations here and there, but what is said and how it is said don’t amount to much either. It’s all very anecdotal and at times also way shallow. And while it’s true that, thanks to Fernando Lockett’s luminous cinematography, there’s a somewhat entrancing atmosphere as well as certain charm, the substance of the drama is so minuscule and spread out that, sooner rather than later, even the most alluring visuals cannot make up for such major flaws. Nothing much happens here. Not to mention how underwritten the characters are, which turns them into distant figures executing a few actions provided by the script. In the same way, no omnipresent arrangement of songs — no matter how good they are — will be a substitute for the need of a stronger screenplay.
Set in an arid landscape, El prisionero irlandés has an ably austere mise en scene, and yet... “Towards 1810, the population in the province of San Luis reached 16,000 people. After the end of the wars for independence, only 4,000 were left. Half of them were women,” you can read in white type against a black background at the ending of the recently released Argentine feature El prisionero irlandés, written and directed by Carlos María Jaureguialzo and Marcela Silva y Nasute. Set in the arid landscape of San Luis in 1806, right after the first British invasions, this is the story of one of those afflicted women, Luisa (Alexia Moyano), a young widow with a child and an old gaucho as her only companions, the one El prisionero irlandés (The Irish Prisoner) referenced in the title. Better said, it’s about a melodramatic love story between Luisa and Conor (Tom Harris), an Irish prisoner assigned to live in Luisa’s small, shabby ranch, in order to help her with the daily chores. At first, Luisa and Conor do not bond, they just establish a peaceful, yet distant, relationship. But as years go by (yes, years) sentiments will surface and break through all possible barriers. A few minutes into the film, you can already see that the production values are good enough for the story to ring true: the art direction is subtly convincing in all its details, costumes and make up do give you the right feeling of the time, the sound design does express the solitude and occasional hazards of such an isolated place, and the cinematography is not only technically correct but also seldom overstated. With an ably austere mise en scene, El prisionero irlandés looks and sounds pretty much as it should. However, the problems lie in a more conflictive area — no less than the screenplay. For there’s little originality in how this love story between this Irish prisoner and this pretty young widow unfolds. The filmmaker’s approach is formulaic down to the very roots and yet the film pretends to be a personal work. But just pay attention to the overwhelming use of incidental music (there’s a guitar still playing in my ears) which stresses what images have already shown and expressed. And the same goes for the traits the characters have — you know, the old affable gaucho with a husky voice, the defiant and virtuous widow, the shy and harmless prisoner, and so forth. At the same time, even if it may sound contradictory, the characters’ dramatic arc needs more transitions to make the changes in their behaviour believable. I guess that’s why you get the feeling you are seeing a string of postcards, each of them with enthralling landscapes in the background and characters uttering overworked dialogue in the foreground. So this involuntary use of clichés cannot but take away all the potentially genuine layers this story had. And the end result is a déjà vu period piece. Production notes El prisionero irlandés. Argentina, 2015. Written and directed by: Carlos María Jaureguialzo and Marcela Silva y Nasute. With: Alexia Moyano, Tom Harris, Manuel Vicente, Alberto Benegas, Juan Grandinetti, Kevin Schiele, Tomás Stadler, Yoska Lázaro, Sean Mckeown. Cinematography by: Federico Gómez. Sound by: Javier Stavrópulos. Editing by: Delfina Jaureguialzo. Produced by: Tres Pájaros Films. Running time: 103 minutes.
Partly autobiographical, A Castle in Italy is written and directed by Valeria Bruni Tedeschi (It’s Easier for a Camel, Actresses) who also plays the lead, Louise, a 43-yer-old woman in need of romance who longs to have children — even more so because she’s not getting any younger. She has a brother, Ludovic (Filippo Timi) who suffers from AIDS-related diseases AND, in a matter of weeks, he’ll probably be dead — Valeri Bruni Tedeschi’s brother, in fact, died of AIDS some years ago. Both of them are under the emotional influence of their absent-minded, worrisome mother (played by Bruni Tedeschi’s real life mother under the stage name of Marisa Borini). As the taxes, insurance policies and salaries needed to maintain their family castle are on the rise, and not having the resources to afford such expenses, they are forced to sell the place together with a large number of famous paintings — a precious Bruegel among them. One day and just by chance, Louise meets Nathan (Louis Garrel), an attractive man who is many, many years younger than her. Sooner rather than later, they embark upon a somewhat heated love affair, only to discover irreconcilable differences as time goes by. So not even love can make Louise’s life any happier. Bruni Tedeschi, the filmmaker, attempts to walk a tight rope here, but she can’t quite make it despite how much she tries. Striking a balance between drama and comedy is never an easy task, and it gets all the more difficult when humour must be smoothly intertwined with really painful stuff. And we’re not talking about black comedy, but rather about some kind of absurd, dry humour. So whereas you may follow the dramatic parts with some interest — particularly because of the more than fine performances of Bruni Tedeschi and her mother — the same cannot be said about the comedic ones. You may smile every now and then, but that’s as far as it goes. On second thought, the conflicts and the resulting drama are only developed to a certain degree, and then they are interrupted and left aside. It is this fragmentary narrative structure that doesn’t quite work either — the film is furthermore divided into three parts, each taking place in a different season: winter, spring and summer. Yes, there are some special moments, some scenes that are moving and funny in their own right, but they are quite few in comparison to the whole. Such an uneven feature with an indecisive tone makes you feel disconnected rather than engaged. You see it all from a distance, very much aware of the way the film tries to dazzle you with its offbeat nature (that is never quite gripping). I guess that’s also why indifference is the prevailing emotion you experience while watching how the sale of this Italian castle is meant as a metaphor for the situation of a family in despair.
US filmmaker Marc Lawrence’s romantic comedy The Rewrite deals with a well rehearsed topic: second chances. You know how it goes: someone who once had a thriving past now faces a grim present — until another someone, with a not-so-great present either, shows up and changes the whole scenario for the better. And so everyone gets to find their true talents, or revive the ones they had. Of course, there are variations on the formula, but that’s pretty much how it goes. In The Rewrite, Keith Michaels (Hugh Grant) is a scriptwriter who once upon a time won an Oscar for a screenplay called Paradise Misplaced, which was largely about it never being too late to redeem yourself and start all over again. But considering all of his other films have been critical and commercial failures, Keith no longer believes second chances take place in real life. With not enough money to make a living, he’s forced to move to the East Coast to teach screenwriting at a college. Once there, he starts fooling around with a very young, great looking student of his. However, he eventually falls for Holly Carpenter (Marisa Tomei), another student who is about his age, a pretty and witty single mother. So now the prospect of real romance is in the air — and some other stuff as well: the frustrated screenwriter becomes an inspiring professor that even manages to inspire himself. As you can easily see at first glance, The Rewrite is a formula film. It’s not a bad one, but it surely doesn’t rise above the average at all. And in some ways, it’s below average. Yes, the many, many jokes and sharp one-liners about endless movies and Hollywood at large are funny enough to keep the film going — and, nonetheless, at a certain point they start feeling too repetitive, as if the film were on automatic pilot. You see them coming and it’s not that funny anymore. And while Hugh Grant does Hugh Grant by the book, you may also get the feeling he’s doing early Woody Allen as well — you know: self-ridicule, sarcasm, cynicism, and inferiority complexes of all kinds. His performance is indeed fine, just like those of Marisa Tomei, Allison Janney, and J.K. Simmons (the Oscar-winning actor from Whiplash). And while good performances do add to any film, The Rewrite’s sentimentality and trite developments — plus a desirable happy ending with a learning experience included — don’t do much to turn into a singular piece of work. The material is too thin to begin with. In fact, Marisa Tomei is an engaging actress and the fact that her character is both underwritten and largely stereotyped is one clear sign that while many of the jokes might be clever, the film it’s not. To be fair, it actually calls for a rewrite. Production notes The Rewrite (US, 2014). Written and directed by Marc Lawrence. With Hugh Grant, Marisa Tomei, Allison Janney, J.K. Simmons, Bella Heathcote, Chris Elliott. Cinematography: Jonathan Brown. Editing: Ken Eluto. Running time: 107 minutes.
Some critics — very few, fortunately — have referred to the cinematic works of Argentine Pablo César as “poetic auteur films,” as if that label would account for the ludicrousness and meaningless of a long series of features — nine full length films, to be exact — that give true auteur cinema a very bad name. But for a change, general viewers have known better than that and so his outings flopped at the box office. And despite the fact that most critics have panned his movies and there isn’t an audience for them, César keeps making them and they get released. Beats me. His new film Los dioses de agua, partly shot on location in Africa, is roughly divided in two parts: the first one takes place in Argentina, in Buenos Aires and the northern province of Formosa, whereas the second one transpires in Africa, in Angola and Ethiopia. It’s the first co-production between Argentina and Angola, and most importantly, it’s arguably the worst Argentine film released in years. Los dioses de agua (The Gods of Water) tries to tell the story of Hermes (Juan Palomino), an Argentine anthropologist and a wannabe theatre director, who embarks on a very personal endeavour (the keyword is “personal”) in order to gain access to essential knowledge about the origin of life on Earth and the creation of mankind by amphibious beings, that is to say aliens from somewhere in the whole wide universe (yes, just like it sounds). Said knowledge is to be found in the oral tradition of ancestral tribes like the Dogón and the Tchokwe. So Hermes goes for an inner and outer journey (the key word is “journey”) where he’ll find more things than he had ever expected. And so will unfortunate viewers. You will have such sights as: lots of typical Africans playing drums together, pretty and large waterfalls with luminous rainbows accompanied by religious canticles, lots of happy Africans dancing left and right, intriguing monoliths planted by aliens, and an assortment of tourist-worthy landscapes that make for a hallucinated travelogue — among other things. Towards the end, expect not one, but two CGI mermaids (one male, one female) descending from the sky together with a CGI rounded spaceship that leaves Hermes speechless and in awe. In the dialogue, there are verbal exchanges about religious synchronisms, the liberation of the Earth through some kind of resonances, the transgression of a jackal needed to start the awakening, and some DNA related stuff that’s hard to grasp. And that’s just the tip of the iceberg. One more thing: in the part set in Buenos Aires, Boy Olmi plays a near moribund and wheelchair-bound Egyptologist who’s being cared for by a pretty black girl (presumably African) who sings soothing native songs to him as he holds a drink in his tired hands. He is the character who started the expedition long ago, so you can blame it all on him. To be fair, there’s one single minor achievement: the photography is technically correct. No, Los dioses de agua is not meant to be a comedy of the absurd, or a hilarious parody, or a crazy exercise in style of any kind. Instead, it’s meant to be a mystical meditation on spirituality, ancestry, knowledge, and God knows what else. Go figure it out. Production notes Los dioses de agua (Argentina, Angola, Ethiopia, 2014). Directed by Pablo César. Written by Pablo César and Liliana Nadal. With Juan Palomino, Charo Bogarin, Boy Olmi, Onésimo De Carvalho, Jovania Da Costa, Horacio Hosé Kilulo. Cinematography: Carlos Ferro. Editing: Liliana Nadal. Running time: 105 minutes.