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Love in the Time of Cholera (2007)
'Gabo' Casts an Irreversible Spell in 'Cholera'
Part epistolary romance, part case study of a furtive and nerdy Casanova, Love in the Time of Cholera (El amor en los tiempos del cólera) reveals a male protagonist's optimistic and cynical perspectives of love. Portrayed with eloquence, charm and emotional complexity by Javier Bardem - who comes from a long line of thespians in Spain - Florentino Ariza surveys love's progression as an incurable disease. Hence, the cleverness of the film's title, for cholera during the periods depicted in Love in the Time of Cholera brought death quickly whereas love festers indefinitely.
In one of the most poignant moments of the 2007 film, a middle-aged Florentino utters to his dementia-ravaged mother: "You confuse cholera with love." Florentino's longing for the beautiful Fermina Daza was so intense, that his mother believed cholera to be the blame for his frequent bouts of vomiting and melancholia. That Gabriel García Márquez, author of the 1985 novel El amor en los tiempos del cólera, upon which the epic film is based, likens love to a terminal disease is an apt comparison. Such a romantic concept reverberated (with no small debt to John Barry's sweeping score) in Jeannot Szwarc's 1980 film Somewhere in Time, adapted unfaithfully from the 1975 novel Bid Time Return by Richard Matheson. In Somewhere in Time, a playwright (portrayed by Christopher Reeve) is described as having "died of love" after obsessing over a photo portrait of Belle Epoque actress Elise McKenna (portrayed by Jane Seymour) and willing himself back to her time in order to meet and fall in love with her.
In both films - Love in the Time of Cholera and Somewhere in Time - the viewer is challenged to redefine time beyond a cold, scientific certainty and to explore the interrelatedness of memories, emotions and metaphysics. Without relying on the special effects that action, sci-fi and horror flicks have conditioned our minds to accept as a requisite for magical occurrences, "Gabo" - as García Márquez is affectionately known in Latin America - asks us only to open the four chambers of our hearts, figuratively speaking. He implores us to feel the love (Lion King reference unintentional) that makes life worth living despite the social and economic chaos that often surrounds and threatens to desensitize us.
Love is the unseen but omniscient character in Love in the Time of Cholera, Somewhere in Time and another period film: Como agua para chocolate (Like Water for Chocolate) from director Alfonso Arau and adapted from the same-titled novel by Laura Esquivel. Esquivel's story is enchanting because it shouts from the rooftops that love holds the power to heal the wounded hearts of distanced lovers - whether the pair is separated by geography, disapproving parents, envious third parties, or any combination thereof. In fact, in Como agua para chocolate, when forbidden lovers Tita (Lumi Cavazos) and Pedro (Marco Leonardi) finally come together, Marco's voice booms: "TE AMO!" What follows in the barn is a literal combustion. Well, the fact that Tita had swallowed nearly an entire box of matches prior to their consummation was an eerie clue.
Another dose of "magical realism" - an artistic technique first recognized in American visual art of the mid-20th century and later employed in progressive literature by Latin American writers in the '60s and '70s - that transferred well from Esquivel's story to Arau's picture was the series of haunting sequences which result from Tita psychologically battling her destiny. Tita's fate may have been to become a spinster, but with Pedro's sensual aid she finds her way. As the youngest daughter, she is fated to take care of her widowed mother, Mamá Elena (Regina Torné), until her death. But when Tita reciprocates Pedro's flirtation to the point of infusing eroticism into the scrumptious dishes that she prepares for the family (which expands after her sister Rosaura's marriage to Pedro), a curse about which Mamá Elena warned is cast.
Speaking of Como agua para chocolate, much in the way Pedro professes "amor" from the top of his lungs in that torrid barn scene mentioned earlier in this review, hoodlum-Romeo Antone a/k/a "Tony" (Richard Beymer) in West Side Story painfully shouts his beloved's name, "MARIA!" on an urban street. In the first half of West Side Story, however, Tony envisions only love's promise, not its sometimes tragic consequences. The agonizing truth of the controversial affair between Tony and María (Natalie Wood) comes across as brutally honest as an admission in a long-avoided confessional booth when the youths perform "Somewhere." And María's divinity, in Tony's eyes, rings as true as a cathedral bell when his dubbed voice sings the ballad "María": "The most beautiful sound I've ever heard, María, María, María ... Say it loud and there's music playing. Say it soft and it's almost like praying."
Holiness takes a holiday in the motives of Florentino, however. Though he frequently refers to Fermina as his "crowned goddess" to anyone willing to listen, he indulges in mucho carnality throughout Love in the Time of Cholera. He is deliberate in going about a purely sexual catharsis in order to alleviate emotional pain caused by Fermina's rejection. When he first spoke of his love for her, Fermina felt honored, but after a while, enough is enough!
The rape of Florentino (in his 20s, presumably) is presented by director Newell and screenwriter Ronald Harwood as a misogynistic justification for Florentino's debauchery. After Florentino beds down (with desks, walls and leafy forests sometimes replacing mattresses as props) more than 600 women well into his 70s, he loses the viewers' sympathy with the abruptness of a Victrola's needle skidding across a vinyl record.
A second chance at love often requires much suffering on the part of the one whom love was denied. In that sense of murky optimism, Love in the Time of Cholera elevates love to the most sublime affliction. "Gabo" probably would agree with that diagnosis.
Vampire's Kiss (1988)
When Life Has You by the Throat ... Laugh! (warning: review contains spoilers)
VAMPIRE'S KISS has so many meanings. There's so much symbolism in this film. On the one hand, it's a parody of early-20th-century vampire flicks, as I have read in comments here on IMDb. On the other hand, I find it's a quirky little existential movie with big messages about modern life.
Dig it: VAMPIRE'S KISS is a movie made in the 1980s about life during the Reagan era. While in the mid-1970s sexual revolution, the Andrea True Connection sang "More, More, More" to a disco beat, in the early to late 1980s folks with megamoney and strong nostrils were living the lyrics to the new-wave rendition of "Money (That's What I Want)." So Nick Cage, as literary agent Peter Loew, is playing a self-centered yuppie. OK, that's an oxymoron. As I was saying, Nicky baby is portraying (and with verve) an egocentric yuppie who sucks the life out of anyone who steps into his path, including his one-night-stands and his secretary.
Peter's secretary, the seemingly innocent Alma, is a first-class screw-up. I've been a secretary; I know what not to do, and she does that all too well. ("Alma" is played by Maria Conchita Alonso, who, outside of the taut drama CAUGHT, does some of her best acting here opposite Cage.) Why am I labeling Alma a grade-A screw-up? She indeed lost that contract just as certifiably as Peter loses his mind. Did Alma deserve poor and violent treatment from a deranged boss? No, but that's part of what makes VAMPIRE'S KISS a guilt-inducing riot. The film is 360 degrees of political incorrectness, so offbeat and yet so hip that it keeps its own rhythm. Just as one example: Peter goes all the way to the Bronx, or Jersey -- or wherever it is Alma's family lives -- in a medallion taxi! Then, while waiting for her to get dressed for work, he curses her using the "c" word even though he knows he has the upper hand and will win at deceiving her. He's fierce one moment, a punk the next. And by punk, I sure don't mean Billy Idol. This guy pukes in the back seat of the cab. Outrageous, but funny! And definitely existential. Where there's the stench of vomit and impending death in a film, there's almost always existentialism in the message or theme.
I never fail to recommend VAMPIRE'S KISS to friends and co-workers who lean toward the creative or artistic realm -- and who have an open-minded sense of humor. I am neither highbrow nor lowbrow. Morning can find me perched in front of the screen watching THE UNBEARABLE LIGHTNESS OF BEING, while afternoon may find me extracting meaning through subtitles in Truffaut's 400 BLOWS, so in the evening it feels good to let loose with campy fare such as VAMPIRE'S KISS. I cannot count how often I laugh uncontrollably while watching Nick going overboard.
For me, quarterly (and more frequent) doses of VAMPIRE'S KISS and OSS 117 keep my heart healthier than a daily bowl of hot oatmeal. And one last thing: if you don't laugh, at least snicker, when Nick as Peter Loew dashes through the Manhattan nightscape euphorically exclaiming, "I'm a VAMpire! I'm a VAMpire! I'm a VAMpire! I'm a VAMpire!" then I say: Somebody done sucked the life outta you.
Coco Chanel (2008)
It Takes an Icon to Portray an Icon
I'm rating Lifetime's "Coco Chanel" 9/10 as a creative made-for-TV biopic. Yes, all reviews are subjective. However, I suspect that some folks who have berated the movie on the IMDb boards and on other websites may have become confused by thinking that Shirley MacLaine in the title role means the film should be judged for Oscar-worthiness. To that, I respond with a resounding NO! The first time I sat down to watch "Coco Chanel," I knew to hook up the coffeemaker and have a plate of my favorite store-brand cookies on hand, as there's no patisserie nearby where I can grab a flaky pain au chocolat.
My point is I wanted an old-fashioned love story and a Coco Chanel séance, and by God I got both thanks to Shirley MacLaine pretending to be the first lady of the House of Chanel. And I'm glad that Lifetime tackled the project. I pass (out) on the network's dime-a-dozen, women-in-peril movies; only to be outdone by my tabby, who hurls fur balls at the sound of the first cello chord. Seriously, what I love about Lifetime are the quirky, chick-lit-style romances ("Cake" immediately comes to mind) and the historical romances. "Coco Chanel" is best-suited in the latter category.
That the iconoclastic MacLaine portrays the title character makes for a riveting character study accentuated with progressive statements about femininity in male-dominated society (France, in this movie) and about the courage for disenfranchised people of male or female persuasion to be independent-minded as they strive for success. Besides MacLaine, perhaps only Fanny Ardant could have masterfully ("mistressfully"?) channeled Coco Chanel for this Lifetime drama. I mention Ardant's name because I recently watched her in two previously released movies -- "Nathalie," opposite Emmanuelle Beart, and "Paris Je T'aime," the multi-directed cinematic kiss to the city's erotic magnetism. But it is MacLaine in the role, and we get to watch wide-eyed as she magnifies Chanelisms on the small screen.
Through MacLaine's haunting performance of a mature Coco (circa 1954) and Barbora Bobulova's vulnerable delivery playing a young Coco, we are transported back-and-forth in time. The flashbacks are employed effectively, enabling us viewers to sympathize with the mature Coco's regrets about the past, beginning with MacLaine batting her sparkling eyes over a demitasse of espresso or whatever. In the other direction, the flashbacks in "Coco Chanel" allow us viewers to discover how an orphaned girl blossomed into the woman who chiseled her way from France to America to stand out as *the* fashion diva of the early- to mid-20th century. Let's remember that Coco had the balls to wear hats *and* pants. And she had a custom-designed quip for any man -- or woman, for that matter -- who challenged her unconventional ways. You go, Coco! Ahem, back to my review. ...
Currently, "Coco Chanel" is back on cable via the Lifetime On Demand lineup in my area. Tonight is my third time watching the movie in just as many days. Every time I watch the biopic, I am enthralled by its three-pronged approach. To illustrate: 1) Without Mademoiselle Chanel's trailblazing contributions to the history of fashion, where, oh where, would we gals be without our costume jewelry and little black dress? Don't get me started on scarves, though the tragic story of modern-dance pioneer Isadora Duncan offers a bizarre discouragement to favoring *that* kind of accessory. Still, Chanel may have been the first one to say "Accessorize, accessorize, accessorize" -- albeit in French.
2) The torn-between-two-lovers story arc gets the blood pumping in the right direction because it: a) creates titillating plot tension, b) evokes that deceptively innocent-sounding ballad sung by Mary MacGregor in 1977, and c) offers Harlequin-style romantic scenes between beauteous brunette Barbora Bobulova and either of her knights in shifty armor: Sagamore Stevenin (as "Etienne") and Olivier Sitruk (as "Boy" -- oh boy, oh boy, oh, boy!); and 3) Coco's drivenness as an artist is salient in the drama. Against obstacles endemic to social-class prejudice, she bravely struggles between pursuing her art (hat making, her first love) and earning her bread-and-butter (seamstress work).
Ironically, today when many of us think of the Chanel name, the couture fragrance intermingled with Catherine Deneuve's face and platinum blonde hair may come to mind instead of Coco's groundbreaking signature fashions. Lifetime's "Coco Chanel" seems to indicate that the visionary entrepreneur ventured into the olfactory branch of the fashion world reluctantly, and much later in life. It's apropos, though, for a dab here and there of Chanel No. 5 means a woman is wearing it well. And that, my friends, is an exquisite ode to Coco Chanel's lingering legacy. Well, that and being able to have an extended stay at the Hotel Ritz in Paris.
Blow-Up (1966)
Mod Sensibilities in the Shadow of 'Rear Window'
The first time I viewed Michelangelo Antonioni's Blowup, the movie was halfway in progress and I was utterly confused. Still, I was intrigued by the contrast between the boring black-and-white of Thomas' photographic prints and the bold colors of his fantastical world by which he earns his living. Upon a second viewing of Blowup only yesterday on the TCM channel, however, I have discovered something new, and it is this: There is wonderful, cruel irony in Thomas enlarging his b&ws and yet becoming ever more puzzled by what could be a mystery in his life of ennui. It's, like, totally Hitchcockian.
It is as though David Hemmings' Thomas channels Jimmy Stewart's character in Alfred Hitchcock's Rear Window, carrying out his photographic skills as second nature while trying to play P.I. Not only are both men good at their job, but also they possibly could be risking their lives. As Stewart was in Rear Window a decade earlier, Thomas is faced with the unknown -- with that which cannot be seen but indeed can be intuited. Think of that classic image of the young/old lady: If you stare long and hard enough, you perceive what you want. Yeah, it's called a self-fulfilling prophecy.
Yesterday, when I watched Thomas examining certain elements of his "blowups," immediately my mind turned to certain scenes in Rear Window where Stewart sees what *could be* evidence of a crime already committed. In both films, however, the viewer is not let in on the facts of the case and, thus, does not know *if* a crime was committed. In both films, the elements of time and lighting are other characters, just not included in the credits.
Also, as an artist, during my second viewing of Blowup I relished in the realm of illusion symbolized by the film's bold colors and the use of drugs (including nicotine) as props to reinforce the illusion. Not that I have ever taken an illegal drug in my life, but this second time around watching Blowup gave me the feeling that Antonioni was taking me on a psychedelic trip. The beautiful part, baby, is throughout Blowup I connected with the metaphysical crisis that Thomas experiences as an artist in need of a self-assessment of his worth as an adult human being.
After vicariously suffering through his mental defrag while he deconstructs each chunk of a photographed mystery, I thirsted for visual relief. I also needed mango sorbetto, and once seated in front of the television again, I welcomed Antonioni's mini-masterpieces of distraction. In no particular order, I was mesmerized by moving colors in the form of the female models tumbling with Thomas as he pulls off their costumes among the purple paper in a well-edited, living-color orgy sequence. Progressive jazz courtesy of Herbie Hancock and his ensemble transform a curt and fleeting mystery lady (played by Vanessa Redgrave) into, literally, a smoking woman. Remarkably, Redgrave manages to resemble Anouk Aimee in Claude Lelouch's Un Homme et Une Femme, thanks to her mannerisms and, perhaps, the movie's hair stylist and makeup artist.
The most delicious distraction for this voyeur, er, viewer, was one that provided insight into Thomas' solitude. It's a scene that magnifies his alienation, an existence that is more stripped-down than mere loneliness, and for him it occurs outside of his fashion-and-photography sphere. I am referring to the scene in which Thomas comes upon his painter friend making love with the latter's girlfriend, Patricia (portrayed by Sarah Miles). Thomas' eyes lock onto Patricia's while she squirms beneath a bright duvet and moans toward climax (either a true or fake one, in keeping with the film's shifting theme). It is the one moment in the film that I nearly sympathize with this Peeping Thomas because it's a painful glimpse into unrequited love. I would be remiss if I didn't mention the absurd angle of the painter friend, who appears absorbed in his own ecstatic abstraction instead of engaged in the erotic action.
Blowup is located at the intersection of minimalist thriller and surreal character study. That is my compliment to the late great Michaelangelo Antonioni. Anytime I can catch this addictive 1966 film on my cable lineup, I will delight in its visual diversions from everyday, black-and-white existential angst. The virtual walk-through in Thomas' duplex alone is a hippie trip at a safe distance.
After nearly 50 years since Blowup was released, it's still not every artist who can afford an interior designer to infuse his or her vain existence with a groovy dose of mad, mod colors. So if Blowout doesn't appear on your cable lineup in months to come, get thee to a vintage shop and ... dig it.
The Apartment (1960)
A Smart Dramedy That Keeps Viewers in the Dark, With Sparks
In the interest of space and preventing redundancy, I will not provide a full review of The Apartment. A great many commenters before me already have written such excellent critiques of magic man Billy Wilder's remarkably timeless farce. First, let me say out loud that not since Wall Street have I viewed a smarter corporate fable with such ingenious dialogue. My two cents here, then, will zoom in tightly on the movie's portrayal of working women and its exploration of their inner lives.
While we women have made great advancements in the workplace -- even smashing through the glass ceiling now and then like underpaid stuntwomen -- when it comes to matters of the heart, some things never change. Every time I watch the scenes between actors Shirley MacLaine and Fred MacMurray, I get a lump in my throat that sits there until funny man Jack Lemmon's lightens the scene with one of his brilliant facial mannerisms. Now, I have viewed The Apartment more than 15 times -- since first catching it on cable's TCM channel three years ago and since receiving the video two years ago as a gift from the unrequited-love-of-my-life. So those are a lot of lumps in my throat. Such is the power of a great script and masterful direction, both of which allowing the viewers to study the contours of a heart that has been broken, mended and broken again. And such is the endurance of The Apartment, a Billy Wilder satire dealing with the lack of ethics in corporate America and the resulting alienation and sexual pathos.
What is amazing, and thrilling, is that The Apartment feels as contemporary now as it must have been in 1960. As attached as I am to my apartment, I feel the misery of Lemmon's C.C. Baxter character every time he must (well, of his own volition) forsake his. What wild circumstances The Apartment presents for viewers' critique and voyeuristic pleasure.
Speaking of pleasure, the adulterous fantasies played out in The Apartment are darkly Wilder. Back in 1960, I wasn't even a sparkle in my father's eye. Hmmmm ... come to think of it, with all the illicit fun folks were having back then, too, perhaps I wasn't meant to be a sparkle in my mother's eye, either.
Eve's Christmas (2004)
A Holiday Charmer
Not since 1980's Somewhere in Time, starring Christopher Reeve and Jane Seymour, have I enjoyed as charming a film as Eve's Christmas. I even love the catchy title, transposing "Christmas Eve" to convey that the title character embodies, from a secular perspective, the essence of Christmas spirit. After each viewing, I am left with a tingly feeling that a person sometimes can be granted a second chance at love in the tender embrace of his or her soulmate.
Eve's Christmas, a fast-paced, sparkling fantasy, definitely is aimed at female audiences but, especially in these turbulent times, might find many fans among males. Not only do men also need a harmless escape now and then, but, like women, they are 10 pounds heavier after Thanksgiving and need a spiritual lift from the holiday blues (not to mention a distraction from their pockets becoming lighter).
I might add that the acting in the film is satisfactory, and I find that Cheryl Ladd (who portrays Eve's mom) is more attractive in her autumnal years than in her "Charlie's Angels" days -- or should I say, daze. I love the scene when mom and daughter sit in the living room, and Eve gets a chance to hear her mother confess that she had flirted once with the road less traveled.
Eve's Christmas reminds us all that, no matter how intellectual we have become as we age, the little girl (or boy) in all of us yearns for the miracle of What Could Have Been. Time-travel films, whether on TV or the big screen, are delightful vehicles for reaffirming the fluid, non-linear properties of romance. It does not matter -- logically or metaphysically speaking -- who the prince (or princess) turns out to be in these films, as long as love itself is the winner in the time-trek game. So, once again, like other chick-flick-loving gals, I await repeated airings in December of Eve's Christmas and other cable films of its ilk that transport me and you to that perfect dimension of time -- orchestra, please -- The Romantic Zone.
Indiscreet (1958)
Fanning the Flames of Desire in 'Indiscreet'
Fervent desire often overlaps into soft-porn territory in the cinematic language and images of the aughties, to the extent that the old-fashioned spirit in some of us yearns for timeless romantic movies such as 1958's "Indiscreet." These films remind us of the importance of courtship in modern times. This reviewer has nary a word against adult nudity on film, when handled artistically and sans embarrassment as in many European films, but even more offensive than today's shock stock are the inane romantic comedies made by directors/auteurs who believe that casting good-looking actors precludes using a well-written script. While not a perfect film, "Indiscreet," starring Cary Grant and Ingrid Bergman, captures the bliss and blush of courtship between two middle-aged adults and the reluctant romance that subtly blossoms between them. Sure, the camera loves Grant and Bergman, but their fine acting combined with clever dialogue outshine their exterior beauty.
Courtship, wherefore art thou? Grant as Philip and Bergman as Anna stare longingly into each other'seyes in various scenes in "Indiscreet." In the breakfast nook scene in Anna's apartment, Philip lets his meal grow cold while Anna prepares hers at the stove. ("It's servants' day off" was her seductive phone invite earlier that morning.) One of Bergman's best lines in this scene is "Stop. Good manners spoil good food." Once seated, she too finds it nearly impossible to eat because her suitor is drinking in her eyes. More than once they eat, pause to stare at each other, then resume noshing.
Also quite memorable are the scenes detailing the first date between the stage actress and the international diplomat. After consuming too much champagne at a private club where Anna's brother-in-law, Alfred, is a member, they arrive too late to attend a ballet performance of "Romeo and Juliet" and decide to give Anna's tickets to two teen-agers. Here is where Grant delivers one of the most understated lines in "Indiscreet": "I know how the story ends, bad." (That comment, not simply a reference to the Shakespearean drama, could have been meant as a social statement about conservative adults' opposition to young love in '50s America -- i.e. the waltz vs. rock n' roll.) Rather than end the evening with a failed date, Anna and Philip return to the club for more libation and laughter topped off by a nighttime stroll past London monuments, Anna's chauffeur and a few of her fans trailing them.
The final scene of Anna and Philip's first night of courtship exemplifies subtly handled erotic fire in "Indiscreet." Anna and Philip briefly share banter about a night cap before disappearing into her apartment and shutting the door. When the camera zooms out from the shot of that closed door, the visual effect and erotic impact are more telling than a "Do Not Disturb" sign hanging on the doorknob outside a honeymoon suite. By stark contrast, many R-rated flicks today are overhanded in the area of sexual content. They prefer lingerie shedding and naughty/scatological word lashing to, say, Bertolucci's early films (think "Last Tango in Paris") that treat nudity and sex as moving sculptures and paintings, respectively, and reserve curse words for existential statements.
Whenever I need romantic inspiration, I pop "Indiscreet" into my DVD player and wait for the glances, kisses and innuendos to begin.