Written and directed by Francisco Vargas
Cast: Angel Tavira, Gerardo Taracena, Dagoberto Gama

The apparent selling point of films with musical references in their titles also risks their predictability. That emphasis on the motif involuntarily conditions the viewer to challenge his expectations on whether or not this motif can support the film in delivering its point by using it as an all-embracing representative. It works - - but it limits too; sometimes it even drowns the entire film with unnecessary scoring and uneven handling of the material, eagerly relying on audio-visual spectacle to drive the story home, manholes and shortcuts included. Some impressive pieces, however, tend to go beyond their facade and break into an incredibly serious fate by examining the shaky values of their characters, as seen in Haneke's Piano Teacher and Polanski's Pianist. Isabelle Huppert and Adrien Brody stand out against their backdrops, especially in Brody's case where the war participates in the story as much as he does, and elevate the discourse into a wider mold of intercultural argument, albeit the universality of its message, which world cinema always try to provide - - a symposium for collective and critical understanding, despite the differences. The motif does not eat the story but rather gives it a substantial whole, both dynamic and manipulative.

Vargas' debut film succeeds in doing that. El Violin weaves a familiar web of armed resistance against military troops, striking for its mere resemblance to our own woes down south, which makes you wonder if the only common factor among Spanish-colonized countries is moving towards communism. A family of musicians, Don Plutarco's son and grandson wander the streets not only to fend themselves but also to carry out plans in helping the guerillas intensify their armory. His son holds an important post in the rebel group; when his wife and daughter got killed, he has more than enough reasons to continue the fight, but the inadequacy of their firearms and ammunitions foresees their defeat. Don Plutarco's earned friendship with a commanding officer through his violin promises a plot twist, and rightfully so, what happens illuminates the brutal credit sequence - - a clever use of sound and interspersed shots of a man being tortured and a woman getting raped. It ends with a pinch of scruple on the lives of the three of them - - the grandfather, the son, and the grandson, both by blind chance and maimed futures - - a streak of unbearable incubus, something that can never be erased by light and darkness. It wallows in the so-called humanity of the oppressed and not only examines the vapid makeshifts of violence but also bloats the logic of absurdity.  The music is far from majestic; it only serves its mundane purpose. Vargas discolors truth in order to give room for emotions that are barely given importance in cinema. Somehow it makes me wonder why Dumont hasn't learned these things yet.

*Película Pelikula: 7th Spanish Film Festival, October 1 - 12, Greenbelt 3 Cinema 1

English Title: The Wooden Box
Written and directed by Juan Carlos Falcón
Cast: Angela Molina, Antonio San Juan, Elvira Minguez, Vladimir Cruz

La Caja delivers a triumph of the offscreen. A man dies. His wife has no place to lay him before the funeral next morning because the stairs is too narrow for the corpse to pass. The neighbor agrees - - with such pronounced reluctance - - and lets the body be placed on her bed before the coffin arrives in the afternoon. Unknown to the widow, her husband's death is everything that the townspeople are hoping for. They have renewed their prayers to settle uneven scores and get back the best they could, especially now that revenge is hell sweeter when your opponent is not an inch moving in his place. A pestle in his ass thrust in rewarding sadism, a cut tongue for squealing the ends of sanity of a young child, the tongue gobbled with enthusiasm by the pet cat, a shower of shit on his face while everyone is asleep, and a mop to clean it away in such force that I assume his face turned into a lunar spot. Another neighbor wants to take advantage of his savings through his clueless widow. Even the priest who officiates the procession has his share of butchering traits to boast, smoking, gambling, shortcut blessings. The wife, in the end, finds solace in another man's arms, kissing not under the mistletoe but over his sloppy, slipshod grave - - certainly the most peaceful place a dishonored man like him could ever be in.

Falcon knows how to massively slaughter the dead in all the smallest alleys of his life. As the story slowly peels to reveal dark pasts between the neighbors and the dead, it dawns on us the orgasmic relief of getting even on their part, in the grisliest way possible, because it will put all their inhibitions away from memory. In a way it's also a relief for us - - Falcon's pulse for dialogue, the actors' perfect timing, the distinct incredulity of the events, not to mention the seamless editing and photography contribute to put the circus in awesome disarray. The film becomes a sinful experience. Cinema harbors not only that idea of escape but also of humanizing evil by showing it guiltlessly, that crime does pay in countless ways, that karma can extend its rays even in the farthest end of light. Under such spell of modern evil, I must say this is irreverence at its wicked best.

*Película Pelikula: 7th Spanish Film Festival, October 1 - 12, Greenbelt 3 Cinema 1

Chantal Akerman's Là-Bas (Down There, 2006)

.MOV (pronounced "dot-mov"), the first digital filmfest in the Philippines which jumpstarted the digital revolution in the country back in 2002, will have its third edition in Robinsons Galleria Cinema from September 30 to October 7, 2008. The Opening Night will be on September 30, Tuesday, and the Closing & Awards Night will be on October 4, Saturday. Parallel screenings in the cities of Bacolod , Dumaguete, and Iloilo will be held from September 24 to October 7.

The 3rd .MOV International Digital Film Festival, headed by Festival Director Khavn De La Cruz has six major sections consisting of foreign and local full-length and short films, tributes, workshops, film concerts, and afterparties. The motto for this year's festival is "Blind The Eye Of The Storm" - - losing sight of the limits and controls that plague cinema, so that we can stare at our infinite possibilities as a culture.

DIGITAL DEKALOGO 10X10 .MOV presents ten of the best foreign digital full-length films from the past 3 years.

1 "A Walk Into The Sea: Danny Williams And The Warhol Factory" by Esther B. Robinson (USA , 2007)
2 "Re-Defining Video" by Kyle Canterbury (USA , 2007)
3 "Days Of The Turquoise Sky" (Kurus) by Woo Ming Jin (Malaysia , 2008)
4 "Cinnamon" by Kevin Everson (USA , 2006)
5 "Head Trauma" by Lance Weiler (USA , 2007)
6 "En La Cama" by Matias Bize (Chile , 2005)
7 "Yo" by Rafa Cortes (Barcelona , 2007)
8 "La-bas" (Over There) by Chantal Akerman (France/Belgium, 2006)
9 "The Sun and Moon" by Stephen Dwoskin (USA/UK, 2008)
10 "A Prima Vista" by Michael Pilz (Austria , 2008)

This will be presented by ten of the best local filmmakers who have pushed the boundaries of cinema in their own unique ways: Ato Bautista, Jeffrey Jeturian, Jim Libiran, Auraeus Solito, Adolf Alix, Raya Martin, Sherad Anthony Sanchez, Ditsi Carolino, Manny Montelibano, & John Torres .

Antoinette Jadaone's Saling Pusa (2006)

SHORTS.MOV features works from the two most prestigious short film festivals in the world: shortfilms from Clermont-Ferrand (France) and music videos from Oberhausen (Germany). The 3rd SILVERSHORTS Shortfilm Competition presents the new Philippine filmmakers to watch out for - - the twenty finalists from both the student and open divisions.

TRIBUTE.MOV premieres the new films and presents the early works of local digital indie heroes: Kidlat Tahimik, Roxlee, & Lav Diaz. Roxlee's graphic novel "Planet Of The Noses," Kidlat Tahimik's DVD "Perfumed Nightmare," and Lav Diaz's soundtrack CD "Impiyerno" will also be launched.

WORKSHOP.MOV offers Rotterdam International Film Festival programmer Gertjan Zuilhof ("Celebrating the End of Cinema"), Slovenian film critic Nika Bohinc, Kidlat Tahimik ("Sariling Duende"), Roxlee ("Digital Animation"), and Lav Diaz ("Coffee Q&A"). The workshops will be complemented by equally inspiring facilitators such as Quark Henares, Tado Jimenez, Alexis Tioseco, Ramon Bautista, and Erwin Romulo.

Pedicab

FILMCONCERT.MOV screens Pinoy classics by Manuel Conde, Gerardo De Leon, Jose Climaco, and Carlos Vander Tolosa accompanied with new live soundtracks by Pedicab, Queso, The Brockas, & Radioactive Sago Project.

AFTERPARTY.MOV ends each night with a bang at the indie-place-to-be Cubao X, courtesy of music and entertainment from top notch events, media organizations and talent management groups.

For group screenings, workshops, tickets and other related inquiries and information, contact dotmov@gmail.com, bien@bannedmoviespilipinas.com, and visit www.movfest.com.

The 3rd .MOV International Digital Film Festival is presented by Filmless Films in cooperation with Robinsons Movieworld, Geiser Maclang Communications, Inc., Parco, Swiftsure Group, Inc., Click the City, and Brown Monkeys.

Spanish Title: El Espiritu de la Colmena
Directed by Victor Erice
Cast: Ana Torrent, Isabel Tellería, Fernando Fernán Gómez, Teresa Gimpera

If there is one thing that remains present in the world since the beginning of Time, it is the concept of beauty. It changes the landscape of art, it defies norms, it defines figures, and it continues to inspire people to create majestic pieces of indulgence - - may it be poetry, prose, graphic fiction, music, sculpture, painting, dance, or cinema - - it has become an agreeable world to live in, this place of ours, because of beauty.

In cinema, a beauty that stands eternal is not elusive. Take for instance The Spirit of the Beehive, Victor Erice's debut work whose strange popularity among critics and audience goes beyond the aesthetic understanding of beauty. It moves into various layers of cultural appreciation and becomes a universal signifier of art's subtle prowess, a kind of film that grows in you, that makes you decipher a million little things in every repeated viewing, like a newly-found hieroglyphic, grand and mystifying, armed with a spell of innocence, both magical and profound.

Seen from a common perspective, it is a film about childhood, Laughton's Night of the Hunter and Clement's Forbidden Games spring into mind, about the fragile virtue of life without the usual embellishment, without the dramaturgy, without the domestic maladies, without the complicated confusion, without the spiritual dilemma of war, without questioning the difference between living and existing - - its vision pure and sacred - - because if there is one phase in life that we experience this perfection of emotional balance, it is when we were young, when we still have that flair for restless imagination. The Spirit of the Beehive captures that purity - - that thread of metaphysical meandering of a child's mind, unaware, undisturbed, diluted with nothing but one's self, every discovery that entails another discovery, learning and disappointment.

In a small Castilian village in 1940, a traveling cinema screens James Whale's Frankenstein to the townspeople, young and old ones alike, including six-year old Ana and her sister Isabel. Ana, after the film, is haunted by Frankenstein's image, not frightened though, but deeply interested. Her curiosity on why the monster killed the little girl and why did the people kill him afterward strikes a note on the film's succeeding events - - Ana's relationship with Isabel, who tells her that Frankenstein is a spirit whom she can speak with if they are friends, her parents distant lives and preoccupation with the past eating them silently, the soldier who takes refuge in the sheepfold where Ana believes the monster stays, and Ana's meeting with her own Frankenstein, in the deep forest, near the lake, like in the film, she is the little girl, but Ana knows him, waits for him, wants to see him face to face, wants to know him, and she closes her eyes - - the next morning, they find her in the ruins. She is in need of answers, consummating her quest till the end; she has changed upon learning them.

The Spirit of the Beehive is meditative and visually arresting, the kind of film you watch when you find the world so ugly that living becomes a torture, when hopelessness eclipses your entire mental state. It will not necessarily make you feel good, but at least it has given you quite a reason to stay on track, to look back, to rediscover things, to exhume those bones of beautiful childhood, when life is beautiful anywhere you look at it. Erice refuses to call them scenes but emotional spaces - - poetic unities - - when a child's gaze takes in the world for the first time - - it nails that feeling. Hence if you view the film in a political perspective, Spain under Franco's rule after the civil war, the need for freedom becomes more resounding, incredibly felt in almost every frame. It renders its flaws invisible, it lingers obsessively without hesitation, it remains mystifying - - like real magic. It captures the heart of memory, the soul of childhood. In the sea of love, The Spirit of the Beehive swims among the greatest.

Ana Torrent's performance achieves a collective understanding for mysterious greatness, her sharp eyes, her magnetic gaze, her sweet little face, her voice, her smile that delivers a brush of epiphany, she becomes an icon in this singular film. It marked a turning point in her life, both professionally and personally, and she knew as a grown-up that things had changed in Erice's marvelous hand. That scene when she and Isabel are in the railway, their ears perched on the tracks, and they hear the train coming, Isabel shouts "Ana!" and Ana moves on the side, then the train passes by, and they stand close and still, it is tantalizing, something in it that makes you want to cringe in unhappiness, in beautiful unhappiness. In her next film, Saura's Cria Cuervos, she cemented her reputation, again, exquisite and unforgettable. * * * * *

French Title: Ma Nuit Chez Maud
Written and directed by Éric Rohmer
Cast: Jean-Louis Trintignant, Françoise Fabian, Marie-Christine Barrault, Antoine Vitez

As much as I would want to laugh it off and call it a draw, the nonsense intellectual whoring between the two Anonymous in Oggs Cruz's post on Now Showing presents an interesting case study. Not reading the entire throat-slashing, gut-ripping statements will definitely save you from a lot of trouble - - I'm sure by the time you reach halfway, you can already feel your temples throbbing - - because the gist of it is fairly easy to grasp. It meanders from simple comments to efficacious banters that eventually leads to self-serving warfare between nameless offenders who relentlessly exercise their said freedom of expression. Sadly, the nature of the worldwide web encourages profane behavior from anonymous users - - closeted, self-righteous individuals who find comfort in throwing nasty words to filmmakers whom they consider unworthy of recognition. It could have been an intelligent and sensible discourse if the majority of its participants have tried to look up in the dictionary the meaning of the words respect and civil; but it turns out that their heads are filled up with so much air that these two words are huge enough to find entry. Therefore the hope for a civil discussion remains a hope, because in a country where starting a discourse is as difficult as putting up with it, it really defies comprehension.

That's the devil's advocate marking his words. In defense of those who took part in the discussion, however, it shows that we, Filipinos, have a lot to say about issues. We have millions of ideas; we have a galaxy to say about the world. We could even build an idea bank, earn from it, and subsequently become a First World country. We have thousands of inventors that remain unrecognized. We glorify overseas workers yet we neglect the few, heroic nurses who choose to stay in the country despite the alms they receive from their employers. The Philippines stands as one of the wonders of the world - - because through the years, it makes you wonder why, despite continued efforts to facilitate national development, we still plunge in social decay and cultural anonymity. We are thinkers; but we are not doers. We lack that act when the hand puts the important things into place. We yearn for change but we are busy doing something else unrelated to it. Yet we still survive - - and that's the most impressive thing - - amidst the hopeless case of a disappearing archipelago.

Which brings me to Eric Rohmer's effusive My Night at Maud's, the third installment in his series of Six Moral Tales, and the film that catapulted his name into international fame. All things considered, if there is one film that rightfully characterizes the French logic and their argumentative nature, this must be it. The Christian mass in the opening scene is preparatory - - the foundation of religion, no matter how trite it is as a topic, proves to be the most enduring subject of conversation among people; thus, the endless exchange of words between the characters in the film is inevitable - - the Scriptures tells us so. Heavy with philosophical points and lengthy arguments which delve mostly on Pascal's Wager, this is Rohmer delivering his views on relationships between men and women. Unlike his contemporaries, Rohmer is laid-back and assertive; his tempered direction makes Godard and Truffaut look like the bad students in the honor roll (to quote from the Now Showing discussion), and him the teacher's pet because his films are the type that professors love to indulge themselves into - - the moral and metaphysical plight of man and his existence in this world full of spiritual ideas.

The French are good at this - - two people talking, exchanging thoughts about their lives, mundane topics, then later on an interesting idea pops up, someone quotes a line from a book he read, the conversation goes on forever, then the other guy remembers a line from the film he just saw, and when their coffees arrive, they continue their colloquies as if they will never see each other again, and talk about anything under the sun, yada, yada, yada, and they part ways; in fact, Louis Malle did something like that and filmed two characters over dinner for two hours and came up with My Dinner with Andre. Words run in their blood - - these French people - - and it seems to work as their vitamins, fueling them with ideas no matter how absurd still qualify as highbrow, because cosmopolitan hegemony tells us that when you talk about existentialism, for example, in a subtle way, you can talk almost about anything, and that you are superior over things that matter less to this absurdly intellectual world. This could possibly account for brainwashing but the French are the masters of this style - - the shameless philosophizing and intellectual whoring - - and it reflects their sensibilities. It's a misunderstanding to say that My Night at Maud's fails just because it talks a lot, it's boring, and it lacks action. It is a writer's film; therefore, it gains its vigor from the lines that its characters deliver and the turn-out of events in its narrative, in such a way that other aspects of the films do not sacrifice, which in this case, as My Night at Maud's proves, is possible. There are phases in our life that we lean more on the serious, and seeing this film with those eyes can prove to be entertaining, if not digestible.

Taken out of context, this statement from Raya Martin honestly hits the mark: ". . . that the problem with cultivating film culture in the Philippines is a problem with Filipino culture itself." The great thing with problems, they are relative, and they make you realize that being the paragon of cultural distinction does not exempt one from criticism - - a damaged culture is still functional, and it will exist until no one remembers it anymore. * * * *

The film starts in the 1930s when Guido relocates from the country to a large Tuscan town where he falls in love with schoolteacher Dora. She is already engaged to another guy, but Guido stills fights for her. The story continues 5 years later, during wartime, Guido is married to Dora and they have a son called Giosue. Guido is of Jewish origin, and he is sent to a concentration camp with Giosue and Dora follows them, only to be sent to another part of the camp

Won 3 Oscars. Another 52 wins & 27 nominations

يَبْدأُ الفلمُ في الثلاثيناتِ عندما يَنتقلُ جيدو إلى توسكاني حيث يَقِعُ في حبّ معلّمَة المدرسة دورا. هي مخطوبة إلى رجلِ آخرِ، لكن جيدو يكافحُ من أجلها.
إنّ القصّةَ تَستمرُّ بعد 5 سنوات، أثناء وقتِ حرب، جيدو متزوّج مِنْ دورا و عِنْدَهُمْ إبن يدَعى جيوسوى. جيدو مِنْ أصلِ يهوديِ، يُرسَلُ إلى معسكر إعتقال مَع جيوسوى ودورا تلحق بهم، فقط لكي ترسَلَ إلى الجزءِ الآخرِ مِنْ المعسكرِ

Director: Robertor Begnini

Cast: Roberto Begnini

Nicoletta Braschi
Giorgio Cantarini

ساعي البريد
انتاج ايطالي للعام 1994

الفلم عبارة عن رحلة بعالم الشعر و الاحاسيس والعشق....
الشاعر التشيلي المعروف بابلو نيرودا ...و بأثناء فترة من الابعاد القسري بسبب مواقفه السياسية
ليهرب لأيطاليا ويعيش بأحد جزرها الجميلة بيستوحي كاتب الفلم هالئصة الرونانسية بالوقت يلي المشاهد رح يستمتع بقصائد نيرودا كمان
.
قصة الفلم بتحكي عن شخص بهالجزيرة بيمثل نموذج للانسان البسيط والعفوي بالكاد بيئدر يقرا و يكتب و ولهالسبب تم اختياره لتوصيل البريد لشخص واحد كحاله خاصة و هو الشاعر المبعد نيرودا
خلال عملية التوصيل اليومي بين ساعي البريد و الشاعر المنعزل .....بتنشأ علاقة مهمة بين هالشخصتين المتناقضتين من حيث كمية المعرفة و الثقافة , بس الشي يلي رح يجمعهن اكيد هو الحس العالي المرهف بيناتهن ...والعفوية بالشخصية يلي رح تساعد ساعي البريد على تعلم الشعر و تعلم امور تاينة رح تغير حياته بالكامل .....
والاهم من هيك انو الحس الشعري رح يساعده بشكل كبير ليفوز بقلب الانسانه يلي بيحبها ,
و متل ما علق احد المهتمين على الفلم انه لازم اي شخص عاش علاقة حب بحياته يشوف هالفلم..
بعطيه 8 /10
الفلم من اخراج :
Michael Radford
و كتابة :
Pablo Neruda (poems)
Anna Pavignano (writer)

الفلم الايطالي يلي انعمل عام 2000 و هو من انتاج امريكي ايطالي
بيلخص ببساطة روعة السينما الايطالية و براعتها

حسناء الشاشة الفضية ....مونيكا بيللوتشي بأروع ادوارها بلا منازع

الفلم ببساطة بيحكي عن شاب بأول فترة مراهقته يعشق سيدة حسناء (مالينا)بقرية ايطالية بصقلية لحد تغير فيه كل حياته

مالينا هي اكيد اجمل امراة بالقرية بل قد تكون الامرأة الجميلة الوحيدة فيها
وهاد بيخليها حديث القرية كلها و مصدر الاشاعات و النميمة ...غير معاناتها من حسد كل نساء القرية و محاولة كل الرجال النيل منها

و الامور رح تصير اسوء لما زوجها بيغادر للمشاركة بالحرب و بتضل مالينا مع والدها الهرم المدرس بهالقرية وحيدة
...
و الغريب بالقصة انو هالشاب اليافع هو الوحيد يلي بيفهم مالينا و بيقدر العمق الانساني لشخصيتها اكتر من كل سكان هالقرية
والفلم بيورجينا بصراحة كيف الحسد والحقد يمكن يدمرو اي انسان
الفلم اكتر من رائع ...بتلعب فيه مونيكا بيلوتشي دور قليل الحوار بس بكتير براعة باداء الملامح و لغة الجسد .....
الفلم بعطي تسعة من عشرة و يمكن يكون انظلم
بفضل من الكل يحضروه باللهجة الايطاليه مع الترجمة المناسبة

من اخراج و كتابة
Giuseppe Tornatore
و بطولة:
Monica Bellucci

Note : ++ 18
و اكيد الفلم ترشح لكتير جوائز اهمها
_ اوسكار :افضل فلم ...افضل موسيقى تصويرية
_ الغولدين غلوب :افضل فلم ناطق بغير الانكليزية و افضل صورة
_ جائزة الفلم الاوروبي:افضل ممثلة (مونيكا بيللوتشي) و افضل مخرج
بعتذر عن الاطالة بالشرح بس الفلم فعلن بيستحق
رح اختم بس الكوتس يلي ختم فيها بطل الفلم و عاشق مالينا باخر جملة فيه
Time has passed, and I have loved many women. And as they've held me close, and asked if I will remember them, I've said, "Yes, I will remember you." But the only one I've never forgotten is the one who never asked... Malena.

الفلم الالماني الاشهر بالعقود الاخيرة ...و يلي اعتبره احد النقاد الالمان افضل افلام العنف و الاثارة الالمانية على الاطلاق, بيتميز بشيء بسيط جدا.....هو انو كل شي في مبدع و غريب .....من طريقة سرد الاحداث ,لاسلوب الاخراج ,لاسلوب دمج الافكار فيه بكل الطرق

الفلم بتدأ احداثه باتصال هاتفي من ماني وهو عضو بعصابة تهريب الماس للشخص الوحيد يلي بيهتم فيه ,ويلي بيوثق و بيعتمد عليه..وهي البنت يلي على علاقة حب معها .. لولا

ماني بيخبر لولا بالاتصال انو بالغلط ضيع مبلغ من تهريبة الالماس هو 100 الف مارك الماني المفروض تسليمهم لرئيس العصابة .وهالمبلغ لازم يتسلم خلال عشرين دقيقة والا ماني رح ينقتل بدم بارد من قبل العصابة يلي من الممكن تقتل اي شخص بيسرق منها قنينة بيرة
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طبعا بتحاول لولا توصيل فكرة استحالة جمع هالمبلغ خلال هالفترة القصيرة بس ماني بيذكر لولا بعبارة انو الحب من الممكن يصنع اي شيء

.......رح نشوف هون ب 3 مشاهد كل واحد فيهن 20 دقيقة حقيقة كيف لولا رح تجري بأسرع ما عندها حتى تجمع المبلغ .....و كيف بكل مرة تأخيرها لثواني او اجزاء من الثانية من الممكن انو تنقلب الاحداث بشكل دراماتيكي اكيد المشاهد رح يتفاجئ فيه بشكل مدهش

الفلم رح يغلب فيه طابع حماسي كبير ..بالذات انو لولا رح تركض بالفلم باسرع ما عندها باسلوب غاية بالاندفاع والحماس والرشاقة ..بيتصاحبو مع موسيقى تصويرية بتخلي المشاهد من الحماسة كأنو عميتفرج على مباراة او منافسة رياضية ضمن قصة حب بتعكس الاخلاص الكبير و الاهتمام يلي بتكنه لولا لحبيبها

الفلم ببساطة فينا نقول عنه مدهش ..بل انو اعتبره البعض تحفة سينمائية جديدة

الفلم تحت ادارة المخرج :
Tom Tykwer
يلي عمل افلام متل :
Heaven - Perfume (a story of a murderer )
و من بطولة :
Franka Potente (Lola)
Mortiz Blebteu (Mani)
الفلم من 80 دقيقة باللغة الالمانية ,وانعمل منه دوبلاج للغات : الفرنسية و الانكليزية و اليابانية
طبعا الفلم ترشح و نال كتير جوائز عالمية صعب نذكرها كلها.

إنه العام 1905، جاين كالاهن تكتب رسالة لابنها أندريه الطالب في أكاديمية ويست بوينت العسكرية الأمريكية . تصف فيها الأحداث التي سبقت ولادته قبل 20 عاما حيث سافرت إلى روسيا القيصرية كمساعدة للمخترع الأمريكي غريب الأطوار دوغلاس ماك كريكين، الذي صمم آلة عملاقة لقطع الأخشاب كان يطمح ببيعها و تسديد ديونه لكن ذلك يحتاج لجهات ترعاه و تموله.

هذه كانت مهمة مساعدته جاين التي جاءت إلى روسيا لتساعده في ذلك مدعيا أنها ابنته. جاين الفتاة الأمريكية المتحررة من تقاليد بنات عصرها بدأت بمهمتها هذه خلال سفرها بالقطار عندما تعرفت بالصدفة على الطالب في الأكاديمية العسكرية الروسية أندريه تولستوي الذي أصبح فيما بعد حبها الكبير في نفس الوقت ظهر الرجل صاحب النفوذ الذي يمكن أن يساعدها على تحقيق مهمتها و هو الجنرال رادلوف الذي لم يخف إعجابه بها و رغبته بالزواج منها.

تدريجيا أخذت هذه الشخصيات الثلاث تلعب دورها الرئيس في بلورة أحداث الفيلم التي تمركزت حول التنافس غير المتكافئ بين تولستوي و الجنرال للظفر بحب جاين من جهة و حول الصراع الداخلي الذي كانت تعيشه جاين بين حبها لتولستوي و مصلحتها بالزواج من الجنرال .

مدة الفيلم 180 دقيقة يحاول فيها المخرج نيكيتا ميخالكوف، و الذي مثل فيه أيضا دور القيصر الروسي الكسندر الثالث، تعريف المشاهد تدريجيا على طبيعة المجتمع الروسي آنذاك و العلاقات السائدة فيه و كأنه يرافق جاين في رحلتها فيتعرف على الجانب الايجابي لكل شخصية من خلال مشاهد تعتمد على كوميديا الموقف لينتقل فيما بعد للكشف على الجانب الخفي لهذه الشخصيات وكيفية اندماج جاين في مهمتها و خروجها عن سيطرتها فتتناوب المشاهد بين غيرة و حسد و انتقام و ندم لتعكس وعلى الطريقة الروسية مأساة الإنسان بخضوعه للظروف التي غالبا ما يصنعها بنفسه ولا تفرض عليه.

المخرج:

Nikita Mikhalkov

سيناريو:

Nikita Mikhalkov

Rustam Ibragimbekov

Rospo Pallenberg

الممثلون:

Julia Ormond: Jane Callahan

Oleg Menshikov: André Tolstoi

Richard Harris: Douglas McCraken

Aleksei Petrenko: General Radlov

Vladimir Ilyin: Captain Mokin

البلد:

روسيا، فرنسا، إيطاليا، جمهورية التشيك 1998

الجوائز :

Golden Aries: Best Supporting Actor Vladimir Ilyin

الفئة العمرية: +15

مقتبس عن مسرحية طريقة غرونهولم لجوردي غالكيران فيرير يقدم المخرج الأرجنتيني مارتشيلو بينيرو فيلم الطريقة ليخبرنا عن مجموعة من المتقدمين لوظيفة و يصور لنا صراعهم للحصول على المنصب المرموق. مقدما صورة غير تقليدية لثقافة الشركة و أثرها على من يتطلع ليكون جزء منها.

فبينما تعج شوارع العاصمة الإسبانية مدريد بجموع المتظاهرين ضد العولمة يلتقي في مقر شركة عالمية سبعة متقدمين (5 رجال و امرأتين) لمنصب وظيفي مرموق. إلى أي حد يمكن للشركة أن تذهب في عملية اختيارها للشخص المناسب؟ و ما كل ما يمكنه للمتقدمين تحمله بغية الحصول على الوظيفة التي يحلمون بها؟

بعد أن يتجاوز المتقدمون المرحلة الأولى من تعبئة الاستمارات و تقديم الأوراق و ما يرافقها من بيروقراطية يجدون أنفسهم في غرفة باردة حيث تنتظرهم عملية الاختيار و الإقصاء النهائي. يشكل المتقدمون مجموعة من الشخصيات المتنوعة. فيرناندو العدواني و الذي لا يتوانى عن العراك ليصل لغايته. انريكيه الذي يحاول أن يكون لطيفا مع الجميع. آنه ببرودة أعصابها تحاول أن تنأى بنفسها عما يحدث . خوليو يتخذ موقفا دفاعيا بينما ريكاردو لا يتعاون بالشكل المطلوب. كارلوس و نيفيس الذين كان تربطهما علاقة حميمية يتفاجئان بلقائهما مجددا.

يسود بين المتقدمين منذ البداية جو من التوتر و المنافسة الكبيرة. الشعور بعدم الثقة يزداد عندما يعلمون بأنهم جميعا يتقدمون لشغل نفس المنصب وأن اختيار الأفضل و الأنسب لهذا المنصب سيتم باستخدام ما يعرف بطريقة غرونهولم وأن هنالك من بين المتقدمين شخص مزروع من قبل الشركة للتجسس عليهم. تدريجا يتعمق الشعور بالخوف، عدم الثقة، و الشك المتبادل. على الرغم من توجيه المتقدمين للتصرف كمجموعة لكنهم يتصرفون أيضا كأفراد متنافسين كل ذلك تعززه حقيقة بأنهم هم من يقوم تدريجيا بإقصاء من لا يرونه مناسب لشغل المنصب !!!

الطريقة فيلم مشوق يجعل المشاهد جزء من الاختبارات التي تتم و كأنه أحد المتقدمين ليشاركهم معلوماتهم عن بعضهم البعض و التي تظهر على شاشات مخصصة لكل منهم وتمثل مرجعية في اتخاذ قراراتهم عند التصويت على الحلقة الأضعف التي يجب طردها لكنها في الوقت نفسه تعزز الشعور بوجود أهداف خفية للشركة. فربما الأمر مجرد خدعة ولا يوجد شخص مزروع بينهم أو أنه يتم تصويرهم لتحليل ردود أفعالهم و تصرفاتهم.

الاختبارات نفسها بسيطة فهي تأخذ مظهر الألعاب التي تدفع تدريجيا كل متقدم إلى تصيد أخطاء الباقين و البحث عن نقاط ضعفهم بغية إخفاء نقاط ضعفه هو. ومع تطور الأحداث و تعقد العلاقات بين الشخصيات يصبح من الصعب التكهن بمن سييتم إقصائه من البقية و الذي يبدو وكأنه يتم بعشوائية لكنه في الواقع مبني على توازنات دقيقة من المصالح الفردية و مصلحة الجماعة.

في النهاية الطبيعة البشرية مع قليل من الجو التنافسي ستولد موزايك من اللامبالة و الأنانية و التصرفات غير الأخلاقية .... لكن يبقى السؤال هل ما سنحصل عليه يستحق كل ذلك؟

المخرج:

Marcelo Piñeyro

سيناريو:

Mateo Gil

Marcelo Piñeyro

الممثلون:

Eduardo Noriega: Carlos

Najwa Nimri: Nieves

Eduard Fernández: Fernando

Pablo Echarri: Ricardo

Ernesto Alterio: Enrique

Natalia Verbeke: Montse

Adriana Ozores: Ana

Carmelo Gómez: Julio

إنتاج:

اسبانيا ، الأرجنتين، إيطاليا 2005

الجوائز:

Goya 2006 Best Screenplay - Adapted

Goya 2006 Best Supporting Actor Carmelo Gómez

الفئة العمرية: +15

Original Title: Bande à part
Written and directed by Jean-Luc Godard
Cast: Anna Karina, Sami Frey, Claude Brasseur
Based on Dolores Hitchens' Fools' Gold

Children looking for summaries -- don't go here. If you are really serious about cinema, forget about plot narratives. Forget about coherence and linearity. Forget about beauty and depth. Forget about Roger Ebert and Jonathan Rosenbaum. Forget about reviews and ratings. Forget even about writing. Forget everything -- and that's the reason why Godard continues to fascinate me, for he relentlessly avoids these things -- he ranks among the Greek and Roman gods; he is peerless, no one can ever surpass him -- he has built a world, a galaxy of works that has changed a landscape -- that inimitable greatness that is very much felt a million frames per second. And considering the films he made in the sixties -- the atomic bomb he dropped in the history of cinema -- he surely has lived up to his name as the landmark filmmaker of the 20^th century.

Band of Outsiders was shot after Contempt, Godard's venture to the CinemaScope which fairly doubles the omnipresent enigma of his style, and surprisingly, he still hasn't left the mark of his black-and-white effrontery -- the audacity which catapulted his name to criticism -- with a little help from French New Wave's most revered cinematographer, Raoul Coutard. Well, 'little' here speaks of a grand scale that no pair has ever achieved before, with the possible exception of Ingmar Bergman and Sven Nykvist or, to satisfy my personal pleasure, Wong Kar-wai and Chris Doyle.

In A Woman is A Woman, Alphaville, Pierrot le fou, and My Life to Live, Godard has clearly showed his affection to Anna Karina. He is at the peak of his career, with groundbreaking films that defined a generation, and she is behind him every step of the way, even in real life, as his muse, as his dauntless woman of veneration -- as seen in Agnes Varda's Les Fiancés du Pont Mac Donald. Their pair is unmistakably full of vigor, much like Antonioni and Vitti's collaboration is full of angst, and indeed the films they made together reflect the grueling ball of energy and passion they had then. But with Band of Outsiders, which hints a close reference to Jules and Jim -- but I suppose everyone who has seen both films would agree that they are handled very differently, as if Godard and Truffaut have taken the same material and come up with works which are strikingly beautiful in their own way, a sense of uniqueness that only filmmakers like them could achieve -- depicts more of a masterly partnership between Godard and Coutard, and in saying that this film might be the most accessible film he has made owes a lot to Coutard's unwavering devotion to non-conformity, endlessly thinking of ways to shoot differently, and a genius for having made a name for himself apart from his directors.

It is difficult to discuss a film by Godard without relating it to his other works. Thus if one tries to compare Band of Outsiders with Pierrot le fou or Contempt, it certainly makes sense to claim that this film is better than the two, or just one film stands out among the three. That proves Pauline Kael's assertion that "it is possible to hate half or two-thirds of what Godard does -- or find it incomprehensible -- and still be shattered by his brilliance." And basing it on texture, Band of Outsiders is layered with countless allusions to literature and cinema, from Shakespeare to Kafka, from Billy the Kid to Loopy de Loop, from T. S. Eliot to Rimbaud, from Chaplin's Immigrant to Demy's Umbrellas of Cherbourg, not to mention a famous ad slogan "Bravo, Mr. Segalot. That's real furniture!," and an overflow of homage that only seems to work at his advantage -- its entirety feels like a book of knowledge, and Godard eagerly opens the book for us, and we hear him speak, we hear his words of enlightenment and disarray, we listen to his truths and lies, we listen to his phrases of hope and discouragement -- and we lend our ears like someone listening to a long-awaited Messiah -- in a stream of eloquence.

This is the coolest Godard I've seen so far -- cooler than Breathless, cooler than Masculine Feminine, cooler than In Praise of Love, which isn't cool at all -- cooler than the snow-capped Fuji, cooler than a red dress, cooler than Tarantino, and cooler than a bunch of thugs butchering each other. The Madison sequence and the world-breaking nine-minute visit inside the Louvre are stupefying -- such magical moments full of vibe and energy -- and if ever you accuse me of exaggerating then see for yourself. For Godard has not only broken the fourth wall, he smashes all walls; if you can imagine how the Colorado River carves the Grand Canyon for centuries, that's how I see him -- better not miss this quintessential vintage from the world's greatest living director, and run for your life. * * * *

Original Title: Il Gattopardo
Directed by Luchino Visconti
Cast: Burt Lancaster, Claudia Cardinale, Alain Delon
Based on Giuseppe Tomasi di Lampedusa's novel

What Luchino Visconti's Leopard lacks is grip, a really strong grip, or perhaps a splash of water on our faces strong enough to wake us up or sustain our interest. A slit on our throat will probably do. From its opening sequence that introduces the civil war to a grand Sicilian ball that comprises almost a-third of the film, everything is just there: hanging, floating, and flailing freely without strength, without the ability to affect our senses.

I believe this may be a huge disrespect on my part, for everywhere I go the reviews I read are positive, lauding Visconti's masterful direction, the solemnity it creates, the magnificence of its actors, and somehow it reveals that the greatness of Giuseppe Tomasi di Lampedusa's highly-acclaimed novel is tantamount to the film's popularity. Good thing because it gives me time to think if this is just a simple case of snobbery or a judgment affected by lack of sleep. The length of a film is never an issue with me -- for I have withstood long hours watching Lav Diaz's Ebolusyon ng Isang Pamilyang Pilipino, though I haven't finished it which I suppose is not entirely my fault, and I consider Batang Westside as one of Philippine cinema's greatest contribution to the arts -- the best to come out in recent years, after we cease to exist for quite some time in the foreign circuit, if they don't recognize us, do we still exist? -- and if there will be a chance to see it over and over again I shall take an oath to stay the whole day inside the theatre, and other things in mind that I shall not mention because this is not to boast the long films I have seen but at least to help me in this assertion -- but The Leopard is a motionless tedium. It is not dragging, for even films that drag have their moments of brilliance, of almost-there brilliance. And Alain Delon, who can win a zillion hearts with just a wink of an eye (too bad one of them is hidden), is disappointing to the point that I wish I haven't seen him. He is pathetically charmless. In L'Eclisse, it is the exact opposite.

Lavish production and big stars could be extremely boring at times. After yawning for which I suppose is the one thousand three hundred and seventy-fourth time, the tree of the wooden clogs that greeted me in my dream tells me that I am being asked a rhetorical question, so fella don't respond in return. *

Original Title: Les Parapluies de Cherbourg
Directed by Jacques Demy
Cast: Catherine Deneuve, Nino Castelnuovo, Anne Vernon

It's funny imagining a world where everyone sings what he wants to say, even the most mundane exchange of words, the trivial expressions of sanctitude, or life's awful miseries. What if we speak our lines to the tune of different musicians every day? Today we have Philip Glass, tomorrow Mozart, the next week Liszt, next month Schubert, and so on; a mad world I foresee but how lovely! Having seen one, for an hour and a half in a setting that spans five war years, it is unmistakably hilarious.

I would lie if I say that I enjoyed this film. The Umbrellas of Cherbourg is certainly a classic, much to the hype of the supporters of this musical is perpetuating, but its timelessness is arguable. I must admit however that its crowning glory is Catherine Deneuve -- her youthful flair that is very much impossible not to notice. Her inimitable career and rise to stardom deserves admiration, considering the overwhelming brilliance she had in her latter films: Repulsion, Belle de Jour, Tristana, The Last Metro, and even up to Dancer in the Dark. In this film, she shines effortlessly and radiates with oozing personality that it would be a sin just to forget her name. In a bleak, cloudless night, she twinkles -- and we respond with admiration in return.

Must be the DVD copy in this year's festival -- I am expecting a blast both in my eyes and ears: the stunning credits sequence and Michel Legrand's enchanting musical accompaniment. After a few minutes, I wish I have seen it at home instead, and if only I have the contact number of the French Embassy I would tell them to lend us the 35mm copy like what the Swedish Embassy did in Fanny and Alexander. But then -- I'm calling myself a fool this time -- it was them who lent Shangri-la the DVD.

On the other hand, what struck me most is the dialogue, particularly the conversation between Geneviève (Deneuve) and her mother (played by Anne Vernon). So it goes like this:

Madame Emery: Where were you?
Geneviève: With Guy.
Madame Emery: What were you doing?
Geneviève: Mother, he's leaving. He'll be away for two years. I can't live without him. I'll die.
Madame Emery: Stop crying. Look at me. People only die of love in movies.

Then afterward,

Geneviève: I'm pregnant, Mother.
Madame Emery: Pregnant by Guy? This is horrible! How is it possible?
Geneviève: Well, just like with everybody.
Madame Emery: Don't joke. This is serious. What are we going to do?
Geneviève: What do you mean?
Madame Emery: What are we going to do with the child?
Geneviève: Raise it.
Madame Emery: What are we going to say?
Geneviève: To whom?
Madame Emery: Our friends, our neighbors!
Geneviève: We have no friends, and you never speak to the neighbors.
Madame Emery: And Roland Cassart is coming to dinner tonight!
Geneviève: You don't need to tell him.

It was Luis Buñuel who mastered the craft of poking fun at the bourgeoisie -- the middle-class who have nothing in their minds but status and how they look, what if I have my hair fixed? do I need to have my nails done? is that make-up you're using much better than the one I have? and perhaps to them having the same clothes is the most awful thing in the world. Buñuel did it in such supreme jest I would want to be his disciple. In a particular scene, Madame Emery realizes that she has a huge debt to pay and exclaims to Geneviève, My God! We are ruined! What will we do? Should I have my hair done? Whether Demy is consciously attacking the mindset of his mother character -- her reactionary behavior to be exact -- it is done very subtly as if he condones it, and it adds a remarkable texture to the tenacity of his most popular work. The bourgeois culture exists side by side with criticism, which can be seen in various forms of art not only in cinema, and nevertheless the idea has remained universal -- idiocy and idiosyncracy aside -- that vested on them is a huge amount of social power and political influence; the only way to show them our remorse, for whatever reason that is, is have them ridiculed -- the nastiest way we can -- and it deems so effective that contemporary comedies harbor in satire, sarcasm, and predominantly, the jack-ass type of humor, and their audience is responding quite well. Closing this hallucination in accordance with the first sentence, whether it happens by incidence or otherwise, Buñuel directs Deneuve three years after in the tenaciously beautiful, Belle de Jour.

A carnival of love's elusive nature -- the effervescence of romance -- rolls in manic fervor one can't help but laugh on its sheer hilarity. Once you get used to the lines being sung, it's easy to forget that Umbrellas of Cherbourg is a musical -- beyond those solitary hues and falling graffiti, by a thousand miles, this is a comedy. * * *

English Title: The Eclipse
Directed by Michelangelo Antonioni
Written by Tonino Guerra and Michelangelo Antonioni
Cast: Monica Vitti, Alain Delon, Francisco Rabal

Michelangelo Antonioni's L'Eclisse is the bomb - its piercing shrapnel scattered all over - and it explodes like the most deafening grenade of terror, except that there's no sound, not even a single decibel, because we become too comfortable with noise, with pulsating action, with blood rushing through our heads, that a mental atomic explosion is reduced to a whisper, to a whimpering silence. The MRI result shows that it is a combustion of the soul - the self-regulating furnace of one's self - slowly turning into ashes, and all left is a history of emotions, a medley of unspoken and unrequited feeling, a complete absence of an absence.

I stand firmly by the assertion that aside from Neorealism, Italy's greatest contribution to world cinema is Antonioni. He invented a language, he painted a landscape, he showed us the emptiness of modern world, he filled spaces with more spaces, he populated the Earth with Martians, he framed human beings in similar importance to objects and structures, he presented metaphysics and agnosticism in a different light, and he left us with a celestial body of works that represented what had not been represented before, an oeuvre that could launch a revolution of the soul - ultimately the films that raised the bar of cinematic art. Antonioni is the chief architect of cinema who can build castles of solitude in a single frame, weave a universe of prolonged sorrow in a simple gaze, and design our lives in granules so that we can inspect them much closer. In Antonioni's eyes, everything is profound and nothing is complicated. Contrary to Faye Wong's character in Chungking Express who listens to loud music to stop her from thinking, Antonioni drags us into his world to think - to give us all the time in the world to think - to think and nothing else. Incidentally, cult favorite Wong Kar-wai openly expresses his admiration to Antonioni, citing him as one of his major influences on his films.

After the art-house notoriety of L'Avventura and La Notte, expectations to his next feature must have been immense. Yet forty-five years later, in that same world - same world manned by money-eyed monsters - L'Eclisse is still up there, constantly moving us, trailing us down to the deepest pits of despair and loss. The narrative starts midway through the film, commenced by a lethargic build-up, with wayward lovers Vittoria and Piero realizing what sparks between them is neither love nor passion but dualism. The pacing defies patience, as it can almost be perceived as indulgence leading to nothingness, but it pays off - the drift not only reflects the minds of its characters, Vittoria in particular, but also the elements of their world, the architectural spaces that reflect their DNAs, the loss of meaning - even abstract ideas themselves. Furthermore, the first half feels like a sport event: the break-up - a tug-of-war of fatal gazes, the stock market - a boxing ring between bald men and neurotic women throwing notebooks, and the apartment visit when Vittoria plays a Negro serves as an intermission - an exposition of cultural mockery that ends up offending its audience. These carefully-drawn details pile up like an eternal stack of books; then like dominoes relentlessly falling forward, they lead to an almost chimerical finish - a monumental closure comparable to the lasting importance of Alfred Wegener's continental drift theory to science.

Monica Vitti fits perfectly to Antonioni's jigsaw puzzles. She radiates with blinding beauty but unaware of it because she always looks unconscious. Perhaps the thing I admire most about her physical beauty is her hair - you just have to see it - it's so gorgeous you might find yourself in the nearest salon to pay homage. Having said that, I want to reveal a discovery: I have three people in mind who can master the act of intergalactic stare at its finest. The first one is already a give-away - Tony Leung, his eyes filled with love and passion; Takeshi Kitano, his stare that commands fear and violence; and Vitti, her gaze filled with nothing, nothing, and nothing else. But the irony is, it reveals more. On the other hand, Alain Delon is a sight to behold - his face that can launch a thousand missiles, his heavenly cheekbones, his choreographed movement - Antonioni directs him with such care and precision I almost forgot how lousy he is in The Leopard. When he says to Vittoria, When we get there, I'm going to kiss you, it is not threatening but exactly the opposite: he demands adoration that you wish you are just the woman he is speaking with.

The ending - the culmination of a supposed romance, the rendezvous that no one remembered - is an ethereal montage of the things that the couple shared together: the lights, the shadows, the sound of silence, the gushing wind, the flow of water, the Martian clouds, the hollow blocks and the unfinished building, the city lights, the lifeless city itself - everything that bears witness to their short-lived relationship adds to the mystic resonance of this science-fiction film, accompanied by the moving poles at night and a total eclipse of the heart. * * * * *

Original Title: Fanny och Alexander
Written and directed by Ingmar Bergman
Cinematography by Sven Nykvist
Cast: Bertil Guve, Pernilla Allwin, Ewa Fröling, Jan Malmsjö, Gunn Wållgren

Glorious from start to finish, its three-hour length notwithstanding, Ingmar Bergman's Fanny and Alexander is pure cinematic brilliance. God bless the Swedish Embassy for lending us a spotless 35mm print, so fresh it looks like one of the first reels used when the film had its initial release more than thirty years ago. Every frame of this stunning genius breathes with fragile contradictions: life and death, angels and demons, kindness and cruelty, truths and lies, innocence and guilt, simplicity and extravagance, spirituality and the lack of it. Bergman manages to weave a canvas with such austere mastery and harrowing majesty, it turns wickedness into beauty, so moving one questions the law of emotions if there is even one.

For period pieces are fond of exploiting their exquisite sceneries, ancestral homes, lavish feasts, patios that feel like the most comfortable place on earth, and the royalty of these people whose exaggerated gestures let us feel how much has changed since then, it seems that we already know what will happen in the next stroke of their hands or the fate of a time-bound romance exalted by war. But in Bergman's universe they are nothing but mere devices, for even if you place his story into a setting more recent, or perhaps during the turn of the millennium, into a world where people are treated like zombies and loved like vultures, one would still feel the plight of Alexander and the entire Ekdahl family, the Bishop's hypocrisy, and a country in despair behind those grand landscapes and fjords.

The philosophic nature of Bergman is enough to tick someone off and find his way out of the theatre whose exasperated air is shared by pseudo-intellectuals, highbrow socialites, passive moviegoers and, most interesting of all, students who, to their astonishment, leave the cinema with dreary eyes and nausea threatening in a few minutes. When someone watches a film and it ends almost on the day after, one starts to question, and in a brief second wonder, the devotion that he has to cinema. Did he finish the film just because he needs to finish it, while he has all the freedom to leave, or is it an unconscious desire to devote one's self to a beautiful film till it becomes a habit, an obsession? When darkness spreads its wings like a falcon in flight, it surprises me how Bergman, in almost the same amazement when Tarkovsky visits me in my dreams for a week and too bad it never happened again, looms his virtues with extreme pessimism -- a cruelty with passion, a family without its soul, a spirituality without god. This is the only time I enjoyed him, perhaps because I tend not to cross his path -- his path to emptiness -- and my respect to him now becomes lucid, sadly after his recent death.

The erosion of human soul, the decay of virtues, and the unending search for purpose and existence, Bergman speaks for us: these are nonsense. As I walk my way out of the theatre now filled with silent cries and elusive whispers, the thought of Alexander imagining the death of his stepfather through a fire that burnt him to death still haunts me. And from that door, as if our souls are clearly everywhere, I see Bergman staring at our faces, our wrinkled faces, and studying how they suffered from his film. He is smiling and for a moment I hear myself mumble, What an honor just to see him here. * * * * *

Original Title: Ostre sledované vlaky
Directed by Jirí Menzel
Cast: Vàclav Neckár, Josef Somr, Vlastimil Brodsky

The finale of Jirí Menzel's Closely Watched Trains, a wrenching train explosion intently pulled off by its charming protagonist who apprentices as a train dispatcher in a railway station, makes up for this war film that confounds corneal strength -- no, no it's not difficult to watch, it is in fact pleasing, but it takes a while before the idea sinks in, while one closes his eyes and realizes that the credits are already rolling. I have not much to say except that having seen it, it doesn't surprise me that it won the 1967 Oscar for Best Foreign Language Film. Its gratifying nature, hence worthy of certain famosity interpolated by the Academy, satisfies very well to the point that one thinks, Politics is very much alive since then, and even then. See it, nothing will be lost. The thought of World War II premature ejaculation is enough to have everyone in the audience giggling, and the mention of the phrase is countless. While rubbing my eyes, Andrzej Wajda's War Trilogy (A Generation, Kanal, and Ashes and Diamonds) comes into mind, and like Menzel's highly praised work, I cannot feel its supposed rebelliousness to war and in fact its neutrality as a peaceful war film overwhelms me. Or probably, this is just Kill-joy. * *

Original Title: Das Leben der Anderen
Written and directed by Florian Henckel von Donnersmarck
Cast: Ulrich Mühe, Martina Gedeck, Sebastian Koch
2006 Oscar Winner for Best Foreign Language Film

A film that defies seismic meters, The Lives of Others feels like an earthquake -- a sudden release of energy that accumulated through time, the end of all abstinence, a massive cause of displacement that promises its return for indeterminable years. Florian Henckel von Donnersmarck's debut work carries us into disbelief and dementia, a period of wakefulness in dreams, and leaves us nothing to give but admiration. The applause soon before the credits rolled is very much deserved.

Its seriousness is frightening yet it manages to pull off its occasional humor, and at times even its humor is scary. The atmosphere exudes a breath of terror: one can feel the political turmoil, the tumultuous plight of the characters without seeing it. Donnersmarck masters the language of the unseen -- the words, the music, the plot devices -- and carefully weaves its story into a thrilling yet rewarding series of events that followed Christa-Maria's treachery into a finality that grieves with kindness and reciprocation.

The controversy that surrounds the film prior to its release in Germany -- the libel suits, the said unrealistic portrait of East Germany, and "making the Stasi man into a hero" -- just adds to its vitality. Its emotional texture, as one writer puts it, is layered in such a way that it evokes universality, that these events are not alien to us, to our emotions, and to our sensibilities. In fact when Wiesler enters Dreyman's apartment with the State Security team to install surveillance microphones and cameras, I shriek at the idea on how GMA got wiretapped, unknowingly, or if it is even possible for our state-sponsored departments to do that. We might not even need one, as big-time crooks and shameless alligators are doing all their crimes comfortably, without guilt or apprehension, in a state of evil grace. The grimness of a totalitarian government seeps through in every vein of this film: its force to let everyone succumb to its will and its dedication to power are deafening. In a brilliant scene when Dreyman walks out of a stage play and sees the Minister -- "It's a pity that a man like you once ruled a country" -- and in return, he mocks, in a bleak wing of despair, the society that they have been into, in total rejection of the regime and separation, is this what they really want?

Ulrich Mühe deserves every praise he receives for his role as Stasi agent HGW XX/7: his stature, his voice that demands authority when he interrogates Christa about the typewriter that Dreyman used for the suicide article, writing her testimony as if he doesn't know what she is saying, as if his pen has a life of its own and a conviction of a boar, his unblinking eyes filled with remorse, his threatening silence, and when he gets demoted as a mailman we weep in compassion, but as the film ends with a freeze frame of him standing in a bookshop saying that the book need not be giftwrapped because it's for him, a sudden train of thought rushes through, while my heart still enjoys its stay in my throat: nothing could be more rewarding than that. * * * *

Original Title: A la petite semaine
Director: Sam Karmann
Cast: Gérard Lanvin, Jacques Gamblin, Clovis Cornillac

Among contemporary works, it is rare to find a film taking its time, having its own pace but not entirely its own world because we can still relate to it, especially if its script is beautifully-written, so poignant I thought I am seeing it for the first time but I am not, and though its trio of characters is underdeveloped and understated, it works really well because Nickel and Dime aims not to show-off but to let us feel the paranoia of living in a corrupt world and enjoying little things in life at the same time (the anomaly of life), and after a while it reminds me that I am in the Philippines, crime pays tremendously, nothing compared to French bureaucracy -- like parallel lines, the difference between First World crimes and Third World crimes never meet (a pretentious guy I shook hands with a few weeks ago calls it, "Filipino films are as bad as Tribu, don't even mention it if we're talking about City of God") -- I cannot help but admire this film, the same way I admire Ozu's oeuvre, for simple films are the hardest ones to make, and don't forget its cunning reference to A Streetcar Named Desire: nostalgia is indeed fatal. * * * *

Monday Morning reminds me of myself almost 12 years ago: flipping through pages of books in our small, elementary library, looking for that story about a girl who sells matches in a wintry night and dies eventually, then, the bell rang, “Damn luck, I can’t find it!” but I decided to spend one more hour and skip my Journalism class. I finished the news article for the day, anyway. Silently, I managed to skim through books in almost every shelf that I could reach. In a sudden spur of the moment, something happened. I discovered something that defined a turning point. Glued and hypnotized, I thought my world ceased to rotate and revolve. It read clearly: Anthology of Poems by e e cummings. Its first poem, I was stunned. At such a young age, I realized how falling in love feels like:

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart)i am never without it(anywhere
i go you go,my dear;and whatever is done
by only me is your doing,my darling)
i fear
no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want
no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)
and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of the tree called life;which grows
higher than the soul can hope or mind,can hide)
and this is the wonder that’s keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)

In my eyes, those were beautiful lines of love, but comprehension was beyond my capabilities then. For I have felt it I knew I understood what ee cummings wants to say, and for words weren't enough to express emotions, I opted to keep my silence.

Monday Morning is not a love story, but rather a film about love's non-existence or its fleeting nature. Minutes in a life of an ordinary man named Vincent, who spends his day like it is the most boring day of his life. Its languid pacing -- an atmosphere reminiscent of Jacques Tati's comedies -- is filled with life's dullest and purest moments. Leaving the theater, it did not come as a surprise that Ioselliani is one of Tarkovsky's favorite filmmakers.

A realization.

When a film ceases to be a film, it becomes a poem. * * * *

Originally published in Digital Buryong on August 25, 2007.

Directed by Olivier Assayas, Federic Auburtin & Gerard Depardieu, Gurinder Chadha, Sylvain Chomet, Ethan & Joel Coen, Isabel Coixet, Wes Craven, Alfonso Cuaron, Christopher Doyle, Richard LaGravanese, Vincenzo Natali, Alexander Payne, Bruno Podalydes, Oliver Schmidt, Nobuhiro Suwa, Daniela Thomas & Walter Salles,
Tom Tykwer, and Gus Van Sant

I am tired of seeing Paris in pictures. I can smell Paris in novels and short stories, but I feel that those authors are lying to me. And even a film like Paris Je T'aime can't save me from this hole of desire, a surge as blindful as doses of squid inks, to visit this city where "overrated" seems to be non-existent.

The idea for this venture is brilliant. But like most good concepts, it is not delivered well. Or probably just falls short in overall direction. I am tempted to say coherence, but no -- it's not coherence. There is a smooth transition from one story to another: smooth and short enough to forget them easily. The transition could've been better. I wonder why the producers took out Christoffer Boe's and Raphaël Nadjari's segments just "because they could not be properly integrated into the movie." Judging how the omnibus turned out, it seems like it doesn't matter if they included the two. In fact, only a few stand out, either really bad or really good. Everything just came and went.

Trois mentions spécials:

Coen Brothers' Tuileries is fantastic. Steve Buscemi is still the Steve Buscemi I adore-- he still lives in oblivion. Forgetting the cardinal rule of eye contact, we know that even Mona Lisa cannot save him from two young lovers who consider kissing in public as their daily dose of Centrum.

Quite surprised that a lot of fellow bloggers and friends dislike Sylvain Chomet's Tour Eiffel. Perhaps I just can't forget how lovely Triplets of Belleville is. I am either laughing or smirking from start to finish, I don't know why. I just find mimes really funny and that kid is cute. It succeeds in making me smile, no matter what Chomet's intentions are. At least now I understand why people around me are so silent and why all the shrieks are just coming from a single mammal.

Hands down, the best installment is the last. Alexander Payne's lonely tourist visits Paris, armed with her Je parle français un peu and the osmosis of her past, and ends up more lonely than she ever expected. Its bitter ironies and the hilarity of her narration -- a language that French language beginners like myself finds very funny that I got teary-eyed -- save me from the disappointment that I thought I'll feel afterwards. Inoubliable: Practicing her French, she asks a store attendant how to go to a certain place. The girl recognizes that she is a tourist. She answers back in English. Harsh. Anyone knows where to buy modesty in Paris? Pardon the generalization. In Quatorzième Arrondisement, we realize how it's like to be in Paris after all.

P. S. Whatever happened to Chris Doyle? * * *

Originally published in Digital Buryong on June 10, 2007.

Original Title: Arthur et les Minimoys
Director: Luc Besson
Cast: Freddie Highmore, Mia Farrow, Penny Balfour

Coming up with a lazy review is what I plan to do. I hate transitions.

*The first Luc Besson film I ever saw. Not disappointed. With the initial sequences, I thought I shall be seeing a Macaulay Culkin sort of flick. But after a while, it was bursting with eye-popping imagery and stunning animation. My sister bought a VCD of The Fifth Element three years ago. I never paid any attention. Not my type. Now I want to see it. If only Bruce Willis is not there.

*It is tempting to compare Arthur with Pan's Labyrinth. Both are beautiful works of imagination. Besson prides himself as a filmmaker who works on diverse genres. From thriller, sci-fi, and film noir to children's story and environmental themes, he manages to widen his audience. I may be familiar with most of his works but I do not have any interest to watch or even buy them. He's too popular. I would rather devote my time in the less popular. Theo Angelopoulos, Bela Tarr, Ousmane Sembene, anyone? I am an idiot, these directors are also popular in the art circle.

*Even though almost everything is done perfectly, the huge pitfall is its story. It lacks dimension. It would've been much better. I wonder what became the problem. Budget? No way. Besson? I doubt it. Producers? No idea. Unlike Pan's Labyrinth, the conflict is too specific that everyone can relate to it. A kid left by his parents during his birthday. Grannie is there to be with him. It's his birthday. Blow the candles. Gift from Alfred, his dog. Gift from Grannie. Tears. Grandpa disappeared four years ago. He left a treasure. Evil broker comes. He wants the property. Grandpa is not present to sign the papers and pay the debt. So evil broker forces them to pack their bags after 48 hours. The treasure is the only key. Grandpa is a genius. He left riddles and puzzles so Arthur can find it. Arthur is a clever kid. He embarks in the journey. Minimoys. Great people. So is that story THE problem? Yes, a bit. Films with universal themes are more likely to pull-off its intentions. But of course, that depends on different factors. Actors, story, screenplay, budget, director, DOP, and everything. So what I just mentioned is too subjective that it made no sense. You wasted your time. All apologies.

*Eric Declaro will certainly love this film. But DeClaro loves the West. He hates the idea of turning poverty into an art form. He hates slums and prostituted women as subjects. I change my mind.

*One thing I noticed is that the Minimoys' noses are flat. Pango. So does that mean that the film's animators are Asians? No idea. Or like most local TV stations would dig for, is there a Filipino in the team? We love to hear news about our kababayans who are successful in other countries. Brain drain. Great.

*The credits rolled. Karen and I were surprised that Madonna, Snoop Dogg, and even David Bowie provided their voices. They are great singers but they speak differently in the film. Even Robert de Niro is there. Or perhaps we're just hungry. Nevertheless, that kid who played Arthur is superb. He is graceful. Even better than Haley Joel Osment five or six years ago. Swear. Expect the sequel in 2009 or 2010. That's according to imdb. Who will direct?

*Pardon my discombobulation. I'm sick and will always be. Que sera, sera. Senteo ergo sum. * * *

Originally published in Digital Buryong on June 8, 2007.

Original Title: OSS 117: Le Caire nid d'espions
Director: Michel Hazanavicius
Cast: Jean Dujardin, Berenice Bejo, Aure Atika

The 12th French Film Festival kicks off with OSS 117: Cairo, Nest of Spies, a film that parodies the spy film genre with a satirical reference to the James Bond series. As French Ambassador to the Philippines Gerard Chesnel puts it, OSS 117 is higher, and perhaps better, than 007.

And that sums up almost everything. OSS 117 is far better and wittier than James Bond. And Jean Dujardin is just trailing behind Daniel Craig in terms of muscle flexes.

Although it doesn't look like it, the film is set in 1955 when Hubert Bonisseur de La Bath (agent OSS 117) is investigating about the loss of his co-agent, Jack Jefferson, and a Russian cargo ship in Egypt. The film is based on the series of spy novels written in the 50s and 60s by Jean Bruce, sort of the French Ian Fleming. That explains the setting. The usual bombshells are on their way to lure him, seduce him, and make love with him. There are even Nazis who wanted to kill him. Stunning locations in Cairo and the Suez Canal complement with the overall look of the film -- adventurous, edgy, and feels like a Run Lola Run marathon. The story may not be great but at least it's entertaining. The detective plot blends well with the slapstick as OSS 117 is armed with impeccable wit and sarcasm. Likewise, the story may have retained the womanistic, stereotype Bond but the homoeroticism shown in its flashbacks is OSS 117's point of difference. Quite ironically, OSS 117's manic laughs and sexually-induced memories with his friend Jack turned him into a more appealing man -- brusquely feminine. Cool.

As OSS 117, Jean Dujardin is charming, rugged, brawny, and exceptionally witty. Dujardin is a delight to watch, not to mention that he is a famous comedian in France. Rough and impatient, he even disrespects Islam. Just because he can't sleep, he assaults the Muslim who's asking for prayers through the town speakers. With that character, Dujardin saves the opening night.

Remember that beautiful Nokia N93 commercial with the adorable Gary Oldman? Sadly, the one shown here in local TVs roughly edited a lot of spectacular insights from the original ad.

What are the ingredients to go into making a great movie?

A catchy score. A spectacular location. Dramatic lighting. A compelling dialogue. Love. Conflict. Mystery. Drama. Witty one-liners. Special effects. A chase sequence? Clear direction. An underlying message. Something to shoot it with. And a leading man.

Believe it or not, OSS 117 has all of those -- well probably a bit less of those -- but it still has all the elements. As the film is a huge hit in France, director Michel Hazanavicius is already shooting the next part of the series: OSS 117 gets sent to Iran. Let's look forward to that in the 13th FFF. * * *