Tan cerca como pueda goes for mere examination “At first, my idea was to portray my relatives and loved ones as if I were undertaking an anthropological study, just like when you want to immortalize a moment in a photograph. And then I felt that resorting to fiction (writing a script, elaborating scenes, getting together with a small crew for a period of time) was the best tool to reach out to them,” Argentine filmmaker Eduardo Crespo stated in an interview about the genesis of his opera prima Tan cerca como pueda, a close up look at the quotidianity of a common man in crisis. For Crespo’s film focuses on the circumstances surrounding the life of Daniel, a man in his fifties who comes back to his home town of Crespo, in the province of Entre Ríos, after many failures and disappointments. But the scenario there is not really welcoming either: work is scarce, his ex wife rightfully asks for alimony money he can’t produce, and it seems he’s out of place everywhere he goes. However, there’s one good thing: the baptism of his sister’s son. It so happens that Daniel is going to be no less than the grandfather, which makes him believe there is still some room (even if small) for celebration. In time, Daniel’s older nephew, Giovanni, goes to temporarily live with him in his apartment. He too is somewhat lost and confused, so it makes sense both of them begin to realize they perhaps are on the same boat. Maybe they can even help each other out. Give or take, this would be the storyline (so to speak) of a film that does precisely what it’s not expected to do: it opts not to tell a story. Instead, it’s all about situations, actions, reactions, moments, and, above all, circumstances. So expect a precise observational stance towards each single detail that makes up everyday life. Minor events are much welcomed. Anecdotes shared in intimacy. Preparations for the baptism, reunions with old friends, trivial discussions, and dance classes for kids are some of the strokes in a canvas depicting life in a small town. Observation and contemplation are the keys to enter this universe. Regrettably, the huge problem in Tan cerca como pueda is that for a fiction film, its structure is way too feeble and lacks the minimal and neccesary dramatic progression to get things going. Situations in themselves are somewhat well explored, but they fail to add up to a compelling statement of any kind. For a documentary that goes for an intimate approach, it’s superficial in the broadest sense of the word: deliberately or not, it scratches the surface of the entire scenario and leaves it at that. It’s very clear that Crespo’s film lies somewhere between the realms of fiction films and documentaries, just like many, many recent local films. But take Maximiliano Schonfeld’s beautiful Germania, which places its acute, sensitive gaze on the last day of a family of Germans in a small town in Entre Ríos. Whereas Schonfeld insightfully observes the traits of a community at the same time it subtly tells an underlying, emotionally charged story, Crespo goes for mere examination and has a very hard time at engaging viewers into an emotionally distant universe. Even if the characters in Tan cerca como pueda relate to one another affectionately, the film itself does not establish an emotional bond with viewers.
Sebastián (Jerónimo Escoriaza) is a 10 year-old boy who’s just moved with his parents to a neighbourhood to the suburbs of the city of Mendoza. On the very first day of school, he befriends two of his classmates: Guzmán (Tomás Exequiel Araya), a chubby boy with a love of karate, and Email (Emilio Lacerna) a dark-skinned boy who has lived with his despicable grandmother since his parents abandoned him when he was born, some 11 years ago. After introducing themselves, the three kids start talking while everybody else sings the national anthem. Jokingly (or not) they say that all teachers could die at that exact moment and nothing at all would change in their lives. Why would they say that out of the blue it’s hard to know. It feels more like a precarious screenplay gimmick than anything else. Anyway, as expected, the music teacher drops dead right on the spot, with no warning whatsoever. So the kids feel guilty, believing they caused her death. However, that doesn’t prevent them from spending the following days — no school because of mourning — playing, talking and walking through the vineyards and dusty roads of Mendoza — in a pretty good mood, that is. Argentine filmmaker Matías Rojo’s debut film Algunos días sin música is first and foremost a coming of age story of three kids with three different stories, each of them facing unexpected challenges and hardships as they go about their everyday lives. You could say it’s also a portrait of provincial life. And, of course, it’s about friendship at a time when the world seems against you — here the grownups at large mistreat the kids and seem unable to understand what being a pre-teen means. Moreover, it’s a film made with the best intentions, there’s no doubt about that. But if the necessary expertise to make a film is missing, then best intentions won’t get you anywhere at all. Regrettably, Algunos días sin música is a case in point. Despite the boys’ efforts, their performances range from poor to mediocre — and the same goes for the rest of the cast. They even have a hard time saying their lines, let alone sounding natural or convincing. Not that the very, very elementary screenplay is of much help either. Absolutely all the characters and conflicts broadly sketched here are so one dimensional and stereotyped that they become risible in a matter of seconds. If this were a parody — which it is not — then it would all make sense — which it doesn’t. Consider that Algunos días sin música aims to be a naturalistic feature portraying life in a somewhat realistic manner. So it’s hard to figure out why there are so many clichés thrown left and right. The third huge flaw — to put it mildly — is the dialogue. Sometimes it wants to be witty and smart and so it fences with words, but the result is pitiful. The thing is that if you fence with words you have to be somewhat surprising or creative, but here as soon as one line is delivered you instantly know what lines will follow. It just so happens that you’ve heard this kind of dialogue endless times before. So if there’s no imagination or verisimilitude in how any of these characters speaks, how can they come across as real people? When it comes to the camerawork and overall photography, the panorama is not that bad. Every now and then there are some shots with a certain degree of a poetic atmosphere, and some much-welcomed appeal. At times, you get the feel some qualities of provincial life, especially when it comes to large shots depicting the environment in all its dimensions. And that’s as far as it goes. It’s not the story itself that makes Algunos días sin música such an easily forgettable film — it’s how that story is told and shot. Just think that many simple stories often give way to superb films: it’s all in the making.
As appalling as it may sound, there are too many people in Argentina who don’t know their true identity. They were illegally “adopted” in many different ways: they were sold, stolen, or exchanged at birth, with forced or no consent at all, from their biological parents (more often than not, from the mother). Accordingly, their adoptive parents never told them they were adoptees during their childhood and teenage years. For that matter, some never found out in their entire lives. As expected, those who learned about it by unexpected and painful means endured quite a traumatic experience. In time, most of them decided to look for their biological parents, but not many found them. So far, their identities remain unknown. None-theless, they have the courage and energy to keep on searching. The Argentine documentary Nacidos vivos, by Alejandra Perdomo, concerns the stories of more than a handful of adults whose identities were changed at birth. Their testimonies speak of the darkest zones of a society that turns a blind eye to a problem way more widespread than it may seem. Of course, this is not an Argentine problem, and so the documentary deals with some cases that take place in Spain, where Argentine associations utilize social networks for finding much sought after mothers and fathers. In Buenos Aires there’s the Office of Human Rights of the Civil Registry, which silently yet firmly conducts as many investigations as possible in order to help adoptees know who they are. Little by little and with tremendous effort, more and more people are learning about their origins thanks to the efficient work carried out by tireless social workers. Among the documentary’s most valuable testimonies are those of psychoanalyst and educator Dr. Eva Giberti, who has a most exhaustive background in matters of adoption; Mercedes Yáñez, founder of the Buenos Aires Office of Human Rights, and an adoptee whose identity was changed at birth; and vocalist Viviana Scaliza, who also was separated from her biological family. Many other different, unfamiliar faces with similar stories draw a picture with too large a scope to pretend it’s not a major problem. Nacidos vivos is indeed a powerful document: it exposes the roots of the problem, shows its many ramifications, and addresses essential questions regarding the many facets of the secreted experiences of substitution of identity. It provides viewers with information hard to get elsewhere, which speaks of a web of lies and deceit in ways you wouldn’t believe. This is how it raises awareness in a sturdy, determined, yet non belligerent manner. For it’s not a piece of facile agit-prop, but a thoughtful and much-needed indictment of a hideous crime. Most importantly, it shows the faces and voices of those deeply hurt by their illegal “adoptions,” and so it becomes a testimony of human endurance and will power to overcome adversity. It’s not about statistics, it’s about persons. What makes it so valuable is its humanistic edge. However, there’s a downside, and it has to do with its film form, not with its content. Even for a conventionally shot and edited documentary, Nacidos vivos loses momentum from time to time and has a hard time articulating a narrative as gripping as the theme calls for. This is when you feel it could have been less formulaic. Perhaps it could have used more editing too for some interviewees need more screen time (and so their stories would have been more exhaustive) whereas others become involuntarily redundant at times. In the end, you may get the feeling that there’s an overall need for a stronger dramatic progression that’s not always fulfilled. Like many socially-conscious local documentaries released in these last years, Nacidos vivos is an indispensable document of its times that can use as much exposure as possible to make a difference in a ominous reality.
A dark secret in a God-forsaken town Imagine a God-forsaken small town somewhere in Argentina, with few inhabitants, some of them off-beat, some simply run-of-the-mill, but all of them concealing a dire secret. There’s also a lonesome police woman in her mid-thirties, who has just arrived from the city with a secret of her own haunting her day and night. Another outsider comes into town, a kid who can see someone’s past by touching their photos, something which is often more of a burden than a gift. And there’s a string of bizarre deaths involving an entire family, whose members are found completely charred — and praying on their knees. The strange thing is that they burned from inside out, as it happens with spontaneous combustion — not a very scientific explanation, but still the only one accounting for the shocking phenomenon. The cherry on top: there’s an apparition of no less than Virgin Mary each time someone is set on fire. Or, at least, it seems it’s her. Given the scenario, nothing can be taken for granted. So expect to find a really original cinematic universe in Argentine Santiago Fernández Calvete’s La segunda muerte (The Second Death), now commercially released and previously featured at many noteworthy film festivals, including the BAFICI, Buenos Aires Rojo Sangre and Sitges, where it met with a very good response from viewers. As its director acknowledges, La segunda muerte crossbreeds many genres, mainly the thriller with the fantastique, and yet it’s not totally faithful to any of them. It doesn’t strictly adhere to a formula; to a certain extent, it’s generic and it’s great that it is, for this provides an ample mould to work with. Gradually, it becomes the work of a personal filmmaker who eschews predictable outcomes and goes for something else. For starters, from the thriller there’s the character of the protagonist, Alba Aiello (Agustina Lecouna) the police woman with a dark past investigating a strange case. For such a puzzling case, Alba needs the help of El mago (Tomás Carullo Lizzio), the clairvoyant kid, who also has an ominous past regarding the loss of his mother — and here enters the fantastique with a welcomed touch of drama. The apparition of the Virgin Mary — or whatever it is — allows for unexpected twists and turns that add new stuff to the genre as they skillfully deceive viewers. From horror cinema, there’s a pervasive, contagious atmosphere of gloom and uneasiness, a feeling of dread underlined by very effective tension. Much of the success of the film is not only about the a smart, wicked screenplay, but largely with a well executed set of aesthetics that convey in images and sounds what this creepy story is all about. The cinematography is rendered in both drained colours (almost black and white at times) and vivid tones, in order to respectively narrate what’s taking place now and what happened before. Each frame is nearly perfectly composed, with a great sense of space and depth to include both the major and minor facets of a world that looks somewhat normal, but only at first sight. If you look deep enough, you’ll see the many cracks. The sound is also a notorious element to build the atmosphere required by each sequence. As is the case with David Lynch’s cinema, sound is used here for narrative purposes mainly. It’s as if the inner turmoil each character endures were expressed in surrounding sounds and noises spread out left and right. Incidentally, La segunda muerte also shares with the cinema of David Lynch an odd sense of humour and absurdity. It’s superficial, but it’s there and it works out fine. On the minus side, the special and visual effects are not that good, and hence somewhat hinder the verisimilitude. A stronger backstory referring to what had happened in the past would have given the premise a more profound edge; and a couple of characters, like the priest and the policeman, could have used more development too. Perhaps the ending is a bit abrupt too. However, the above are just minor flaws in a film that ventures into genres not often tackled by local filmmakers, and instead of just going for the basics, it dares take new steps. I’d say that La segunda muerte shows the eye of a novel filmmaker who’s never pretentious or hollow. When most directors would have loved to “be innovative” and so would have been unnecessarily flashy and avantgard-ish for the sake of it, Fernández Valente opts to tell a good story in an accomplished, classical fashion while leaving his personal imprint at the same time. As simple — and as difficult — as that.
Mika, a woman raging war with her times Though many accounts and figures related to the Spanish Civil War are quite well known, it’s most likely that the story of Mika Etchebere remains somewhat in the dark to those who are not connoisseurs. This is arguably one of the main reasons to see the skillfully crafted Argentine documentary Mika — mi guerra de España ( Mika – My Spanish War), directed by Fito Pochat and Javier Olivera. Moreover, not many are the documentaries that manage to delve into a complex topic while making it accessible to general audiences. Born in 1902 in Santa Fe, Argentina, to Russian Jewish immigrants, Mika first became an anarchist at the young age of fifteen. In time, she would turn into a fervent Marxist militant, that is to say, during her years at the university in the 20s when she met Hipólito Etchebere, whom she almost instantly fell in love with. As did he with her. Hipólito and Mika later get married, but prior to that they became involved in many different anarchist, communist and socialist organizations. Among other activities, they took part in the creation of a political group based on the Insurrexit magazine. They also joined the Argentine Communist Party in 1924, but because of strong differences with the leadership of the party, they were kicked off after only two years. However, as was to be expected, their activism went on untouched as they embarked on long trips through Patagonia during the late 20s; then, in 1931, they moved to Europe, first for a brief stay in Spain and France, only to finally settle in Berlin in 1932. They saw the climb of Nazism and the defeat of Socialism, so in turn they decided to go live in Paris. Once there, they got into Que Faire, a Trotskyist revolutionary group. By the time the Spanish Civil War began, Mika and Hipólito had switched cities once again and were residing in Madrid. This event proved to be a major turning point in Mika’s life — and we’re talking about a life with many turning points. From being the wife of a political leader, she became no less than the only foreign woman to command POUM militia during the war. Thus started a whole new period in her life, which ended in Paris in 1992, when she was 90 years old. If you think the above synopsis gives away much of what Mika — mi guerra de España is all about, you are wrong. It so happens that there’s so much to account for that one documentary would not be enough. Nonetheless, Fito Pochat’s and Javier Olivera’s opus smoothly overcomes this potential problem and provides viewers with both the big picture as well as the most meaningful smaller facets. It does so in a conventional yet most effective manner by turning to taped interviews with Mika, conducted both in France and Buenos Aires; archive footage from the Spanish Civil War, but also personal photos of Mika, her husband, friends and relatives; current footage shot in the open skies and vast fields of Patagonia and Spain; and a voice over narration by renowned Argentine actress Cristina Banegas as she reads passages from Mika’s autobiography, Mika — mi guerra de España. So picture a properly edited feature with the right tempo to immerse you into a universe unlike any you’ve probably known before, the universe of a very special, multifaceted woman that went crossed many frontiers, time and again, to leave a most indelible mark in the history of the Spanish Civil War. Imagine old photos that speak of far-away times when Mika and Hipólito were getting to know each other and the world around them, documents of a past that can only be reached through words and images. Expect an informative feature that will give you all the information you need (and more) to get familiar with an exceptional woman without ever becoming overwhelming, repetitive or redundant. Most important, and this is perhaps where the film’s biggest asset lies, Mika — mi guerra de España, is a documentary that pulls off a very difficult task: it’s revealing and intimate at once. It’s not really about facts, but about people. It’s the humanistic side what makes the difference here. In this regard, special credit is due to Cristina Banegas who conveys emotions and sentiments that prompt viewers to envision Mika as a real life person instead of a figure with no flesh and blood.
Just another lame shot at the dating game The story goes like this: Luna (Carla Pandolfi) and Leo (Ismael Serrano) go out on a date. They’re in their mid thirties, have had many relationships in the past, are somewhat good looking and pretty talkative. They make a decent living, but haven’t found their true calling yet — provided such a thing exists for any of them. But whereas Leo doesn’t mind, Luna is cynical when it comes to professional fulfilment. Furthermore, she’s rather cynical when it comes to love too — despite her need for romance, or precisely because of it. By contrast, Leo is more of a happy-go-lucky person and is more than willing to take the risks that a love affair, or eventually a stable relationship, would entail. During the course of one night, at a bar and at a friend’s birthday party, they’ll exchange opinions, delve into some personal issues, discuss everyday matters, and tell some anecdotes. However, what they do most is seducing one another in as many ways as possible. Despite their fencing with words, what they really want is to establish a connection. As simple as that. The Argentine feature Luna en Leo (Moon in Leo), directed by Juan Pablo Martínez, is a romantic comedy — or at least attempts to be one, but with no luck whatsoever. It has two main problems leading to a third one. First, it hinges heavily on dialogue, dialogue, and more dialogue — as though it were a play. Not the best of possible choices, but not a problem per se. However, in this case, the dialogue is ridiculously trite, overwritten, with no subtext. Almost everything is spelled out for viewers, which is even worse considering there’s nothing nearly difficult or challenging or enigmatic to understand. So think redundancy big time — and add a good dose of unbelievably overworked statements, thoughts and conclusions. Secondly, its mise-en-scene is identical to that of a conventional television sit-com. Again, not the most inspired choice for cinema, but there are examples in film history that defy this notion. The main problem here — the huge problem — is that it looks, feels and sounds like bad television — the kind of television that was made in Argentina back in the 1980s. Plus the glossy cinematography, typical of advertising cinema, makes the whole picture less credible. As a result, there’s no reason to expect rounded characters, which is a good because there are none. Accordingly, the performances are simply forgettable. You may be left thinking — and rightly so — that Luna en Leo was not meant to be a film at all (it runs a little over 70 minutes). The point is that whatever it was meant to be, it was not accomplished by a long shot.
Life is not what it used to be La corporación (The Corporation), the new film by Argentine filmmaker Fabián Forte (Malditos sean, Celo, Carnal), invites viewers to first be convinced of a lie, then shows them what’s really going on, and finally allows them to join the making of another lie. It’s meant to be a game of representation and deception, and to a certain extent it’s well played out. But when it becomes predictable and unsubstantial, the game is soon over. Felipe Mentor (Osmar Núñez) is a businessman in his late fifties married to Luz (Moro Anghileri), who is a younger, beautiful and most loving wife. Everybody says they make a perfect couple and it certainly looks like it. Adding to that, Felipe’s company benefits from successful business deals, one after the other. Such a splendid life surely is a dream come true. If it only were real... The truth is that Felipe has signed a contract with La corporación, a company that provides you with the sentimental partner (and other things) you want in exchange for a large sum of money. So Felipe has rented a wife exactly like the one he had always wanted and never had. Of course she plays a role (there’s even a script she has to learn for their everyday life together) but that doesn’t make her less attractive. It’s all make-believe. There are two problems, though: the fact that Luz is not only Luz, but also Carla, implies that she has another life to live in her spare time — as long as it’s in secrecy. She has a very ill husband and needs the money she earns as a tailored-made wife to support him. Felipe knows this, which doesn’t mean he can always accept it. Secondly, once a contract is signed, there are certain conditions than cannot be changed. For instance, Luz/Carla has said from the very beginning that having a child is out of the question. After all, it’s a paid service, not the real deal. La corporación can be seen as an urban thriller, or perhaps a drama, or a crossover of these two genres. Its viewers follow certain clues to understand what’s happening, and this builds a somewhat seductive mystery, a good dose of suspense and surprise to keep it going along the way. However, the suspense doesn’t last for long, nor do the surprises. Once the façade has been unveiled for viewers — which occurs early in the film — you can see the rest of the story coming from a mile away. Granted, it’s executed efficiently, step by step, but there’s not much of a pulse. And for being a drama, La corporación lacks a strong foundation, considering that little is known about what prompted Felipe to make up a life for himself, how his life had been until then, what his motivations were. Let alone those of Luz/Carla. Therefore, the unfolding of the story never gets to be gripping enough. It’s hard to care about characters who are little else than the repetitive actions they perform. Sooner rather than later, this diminished background makes the dramatic side vanish. On the plus side, it’s well shot as regards technique, it’s properly narrated, and it features a very convincing performance from Osmar Núñez, one of the finest local actors around. In fact, it’s a film that comes alive in some of the personal, intimate moments Felipe saves for himself. These are the times when you can feel some of his anguish and desperation — and also when the underlying tension is somewhat tangible. In fact, this is when you get a glimpse of what a decent character study La corporación could have been had it been less obvious.
An emotional journey into Americana At a time when Hollywood produces more and more crowd-pleasing blockbusters and comedies, Alexander Payne’s tender, heartfelt movies (About Schmidt, Sideways, The Descendants), have a place of their own for they are a near perfect antidote to uninspired mainstream cinema. They are talkative, but not that much and in a good way, restrained instead of excessive, low-key and never hot-blooded. In other words: they are a cinematic pleasure to watch. Nebraska, his new film nominated for six Academy Awards including Best Picture and Best Director, is likely to be his best feature: an engagingly sharp and sweetly emotional piece which achieves that elusive perfect balance between the comedy and tragedy of life and old age. A film that doesn’t eschew the pains of growing old, but neither does it depict them through the prism of depression. A rare piece that benefits from second viewings where you can catch seemingly unimportant details that you missed before — you know, the kind of details that speak about an entire little-known universe. Woody Grant (Bruce Dern) is an alcoholic old man in his late seventies who firmly thinks — and couldn’t be more wrong — that he’s won a million-dollar Mega Sweepstakes Marketing prize. So without consulting anybody, he resolves to travel from Montana to Nebraska, more precisely to Lincoln, to claims his prize. Leaving aside his old age, there’s another big problem: he’s semi-coherent half of the time, and the other half he’s just lost. So it shouldn’t be surprising that neither his mouthy wife Kate (June Squibb) and his eldest son Ross (Bob Odenkirk) are willing to go along with what could certainly be his last whim. In fact, they strongly oppose and are unafraid to show it in all possible ways. But there’s also his second son, David (Will Forte), who does decide to humour his old man after he has unsuccessfully tried, many times, to make him see that the million-dollar prize is nothing but a hoax to get people to buy magazine subscriptions. But since Woody won’t believe it, off they go, father and son, on a road trip that will take them through Woody’s old hometown. Typical of road movies, this is not only a literal trip, but above all a metaphorical one that will bring them closer to understanding one another. The synopsis does sound like overworked fare because, in many senses, it is. In the hands of a merely competent and somewhat clever director, it would result in an ordinary film with a couple of findings. As imagined by a Hollywood major director, it would be an awful picture. But made by Alexander Payne, it’s nothing of the above. What makes a good film is not so much what it is about, but how it’s told. And the supreme joy of Nebraska is its most smart, wondrous way of examining and probing deep into the many nuances of its compelling characters. That’s what makes it exceptional. In the emotional, yet unsentimental and bittersweet script by Bob Nelson (a television writer now proudly debuting in cinema with an Oscar nomination for Best Script), the Grant family is allowed to live and breathe in an utterly credible fashion, with their insecurities and fears slipping through the cracks of everyday life. Even Kate and Ross, who in the end do show up for the unscheduled family reunion, have a profundity depth that goes beyond their supporting roles. As Kate fusses Woody around, often badmouthing him in a sometimes shocking way, you can surely see the years of love, frustration and life they share. Seasoned thespian Bruce Dern (Oscar nominated for Best Actor in a Leading Role) has been rightfully lauded for personifying Woody. No wonder. As he drifts through the film with his unruly white hair and a stiff determination to get to Nebraska —come what may — he fully fleshes a character who is both a noble figure and a very ordinary man, lost in time and in reality too. Sometimes he’s funny, other times he’s touching, but he’s never a ridiculous cartoon figure to make viewers laugh out loud or move them to tears. See, he’s just a wonderful man who goes places. Will Forte is also notable as hides all traces of his well known comedic persona and becomes the sweet, caring David who goes along the ride only to get to spend some time with his Dad. His performance, while not nearly memorable as that of Dern, is occasionally arresting and always convincing. The same cannot be said of Bob Odenkirk, who plays the first son, whose performance is just correct. Now, that of June Squibb (Oscar nominated for Best Actress in a Supporting Role) is an altogether different story: she marvellously steals a handful of scenes by showing that Kate can be both a tyrant and a helper, bad-tempered but also warm and caring, and politically and socially incorrect, yet always aware of what’s really going on in people’s minds and hearts. Shot in spectacular, smooth black-and-white (and accordingly nominated for Best Cinematography), Nebraska may look like a relapse to simpler times. In a way, it is. This is an age-old story of family, love and connections made and missed. It’s also a story about not always knowing how to understand the people you’ve loved all your life. Or how to love the people you don’t understand. In any case, it’s an ostensibly small film that as it unfolds it lets you see all its delicate, full splendour
The recently released Los dese-chables, the debut film of Argentine filmmaker Nicolás Savignone, is based on the theatre rehearsals conducted by Andrea Garrote, in which the director and the actors began working with the embryo of the project. It was then expanded, new material and characters were added, and thus it became a film. Clearly, it is meant to some kind of exploration on the frontiers and crossovers between the languages of theatre and cinema. Some sort of new take on well trod territory. Los desechables is about three somewhat close friends who one day show up at work and learn they are suspected of embezzlement, to the point of leading the company they work for to bankruptcy. In parallel, each of them has his own story concerning other things: love affairs, family matters, and unexpected news. One thing leads to another, and soon they are all confronting one another as to discover who the embezzler is. In turn, queries of a more personal subject matters arise. The acting and the dialogue make Savignone’s film an appealing feature . The group of talented thespians do strike the right notes with each gesture and delivery. Even if not all of them excel at all times, the overall effect is indeed compelling. As regards the dialogue, for the most part it sounds believable and unpretentious for these characters talk pretty much as real people would talk in real life in these circumstances. So far, so good. But when it comes to many other important aspects, the scenario is far from satisfying. For starters, there’s the mise en scene. To be austere and minimalistic is one thing, but to be flat and uninspired is an altogether different notion. Even within a very low budget, a visual look and a sense of space that say something about what’s being told is a must. One can only think the filmmaker wanted to go for a “less is more” approach, and failed to fully understand the concept. So expect photography, almost nonexistent art direction, and mediocre camerawork. But what’s most indefensible is the nearly total absence of a solid story and the corresponding pathos. Instead, you get an assortment of medium-length scenes that go nowhere too often. Granted, the characters do voice out their conflicts and engage into endless arguments, but from a narrative point of view that doesn’t necessarily mean that the conflicts really exist and have a weight of their own. I mean, here they are exposed verbally (and only to a certain extent) but they are not turned into actions, occurrences, episodes, or even anecdotes. Los desechables has a very unfocused, flimsy script that has almost nothing much to express —and to think that some twelve people were involved in writing it. And when it comes to the relationships it aims to establish between theatre and cinema, the huge problem to even care about them is that this is neither good theatre nor interesting cinema by a long shot.
The Family: Bring Good Fellas Back! In New York, mobster Giovanni Manzoni (Robert De Niro) makes a deal with FBI agent Robert Stansfield (Tommy Lee Jones) and snitches his mafia family. In return, Giovanni is included in the witness protection programme and receives a new identity as Fred Blake. Giovanni, together with his wife Maggie (Michelle Pfeiffer) and their teenager children Belle (Dianna Agron) and Warren (John D’Leo), are relocated to the small town Cholong-sur-Avres, in Normandy, under the protection of Stansfield and two other agents. Meanwhile, the mafia offers a US$20 million reward to the killer that executes Giovanni and his family. French director Luc Besson’s good days are long gone; you’d have to think of his first films, meaning The Big Blue (1998), Nikita (1990), and The Professional (1994) to find some true talent — The Fifth Element (1997) was visually alluring, but it was nothing but a lame rip-off of previous great science fiction films, whereas Joan of Arc (1999) also looked impressive, but it was downright soulless and ultimately anecdotic. From then on, Besson’s films ranked from mediocre to bad with a capital B. So there was actually no reason to expect that The Family was going to be any good. To be honest, I bet it’s going to be one the worst films to be locally released this year. For starters, the idea of a Mafia guy having to get used to a small, unknown place should have made for some laughs (even if it’s not what you’d call an original idea), but the more the film attempts to become a black comedy, the more it fails pitifully. And for a very, very simple reason: nearly all gags and “funny” situations are so predictably overworked that it’s hard to believe any director can truly think this stuff can make viewers with a brain laugh. The idea of having the members of the family act like, precisely, mobsters in order to fulfil their desires is not necessarily dumb. But how many beatings, explosions, tortures and smacking can you take until it becomes a merely repetitive show off? These characters, so to speak, do not have real personalities, and they aren’t successful, engaging stereotypes either. So what’s left? To make matters worse, The Family jumps around a lot with no convincing explanations. The characters surf along so many plot holes that you are left wondering where they are, what they are doing, and what’s going on. The screenplay aims poorly at giving each character their own story, but when their stories switch back and forth, don’t be surprised if you end up in the middle of a climactic scene not knowing how the story got there. Let alone that the whole population of a small village in France speak a nearly perfect English with an American accent. When The Family doesn’t try to be a comedy, it has ambitions of being a thriller, sometimes even an action-packed one. Granted, there’s some style and some energy here, but it wears off very soon as the film also wants to be a sincere drama. Talk about ill-fated genre crossbreeding. Sadly, there’s also a lengthy reference to Goodfellas (Martin Scorsese, 1990) as if to slap the audience in the face with the reminder that De Niro once starred in some of the greatest mafia movies ever. Even worse, Scorsese himself is one of the executive producers of The Family. Go figure.