This film of Proust's Le Temps Retrouvé stars thespian "geniuses" Catherine Deneuve, Emanuelle Béart, Italian unknown Marcello something (with dubbed-in voice) as the Narrator, and John Malkovich.
The film is now released, and in fact anyone who gave up reading Proust's masterpiece after the first 50, 100, or 150 pages (out of 2,400) will Retrouver the same Ennui he felt at the time. In fact, Ruiz' Temps Retrouvé re-captures this amazing sense of boredom so brilliantly, that even the most snobbish of littérature-lovers will feel relief from their guilt at not having read the whole Recherche, as they can now "understand" from this film that the book must also be an unblemished process of unrelieved and thankless tedium (that the new film depicts with panache !).
Malkovich's "brilliant" creation as the masochistic, perverted, gay, and twisted Baron de Charlus "renews" this reknowned actor's "huge" repertoire of characters, laying the lie to those who say : "If Malkovich is in it, it's a pile of steaming puppy poo!". Charlus' stumbling American accent (Malkovich's magnificent voice could *hardly* be dubbed. It's probably in his contract, no matter *how* sh*tty it sounds ... ) is perfectly (?) suited to the aristocratic, flowing language of Charlus, previously played by the inferior French Adventure-Film actor Alain Delon.
Ruiz rightly disdains letting his audience know what's going on; all snobbish art-lovers have read Proust haven't they? Why bother Narrating anything, even though the book is about a Narrateur? Everyone who's anyone should know every detail of the plot by heart ... Also, to make the story easier (?) to understand, Ruiz conflates Marcel Proust the Narrator, despite the fact that Proust was homosexual, but not the character. (There's lots of highly fashionable gay Malkovich sex in the film, anyway, so : who cares about the book?)
Ruiz' wonderful (?) device of non-linear storytelling is a perfect (?) rendering of Proust's theories of Time, Memory, and intermittence of the heart. This device is amplified by the director's own psychedelic imagery, which is a delightful (?) version of Proust, and new to the happy few who have read the great work.
Of course, if this is not enough for his audience; if they want to have some idea of the story, and the plot they can always open the pages of the wonderful (?) new Proust comic.
The film is now released, and in fact anyone who gave up reading Proust's masterpiece after the first 50, 100, or 150 pages (out of 2,400) will Retrouver the same Ennui he felt at the time. In fact, Ruiz' Temps Retrouvé re-captures this amazing sense of boredom so brilliantly, that even the most snobbish of littérature-lovers will feel relief from their guilt at not having read the whole Recherche, as they can now "understand" from this film that the book must also be an unblemished process of unrelieved and thankless tedium (that the new film depicts with panache !).
Malkovich's "brilliant" creation as the masochistic, perverted, gay, and twisted Baron de Charlus "renews" this reknowned actor's "huge" repertoire of characters, laying the lie to those who say : "If Malkovich is in it, it's a pile of steaming puppy poo!". Charlus' stumbling American accent (Malkovich's magnificent voice could *hardly* be dubbed. It's probably in his contract, no matter *how* sh*tty it sounds ... ) is perfectly (?) suited to the aristocratic, flowing language of Charlus, previously played by the inferior French Adventure-Film actor Alain Delon.
Ruiz rightly disdains letting his audience know what's going on; all snobbish art-lovers have read Proust haven't they? Why bother Narrating anything, even though the book is about a Narrateur? Everyone who's anyone should know every detail of the plot by heart ... Also, to make the story easier (?) to understand, Ruiz conflates Marcel Proust the Narrator, despite the fact that Proust was homosexual, but not the character. (There's lots of highly fashionable gay Malkovich sex in the film, anyway, so : who cares about the book?)
Ruiz' wonderful (?) device of non-linear storytelling is a perfect (?) rendering of Proust's theories of Time, Memory, and intermittence of the heart. This device is amplified by the director's own psychedelic imagery, which is a delightful (?) version of Proust, and new to the happy few who have read the great work.
Of course, if this is not enough for his audience; if they want to have some idea of the story, and the plot they can always open the pages of the wonderful (?) new Proust comic.