Fantasia ’24: The Old Man and the Demon Sword

It is basically the anti-Excalibur. You don’t possess this sword—it possesses you. Wielding it necessarily entails a Faustian bargain. It is best possible weapon for killing demons, but by doing so, the demon trapped within will eventually build up enough power to break out. Old tipsy Tonho is no demon-slayer, but somehow the blade finds its way into his hands in Fabio Powers’ The Old Man and the Demon Sword, which screened at the 2024 Fantasia International Film Festival.

Initially, the Demon Sword had a highly contentious relationship with its wielder, a fiery padre literally crusading against demons. When he dies in battle, the sword literally falls to Tonho. He might be drunk, but he is smart enough to resist picking it up. Nevertheless, the Demon Sword marks him anyway.

Ironically, Tonho is more devout than any of the film’s flawed clergy. The boozy widower truly tries to hew to a righteous path, which clearly does not preclude the old hair of the dog, at least in his judgement. That leads to constant squabbling with the Demon Sword, whom he can hear in his head. Regardless, they must work together eventually, when they enter a magically sealed-off Portuguese village harboring demons.

Powers’ deliberately exaggerated, lo-fi grungy DIY style is amusing, at least for a while. However, even the film’s relatively brief running time (a mere 64-minutes) starts to wear out its welcome, especially when it resorts to overly-familiar meta conventions. There is also a weird disconnect between the intentional low-budget aesthetic (for comedic effect) and its half-serious discussion of profound theological concepts. Frankly, this wild cocktail would have probably worked better as a twentysomething-minute short film.

Amelia’s Children: uma familia malvada em Portugal

It would be fitting if Edward’s girlfriend bought him a DNA/ancestry test kit from the same company that the orphaned protagonist in The Invitation used. They must offer a discount for supernatural weirdos. In this case, Edward is not related to vampires, but he was definitely better off not knowing his family roots in Gabriel Abrantes’ Amelia’s Children, which opens Friday in New York.

For years, Edward yearned to reconnect with his biological family, but there were no leads in his adoption file. For his birthday, his girlfriend Riley gives him a DNA testing kit and a few days later he is getting messages from his brother Manuel. Make that his twin brother Manuel, as Edward and Riley are rather surprised to learn when they visit the family castelo in northern Portugal.

Edward also finally meets his mother Amelia, who is old and infirm, yet still strangely vain and coquettish. She and Manuel clearly have a close relationship—perhaps to a disturbing extent. However, he is so delighted to finally have a mother, he ignores the glaring warning signs that alarm Riley. For instance, she wonders why nobody ever speaks of Edward’s father?

Amelia’s Children has a lurid throwback Euro-horror vibe that is rather entertaining in a trashy and nostalgic kind of way. This is definitely a hot-blooded film that winkingly implies shocking transgressions, but keeps things mainly within traditional horror movie bounds. The gothic trappings add a lot and the Portuguese sounds correctly translated.

Fantasia ’22: My Grandfather’s Demons

Whittling in wood is definitely a grandpa kind of thing to do, but Rosa’s grandfather was a little different. He carved demons. It turns out, they represented the sins and regrets of his life. After his death, Rosa returns to his village, where she must exorcize his old demons, most metaphorically, in Nuno Beato’s My Grandfather’s Demons, Portugal’s first stop-motion animated feature, which screened at the 2022 Fantasia International FilmFestival.

It is quite a shock to Rosa when she learns her grandfather was the mean old man nobody liked. She had lost touch with him after she moved apartments, because she was consumed by her work. As a result, she was already carrying a load of guilt when she arrived. Then she learned his village blamed him for its misfortunes. At first, she dismisses their peasant superstitions, but her dreams are plagued by visions of the demonic figurines he carved.

Beato starts the film in the mode of traditional cell animation, but transitions to stop-motion when Rosa arrives at her grandfather’s farmhouse. The former is kind of quirky, but the clay-based animation creates a richly realized world, informed by local lore. Screenwriters Possidonio Cachapa and Cristina Pinheiro flirt with the fantastical, while maintaining an evocative sense of the mysterious. Of course, Rosa is definitely haunted, but in how many senses of the word?

Regardless, Rosa has a richer character development arc than most live action characters. Her struggles to come to terms with her grandfather’s legacy and atone for his mistakes is some pretty heavy, archetypal stuff. Plus, the music is lovely and the clay landscape looks ruggedly beautiful. It is hard to believe this is Beato’s first feature or Portugal’s first full-length stop-motion film, because it is so impressively realized.

Manoel de Oliveira’s Francisca

The late Manoel de Oliveira was the perfect filmmaker to adapt Augustina Bessa-Luis’s novel Fanny Owen, because he could probably remember the 19^th Century scandal it was based on. Oliveira started his career acting in Portuguese silent films, but he had some of his most productive years as a director after his centennial. Back in 1981, his international stock shot up dramatically with the international release of his austere historical masterwork, Francisca, which releases virtually today in its freshly restored one-hundred-sixty-six-minute glory.

It will be a battle of the moustaches for the heart of Francisca “Franny” Owen, the daughter of an elite English officer now residing in Portugal. Self-consciously Byronesque Jose Augusto Pinto de Magalhaes has the inside track in his rivalry with his ostensive friend Camilo Castelo Branco, the revered author of Mysteries of Lisbon. Unfortunately, Jose Augusto’s severe intimacy issues and innate misanthropy inevitably leads to a deeply dysfunctional, codependent relationship. Yet, despite Branco’s somewhat self-interested warnings, Owen willingly embraces Jose Augusto’s chaos, more or less realizing it will all end in tears—which it does.

With Francisca, Oliveira is clearly working towards the deliberately mannered, post-modernist style that would reach its full flowering in his epic adaptation of Claude Claudel’s Satin Slipper. He still stages the drama with traditional period trappings, but strips down the sets and locations (which probably makes them more historically acutely than the typically lush costume romance). There is also an artificial theatricality that is maybe not as extreme as that seen in Slipper, but a lot of viewers will still need time to acclimate themselves to it, especially the way dialogue is often repeated for effect.

Indeed, it is easy to admire the auteurist vision of Francisca, but it is not exactly a film you would want to curl up with on a cold winter’s night. Oliveira’s adaptation is certainly not plot heavy, but it steadily builds to a climax that rings with significance for viewers who have properly invested in the film. Instead of sweeping passions, Francisca is all about bitter ironies.

Brooklyn Horror ’17: The Forest of Lost Souls

What happens in the suicide forest does not necessarily stay in the suicide forest. In the Portuguese equivalent of Japan’s Aokigahara Forest, an old man and a cynical teen meet as they make their final preparations. They will share their final moments together, until the film takes a sharp turn into left field slasher territory. Suicide is certainly not painless in José Pedro Lopes’ The Forest of Lost Souls (trailer here), which screens today during the 2017 Brooklyn Horror Film Festival.

For Ricardo, it seems appropriate to end his life in the same forest where his older daughter Irene committed suicide. However, the punky Carolina makes him realize how little he thought through the practical matters. Not pre-writing a suicide note was a mistake, because the lack of closure becomes an invitation to procrastination. Likewise, the hunting knife he brought is ridiculously unrealistic. However, she could help on both scores, if he would just stop lecturing her on the failings of her entitled generation.

One twist later brings us to a suburban neighborhood, where an oblivious family is in mortal danger. It is connected to the first half, in an especially sinister way, but it would be no fair telling. There is definitely slashery business, but it is the anticipation that kills us, rather than the actual violence. Daniela Love and Jorge Mota are both terrific as Carolina and Ricardo, particularly during and after the big pivot.

Without question, Forest of Souls far scarier and creepier than Jason Zada’s similarly themed, but workaday The Forest, but it is not as horrifying as the sappy symbolism of Gus Van Sant’s Sea of Trees (but don’t hold that against it). Lopes stage-manages the prey-stalking sequences with clockwork precision. Yet, ultimately it is the irony of what happens that chills us to the bone.

Francisco Lobo’s black-and-white cinematography is even more stunning than that of Veronica, but there is still no denying this is a horror movie. Seriously, this is one that could keep experienced genre fans up at night. Highly recommended, The Forest of Lost Souls screens this afternoon (10/15) at the Wythe Hotel as part of this year’s Brooklyn Horror Film Festival.

Panorama Europe ’16: Os Maias

Remember how the old set-up line: “that was no lady?” Well, Maria Eduarda is not Carlos da Maias’s wife and he is not laughing. Unfortunately, the prominent society doctor was born in scandal and scandal will continue to find him. Of course, he also does more than his share to contribute to his family’s ill karma in João Botelho’s adaptation of Eça de Queiroz’s Nineteenth Century Portuguese realist novel, Os Maias: Scenes from Romantic Life (trailer here), which screens as part of Panorama Europe 2016.

Evidently, in late 1800’s Lisbon, any wife left unattended for too long was considered fair game. At least, this seems to be the attitude of Dr. Carlos da Maias and his rakish companion, João da Ega. Frankly, da Maias really ought to know better, as the only son of Pedro da Maias, who took his own life after his wife absconded with a Parisian adventurer. He was raised by his grandfather, the illustrious Afonso da Maias (who had warned his son not to get involved with a notorious slaver’s daughter), as we see during the extended black-and-white prologue.

Despite his affection for the righteous old man, the grandson does not follow his example. While Ega chases after a government minister’s wife, Maias commences an affair with an ever so willing Condessa. Quickly tiring of the countess, Maias turns his attention towards Maria Eduarda the wife of a Brazilian business man with a somewhat iffy reputation. Unfortunately, Maias falls for Eduarda harder than is safe for a roguish ladies’ man, putting himself in a socially awkward position.

Add to that about a dozen subplots and barrel full of Oscar Wilde-style barbed witticisms to get a sense of the tone of Os Maias. Although its source novel is broadly lumped in with Stendahlian Realism, Botelho deliberately rejects strict verisimilitude in favor of high stylization. Much like Manoel de Oliveira’s The Satin Slipper, Os Maias employs conspicuously painted backdrops and settings to emphasize the film’s sound stage confines. The was a little bit of that sort of expressive theatricality in Raúl Ruiz’s Mysteries of Lisbon as well, so maybe this is just something they go for in Portugal.

Regardless, the scandal and snark are all so rich, viewers will get sucked into this irreproachably classy soap opera, despite the artificial trappings. As Afonso da Maias, João Perry anchors the film with superhuman gravitas. He just personifies tragic dignity and bitter regret. Graciano Dias’s Carlos da Maias comes across as somewhat vapid, but that sort of works within the dramatic context. However, Pedro Inês work as Ega is a rare example of a performance that has to be seen in its entirety to be fully appreciated. While initially, he is just insufferable, the shtick takes on a “crazy like a fox” quality over time. Once he starts to click, he becomes the sly, acerbic dynamo driving the film.

Similarly, once you get accustomed to the look of the picture, Silvia Grabowski’s sets and designs are really quite lovely to behold. Likewise, cinematographer João Ribeiro gives it all a rich and somewhat hazy look. Considering how much the production calls attention to its exaggerated staginess, it is a bizarrely immersive film. 

Panorama Europe is screening the official festival cut of Os Maias, but there is also a longer director’s cut making the rounds with an additional fifty minutes of gossip and innuendo (presumably some of that is covered by the irregular voice-overs in the “short” one hundred thirty-nine-minute version). The Botelho’s full edit might be even better, but the festival cut is still quite a lot of fun. Highly recommended for anyone who enjoys big, chewy, slightly salacious literary dramas, Os Maias screens this Tuesday (5/10) at Bohemia National Hall and Saturday the 21^st at the Museum of the Moving Image, as part of this year’s Panorama Europe.

Contenders ’15: Memories and Confessions

You have to give the Instituto Português de Cinema credit for their patience. They produced Manoel de Oliveira’s highly personal docu-memoir in 1982, but it was only just released this year. It was intended as a final cinematic testament to be screened after the then seventy-three year-old filmmaker’s death. However, Oliveira would have the greatest second wind in movie-making history. Nearly thirty-three years, twenty-four narrative features, and numerous shorts, documentaries, and anthology film contributions later, Oliveira finally passed away. Reportedly, he had several films in active development. It is a shame we will not get the chance to see what they could have been, but at least Oliveira left us his final film, circa 1981-1982. Automatically significant due to the circumstances surrounding it, Oliveira’s Memories and Confessions screened last night as part of MoMA’s annual Contenders series.

Arguably, Oliveira’s best work was ahead of him in 1981 (when principle photography was shot)—way, way ahead—but the Portuguese auteur was clearly feeling a bit weary at the time. The authoritarian Salazar government had fallen, but Oliveira was about to lose his grand family home due to some strange financial flimflamerry. The Oliveira factory had already been occupied and gutted by its workers, leaving them mired in tax debt.

Perhaps appropriately, we first enter the Oliveira house in the company of spectral intruders, whose voiceover narration is often impressionistic and philosophical. Before long, we stumble across Oliveira typing out yet another script. Up until M&C, all his films had been written in that cozy study. It is a home with history. Designed by Portuguese modernist Jose Porto, it had been the scene of weddings, deaths, extended illnesses, and child rearing. It was also there that Salazar’s enforcers arrested the politically-averse Oliveira.

Seemingly confused by the episode himself, Oliveira revisits the scenes of his arrest and ten-day detention. He also takes us on a tour of the hollowed-out Oliveira factory and the then-working but soon-to-be-defunct Tobis Portuegesa, the nation’s last working film studio.

It is just rather strange to consider how much Oliveira would accomplish while his final cinematic statement was resting snugly in the vault. The film is like the ghost of a ghost, capturing Oliveira at a crossroads that now looks more like a mid-life stock-taking than a career summation. It is a thoughtful, meditative film, but not surprisingly, the more you know of Oliveira, the richer the viewing experience will be.

Frankly, some of the disembodied narration comes across as awkward and stilted. However, Oliveira is an engaging storyteller and the imminent loss of his home gives the film a bitter sweet end-of-an-era vibe. The lived-in elegance of Chez Oliveira also comes through in every frame. It is a small Oliveira (as opposed to the 410 minute epic The Satin Slipper that Oliveira released in 1985), but we are happy to have it. Recommended for fans of films about filmmakers, Memories and Confessions should have a lot more festival screenings to come. Regardless, MoMA’s curators clearly place it in contention, at least as a film to reckon with.

NYFF ’15: Arabian Nights Vol 1-3

It is a cold, hard, immutable fact of life that any nation surrendering control over its monetary policy must therefore use fiscal means to solve its fiscal problems. However, Miguel Gomes simply cannot grasp this self-evident principle. Unfortunately, in this case ignorance does not produce great art. Instead, Gomes proves the folly of didacticism with his three-film cycle, Arabian Nights (trailer here), a haphazardly assembled grab bag of leftist tropes and half-baked literary archetypes that screens as three misguided Main Slate selections of the 53^rd New York Film Festival.

In his initial intertitles, Gomes warns us his Arabian Nights has nothing to do with the traditional Arabic folk tales, even though it appropriates the title, as well as the use of Scheherazade as the narrator. These are episodes of woe resulting from Portugal’s austerity policies, allegedly passed by “a government seemingly devoid of social justice.” Of course, the Greek Syriza government has social justice coming out of its nose, but they passed an even more stringent austerity package. That is what happens when you can no longer devalue your way out of debt.

Be that as it so obviously is, Gomes is determined to score his ideological points as best he can. After a haltingly Godardian preamble in which Gomes literally runs away from the supposed ambition of his film(s), Scheherazade commences the motely tales of Arabian Nights: The Restless One. The first is a representationally inconsequential sketch about politicians and their erections.

Gomes then segues into the meat of the film, “The Cockerel and the Fire,” one of the least political charged fables of the cycle. When an annoyingly shrill rooster is put on trial, a Dr. Doolittle-like judge is sent to hear his defense. It turns out, he is trying to warn people of future disaster resulting from a love triangle, which we then watch as a tale within the tale. In fact, the jealous lover’s morality play is reasonably diverting and incorporates texting in an unusual clever fashion. Sadly, the film loses all momentum with the didactic and repetitive “Magnificents,” in which a handful of structurally unemployed relief-seekers recount their sorrows in obsessive detail, before taking the plunge in a union-sponsored Polar Bear-style swim.

Vol. 1 is a problematically mixed bag, but there are elements here and there that give cause for hope. Nonetheless, Arabian Nights: The Desolate One is basically more of the same, even starting with a jokey, slightly grotesque warm-up. However, Desolate’s centerpiece, “Tears of the Judge” is by far the high point of the entire pseudo-trilogy. It also features a genuine, engaging performance from Luisa Cruz as the judged tasked with getting to the bottom as an increasingly outlandish house-that-Jack-built chain of crimes. It would be a winner if Gomes had spliced it out and sent it into the world as a short. Unfortunately, Desolate peters out during “The Owners of Dixies,” a true shaggy dog story that shows initial promise but drags on interminably.

Nonetheless, Desolate is easily the most watchable of the feature triptych, so it is not so random that Portugal chose it specifically as its official foreign language Oscar submission, at least if these were the only three films released in the country this year. Sadly though, all hope is quickly abandoned once Arabian Nights: The Enchanted One starts. Finally, Scheherazade appears in her own story, but it never really goes anywhere.

Yet, it looks downright plotty compared to “The Inebriated Chorus of the Chaffinches,” a nearly eighty minute observational pseudo-documentary about rugged bird trappers. No, seriously. These rustic gentlemen might be fascinating, but Gomes shows little confidence in them. Instead of letting them speak on camera, everything is explained through Scheherazade’s on-screen text, making Enchanted a mighty chore to sit through.

Briefly, it perks up with “Hot Forest,” a tale within the non-tale, narrated by a Chinese exchange student who visited Portugal and became the kept woman of a rugged cop who sympathizes with the anti-austerity rioters. This might have amounted to something if Gomes had embraced the irony of a socialist demonstrating against exploitation, who turned into an exploiter himself, but Gomes just isn’t in the irony business. It is also another awkward example of how Gomes casually equates Asian women with sex objects, like the twelve Chinese “mail order brides” who turn up in “Tears of the Judge.”

Let’s not mince words. I am here to tell you the emperor has no clothes. Gomes’ Arabian Nights has no business being at the New York Film Festival or any half-serious fest. In any merit-based universe, it would be spell the end of Gomes as a filmmaker worthy of serious press attention, but critics have fallen in line behind it, intimidated by its leftist screeds. Nevertheless, as a viewing experience, it is sorely lacking. The narratives of the constituent stories are fragmentary at best, character development is almost nonexistent, and it all has a dingy, pedestrian visual style. Don’t buy the hype. There is no there there.

The Enchanted One is so lifeless and contemptuous of the viewer’s time, it drags down the previous two installments in retrospect. If you are dead set on getting a taste of Arabian Nights it should absolutely, positively be The Desolate One, but even that is not worth any great effort. They certainly do not need to be seen in a block to inform each other. There are only a handful of call-backs throughout the entire cycle and they are each mere throwaways. None of them are really recommended, but The Enchanted One should be resolutely avoided. For those who need to take their penance, The Restless One screens this Wednesday (9/30) at the Walter Reade, followed by The Desolate One on Thursday (10/1), and The Enchanted One on Friday (10/2), as part of this year’s NYFF.

Abstract Noir: The Last Time I Saw Macao

It’s the Portugueseness.  Macao seems to exist in a state outside of time and geography, serving as a perpetual cultural crossroads for tourists and migrant workers.  It is the perfect place for a film noir, precisely like von Sternberg’s Macao.  Despite their references to Jane Russell’s character, the approach of co-directors João Pedro Rodrigues & João Rui Guerra da Mata is radically dissimilar.  Narrative is something that happens outside our field of vision throughout The Last Time I Saw Macao (trailer here), which opens tomorrow in New York.

As the film commences, a transvestite night club performer lip-synchs “You Kill Me,” Russell’s big musical number from said Hollywood programmer.  Get a good look at Candy, because she is the first and last character to be seen in LTISM.  Instead, the Joãos use voice-over narration, overheard phone calls, and disembodied dialogue to tell their tale of post-colonial intrigue.

The narrator, “Guerra da Mata,” grew up in Macao, but spent the entirety of his adult life in Portugal.  He has finally returned home in response to a call for help from his expat friend Candy.  She has always been attracted to the wrong sort of men, but this is a particularly bad case.  Assuming she has fallen in with some sort of criminal gang, the unseen protagonist becomes entangled with a Chinese Zodiac cult and a caper involving a strange birdcage (not unlike Pulp Fiction’s suitcase).

That might sound like manic b-movie material, but J.P.R. & J.R.G.M. banish all the action off-screen.  Instead, they give the audience an impressionistic tour of Macao, via a series of darkly evocative Ozu-esque pillow shots.  Fortunately, they have a keen eye for visuals.  Many individual sequences are quite striking, but eighty-five minutes of such self-referential, self-consciously elliptical filmmaking gets rather wearying over time.  Frankly, Rodrigues & Guerra da Mata’s abstract style of film noir would arguably work better as a short film, which has been the form of their previous collaborations.

Given its noir elements and influences as well as its genre-defying gamesmanship, LTISM will probably appeal to Godard fans.  While its narrative is considerably more abstract than the French auteur’s early films, it is downright plot heavy compared to his recent work.  Conceptually, it is quite intriguing, but it remains an intellectual viewing experience rather than an emotional engaging one.  Recommended exclusively for devotees of Godard and Robbe-Grillet, The Last Time I Saw Macao opens tomorrow (9/13) in New York at the Elinor Bunin Munro Film Center.

NYFF ’12: Lines of Wellington

Torres Vedras was not exactly Waterloo, but don’t tell the Portuguese that.  It was there Gen. Wellington and the combined British and Portuguese troops he commanded defeated Napoleon’s invading army behind secretly commissioned fortifications.  An epic campaign that still resonates on the Iberian Peninsula, Wellington’s military sojourn in Portugal was perfect fodder for a grandly sweeping Raúl Ruiz film, but it was not to be.  Passing away during a stage of either late development or early pre-production, Ruiz’s widow Valeria Sarmiento stepped into the master’s shoes, helming Lines of Wellington (trailer here), which screens during the 50^th New York Film Festival.

Wellington has just shocked the French with tide turning victory at Buçaco, yet he is retreating anyway.  Despite the demoralized state of the Bonaparte forces, they simply have an overwhelming numerical advantage.  The British and their Portuguese allies will dig in behind the Torres Vedras ramparts, letting time fight the battle for them.

This is classic Nineteenth Century warfare, attracting spectators and hanger-ons.  For British evacuee Clarissa Warren, it is the perfect opportunity to find an officer-grade husband.  The distinguished Major Jonathan Foster looks like a good candidate, but he is not necessarily in the market for a trophy wife.  Wounded soldiers will recuperate, romances will blossom, combatants will ravage the local populace, and spies will be dealt with.  Yet, the real story for LOW’s domestic audience is scorched earth damaged wrought by the French and British on their native land.

Condensed from a longer Portuguese miniseries for the international festival circuit, a la Ruiz’s brilliant Mysteries of Lisbon, LOW is a rangy narrative, featuring scores of prestigious cast members, entering and exiting in maddeningly quick succession.  Unlike Mysteries, viewers will definitely feel like there are holes in LOW, at least in its current festival edit.  There are numerous promising subplots here, including Foster’s relationship with the rather forward Warren.  Yet, after being introduced early on, they disappear from film until the closing scenes.  Likewise, when Chiara Mastroianni appears as Hussar, sort of a Bonapartist Emma Peel, it looks like a promising development, but her mere seconds of screen time do not appreciably advance the story.

The only characters getting a puncher’s chance at development are the General himself and Francisco Xavier, a dispossessed farmer now serving as a Sergeant in Wellington’s Portuguese auxiliary and as the film’s primary POV character.  Fortunately, Nuno Lopes has the right rugged, world-weary presence as the disillusion soldier, while John Malkovich chews the scenery like an old pro as the British commander.

LOW definitely has its moments, including a genuinely moving conclusion.  Not intended as an action movie, it powerfully recreates the aftermath of battle, rather than the actual warfighting.  Yet, one wishes it had delved more deeply into the strategic chess game in play, particularly Wellington’s penchant for strategic retreats, which suggest he might have learned something from a certain General Washington.

Even at one hundred fifty-one minutes, there still seems to be something missing from LOW.  It has plenty of the elements to satisfy fans of historical costume drama, but the Around the World in Eighty Days style cameos from the likes of Michel Piccoli, Isabelle Huppert, Catherine Deneuve, and Mathieu Almaric are more frustrating than satisfying.  Laudably ambitious, Lines of Wellington is ultimately more notable for what it represents than as a self-contained film.  Nonetheless, interested viewers ought to satisfy their curiosity, because they may not have many opportunities to see LOW in any form.  It sceens this Monday (10/8) and Tuesday (10/9) as a main slate selection of the 2012 New York Film Festival.

NYFF ’12: The Satin Slipper

America represents the land of opportunity, but the Islamic world remains a very real danger.  It is the late Sixteenth Century or perhaps the early Seventeenth.  French playwright Paul Claudel might have taken a few liberties with his historical timeline, but that is almost to be expected of an epic spanning three continents and bridging Heaven and Earth.  Adapting Claudel’s Satin Slipper is a daunting proposition, but Portuguese centenarian auteur Manoel de Oliveira took up the challenge at the youthful age of 77.  Originally a selection of the 1985 New York Film Festival (in a drastically edited form), Oliveira’s full 410 minute Slipper makes a return appearance tomorrow as part of the Masterworks section of the 50th New York Film Festival, now officially underway.

The Old World has discovered the New World and Spain rules the seas.  However, her grip might be loosening somewhat.  For Don Pelagio, it is a dubious honor to have the King’s confidence at such a time.  He is being dispatched to shore up Spain’s African holdings at a time when his marriage is being sorely tested.  The much younger Doña Prouheze has attracted the unwelcomed attention of Don Camillo as well as the reciprocated affection of Don Rodrigo. 

Due to the political maneuvering of the King and her husband, Prouheze reluctantly accepts command of the Spanish outpost at Mogador, forcing her into the clutches of Camillo and forever separating her from Rodrigo.  However, she eventually entrusts her daughter to the thwarted lover who could never have conceived her, yet to whom she bears an eerie resemblance.

Slipper is talky, rangy, and top heavy with exposition.  It is also a masterpiece of world drama, but an absolute beast to stage.  While full productions generally clock in around the seven hour mark, the Dominican Black Friars Repertory mounted a svelte but worthy three hour abridged Slipper as part of their Claudel Project in early 2010.  Oliveira deliberately emphasizes the dramatic source material, using an apparent proscenium stage production as a framing device and using highly stylized theatrical sets throughout the film. 

This is a strategy that becomes considerably more efficacious as the film progresses.  In fact, the scenes involving the celestial angels are far better served by his contra-realist visuals than they could have been rendered with mid 1980’s special effects.  Unfortunately, Oliveira’s transition away from the ostensive stage undercuts the powerful opening, in which a Jesuit Father lashed to the mast of sinking ship prays directly to God for the redemption of his impetuous younger brother, Don Rodrigo.  It is a rather profound scene that essentially encapsulates the themes of redemption and sacrifice Claudel will explore in the hours to come, in mere minutes.

Despite its lack of verisimilitude and Oliveira’s occasional postmodern flourishes, his cast connects with the deep yearning of Claudel’s characters.  Luís Miguel Cintra conveys both Rodrigo’s recklessness dash and his severe brooding quite well.  As Prouheze, Patricia Barzyk (Miss France 1980) has to be one of the fiercest tragic screen heroines ever.  Probably the most recognizable face in Oliveira’s Slipper is French actress Anne Consigny, who also has some fine moments with Cintra, serving as her adoptive father’s conscience.

Most viewers will need time to acclimate to Slipper’s look and language, just as the ensemble visibly seems to get their sea legs as the film picks up steam.  While periodic scenes of Shakespearean bumpkins offering their rustic commentary could have been excised without causing any grievous bodily harm, the totality of Oliveira’s production is undeniably impressive.

NYFF deserves all kinds of credit for programming Satin Slipper.  At a whisker under seven hours, it presents certain scheduling challenges (note: there will be a half hour intermission).  Yet, it dovetails rather nicely with other selections at this year’s fest.  Oliveira admirers can also watch the master at work helming The Strange Case ofAngelica in Luis Miñarro’s documentary short 101 (Oliveira’s age at the time), which proceeds Francesco Patierno’s War of the Volcanoes tonight (9/29) and this coming Wednesday (10/3). 

Although it is predominantly about Spanish characters, written by a French playwright, Slipper also incorporates a fair bit of Portuguese historical geopolitics, making it an interesting companion film to see in dialogue with Valeria Sarmiento’s Lines of Wellington (originally developed by the late Raul Ruiz), screening October 9^th and 10^th.  Regardless, Oliveira’s Slipper is an ambitious attraction in its own right—one festival patrons will not have many other opportunities to see on the big screen in all its seven hour glory.  Recommended for the literate and adventurous, Satin Slipper screens this Sunday afternoon (9/30) at the Walter Reade Theater.

Spanish Cinema Now ’11: José y Pilar

Forget one percenters. José Saramago, the first Portuguese winner of the Nobel Prize for Literature, and his considerably younger Spanish wife, Pilar del Río, must represent tenth-of-percenters in their respective countries. They are also avowed class warriors. It is a nice hypocrisy if you can afford and clearly they could, based on the evidence of Miguel Gonçalves Mendes’s hagiographic documentary, José y Pilar (trailer here), Portugal’s official submission for best foreign language Oscar consideration, which logically enough screens tomorrow during the Film Society of Lincoln Center’s 2011 Spanish Cinema Now.

Saramago passed away in 2010, but when Gonçalves began filming in 2006, he was still quite a spry old-timer. Their friends constantly tell viewers what a storybook romance the two have and indeed some of that comes out when Saramago’s health begins to fail during the film’s second act. However, in the idyllic opening, it appears Saramago really just loves being a public intellectual who does not have to sweat the details of his touring schedule, whereas del Río loves being president of Saramago, Inc. Actually, it is a private foundation that must have saved them a bundle in estate taxes. She also makes a big deal about being called “Presidenta” in its feminine form, which gets to be a tiresome conversation the second or third time around.

Saramago’s admirers may very well enjoy listening to the tart-tongued old devil grousing about the house. However, it probably does not serve his literary legacy particularly well, largely presenting his work as a series of sarcastic aphorisms aimed at the God he rejected. It is also often difficult to reconcile the man of comfort with his Communist ideology. We watch scene after scene of the laureate refusing to inscribe personalizations at his book signings. Whatever happened to “from each according to his abilities?”

There are several witty one-liners sprinkled throughout the film, but Gonçalves and editor Cláudita Rita Oliveira were clearly too over-awed by their subjects, allowing repetitive sequences to pad J y P just beyond the two hour mark. Similarly sentimental reasons also probably explain why Portugal chose the documentary as their Oscar contender, when they could have also selected the late Raúl Ruiz’s elegant masterwork Mysteries of Lisbon instead. Given it was co-produced by the Spanish Pedro Almodóvar and Brazilian Fernando Meirelles, it is also a bit surprising it met the Academy’s stringent national purity qualifications. Evidently, if it is Iberian, it is close enough for Oscar.

Gonçalves certainly had intimate access to the power couple, but he is clearly not particularly interested in engaging viewers who are not already on their side of the mountain. As a result, despite some moments here and there, J y P should not be a high priority for Spanish Cinema Now patrons or Academy voters. It screens tomorrow (12/14) and Friday (12/16) at the Walter Reade Theater as part of the FSLC’s longest running annual film series.

Ruiz’s Mysteries of Lisbon

Everyone in Portuguese novelist Camilo Castelo Branco’s city of Lisbon seems to be secretly connected to each other. At least, this seems to be the case for all those marginalized on the peripheries of upper-class society: the noble penniless, the social climbing adventurers, the cousins twice-removed, the clergy with secret pasts, the scandalous and the scandalized. Each has their own story to tell in Raúl Ruiz’s masterful 272 minute epic adaption of Castelo Branco’s novel Mysteries of Lisbon (trailer here), which opens in all its rich, complicated glory this Friday in New York.

Pedro da Silva serves as Lisbon’s first and over-riding meta-narrator, who will be frequently interrupted by the flashbacks and voiceovers of others, whose tales will span the decades of the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries. He does not even have a proper surname when he starts his story as an orphan in the boarding school administered by the kindly Father Dinis. Known only as João, he is frankly lucky to be alive. The illegitimate product of the Countess of Santa Barbara and her impoverished true love, fate spared him the premature death ordered by her vengeful husband, the Count. Eventually, da Silva furtively meets his abused mother through the assistance of Father Dinis, who duly explains his parents’ doomed romance.

It is quite a story, but Lisbon is only just getting started. Everyone has crisscrossing back-stories that we learn in spectacular detail, including the Count, Father Dinis, and even the killer sent to dispatch the infant da Silva. In fact, he reappears after a profitable Brazilian hiatus as a swashbuckling self-made man who will play a strange role throughout young da Silva’s life. Still, this only scratches the surface of the subplots layered atop subplots in Ruiz’s classically tragic and unexpectedly redemptive opus.

Though reliance on coincidence is often derided as contrivance, such pedantry would preclude one from appreciating this truly rich, hugely ambitious film. While Lisbon’s period look is finely rendered, Ruiz brings a post-modern sensibility to the picture, yet never undermines the dramatic integrity of his multiple story arcs. In a sense, Lisbon is a film entirely about narrative, but never at the expense of its narrative. Instead, the unreliability of narrators and the slipperiness of identities deepen the film’s intrigue, while the stylized transitions of young da Silva’s proscenium arch playhouse simply add visual flair.

Ostensibly da Silva’s story, Lisbon is often hijacked by Ruiz’s large cast of characters, perhaps most profoundly by Adriano Luz as Father Dinis (and his two or three prior personas). It is a wonderfully humane and quietly assured performance that really gives the film its soul. In an effective contrast, Ricardo Peirera is an appropriately dynamic presence as the raffish Alberto de Magalhães, as he is now known. Amongst Lisbon’s several luckless heroines, the striking Maria João Bastos unquestionably commands the screen the most vividly, personifying dignified grace as da Silva’s mother. However, the largely passive da Silva, both in the adult and child incarnations, comes across rather blandly.

There is so much cross-referencing to catch in Lisbon, it would obviously reward multiple viewings. Of course, the four-hour-plus running time constitutes a not inconsiderable scheduling investment. It really is that good, though. A gorgeous looking film, featuring genuinely artful craftsmanship from cinematographer André Szankowski and Isabel Branco’s design team, as well as at least a dozen first class screen performances (probably more), Lisbon is easily one of the year’s best films. At 272 minutes, it is also quite an effective way to beat the heat. Highly and enthusiastically recommended, Lisbon opens this Friday (8/5) at the IFC Center downtown and the Elinor Bunim Munroe Film Center uptown.

Manoel de Oliveira’s Strange Case of Angelica

A true marvel of world cinema, Portuguese centenarian filmmaker Manoel de Oliveira’s latest film is a paranormal romance, still the hot genre all the young girls are crazy for. Of course, no bodices are ever ripped in de Oliveira’s elegantly meditative The Strange Case of Angélica (trailer here), which opens tomorrow in New York at the IFC Center.

There are no vampires or angels (strictly speaking) in Strange either, but there is a serious case of love from beyond the grave. Isaac is an outsider, both culturally and temporally. A Sephardic Jewish immigrant to the Douro region of Portugal, he prefers vintage cameras to modern technology and romanticizes traditional forms of manual labor. In the dead of night, he is summoned to stately home of the local landed gentry. Their young daughter Angélica died shortly after her wedding, so the family matriarch wants a final photo to preserve her ethereal beauty. Respectfully obliging, Isaac is shocked to see Angélica suddenly open her eyes through his lens. Not only does she show signs of life, she seems almost flirtatious.

So begins a most unusual cinematic courtship. As Angélica visits Isaac in dreams, he becomes ever more preoccupied with the tragic beauty. Yet, even though de Oliveira’s spectral bride story sounds like something akin to the works of Poe and Irving, he consistently de-emphasizes the gothic elements, while holding fast to a distinctly European sensibility. Indeed, Strange is both an elegy for Angélica, the Annabel Lee dying before her time, and for the Old World that gave way to the new.

Though playing the part of a corpse might not sound demanding, one look from Pilar López de Ayala’s Angélica says a lot. As Isaac, Ricardo Trêpa is also convincingly earnest and confused. Yet, de Oliveira keeps viewers at arm’s length, refusing to allow any crass displays of emotion. Eschewing manipulative melodrama, he earns Strange’s gracefully mournful atmosphere the hard way.

At 102, de Oliveira is reportedly in pre-production on his next film. Given his longevity, he obviously knows what he is doing. Though de Oliveira sets a contemplative pace for Strange, it is always clearly headed someplace with a purpose, packing a great deal into the deceptively simple vessel. A finely crafted film, Strange is certainly recommended when it opens tomorrow (12/29) at the IFC Center.

NYFF ’10: Mysteries of Lisbon

Everyone in Portuguese novelist Camilo Castelo Branco’s late Eighteenth-early Nineteenth Century Lisbon seems to be secretly connected to each other. At least, this seems to be the case for all those marginalized on the upper-class peripheries: the noble penniless, the social climbing adventurers, the cousins twice-removed, the scandalous and the scandalized. Each has their own story to tell in Raúl Ruiz’s 272 minute epic adaption of Castelo Branco’s novel Mysteries of Lisbon (trailer here), which screens this Sunday at the 48th New York Film Festival.

Pedro da Silva is Lisbon’s first and over-riding meta-narrator, who will be frequently interrupted by the flashbacks and voiceovers of others. He does not even have a proper surname when he starts his story as an orphan in the boarding school administered by the kindly Father Dinis. Known only as João, he is frankly lucky to be alive. The illegitimate product of the Countess of Santa Barbara and her impoverished true love, fate spared him the premature death ordered by her vengeful husband, the Count. Eventually, da Silva furtively meets his abused mother through the assistance of Father Dinis, who duly explains his parents’ doomed romance.

Yet, Lisbon is just getting started. Everyone has crisscrossing back-stories that we learn in glorious detail, including the Count, Father Dinis, and even the killer sent to dispatch the infant da Silva. In fact, he reappears after a profitable Brazilian hiatus as a swashbuckling self-made man, who will play a strange role throughout young da Silva’s life. Still, this only scratches the surface of the subplots layered atop subplots in Ruiz’s decade and continent spanning, classically tragic and unexpectedly redemptive opus.

Though reliance on coincidence is often derided as contrivance, such pedantry would preclude one from appreciating a truly rich, hugely ambitious film. While Lisbon’s period look is finely rendered, Ruiz brings a post-modern sensibility to the picture, but never undermines its dramatic integrity. Instead, the unreliability of narrators and the slipperiness of identities deepen the film’s intrigue, while the stylized transitions of young da Silva’s proscenium arch playhouse simply add visual flair.

Ostensibly da Silva’s story, it is often hijacked by Ruiz’s large cast of characters, perhaps most profoundly by Adriano Luz as Father Dinis (and his two or three prior personas). It is a wonderfully humane and quietly assured performance that really gives the film its soul. In an effective contrast, Ricardo Peirera is an appropriately dynamic presence as the raffish Alberto de Magalhães, as he is now known. With several luckless heroines to pick from, Lisbon’s strongest is easily the striking Maria João Bastos, who personifies dignified grace as da Silva’s mother. However, the largely passive da Silva, both in the adult and child incarnations, comes across rather blandly.

There is so much cross-referencing to catch in Lisbon, it would obviously reward multiple viewings. Of course, at its current four hour plus running time that would constitute quite an investment. It really is that good, though. While an even longer version is set to debut on Portuguese television, Ruiz’s festival cut feels wholly complete as is. A gorgeous looking film featuring at least a dozen first class screen performances, Lisbon is arguably the highlight of the 2010 NYFF. It screens this Sunday (10/12) at Alice Tully Hall.

NYFF ’10: The Strange Case of Angelica

A true marvel of world cinema, Portuguese centenarian filmmaker Manoel de Oliveira’s latest film is a paranormal romance, still the hot genre all the young girls are crazy for. Of course, no bodices are ever ripped in de Oliveira’s elegantly meditative The Strange Case of Angélica, which screens during the 48th New York Film Festival.

There are no vampires or angels (strictly speaking) in Strange either, but there is a serious case of love from beyond the grave. Isaac is an outsider, both culturally and temporally. A Sephardic Jewish immigrant to the Douro region of Portugal, he prefers vintage cameras to modern technology and romanticizes traditional forms of manual labor. In the dead of night, he is summoned to stately home of the local landed gentry. Their young daughter Angélica died shortly after her wedding, so the family matriarch wants a final photo to preserve her ethereal beauty. Respectfully obliging, Isaac is shocked to see Angélica suddenly open her eyes through his lens. Not only does she show signs of life, she seems almost flirtatious.

So begins a most unusual cinematic courtship. As Angélica visits Isaac in dreams, he becomes ever more preoccupied with the tragic beauty. Yet, even though de Oliveira’s spectral bride story sounds like something akin to the works of Poe and Irving, he consistently de-emphasizes the gothic elements, while holding fast to a distinctly European sensibility. Indeed, Strange is an elegy for Angélica, the Annabel Lee dying before her time, and for the Old World that gave way to the new.

Though playing the part of a corpse might not sound demanding, one look from Pilar López de Ayala’s Angélica says a lot. As Isaac, Ricardo Trêpa is also convincingly earnest and confused. Yet, de Oliveira keeps viewers at arm’s length, refusing to allow any crass displays of emotion. Eschewing such manipulative techniques, he earns Strange’s gracefully tragic atmosphere the hard way.

At 102, de Oliveira is reportedly in pre-production on his next film. Given his longevity, he obviously knows what he is doing. Though de Oliveira sets a deliberate pace for Strange, it feels decidedly brisk in comparison to many of the NYFF’s Romanian New Wave selections. At just over an hour and a half, it is also one of the shorter films of the festival, but de Oliveira packs a great deal into the deceptively simple vessel. A finely crafted film, Strange is certainly recommended during the 2010 NYFF. It screens Sunday (10/3) and Wednesday (10/6) at Alice Tully Hall.

Carlos Saura’s Fados

In what might be called reverse cultural colonialism, many musicologists consider the Brazilian fado a product of Brazilian popular musical forms, re-imported back into Portugal, where it perhaps mixed with lingering Moorish influences. The traditional fado is often described with terms of wistful longing, telling stories of love and loss among the Portuguese working class. It is passionate music that captured the fascination of Spanish director Carlos Saura, ultimately inspiring Fados (trailer here), the third film of his triptych of musical performance documentaries (following Tango and Flamenco), which opens in New York this Friday.

Old school fados essentially consist of a vocalist (singing with eyes shut), while backed by a small ensemble, usually including a Portuguese guitar (resembling the oud) and a Spanish or Classical guitar. However, Saura defines fado broadly enough to cover some very diverse groups, even extending to the Hip Hop-oriented NBC, SP & Wilson. He also includes some purely instrumental performances, like “Variações,” a virtuoso duet between Ricardo Rocha and Jaime Santos, on Portuguese and Spanish guitars, respectively.

While firmly identifying the film with Portugal (specifically Lisbon), Saura assembles an international line-up, including probably the two greatest standouts of the film: Lila Downs of Mexico, and Mariza from the former Portuguese colony of Mozambique. On her solo feature, “Moçambique,” Mariza exudes charisma as her voice rings out clear as a bell. Downs (often breaking with the tradition of clenched eyes), passionately sings “Foi Na Travessa Da Palha,” featuring quite suggestive lyrics and some interesting instrumentation, including the harp and a tenor saxophonist, who even takes a brief but jazzy solo.

For fado novices, the biggest names in Saura’s film will be Chico Buarque and Caetano Veloso—two acknowledged giants of Brazilian music. In what is arguably the centerpiece of the film, Buarque performs “Fado Tropical” in front of archival video of the Carnation demonstrations, explicitly linking the Portuguese and Brazilian authoritarian experiences. For Veloso’s performance, Saura wisely keeps it simple, allowing the Brazilian legend to play his own guitar accompaniment as he sings “Extraña Forma de Vida,” a lament perfectly in keeping with the fado spirit.

While fado was divorced from dancing by the moral dictates of the old regime, Saura takes some liberties reconnecting the two, commissioning some striking choreography that occasionally threatens to overshadow the music. One of the best dance numbers is “Fado Batido,” is essentially an instrumental choreography showcase from the exuberant Brigada Victor Jara ensemble.

Saura and his cinematographers, José Luis López Linares and the frequent Claude Chabrol collaborator Eduardo Serra, create striking visuals through their dramatic use of warm, vibrant colors, reflected images, and light and shadow. There are no droning talking-heads to be heard, just musical performances, respectfully and artfully filmed by Saura. Oddly, its only shortcoming is that it is sometimes frustratingly difficult for the uninitiated to identify the lesser known artists and titles. (I suppose that is what the internet is for.) Elegantly crafted, Fados is a rich experience for eye and ear that ought to win converts for this uniquely Portuguese music. It opens Friday in New York at the Lincoln Plaza Cinema.