By Amy Nicholson
By Amy Nicholson
By Daphne Howland
By Amy Nicholson
By Stephanie Zacharek
By Calum Marsh
By Stephanie Zacharek
By Alan Scherstuhl
CANNES, FRANCEThe Da Vinci Code, which had its world premiere last week as the opening attraction at the Cannes Film Festival, was heralded with massive hype and greeted by crushing indifference. Even the stars seemed blasé. What was the Vatican on about, Ian McKellen wondered at the morning-after press conference: Hadn't the movie proved Jesus Christ wasn't gay?
More than that, though, The Da Vinci Code offers the comforting notion that history has a meaning. In that respect at least, this dull spectacle resembled a number of movies competing in Cannes's 59th edition. Two years after Michael Moore won the Palme d'Or with Fahrenheit 9/11, social agendas have returnedat least on-screen.
The undisputed favorite midway through the competition, Pedro Almodóvar's comedy Volver (which, for all the murder and incest, is his most mainstream movie ever) is strictly apolitical; the most accomplished competing film, Nuri Bilge Ceylan's Climates, is, like the Turkish director's previous Distant, a study in alienation. But all around these cluster movies concerning war, state terror, and as one title has it, The Rights of the Weakest. The strongest of the lot, Richard Kelly's phantasmagorical satire Southland Tales, even features a porn star version of The View covering all these issues, plus "teen horniness."
Brit vet Ken Loach is represented by The Wind That Shakes the Barley, a beautifully shot if overweeningly schematic re-creation of the Irish Troubles, with unforced and undeniable relevance to the contemporary Middle East. The Caiman, Nanni Moretti's first offering in five years, is a disappointingly flat movie about (a movie about) Italy's barely defeated prime minister Silvio Berlusconi. Official but non-competing, America's unfairly defeated Al Gore materialized on the Croisette in tuxedo, with the drolly titled global-warming doc An Inconvenient Truth. Yet to screen: Sofia Coppola's visit to the glory days of the French Revolution with Kirsten Dunst as Austrian valley girl Marie Antoinette.
Fast Food Nation, directed by Richard Linklater from Eric Schlosser's 2001 bestselling exposé and timed to coincide with the centennial of Upton Sinclair's classic muckraker The Jungle, makes a valiantif curiously anemicattempt to use the scarcely fictionalized Mickey's franchise ("Home of the Big One") as a metaphor for American life. A Mickey's ad man (Greg Kinnear) learns that for all the engineered slogans, scientific packaging, and designed aromas, "there's shit in the meat." His mission to the megapacking plant in Colorado intersects with the stories of Mexican illegal immigrants who get jobs there, as well as that of a Mickey's register girl turned eco-activist.
Linklater's panorama is overflowing with good intentions (and, while not Blood of the Beasts, is graphic enough to put you off beef, even before reaching the plant "killing floor"). What it lacks is satiric energy. The movie's most galvanizing scene is Bruce Willis's ferocious cameo as the voice of cynical realisma Mickey's operative who makes fun of American 'fraidy cats and reminds Kinnear that "we all have to eat a little shit from time to time." As if sensing the shortage of red meat, Linklater provides his own auto-critique with a scene in which the student eco-activists attempt to liberate a pasture filled with contented cows. The animals won't budge. "Next time we'll have to bring a cattle prod," one kid concludes.
University militants figure even more heavily in Summer Palace, a fascinating mess by Chinese director Lou Ye, the romantic whose previous features include the vertiginous Suzhou River and delirious Purple Butterfly. The action spans a dozen or more years, opening in 1987 when Lou's passionate, philosophical heroine Yu Hong (beautiful, sullen Hao Lei) leaves her hometown on the North Korean border for Beijing University. Embracing confusion, she falls into a tormented love affair. Is Yu Hong having a breakdown? Or is China? As in the 1960s, students rush off to demonstrations hoping to get lucky. (The milieu feels authentic; Lou himself graduated Beijing University in 1989.) One waits in vain for the events at Tiananmen Square to erupt into the foreground. That they never do is a factor either of Lou's political caution or his devotion to Yu Hong's stubborn self-involvement.
At once leisurely and hectic, Summer Palace has its share of suicides, betrayals, and bicycle accidents. There's also more explicit sex in this melodrama than in any previous Chinese movie; more, most likely, than in the six runners-up combined. Freedom is definitely on the march. (And so is avant pornranging from the ragingly punitive Danish anti-porn anime Princess, which opened the Director's Fortnight, to an autobiographical feature by the erstwhile porn star known as HPG, considered by at least one Paris journalist to be the most interesting French film at Cannes, to John Cameron Mitchell's softheaded hardcore gloss on The Rocky Horror Picture Show, Shortbus.)
Given that one of Lou's major influencesWong Kar-waiis jury president and that a former leading ladyZhang Ziyiis also on the jury, as well as Lou's political boldness in making the first Chinese movie to depict Tiananmen '89, Summer Palace seems destined for some sort of award. Not so the most audacious, polarizing, and to my mind, enjoyable movie in the competition thus far: Southland Tales.
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