apass

Great artists aspire to transcend the confines of their ordinary existence. Their art is their escape. Thanks to this worthy effort by the French, it is clear Vivaldi had a surfeit of stress to escape from. But this film does not demonstrate how that stress was the impetus behind the music.

Recall for a moment the highlights of Vivaldi's vast oeuvre. There is a trio sonata that gracefully rises up, evoking a better world; an aria from Moctezuma that hovers peacefully above a far-less tranquil world below; the opening chorus of the Gloria, which ascends to the heights of nobility, without even acknowledging the ignoble. These, and many more pinnacles of his accomplishments were omitted from the film, literally and figuratively. The meaning behind the music is not made clear.

By way of analogy, I might lend clarification from my own experience. For many years, I worked in an open office with several associates. Much to my dismay, I soon found that they chatted incessantly in the intervals of work about the most vulgar and abhorrent topics. There was but one escape: good music via earphone, of which Vivaldi was a cornerstone. Invariably, when the quiet was adulterated by obscene chit-chat, I found a lofty refuge in the red priest's contemplations. His compositions were, no doubt, intended to dispel the very same ennui. His was a delicate, noble constitution, incompatible with the cannaille.

Towards the end of the film, the word "Amsterdam" had been spoken often. I realized that it was a siren-call for this poor composer, kept forever under the thumb of a philistine patron. And I was moved profoundly, not by the film, but my recollection of having once toured Amsterdam for hours, to the accompaniment of Moctezuma, among the greatest of Vivaldi's 40+ operas. I had taken his music physically to the place he could only reach in his dreams.

It was thanks to the Big Sur short film festival that I had the chance to see it. A lonely couple appears to be the only inhabitant of a vast new subdivision. The silence is deafening. Humans were not meant to live this way. Psychological malnourishment is their lot, thanks in part to overzealous builders in cahoots with myopic financiers.

There is no overt commentary on that political slant. But one can easily draw the conclusion. One drawback is a slightly too graphic depiction of amorous activity. I wonder why movies drifted away from off-camera suggestions, towards overt imagery. It seemed so much more tasteful in the classics.

After seeing this movie, I consulted the reviews and was pleasantly surprised to hear of a "superior" 1982 French version. The surprise was short-lived. It is not better.

There are interesting points of contrast: the French have more artistic cinematography, better gastronomy, and less formulaic denouement. A particular shot of the leading man lying on a couch with clothes and upholstery perfectly synchronized was unquestionably tasteful. But the Americans deserve credit too.

Kahn lends her character far more depth than her French colleague. She undergoes a moving transformation that is not evident in Pere Noel. Martin equals L'Hermitte's commendable effort. Wilson surpasses her predecessor in both charm and feeling; she's more deserving of our sympathy. Sandler is funnier and far less nauseating than his French counterpart. And the real surprise is Lewis. Her rendition of the crazed pregnant lady is far more dignified than the Frenchwoman's, who was as unlikable as Lewis in her earlier turn as a Griswald in Christmas Vacation.

But the real fork in the road is the conclusion. Whereas the French plunge into macabre darkness, the Americans end on several high notes. A Christmas movie must be jovial, and this version leaves me feeling better. Sometimes, even the worst catastrophes and deepest despair are followed immediately by pure jubilation.