Poucas e Boas

Once again we get to see Sean Penn at his charming and reckless best. I thoroughly enjoyed watching him go into his self destructive mode, losing out on the things that are really important. One could start off thinking of him as an arrogant ass, but then come to realize that he is more insecure than almost anyone. His fear of the looming Django Renihart is pretty cool. Imagine being the second best and knowing it, that is, being so good but not quite there. How many people can tell you who the second man to walk on the moon was? The money comes and the money goes and the man goes on. The cinematography of this film is wonderful, capturing an era when the jazz performer was the king.

Woody Allen has such control over the story telling tools of cinema that he can do whatever he wants. Mixing "documentary" comments about what is happening with the characters, and straightforward and yet superbly filmed feature sequences, Allen shows once again why he is one of the greatest film directors of our time. Good plot, great performances, skillfully constructed characters, excellent camera work... can you ask for more?

A slow, rich movie. Though it lags in places, the three lead performances are indelibly written in my memory. And the great jazz soundtrack and warm colors made this movie go down like a glass of bourbon.

Embodying the archetypal difficult genius, Emmet Ray is an almost cartoonishly dislikable guy. But Sean Penn keeps him just this side of sympathetic; we loathe his actions, we curse his self-destructiveness, and yet we're compelled to keep watching in the increasingly futile hope he'll turn himself around. His last scenes are heartrending.

As Hattie, Samantha Morton strikes a perfect, almost Chaplinesque, balance of comedy and tragedy. The line separating the two is razor-thin; she dances gracefully upon it. I could say more, but perhaps appropriately, it's difficult to find words that capture the beauty of her silent performance. Half the joy is in watching her reactions naturally unfold anyway.

Like Penn, Uma Thurman portrays a pretty unlikeable character. Her Blanche is overly intellectual, questions incessantly and is in some ways just as emotionally alienated as Emmett. Though her character is grating at first (particularly in contrast to Morton), Thurman does not shrink from the less flattering aspects of her character. It's a brave performance in a thankless role.

Woody Allen has constructed a thoughtful meditation on the nature of artistry. Not on celebrity -- we all know how that film turned out -- but on the rights and responsibilities of the true artist. Emmett, Hattie and Blanche represent the axis of artists, fans and critics respectively. As their relationships play out -- naturally, inexorably and poignantly -- the viewer gets a rare treat: a film that plucks at the mind and at the heart as gracefully as Emmett picking his guitar strings.

This is a strange movie, but one made a little bit special to me because of one memorable character: "Hattie," played by Samantha Morton. What a wonderful, endearing character! The sweet look on her face alone makes this movie worth keeping.

Another huge positive for this film is the cinematography. This is beautifully shot with great colors which look all the better on DVD.

As mentioned by other reviewers, Sean Penn also does an excellent job in the lead. The shocker for me was how good a comedic touch he exhibits. Putting his general persona or politics aside, this man deserves kudos as an actor.

There is a third very different and interesting character in this movie: "Blanche," played by Uma Thurman, who portrays an amoral woman in the last part of the film. She, too, is fascinating.

So....three interesting characters, great photography AND terrific music - jazz guitar is a central part of this story - all make for a fun hour-and-a-half of entertainment.

When we try to understand genius, or love, or "why?", we run into the same problem that the ancients encountered:

"I went to the poets … I took them some of the most elaborate passages in their own writings, and asked what was the meaning of them — thinking that they would teach me something. I must say that there is hardly a person present who would not have talked better about their poetry than they did themselves. That showed me in an instant that not by wisdom do poets write poetry, but by a sort of genius and inspiration; they are like diviners or soothsayers who also say many fine things, but do not understand the meaning of them." — Socrates, The Apology

So here we have Woody telling a story about a storyteller, who talks and struts endlessly (Penn has a ball with this), but can only say anything through music, and he can't explain a bit of it. Much like Woody, who prattles on about every neurosis, but speaks volumes through his control of the medium. It's just something he's born to do.

And this is the only way to understand Django -- with only two working fingers on his fretting hand (accidental disfigurement), he reinvented the whole medium of guitar. The new shape of his hand forced him into holding octaves - which can be done on guitar with two adjacent fingers, unlike on the piano - and changing the way leads and comping - here, self-accompaniment - were played. His art was the necessary step before Les Paul, and thence to Wes Montgomery, and so on to you and me.

Here is devotion without hagiography, because all of this is wrapped into "one of those Emmett Ray stories", where you can 'never be sure' of what is truth, confabulation, or exaggeration.

Brilliance. Bravo, to all.