Watching this is like taking a leisurely vacation in the rolling hills of Tuscany. I don't think there's any place in America that has such a sky. The sun seems a misty ochre and the land, where it's not tilled in straight furrows, consists of gravel paths between low stone walls, olive groves, chest-high grape arbors, and dark sturdy oaks. The arbors are populated by hordes of skittery lizards, Lacerta muralis. It's no wonder that summer dinners so often are eaten on long tables al fresco. What an appealing location.
And that, maybe, is the principal virtue of Bernardo Bertolucci's "Stealing Beauty." It takes patience and concentration to follow the story closely enough to be engaged by it, and, at heart, there really isn't much to it. A visiting American, the pretty and leggy Liv Tyler, finds out that a local artist is probably her real father, and shortly afterward gives up her virginity to an equally inexperienced local boy.
There's a lot of casual conversation, some of which seems to have little point. The function of some characters is a bit obscure. Jeremy Irons, a splendid actor, plays an older man who offers to serve as Liv Tyler's father. He's ill and is finally driven away in an ambulance. An almost unrecognizable Jean Marais is a dotty French visitor. Where do the French get these actors? They're sympatico without being particularly handsome. Jean Gabin, Philippe Noiret. I think I'll exclude Yves Montand because a girl friend once told me he was handsome, and I'm not talking about physical beauty.
With Bernardo Bertolucci you generally get some fairly explicit sex, as you do here. There is a party one night. After the guests are exhausted by all that dancing, they retire to engage in sexual activities of various stripes. (Poor Rachel Weisz.) But it's far from soft-core porn. Bertolucci avoids the billowing curtains and candle light clichés. There are no fingertips caressing unidentifiable furrows of someone else's body. When the sweet but innocent Italian boy is about to deflower Liv Tyler, he asks, "Can you help me?", and she slides her hand down inside his jeans. It's not exactly a torrid scene, though, and it doesn't end dramatically. The next morning, strolling back to the villa, the kid says that he'd like to follow her to America. She turns and replies, "Do so." And that's that. The kid runs off, waving, and we don't know whether he'll follow her or not, nor do we care anymore than Liv Tyler seems to care.
It's in no way a breakthrough film. Bertolucci takes his time and forces us to relax too. There's no violence and no tragedy. I have some trouble imagining most teen-aged kids enjoying this, especially the boys, whose taste and patience have been eroded over the years by exposure to a nimiety of films in which a shoot out with ugly guns has to take place every ten minutes. (Compare the original 1974 "The Taking of Pelham 1 2 3" with this year's remake, for an example of how esthetic values have devolved.) Liv Tyler gets stung on the arm and the breast by bees, but, you know what? I don't care. I'd like to be among that crowd for a summer. Sure, it would be tough, brushing up on whatever Italian I remember, but I wouldn't have to relearn any of it if Liv Tyler and her legs should come visiting. She speaks surprisingly good English for an American.
And that, maybe, is the principal virtue of Bernardo Bertolucci's "Stealing Beauty." It takes patience and concentration to follow the story closely enough to be engaged by it, and, at heart, there really isn't much to it. A visiting American, the pretty and leggy Liv Tyler, finds out that a local artist is probably her real father, and shortly afterward gives up her virginity to an equally inexperienced local boy.
There's a lot of casual conversation, some of which seems to have little point. The function of some characters is a bit obscure. Jeremy Irons, a splendid actor, plays an older man who offers to serve as Liv Tyler's father. He's ill and is finally driven away in an ambulance. An almost unrecognizable Jean Marais is a dotty French visitor. Where do the French get these actors? They're sympatico without being particularly handsome. Jean Gabin, Philippe Noiret. I think I'll exclude Yves Montand because a girl friend once told me he was handsome, and I'm not talking about physical beauty.
With Bernardo Bertolucci you generally get some fairly explicit sex, as you do here. There is a party one night. After the guests are exhausted by all that dancing, they retire to engage in sexual activities of various stripes. (Poor Rachel Weisz.) But it's far from soft-core porn. Bertolucci avoids the billowing curtains and candle light clichés. There are no fingertips caressing unidentifiable furrows of someone else's body. When the sweet but innocent Italian boy is about to deflower Liv Tyler, he asks, "Can you help me?", and she slides her hand down inside his jeans. It's not exactly a torrid scene, though, and it doesn't end dramatically. The next morning, strolling back to the villa, the kid says that he'd like to follow her to America. She turns and replies, "Do so." And that's that. The kid runs off, waving, and we don't know whether he'll follow her or not, nor do we care anymore than Liv Tyler seems to care.
It's in no way a breakthrough film. Bertolucci takes his time and forces us to relax too. There's no violence and no tragedy. I have some trouble imagining most teen-aged kids enjoying this, especially the boys, whose taste and patience have been eroded over the years by exposure to a nimiety of films in which a shoot out with ugly guns has to take place every ten minutes. (Compare the original 1974 "The Taking of Pelham 1 2 3" with this year's remake, for an example of how esthetic values have devolved.) Liv Tyler gets stung on the arm and the breast by bees, but, you know what? I don't care. I'd like to be among that crowd for a summer. Sure, it would be tough, brushing up on whatever Italian I remember, but I wouldn't have to relearn any of it if Liv Tyler and her legs should come visiting. She speaks surprisingly good English for an American.