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Spookwhiskey

Entrou em mai. de 2003
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A Garota Ideal

A Garota Ideal

7,3
8
  • 5 de mai. de 2008
  • Film Review - Lars and the Real Girl

    With its premise reading more like a rejected pitch for a Deuce Bigelow sequel than the foundation of what's now an Oscar nominated screenplay, Craig Gillespie's Lars and the Real Girl is a gentle comic delight.

    Buoyed by an admirably vulnerable lead performance from the perennially impressive Ryan Gosling, Lars charts the journey of self-discovery unwittingly undertaken by an introverted office worker following his internet purchase of a high-end 'real doll' - a lifelike and anatomically correct silicone companion typically employed for you-know-what. As written by Six Feet Under's Nancy Oliver, what could otherwise have been a crude and lowest-common-denominator numbskulled sex farce instead becomes a moving reflection on loneliness and rebirth. Thanks to the sensitivity of Gosling's portrayal, Gillespie's film never falls prey to the affected preciousness a less accomplished performer may have laid thick on the unusual role, instead remaining tender, poignant and endearingly atypical – much like its odd leading pair.

    Lars' life-lacking lady-love (the half-Danish, half-Brazilian religious missionary, Bianca, he tells) proves the catalyst for her man's emotional reawakening. That Bianca is never here forced to consummate his doting adoration speaks volumes as to the isolation intrinsic to Lars, rendering his flat-out belief in her breathing humanity all the more richly compelling. Effectively fulfilling the role of imaginary friend, Bianca grants Lars what he's never allowed himself: a loving, trying and emotionally complex relationship with another adult human being.

    That Bianca is decidedly perceptible, however, provides the film the heart of its drama, with Lars' neighbours and loved ones faced with the unusual dilemma of whether or not to accommodate the town's newest resident. A lively ensemble of secondary players flesh out the town's incidental denizens with aplomb, with the ever-excellent Paul Schneider laying claim to the bulk of the laughs in a droll supporting turn as Lars' incredulous brother. As his compassionate wife, Emily Mortimer is a tirelessly nurturing presence, softly persistent in her efforts to coax from Lars even the most basic of social interactions, while Thumbsucker's endearing Kelli Garner shares one of the film's sweetest scenes with Gosling and a debilitated teddy bear. Patricia Clarkson lends empathy and class as Lars (and Bianca's) physician, embodying the ethos of the production as a whole by refusing to treat our deeply troubled hero with derision – irrespective of the absurdity of his condition.

    Gillespie's work here is delicately nuanced, taking a sincerely original script and crafting from it an elegant and moving modern fable. Detractors may scoff at how things play out, but for most, Lars and the Real Girl will prove a winningly charming and acutely human tale of love and catharsis... through sex dolls.

    http://celluloidtongue.blogspot.com/
    10.000 A.C.

    10.000 A.C.

    5,1
    1
  • 27 de mar. de 2008
  • Film Review - 10,000 BC

    Perhaps 10,000 B.C.'s title refers to the 10,000 Better Choices available to undemanding viewers looking to scratch their ancient action itch. Apocalypto, 300, Peter Jackson's King Kong and Steven Spielberg's two Jurassic Park films each offer exponentially more entertaining excursions to perilous lost worlds and exotic locales than director Roland Emmerich's prehistoric fizzer.

    Concerning the exploits of an impossibly manicured young mammoth hunter (Steven Strait) on a cross-country quest to reclaim his Neanderthal-napped and improbably blue-eyed dolly belle cave-woman lover-girl (Camilla Belle) from the god-fearing clutches of a pyramid-building race of snarling human sacrifice enthusiasts, 10,000 B.C. couldn't come as more of a letdown. Emmerich, Germany's master disasterist extraordinaire, has heretofore proved himself an anarchic architect of cinematic soufflé, having built a career on vacuous and empty-headed exercises in big screen ka-boom, all dizzying pyrotechnics and the most special of effects. But therein has generally lied his appeal, with the likes of Independence Day and The Day After Tomorrow - though daftness incarnate - offering a happy balance between epic spectacle and blockbuster thrills. Even his widely derided Godzilla redux delivers more grand-scale action and primeval excitement than you can shake an archaic spear at, and makes the plodding 10,000 B.C. look like Cenozoic Question Time.

    Emmerich's at his best with a stellar cast of whom to dispose and a mapful of U.S. landmarks to spectacularly obliterate. His incessant insistence on cramming his films with the gleeful destruction of American iconography (think Independence Day's exploding White House, The Day After Tomorrow's drowning and frozen Statue of Liberty) has previously tempered any qualms with broad, connect-the-dots plotting and thinly sketched stock-standard characters, and it's here where 10,000 B.C.'s sheer failure as an entertainment comes quickly and sharply into view. Without a Will Smith or a Dennis Quaid to wring precious credulity from Emmerich's painfully formulaic script, 10,000 B.C. has its considerable work as an action-adventurer cut out from the get-go, so the fact that - despite the immeasurable opportunity afforded by the prehistoric setting - this is by far the least visually remarkable entry in Emmerich's catalogue leaves this as a film with nary a grunt to recommend it.

    The action here is dull and far between, with Emmerich's ordinarily faultless eye for effects-laden extravagance seemingly preoccupied with the wholesale lifting of major plot elements from superior films. Apocalypto takes the worst hit, its slight plot replicated almost entirely as 10,000 B.C., too, sees its small hunter-gatherer tribe of noble (and impeccably-dentisted) savages whisked swiftly away by foreign meanies from beyond the dunes for a lamentable future of either slaving or sacrifice. But the pilfering doesn't stop here, as Emmerich inexplicably throws in a 300-esque 'god king,' a late and worthless entrant to proceedings whose appearance bears no dramatic weight save for our hero to have someone to aim a spear at come the inevitable rallying of the troops in the eye-rolling finale.

    None of which would matter in the slightest had Emmerich the courtesy to simply over-stuff the film with tiger-on-mammoth kickassery, but neither creature is granted so much as a sequence which elicits even the most meagre of excitement. The sabretooth, in particular, gets the stick's shortest end, in two action-free pussycat encounters which total ninety seconds of screen time and leave you wondering if the director is the same Roland Emmerich who blew off a guy's leg with a cannonball in The Patriot. Of the few inert and bloodless would-be-set-pieces on offer, only an attack by a pack of giant swamp turkeys comes close to raising something akin to a pulse, but even this fleeting highlight is wholly undone by a ridiculous hit-in-the-balls gag. Forget the stampeding mammoths and promises of a man versus sabretooth throw-down as per what can now be recognized as the film's deviously edited trailer; 10,000 B.C. is as stagnant as would be the modern-day remains of its absurd and unlikable heroes.

    With dialogue so bad you'll long for the Quest for Fire approach and not a standout action sequence in sight, Roland Emmerich's 10,000 B.C. is a lumbering, cavepaint-by-numbers bore, as primitive and outdated as the rudimentary tools of its Paleolithic protagonists.
    O Escafandro e a Borboleta

    O Escafandro e a Borboleta

    8,0
    10
  • 27 de mar. de 2008
  • Film Review - The Diving Bell and the Butterfly

    The true-life story of a magazine editor afflicted with locked-in syndrome following a massively debilitating stroke may seem better suited to the realms of heavy drama than feel-good jubilation, and yet The Diving Bell and the Butterfly arrives as just that. Thanks to the free spirit and painterly eye of director Julian Schnabel, Jean Dominique Bauby's slender post-stroke memoir makes for a truly astonishing film, both as effortlessly uplifting and unaffectedly artful as it is dazzling and visually ingenious.

    Integral to the film's success is the ingenuity and dynamism with which Schnabel and director of photography Janusz Kaminski tackle the filmic translation of Bauby's potentially dealbreaking condition, employing here the most immersive camera-work this side of Kaminski's own beach efforts on Saving Private Ryan. In an opening act which unspools entirely in first-person point-of-view, the pair succeed exquisitely in capturing the interior turmoil of Bauby's fear and frustration as the writer comes to grasp with the unspeakable weight of his circumstances, his anxiety heightened tenfold by the shifting focus of a world now tumbling from reach. A sequence in which Bauby's muscularly ineffectual right eye is stitched closed is impossibly squirm-inducing, as we - as Bauby - are forced to watch hopelessly on as each eyelid-piercing flick of a doctor's wrist gradually enshadows his outlook by half.

    Of course, inventive lensing only goes so far, and it's the perfectly-judged central performance of Mathieu Amalric which balances the fertile lyricism of Schnabel's imagery with a dry and resilient resolve. Afforded only a swift handful of flashback scenes in which to establish the character of a pre-stroke Bauby, Amalric expertly conveys the readjustment of self experienced by the former Elle editor, inhabiting his immobile frame with a startling realism and forgoing cheap Oscar-bait flashiness. For a wheelchair-bound quadriplegic capable of communicating solely by blinking his left eye, Amalric invests Bauby with a wealth of spirit, the wry self-deprecation of his droll internal monologue somehow embodied by his near-motionless physical portrayal.

    Though as marvellous as Amalric here is, it's no wonder The Diving Bell and the Butterfly's most affecting scenes come from the latter-half glimpses of a healthy Bauby, be he in flashback or a player in one of his own bed-ridden fantasies, as when sharing a sumptuous meal during a fancied otherworld encounter with his patient and compassionate scribe (Anne Consigny). The late sight of an able-bodied Bauby shaving his ailing father (Max von Sydow) neatly articulates their sudden reversal of roles, furthering the heartbreaking enormity of his impossible situation whilst greater highlighting his tenacity to endure. It's this refusal to concede to his condition that defines Bauby, and damn if you won't come to love him for it.

    An exceptional cast of supporting players offer sensitive, well-realised performances, amplifying the scope of the across-the-board achievement encompassing Schnabel's bold adaptation. Marie-Josée Croze makes for a charming speech therapist, whilst Consigny brings a quiet grace to the loyal Claude. Her relationship with Bauby, in particular, in genuinely moving, as is her dedication to his completing his memoir. Emmanuelle Seigner exudes a time-tested devotion as the writer's ex-wife and mother to his children, and von Sydow's heartrending sorrow at his son's affliction gives way to two of the film's most devastating scenes. From Ronald Harwood's neat and nimble screenplay to the dexterous editing of Juliette Welfling, this is hands-down must-see cinema and an instant art-house classic; radiant, triumphant and profoundly universal.

    A remarkable lead turn from Amalric and the impressionistic beauty of Schnabel's lush visual poetics here coalesce to incredible effect, making The Diving Bell and the Butterfly not only one of the finest releases of the past twelve months, but an accomplishment worthy of greatness.
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