Huhn mit Pflaumen

This is a quirky, interesting film. I found parts of it more interesting than others, and some really quite beautiful. The sense of humor takes some time to develop, but when it does, it's quite winning. Those who are expecting another *Persepolis* will be disappointed; it is really very different, quirkier, and more uneven. But it definitely rewards attentive viewing.

One of the things I found interesting is that, unlike Persepolis, this movie really considers life from the perspective of a middle-aged man. Women here are either very objectified objects of sexual desire, or harpies. There are no intelligent women, such as one finds in *Persepolis.* That doesn't make the movie good or bad for me, but it was an interesting difference.

lovely. melancholic. delicate. impressive. touch of powerful emotions and a common case who can remember the characters of Italo Svevo or Tchekov. a film about a different image of hero. shadows of solitude, gray existence, search of death, old love story. and a brilliant Mathieu Amalric.the cast is only a side of this gorgeous movie. its secret - gentle circles of Iranian reality as song of a violin. a transformation of reality and pure genius of director. splendid images. moving story. and flavor of old spaces of passion. story of a hero. a hero of every time. like sign. of a human isle in middle of society ocean.

I loved Persepolis both as a graphic novel and as a film. So I was looking forward to Satrapi's new work. I had neither read the graphic novel nor much about the film before watching, which I now regret because this film has little or nothing to do with its predecessor. First of all, it is no animation film and Satrapi's beautiful artwork is limited to the opening titles and to a tale told by the Angel of Death towards the end of the film. The whole cast is French, they speak French and both look and behave like French and, except when it comes to the characters' names, one has to do a big effort to keep in mind that the story is supposed to take place in Teheran. It might be a meaningless detail to some, but for me it was a disturbing discrepancy. The whole film has a superb photography and every scene is carefully manufactured (i.e. manipulated in post-production) into something that indeed looks like a powerful work of art. But inside this nicely wrapped box, I find really little that makes this film worth watching. It's not a film for children: I wouldn't want to tell my children the story of a man who decides to let himself die showing total disrespect for both his wife and children. But as a grown-up, I am really missing something, that something that I did find in the autobiography of a little girl growing up away from a country which has ceased to exist. Chicken with plums is a sort of disturbing bedtime story about a man who lost the joy of living, carefully wrapped up in some sort of misty reverie, nothing more than that. Still, it is probably supposed to be a comedy, and that adds a little sugar to the pill that you'll have to swallow if you decide to watch this. I feel a big disappointment. Just like that plate of smoking-hot chicken with plums which is left untouched on the table by the protagonist.

Other reviews cause me to cry out in protest as I found "Chicken with Plums" captivating in a way few films have touched me. I would urge anyone reading these words to seek it out for themselves (I found it on "starz" and hope they will continue to show it).

The storytelling is tantalizingly deliberate; one might even say that the early sequences are almost misleading their matter-of-fact tone. But the artistic team - and a martini-dry performance by Mathieu Amalric as our harried hero - continue unwrapping the narrative in a startlingly casual fashion, the tale becomes richer and more daring with every turn.

Persian tales begin, "There was someone, there was no one." See for yourself whether you find Nasser Ali someone to remember in this artful Persian story.

By not betraying her own personal style and the comic source, evident in its graphic and contrived aesthetic, this film work from Marjane Satrapi doesn't' exploit his full poetic potential, as it chokes the plot in an exercise in style which enchants the eye more than the heart, in a series of surrealistic digressions, flashbacks and flash-forwards (the futures of protagonist's children), by looking for poetic effects instead of true poetry. Nevertheless, the ending, practically silent, explains and forgives the limits and the excesses of a film built on form and on a cinematographic "cinéphile" quoter mannerism, and finally gets to the craved emotion. Ironic, melancholic and visionary mix, with more care for narration and less for stylish frippery it would have been a great hymn to life: as it is now, it did it in half. Paraphrasing the character of the music master: good technique with no heart doesn't make great music.