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: We Are What We Are

Call them sullen and sullener. It is not surprising brothers Alfredo and Julián have issues, considering their extreme family environment. Their father has a taste for prostitutes. As a result, they have probably consumed quite a few themselves in Jorge Michel Grau’s grisly social commentary We Are What We Are, which screens during the 48th New York Film Festival.

The sensitive Alfredo is the eldest son of a family of Mexico City cannibals. His father is a reprobate who wastes whatever money he earns fixing watches on prostitutes. At least he has always brought home fresh victims for their cannibalistic “rituals.” Unfortunately, that reckless lifestyle catches up to dear old dad, as he fatally coughs up his guts in the film’s disconcerting early scenes. This leaves a power vacuum within the family. However, they have a more pressing need: fresh meat for the next ritual. (Evidently, simply buying some raw hamburger at the store is out of the question.)

In truth, the warped family dynamics of WAWWA are nearly as harrowing as the cannibalism. The shrewish mother has made everyone miserable with her jealousy and resentments. Brother Julián has major anger management issues. By contrast, Alfredo is a classic case of an under-developed personality, who may or may not be a closeted homosexual. Keep your eye on sister Sabina though. She is a master manipulator.

The graphic WAWWA seems like a better fit for Tribeca’s midnight screening track than the up-town, up-scale New York Film Festival. Of course, that is neither here nor there when taking stock of the film’s merits, which are considerable. Grau viscerally conveys the abject meanness of the family’s circumstances as well as the predatory corruption of contemporary Mexico, without ameliorating the horror of what they do. Indeed, Grau’s angry depiction of lazy, venal cops feels a bit tacked on compared to the deeply disturbed and disturbing family drama.

Paulina Gaitán is scary good as Sabina. As Alfredo, Francisco Barreiro’s slow burn is quite slow indeed, but he still has some effective moments, whereas Alan Chávez brings a real “angry young cannibal” presence to the screen as Julián.

While Grau starts WAWWA at a deliberate art-house pace, he subtly cranks up the tension, steadily pulling viewers into this dark and remorseless world. Grungy and twisted, is one of the creepier indie genre films of the year. Most definitely not to all tastes, it never shies away from its subject matter. It screens this Thursday (10/7) at Alice Tully Hall and this Friday (10/8) at the Walter Reade, as the 2010 NYFF continues.

NYFF ’10: The Autobiography of Nicolae Ceaușescu

There was a time when Nicolae Ceaușescu got all the Iron Curtain’s favorable press. Many in the foreign policy establishment considered him reasonable, even reform-minded based on some shrewd public relations moves, like his measured criticism of the 1968 Soviet invasion of Czechoslovakia. However, the 1989 Revolution ripped down the façade, revealing to the world the monster that had long oppressed Romania. Of course, every dictator sees themselves as an enlightened Caesar and has the state-produced propaganda to prove it. Culling 180 minutes from over 1,000 hours of archival footage, Romanian director Andrei Ujică assembled a video-collage of Ceaușescu’s life as it was perceived by the dictator and recorded by his state cameras in The Autobiography of Nicolae Ceaușescu (trailer here), which screens this Saturday during the 2010 New York Film Festival.

Defiant to the end, Nicolae Ceaușescu refuses to cooperate in the hastily assembled trial, following the Revolution (he would say coup) that removed him from office. Indeed, his has been a life of destiny as we watch his storied career in flashbacks, courtesy of the state propaganda ministry.

From his meteoric rise following the death of his Stalinist mentor Gheorghe Gheorghiu-Dej, Ceaușescu might have displayed a bit of independence in foreign policy, but aside from his support for Prague Spring, this usually manifested itself in uncharacteristically warm relations with the Warsaw Pact’s Eastern rivals, the Chinese and Vietnamese (here was a man who could appreciate a personality cult). Still, he certainly seemed to enjoy entertaining western heads of state, including President Nixon (who also appears to relish his photo ops with one of the few world leaders he physically towered over). We watch as Ceaușescu celebrates birthdays, receives dignitaries, and opens party conferences. He briefly condemns a spot of hooliganism in Timişoara and then suddenly he is facing an ad-hoc inquest. Of course, the real story is much more dramatic and far bloodier.

More or less billed as an object lesson in film as a propaganda tool, Ujică did not set out to create a revisionist history or to humanize the permanently deposed dictator. However, the film might have that unintended effect on audiences not privy to Ujică’s underlying concept or his past work documenting the 1989 uprising in Videograms of a Revolution. This is a particular risk here in New York, where art-house patrons consider themselves politically sophisticated but are easily manipulated by propagandistic images exactly like those in Autobiography.

Running a full three hours, Autobiography is a hugely ambitious work, but frankly it is a grueling viewing experience. One scene of Ceaușescu fondling the bread of a well-stocked Potemkin market during a photo op makes the point. The second constitutes overkill. In fact, there is constant and deliberate repetition throughout Ujică’s film, as each Party conference and state visit blends into the next. Obviously, this is an attempt to convey the rigidly homogenous nature of Ceaușescu’s artificially constructed reality, but is wearying for viewers looking for a lifeline to grasp onto.

As the highly problematic Autobiography currently stands, there is no footage that even mildly criticizes Ceaușescu’s twenty-five year misrule. How could there be? Any employees of the propaganda ministry not properly lionizing their master would have faced severe (probably fatal) reprisals. As a result, the entire film is much like Kim Il-sung’s massive welcoming ceremony, a hyper-real but static spectacle, ironic in its conspicuous lack of irony. Ujică proves himself a daring filmmaker, but to what end? Autobiography is ultimately a film for those who have an affinity the vintage aesthetics of the Soviet era, regardless of the messy history involved, essentially unreconstructed leftists and ironic hipsters. It screens this Saturday (10/9) at the Walter Reade Theater as a special presentation of the 48th NYFF.

NYFF ’10: Samurai Spy

When their lords died in battle, surviving ronin (masterless samurai) did not have a lot of career options. Fortunately, in early Seventeenth Century Edo Japan there was considerable demand for spies and assassins, jobs certainly compatible with their skill-sets. One still noble samurai finds himself drawn into the clash of shadowy agents working on behalf of two rival clans in Masahiro Shinoda’s Cold War action allegory Samurai Spy, which screens during the 48th New York Film Festival as part of their Masterworks retrospective tribute to the director.

Sasuke Sarutobi is one cool customer. He is a member of the Sanada Clan. Though officially “unaligned,” they are suspected to the support the recently defeated Toyotomi Clan rather than the Tokugawa Shogunate. Despite his “plague on both your houses” protestations, Mitsuaki, a Toyotomi spy tries to recruit him into a rather nefarious scheme he has cooked up. A top Tokugawa spy-master plans to defect to the Toyotomi Clan with Mitsuaki’s aid, but the treacherous spy plans to betray him to their current masters in a manner that would allow him to collect from both sides.

When karma catches up with Mitsuaki, everyone assumes Sarutobi can deliver mystery man Tatewaki Koriyama, the elusive Harry Lyme of Samurai Spy. As a result, the honorable but jaded samurai becomes the focus of intrigue for a host of agents from the rival clans, whom he has no trouble keeping straight, unlike the rest of us mere mortals. Still, if you follow Sarutobi’s lead, you won’t go far wrong, unless you count the unfortunate Okiwa. A beautiful pawn in the game, she is brutally murdered after launching a brief but intense affair with Sarutobi. For his part, Sarutobi is determined to make the guilty party pay, good and hard.

Like Pale Flower, Spy is stylistically dazzling, yet it still tells a darkly compelling morality tale. At times the hack-and-slash action is surprisingly gory, complete with severed limbs and gushing blood. Yet there are moments when it approaches the unreal, as clashing combatants seem to hang in the air Crouching Tiger-like. Yet despite employing liberal elements from the martial arts and spy movie genres, Shinoda has really crafted another film noir in the tradition of Flower. Sarutobi is definitely a hard-boiled lone wolf, instinctively cynical towards authority. Again, Shinoda and cinematographer Masao Kosugi’s striking use of fog and shadows feel like pure noir.

Koji Takahashi is all kinds of bad as Sarutobi. Though not quite as jaundiced as Ryô Ikebe’s Muraki in Flower, he still projects quite a cool presence. Yet, when another woman in his orbit is kidnapped, his righteous seething is downright fearsome. Jitsuko Yoshimura brings a touch of humanity to the film as Omiyo, the woman Sarutobi must save, while Misako Watanabe adds quite a bit of heat as the woman he must avenge. Indeed, it is a great ensemble cast, even though viewers might need a cheat sheet to track their characters’ allegiances.

According to conventional wisdom, Sarutobi’s Sanada Clan represents Japan, while the Toyotomi and Tokugawa factions are stand-ins for the United States and Soviet Union, respectively. Intriguingly, Spy seems to suggest neutrals must ultimately align themselves, with Sarutobi eventually siding with the Toyotomi Clan, the supposed Americans. It also explicitly addresses the persecution of Christianity in Edo-era Japan—not exactly a fashionable topic in Japanese (or western) pop culture, then or now. Highly entertaining as well as historically significant, Spy is another masterful film from the Japanese auteur. It screens this Tuesday (10/5) and Wednesday (10/6) at the Walter Reade Theater as part of the 2010 NYFF’s Masterworks tribute to Masahiro Shinoda.

NYFF ’10: The Tempest

It was neither a political statement nor a cheap gimmick. Director Julie Taymor and the accomplished Helen Mirren wanted to work together on a Shakespeare project, but the Bard just did not write a lot of great parts for women over the age of thirty-five or so. Yet, both independently considered the role of Prospero a possibility. After an early reading confirmed their hopes, the role of Prospero became Prospera in their resulting collaboration, The Tempest, the centerpiece selection of the 48th New York Film Festival, which screens tomorrow night at Alice Tully Hall.

When the Duke of Milan dies, his wife Prospera succeeds him, but not for long. Usurped by her unscrupulous brother Antonio, with the backing of King Alonso of Naples, Prospera and her daughter Miranda are cast adrift, presumably to die at sea. However, the loyal court counselor Gonzalo secretly stocked the slip with food, water, and Prospera’s magic books. Twelve years later, Prospera uses her command of the elements to shipwreck the vessel carrying Antonio, Alonso, his son Ferdinand, the good Gonzalo, and various ne’er do well retainers. Prospera and her indentured servant, Ariel the air spirit, toy with the treacherous royals, while encouraging romance to blossom between Ferdinand and Miranda. Further complicating matters, the fools Trinculo and Stephano conspire with Prospera’s resentful slave Caliban in an ill-conceived revolt.

Despite the changes necessitated by Taymor’s gender switch, her adaptation follows the original Shakespeare quite closely. She also earns points for not flinching in politically correct horror from depicting Caliban as Shakespeare described him: a black slave driven by rage for his master. Still, she works with actor Djimon Hounsou to humanize him as best they can, within the confines of the text.

Make no mistake though, The Tempest is Mirren’s film, pure and simple. She truly digs into the role, finding fresh humanistic insights, irrespective of Prospero/a’s gender. Perhaps her deepest work comes with Ben Whishaw’s androgynous Ariel, cutting to the core of the play’s themes of forgiveness and empathy. In truth, the rest of the ensemble just cannot keep pace with her. Surprisingly, Chris Cooper and David Strathairn are indistinguishably bland as the royal co-conspirators Antonio and Alonso, respectively. A genuine case of gimmicky casting, Russell Brand’s same old profane goofball schtick becomes an embarrassing distraction as the jester Trinculo (frankly, it was already getting tired). At least Felicity Jones and Reeve Carney exhibit some appealing chemistry as the young lovers.

Taymor’s Tempest is a good Shakespeare adaptation that picks up steam as it goes along, but never quite takes flight. The Hawaiian locales, particularly the black volcanic beaches, dramatically evoke the play’s otherworldliness and Mirren gives a powerhouse performance. There just seems to be an X-factor missing. Certainly entertaining, The Tempest screens tomorrow as the centerpiece of the 2010 New York Film Festival.

NYFF ’10: All Flowers in Time (short)

If you have always been unnerved by French cowboys, it turns out your fears were justified. It is hard to explain, but it makes for interesting viewing in Jonathan Caouette’s new short film, All Flowers in Time (trailer here), which screens tonight with Hong Sang-soo’s feature Oki’s Movie at the 48th New York Film Festival.

The French Cowboy is sort of like the old MTM cat, giving the sign-off at the end of a warped Dutch children’s program. Its barrage of subliminal images seems to give kids strange ideas and red glowing eyes, sort of like the monkey spirits of Apichatpong Weerasethakul’s Uncle Boonmee.

Those prone to obsess over questions like why and how this is happening are likely to be frustrated by Flowers. However, if those who ever wanted to see Dutch television produced somewhere deep within the Black Lodge of David Lynch’s Twin Peaks will delight in Caouette’s bizarre visuals (no giants or dwarves, though). However, the greatest surprise in store for viewers is Chloë Sevigny’s unexpectedly likable and charismatic lead performance, especially given the macabre twist of her central scene and Flowers’ overall surreal vibe. Indeed, the let-me-show-you-a-scary-face game she plays with the young boy in her charge (relationship unknown) is an effective set-up vehicle for creepy chills, not that Caouette is really going for that (or maybe he is, who can say really?).

One thing is certain: Caouette is indulging in quite a bit of gamesmanship throughout Flowers. However, it actually builds towards something interesting, even if it leaves a ten gallon hat full of question unanswered. Strangely entertaining (strange being the operative word), Flowers screens tonight (9/30) as part of the 2010 NYFF 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.

NYFF ’10: Carlos

Ilich Ramírez Sánchez killed on behalf of just about every violent extremist movement of the twentieth century. Sheltered by the East German Stasi, he was most closely aligned with the Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine (PFLP). An ardent Marxist and notorious terrorist, Ramírez Sánchez is best known as the infamous “Carlos the Jackal” (though he preferred just plain “Carlos”). French director Olivier Assayas dramatizes his infamous crimes (and there are a lot of them) in his grandly ambitious five-hour, thinly fictionalized historical thriller Carlos (trailer here), which screens in its entirety during this year’s New York Film Festival.

Soviet educated, the Venezuelan Ramírez Sánchez views the world through a radicalized prism. He is convinced “direct action” (meaning terrorism) is necessary to bring about supposedly progressive change. A promising volunteer for the PFLP terrorist network, Carlos steadily establishes a reputation for ruthlessness with a number of grenade attacks on cafes and the unsuccessful assassination attempt of Edward Sieff, president of Marks & Spencer and a prominent member of the British Jewish community.

Carlos forged alliances with the Japanese Red Army and extremist German Baader Meinhof/RAF splinter groups, acting more or less in concert. While he was not directly involved in the murder of the Israeli athletes at the 1972 Munich Olympics or the hijacking of Air France Flight 139 freed by IDF’s famous Entebbe operation, he was personally charged with subsequent reprisal attacks. However, his greatest international infamy probably arose from his attack on the 1975 OPEC meeting, taking the cartel’s delegates hostage.

Ramírez Sánchez is an anti-Semitic mass murderer. His crimes have no justification. Wisely, Assayas does not really go down that road. While his Carlos has a certain animal magnetism and a voracious sexual appetite, the film never makes a martyr of him, unlike the terrorist agit-prop of Uli Edel’s Baader Meinhof Complex. Essentially, Assayas shows Ramírez Sánchez going about his destructive business rather matter-of-factly, only occasionally paying lip service to some leftist cause, such as Allende in Chile. Yet, there are a handful of truly telling scenes, as when a former RAF accomplice remarks to Carlos how sick it is for Germans like himself to be killing Jews.

The five plus hours of Carlos are packed to the gills with violent intrigue. Yet, it is all pretty well grounded in historical fact. Indeed, it is quite in synch with the facts established in Barbet Schroeder’s Terror’s Advocate, a documentary profile of Jacques Vergés, the attorney for Ramírez Sánchez, the PFLP, and just about every other terrorist of the twentieth century (who also briefly appears as a character in Carlos). Frankly, it would make a much better double feature with Assayas’s film than Edel’s love-letter to terror.

Edgar Ramírez is appropriately both charismatic and creepy as Ramírez Sánchez, nicely capturing the ferocity of extremism. There are also scores of effective supporting performances from its large but completely credible ensemble cast. Yet, Carlos is much more a director’s film than an actor’s, seamlessly recreating complicated historical events around the globe and staging gritty action sequences with tick-tock precision.

Originally broadcast on French television, Carlos might be divided into three parts, but it truly is one unified film, entirely helmed by Assayas (unlike the three interlocking films of Red Riding). Truthfully, 319 minutes are a long haul. As fascinating and absorbing as it is, most viewers will be desperately hoping for his capture by the final half hour. For those with short attention spans, a two and half hour cut will eventually screen at the Lincoln Plaza. However, if you are going to see a big epic film like Carlos, you should do it right and get the entire experience. The full unvarnished and uncut Carlos screens this Saturday morning (10/2) during the 2010 NYFF.

NYFF ’10: Tuesday, After Christmas

A big beefy guy, Paul Hanganu does not exactly look irresistible, yet he has both a wife and a young professional mistress. Frankly, he ought to consider himself lucky to have just one of them. We can say this with certainty thanks to the long, revealing nude scene that opens Radu Muntean’s Tuesday, After Christmas (trailer here), one of several Romanian films screening during the 48th New York Film Festival.

A reasonably successful banker, Paul is fairly good about sharing family duties with his wife Adriana. It is he who escorts their young daughter Mara to her attractive pediatric dentist. As a result, Paul and the younger Raluca do indeed strike up an affair. She has been largely content as the other woman, but when Adriana impulsively decides to accompany them for an appointment it proves to be a destabilizing event. Paul will have to choose between his wife and his mistress—a decision that will directly affect his plans for that titular Tuesday.

Helming Tuesday with all due deliberation, Muntean’s approach is clearly compatible with the aesthetics of the so-called Romanian New Wave. Yet, his deceptively simple story of infidelity particularly lends itself to a style that privileges intimacy over action. In truth, Tuesday is defined and distinguished by a handful of masterful scenes marked by Muntean’s long continuous shots. As the film opens, Mundean half seduces us with Paul and Raluca’s naked forms (she is in great shape, him not so much), only to de-romanticize their assignation, ultimately grounding viewers in all their imperfections. Uncomfortable hardly does justice to the awkward dynamic when Adriana invites herself along to Raluca’s office. However, her response to Paul’s eventual confession scorches with honesty.

Like so many recent cinema exports from Romania, there is simply no denying the demanding nature of Tuesday. It is definitely a film for mature adults as well—truly its poster does not mislead. However, patrons with a respectable attention span will be rewarded with some exceptional performances. As the wronged Adriana, Mirela Oprisor is totally convincing and absolutely devastating. Though her role is less showy, Maria Popistasu makes the reserved Raluca a believably fully dimensional human figure. However, Mimi Branescu’s big unfaithful lug should have had more of an edge. Instead, he seems desperate for everyone to like him, which will not be happening.

Individual scenes of Tuesday will sear themselves into viewers’ memory, while the filler in between might tax their patience. Still, altogether it is a brutally honest work. One of the festival’s stronger Romanian selections, it screens tomorrow (9/28) and Friday (10/1) as the 2010 NYFF continues at Alice Tully Hall.

NYFF ’10: Certified Copy

It is a major auteur’s first production outside his native Iran, featuring a British opera singer in his on-screen acting debut. Fittingly, their efforts were in service of a film that explicitly challenges notions of authenticity. While there is indeed a bit of narrative gamesmanship afoot, the sophistication and seductiveness of Abbas Kiarostami’s Certified Copy (trailer here) is such that it may be enjoyed at face value when it screens at the 48th New York Film Festival.

It is worth noting up front both Kiarostami and lead actress Juliette Binoche condemned the Iranian government’s arrest of his fellow filmmaker Jafar Panahi at Cannes, where she eventually won best actress honors for her work in Certified. One wonders if Kiarostami will have trouble shooting future projects outside the Islamist prison of Iran. At least in this case, he certainly made the most of his romantic Tuscan locales, which genuinely sparkle through cinematographer Luca Bigazzi’s lens.

As Certified opens the audience (both in the theater and in the film) are staring at an empty chair. Eventually, it is filled by British author James Miller, unapologetically late for his own book talk, though he cheerfully admits he has no reasonable excuse. No matter. His baritone voice and erudite charm quickly wins back the restive crowd. However, one woman in the front row reluctantly leaves early, literally pulled away by her hungry son. Clearly, she has also fallen under the speaker’s spell, though she vehemently disagrees with Miller’s premise.

An amateur art historian, Miller wrote a treatise extolling the value of replicas, de-coupling notions of value and authenticity from each other. As an antiquities dealer, the unnamed woman sees things more conventionally, but even her son perceives her interest in the writer. In fact, she is visibly nervous when the writer agrees to meet her before his evening flight. They spar good-naturedly over aesthetics and soak up the stunning scenery—so far, so good.

Shortly after a woman mistakes them for a married couple though, the dynamic abruptly changes. The woman is now much more forceful, while the formerly suave man is suddenly petty and petulant. Are the characters play-acting or is Kiarostami playing with us? Either way, we have just heard some very smart discussions about grown-up issues, against an evocative La Dolce Vita backdrop.

One of the world’s finest (and most beautiful) screen thespians, Binoche again demonstrates women can be sensitive and vulnerable, without being weak or compliant. As the woman, she essentially takes on a number of roles so convincingly it makes it difficult to truly know what to make of Certified. In his first screen outing, opera singer William Shimell is nearly as impressive. He projects an elegant but manly presence quite befitting the character and his rich voice well serves the film’s heavy dialogue.

Ultimately, Certified is such an intelligent and inviting encounter, it overcomes any viewer resistance to its rather slippery nature. Indeed, it is a strange pleasure to submerse one’s self into, thanks to the charm of its leads and the craftsmanship of Kiarostami and his dp. One of the best selections of this year’s NYFF, Certified screens this Friday (10/1) and Sunday (10/3) at Alice Tully Hall. It is also worth noting, Panahi’s short The Accordion will also screen during the festival, accompanying Pablo Larraín’s Post Mortem next Monday (10/4) and Tuesday (10/5).

NYFF ’10: Silent Souls

Russia might not be the most hospitable of homes for its ethnic minorities, but the simple forces of time and assimilation are far more responsible for the waning cultural identity and appreciation of the Merja Russians, ethnic cousins of the Finns. However, one Merjan writer’s efforts to preserve his cultural heritage takes him on a fateful road trip with his grieving boss in Aleksei Fedorchenko’s Silent Souls, which screens during this year’s New York Film Festival.

Though much traditional Merjan culture has faded from everyday memory, Miron knows his friend Aist is fully versed in their people’s traditional funereal rituals. The son of a well regarded Merja poet-laborer, Aist researches and records nearly forgotten Merjan lore as a private passion. More Nordic than Slavic, Aist is not a talkative man, but he will provide Silent’s narration. Indeed the rough hewn character of his (or actor Igor Sergeyev’s) voice makes him one of the most effective narrators heard on film in recent memory, even when subtitled.

Miron and Aist will drive across the frozen west central Russian landscape to Lake Nero, the site of his honeymoon with his much younger, yet now tragically dearly departed wife Tanya. There they will build her funeral pyre in much the same manner the Norsemen did millennia ago. For company, they have themselves, their memories, and two caged buntings Aist recently purchased. Those birds are not just for show. Like everything else in Silent they might appear to be a causal impulse buy, but their significance will become apparent later.

Though relatively unheralded among NYFF selections, Silent is one of the strongest films of the festival. Elegiac in multiple ways, it is a powerful meditation on the death of an individual and the protracted demise of a culture, without ever becoming heavy-handed. While it is deliberately paced, it actually gets someplace, both geographically and cinematically.

Throughout Fedorchenko displays a deft touch. Though his symbolism is inescapable, it is always accessible rather than pretentious or obtuse. While in lesser hands, Silent’s ending might have been problematic, Fedorchenko’s methodical groundwork makes it feel logical and fitting, without outright telegraphing it clumsily. Fedorchenko and cinematographer Mikhail Krichman also take full advantage of the evocative landscape, presenting some striking winter vistas.

Whether it is engaging in salty talk with Miron or ruminating on what it means to be Merjan, Sergeyev brings a remarkable naturalness and genuine gravitas to the film as the protagonist-narrator. It is the sort of accomplished work that is often unfairly overlooked due to its lack of affectation.

Though it requires viewers’ full attention, there is great depth beneath Silent’s austerely chilly surface. An excellent film featuring a great lead performance, it is one of the unexpected highlights of the 2010 NYFF. It screens this Tuesday (9/28) at Alice Tully Hall.

NYFF ’10: The Robber

Running is a solitary sport, but Johann Rettenberger is not exactly a social guy. It is also a handy talent for his chosen line of work: armed robbery. There will indeed be plenty of running and daring daylight larceny in Benjamin Heisenberg’s existential crime drama, The Robber (trailer here), which screens during the 48th New York Film Festival now officially underway.

Recently released from prison, Rettenberger used to while away his days running round and round the yard and spend his nights chugging away on a treadmill. Frankly, his routine has not changed much with freedom, but at least the scenery varies. Of course, he is not one for square jobs, so he simply knocks over banks when he needs funds. He really ought to be going straight, particularly when his out of nowhere finish in the Vienna Marathon shocks the Austrian sports world, making him a mid-sized celebrity over night. Yet aside from regular exercise, Rettenberger is not about doing what’s good for him.

Rettenberger might look like he is cut from the same cloth as the surfer robbers in Kathryn Bigelow’s Point Break, but he is really more closely akin to Meursault in Camus’ The Stranger. Similarly emotionally distant, Rettenberger also commits a hitherto out-of-character act of impulsive violence that will set off a sensational series of events. A great deal of running will be involved.

Somehow, Andreas Lust is simultaneously impassive and twitchy as the loner protagonist. A performance that keeps viewers consistently off balance, just as it appears he is about to finally plumb Rettenberger’s depths, he erects more barriers to keep us at bay. Lust also clearly trained like a mad man for the part, shedding any trace of body fat to play the anti-social crook.

Though Heisenberg effectively stages a long, complex chase sequence that serves as the centerpiece for the film, Robber is far quieter and ruminative than most action fare. While not nearly as self-consciously stylized as Tom Tykwer’s vaguely thematically related Run Lola Run, Heisenberg and cinematographer Reinhold Vorschneider bring a distinctly chilly aesthetic to bear on their road-running morality tale. An intriguing blend of art-house and action, Robber is definitely recommended during this year’s NYFF. It screens this Monday (9/27) and Wednesday (9/29) at Alice Tully Hall.

NYFF ’10: Letter to Elia

No director portrayed the immigrant experience or the struggles of the common man with greater sensitivity than Elia Kazan, but to this day, he remains widely reviled on the left. Even a figure of Martin Scorsese’s stature took heat for presenting Kazan a lifetime achievement Oscar at the 71st Academy Awards. Yet for Scorsese, Kazan’s influence extended far beyond his early stylistic debt to the great filmmaker. Scorsese explains Kazan’s significant both to cinematic history in general and himself personally in Letter to Elia, an hour-long documentary he co-directed with Kent Jones, which screens with Kazan’s epic America, America at the 48th New York Film Festival.

Regardless of political controversies, Kazan’s reputation as an actor’s director is without peer. A co-founder of the Actor’s Studio, Kazan began his career on the boards before finding his calling as a theater director. Letter reminds us it was Kazan who helmed the Broadway premieres of Tennessee Williams’ A Streetcar Named Desire and Arthur Miller’s Death of a Salesman. Of course, he would revisit Streetcar on film with original cast-member and frequent collaborator Marlon Brando, one of several legitimate masterpieces he crafted. However, for Scorsese, East of Eden stands out first and foremost in his consciousness, claiming to have “stalked” the film through second-run cinemas as a boy.

Looking straight into the camera, Scorsese forcefully and lucidly describes Kazan’s contributions to stage and screen, with the help of generous clips from the director’s filmography. While Eden and the best picture nominee America, America capture the most screen time, Scorsese and Jones duly include Kazan’s arguably single most famous scene, Brando’s “could have been a contender” speech from On the Waterfront, the classic tale of union corruption.

In contrast, they are clearly uncomfortable addressing Kazan’s testimony to the HUAC committee. Kazan was a former Communist who became disillusioned after the Stalin-Hitler (Molotov-Ribbentrop) non-aggression pact came to light. Considering Communism a severely flawed ideology, Kazan defended his decision in an op-ed piece, but Scorsese and Jones largely ignore his motivations, preferring to gloss over the incident with vague language of “difficult choices,” which does little to serve Kazan’s memory.

Of course, Scorsese is on solid ground when celebrating movie history. Letter is definitely an effective commercial for Kazan’s rich body of work, which really speaks for itself throughout the documentary. However, if any of his masterworks is under-represented, it would be Gentleman’s Agreement, a powerful examination of anti-Semitism that won Kazan his first Oscar.

Truly, Kazan is due for a critical renaissance, unblinkered by partisan score-settling. Letter is a well intentioned, mostly well executed effort to spur just that. Due to be included in a forthcoming Kazan boxset, Scorsese and Jones’ film screens this coming Monday (9/27) with a rare big screen presentation of America, America at the Walter Reade Theater, as part of the 2010 NYFF.

NYFF ’10: Nuremberg

In 1949, American service men were risking their lives to defy the Soviet Union’s Berlin Blockade, while taxpayers were spending billions on the Marshal Plan to rebuild the German economy. Perhaps for these reasons, Hollywood studios were not eager to distribute Stuart Schulberg’s Nuremberg: Its Lesson for Today (trailer here), a U.S. Army Signal Corps produced film documenting the Nuremberg tribunal and the crimes for which the National Socialists stood accused. Though it played throughout Germany as part of the de-Nazification campaign, it is only now reaching American theaters in a special restored version, beginning with a special screening this coming Tuesday as part of the 2010 New York Film Festival.

Schulberg and his brother Budd (of What Makes Sammy Run fame) were attached to the OSS’s film division when they were assigned to work on special films at the behest of U.S. Nuremberg prosecutor Justice Robert H. Jackson. The resulting four hour The Nazi Plan, consisting of the Nazis’ own footage, and the one-hour Nazi Concentration Camps, compiling film shot by the liberating allies, were indeed shown as evidence during the tribunal, with select clips also incorporated into Nuremberg.

With Nuremberg, Schulberg was greatly constrained by the availability of footage. Only twenty-five hours of video was shot and the audio was recorded separately, out of synch. As a result, his cuts relied entirely on narration. However, Schulberg’s filmmaker daughter Sandra and Josh Waletzky replaced some narration with the actual audio recorded during the tribunal for their restoration, rerecording the rest with Liev Schreiber. Unfortunately, the prospective American nitrate prints had deteriorated beyond use for the so-called Schulberg-Waletzky Restoration, but the surviving German print frankly seems more appropriate, given its role in the de-Nazification process.

There are indeed some horrific images in Nuremberg, as well as a succinct Cliff Note guide to the tribunal. Arguably, understanding of Nuremberg is a mile wide and an inch deep. For instance, our current president once favorably cited the military tribunal in his own opposition to military tribunals. It is certainly also worth bearing in mind that the Nuremberg Tribunal returned three acquittals.

Had Nuremberg reached American theaters in 1949, it would have shocked audiences. Educated viewers should still be sickened by the crimes Stuart Schulberg documented, but they ought to be somewhat prepared for them. To be sure, Nuremberg is a historically significant film, but it is hardly the definitive documentary on the Holocaust. Viewers should also take note, if the NYFF post-screening panel is anything like the press conference, it is likely to resemble a politically charged advocacy session on behalf of the International Criminal Court, which would push the boundaries of decorum considering the gravity of Nuremberg’s subject. Recommended (particularly for the historically challenged), Nuremberg screens this coming Tuesday (9/28) at NYFF, with its regular New York theatrical run beginning the next day (9/29) at Film Forum.

NYFF ’10: Robinson in Ruins

It is sort of a socialist Blair Witch Project, but without any tension. Purportedly the found footage filmed by a prescient early Twenty-First Century sociological researcher, stitched together by an academic sometime in a Bellamy-esque post-capitalist future, Patrick Keiller’s Robinson in Ruins is more closely akin to non-narrative experimental filmmaking than speculative fiction. Unfortunately, even those inclined to agree with its philosophy are likely to find it a slow-go when it screens during the 2010 New York Film Festival.

Had Keiller wished to film a European country in a state of economic collapse, he could have taken his cameras to Greece. Of course, the lessons of their bloated government sector would not necessarily fit with Ruins’ world view. Instead, we hear Vanessa Redgrave’s silky narration make tenuous connections between the abandoned fuel depots and lonely mile markers Robinson ostensibly shot and the promised economic collapse, supposedly prefigured by the global recession we now find ourselves in. Indeed, when watching Ruins, one gets the sense the British economy of 2009 solely revolved around delivering fuel to American military bases.

Keiller is a lovely nature photographer, capturing some very pleasant images of bees pollinating flowers. However, his cocktail of actual and fictionalized economic history lacks punch, despite its didacticism. Consequently, the film is largely dependent on its static images, leading to long periods of drift, as when the filmmakers (real and imagined) fixate on lichen growing on country motorway signs.

“Experimental film” is always a tough sell, particularly those that mix in extreme politics for good measure. However, smart and nuanced “cinematic essays” that also provide viewers hooks to hold onto, like Amie Siegel’s DDR/DDR, demonstrate the perniciousness of such labels. In contrast, Ruins really is a film for devotees of the avant-garde, pretty much exclusively. It will probably find an appreciative audience at the Anthology sometime in the future and is sure to play numerous college campuses. It screens this Sunday (9/26) at Alice Tully Hall as part of the NYFF.

NYFF ’10: Uncle Boonmee

An old commie hunter, Uncle Boonmee is haunted by spirits. However, his ghosts are largely benevolent, seeking to comfort Boonmee during his final days. Rife with magical realism but deliberately toying with narrative structure, Apichatpong Weerasethakul’s Cannes Palme D’Or winning Uncle Boonmee Who can Recall Past Lives (trailer here), screens this weekend at the 48th New York Film Festival.

Boonmee is slowly dying from a humiliating kidney dysfunction. He is faithfully attended by his Laotian servant Jai and the ghost of his deceased wife Huay, among others. Even his long lost son Boonsong pays his final respects, despite having transformed into a red glowing-eyed monkey spirit, lurking the dark heart of the jungle with his beastly cohorts.

It has been an eventful life, but it is nothing compared to Boonmee’s visions of his previous incarnations, particularly an episode in which a mystical catfish ravishes a self-esteem-challenged princess. Consistently obscure throughout Recall, Weerasethakul never explicitly spells out Boonmee role in this Leda-like tale, but since the lagoon is described as the place where Boonmee’s lives began, it seems safe to assume there is some fishy DNA in his karma.

Though Boonmee ruefully suggests his current bad karma stems from his past anti-Communist military activities, perhaps he should ask the Cambodians about what he helped spare his countrymen (“you did it for your country,” his sister-in-law Jen reminds him). Regardless, Weerasethakul’s somewhat veiled commentary is so deeply buried under multiple layers of symbolic meanings and narrative gamesmanship, it is doubtful Recall will inspire many viewers to spontaneously erupt in a rendition of “The Internationale.” Instead, those so inclined will probably break the film down into the parts they can deal with, whether they be the animatronic catfish or Buddhist reincarnation themes.

Of course, there is something problematic about a film’s whole if it is less than its constituent parts. Between its double-secret allegories, nonlinear forms, and deliberate stylistic shifts, Recall is so busy displaying a self-conscious artiness, the rain forest gets lost for the trees. In fact, Recall along with the experimental companion short Letter to Uncle Boonmee were conceived as part of Weerasethakul’s multi-media, multi-platform project Primitive. There are indeed times when the static quality of Recall and particularly the narrative-free Letter seem more closely akin to installation videos than stand-alone films. Though the late reappearance of characters from Weerasethakul’s past films might be enriching for those in the know, bringing things full circle, in practice it is a limiting strategy. Yet, Thanapat Saisaymar still manages to express something fundamentally human as the dying Boonmee, while Jenjira Pongpas also adds a bit of grace to the proceedings as Jen.

Obviously, Recall is a film for festival audiences, but its Cannes laurels have earned theatrical distribution via Strand Releasing. It will be a tough sell. Recall boasts some fine performances, but it thoroughly blurs the line between avant-garde provocation and pretentiousness. A likely sell-out anyway, it screens this coming Saturday (9/25) and Sunday (9/26) at Alice Tully Hall as part of the 2010 NYFF.

NYFF ’10: Pale Flower

In a different time and place, Muraki could have been a hard-bitten P.I. or a high plains drifter, but in an early 1960’s Japanese film, he had to be a yakuza. Spectacularly cynical, his contempt for humanity is constantly justified throughout Masahiro Shinoda’s classic Pale Flower, which screens during the 2010 New York Film Festival as part of their Masterworks retrospective tribute to the director.

Recently released from prison, Muraki finds things have changed. His boss has forged an alliance with the rival crime lord whose henchmen he was ordered to kill. This ought to be an awkward situation for Muraki, but he is too cool to care. One gets the sense he is simply looking for a distraction as he waits for death to come calling. In that respect, meeting Saeko is fortuitous.

An innocent looking beauty of apparent means, the mystery woman loves to gamble and does not mind losing substantial sums. Recognizing a man of action when she sees one, Saeko convinces the jaded enforcer to vouchsafe her at the yakuza’s high roller games. Thus begins a chaste but worldly courtship of a sort, not that Muraki will let it go anywhere.

Beyond noir, Flower’s characters seem to live in a preternaturally twilight world, where violence and death are constants, but the only real enemy is boredom. Muraki scrupulously lives by a code of honor, yet it means nothing more to him than observing traffic signals. Indeed, Ryô Ikebe truly delivers the noir goods as the sullen yakuza, perfectly conveying hardnosed grit and existential resignation.

Stylistically, Flower is so hyper-noir, it surpasses the excesses of self-parody, luxuriating in its moody underworld milieu. Thanks to Kosugi Masao’s elegant cinematography, nearly every frame is worthy of framing, despite the dissolute nature of the on-screen action. In fact, so much time is spent in gambling dens and the like, Flower was initially shelved for months after its completion.

A figure associated with the Japanese New Wave, Shinoda displays a genuine mastery of film noir forms in Flower well beyond that of French Nouvelle Vague auteurs inspired by the genre, such as Godard and Truffaut. Yet, it is still edgy and subversive, well deserving the “New Wave” appellation. Seriously hip and absolutely absorbing, a new print of Flower screens Saturday (9/25) as part of the Masterworks tribute to Shinoda at this year’s NYFF.