Vladimir Nabokov considered The Luzhin Defense, a case study of a chess champ’s midtournament crack-up, to be the warmest of his Russian novels—and although the writer is no one’s idea of a humanist pussycat, his portrait of a terminally awkward genius is as touching as it is sardonic. Certainly, the novel’s sentimental potential has not been lost on Dutch director Marleen Gorris. Nor has it eluded John Turturro, who, given the most romantic role of his career, fully inhabits the ungainly Luzhin.
Set during the 1920s, mainly at the posh Italian spa hosting a world championship chess match, Gorris’s generally respectful adaptation arranges each scene as a sort of old-world china shop delicately primed for her protagonist’s befuddled, loping entrance. A definitive absent-minded professor (or otherworldly film critic), Turturro’s Luzhin is chain-smoking, unshaven, and dressed in a jacket with a mysterious coating of chalk dust; distracted by his own thoughts and consequently amazed by whatever appears before him, he can barely manage a complete sentence. Nevertheless, the maestro does not fail to notice the winsome Natalia (Emily Watson), vacationing in the company of her controlling mother and indulgent father.
Although Natalia and her parents are supposedly Russian émigrés, they come across as upper-crust Brits, variously fascinated, bewildered, or appalled by the bizarre antics of the uncouth Luzhin. There’s no undercurrent of displacement. Turturro doesn’t seem particularly Russian either—he might as well have dropped from the moon—but then, the movie is his show. The actor is not only marvelously obsessive but also, playing a far more nuanced eccentric than his customary Coen geek, more handsome than he’s ever seemed on-screen—particularly when he turns his beseeching gaze on Watson.
The actress’s corresponding wide-eyed Kewpie-doll stare seems the unfortunate residue of her role as the walking malaprop in last year’s Trixie, but she does make her interest in Turturro’s lovable lunatic convincing. The actors demonstrate considerable rapport, if not precisely erotic chemistry, in projecting their characters’ attempt to invent their own rules. It’s typical that Luzhin’s abrupt proposal of marriage would occur while Natalia was in the midst of playing tennis (with someone else) and that he would understand her obligation to finish the game before favoring him with her reply.
Luzhin’s unique courtship is intercut with his headlong progress through the tournament, leading to the inevitable championship game with the incongruously gangsterish reigning player. Events are further punctuated with extended passages of Luzhin’s childhood memories or, once Valentinov (Stuart Wilson), his sinister Svengali, materializes to give his former charge the evil eye, flashbacks to his early career. Chess is associated with Luzhin’s unhappy family and his experience of desertion; there’s scarcely a hint of the ferocious ego the game demands. With Valentinov’s arrival, the trap closes—despite the new combination, namely his engagement to Natalia, that Luzhin has introduced into his game.
In the novel, Luzhin clings to chess as the only tangible order in a world of confusing phantoms: “He sat leaning on his cane and thinking that with a Knight’s move of this lime tree standing on a sunlit slope one could take that telephone pole over there, and simultaneously tried to remember what exactly he had just been talking about.” Like her protagonist, Gorris finds chessboard patterns everywhere, but only rarely indulging in the odd expressionist angle, she’s cautious in her visualizations. (The major blunder is the corny montage juxtaposing Luzhin’s lovemaking and his chess playing.)
Gorris struggles to give her hero a physical dimension. “I dance a little,” he giggles at one point, giddy in his incoherence. In a further concession to contemporary taste—not surprising in view of her militantly feminist movies like A Question of Silence—Gorris strives to imbue Natalia with added moral powers. The movie accentuates her rebellious spirit by giving her a handsome suitor to spurn and inventing a feel-good endgame that, while sacrificing the novelist’s intent, does allow the pawn to become a queen.
What’s his game? That’s the big question for most of the reasonably nifty French thriller With a Friend Like Harry . . . A succés d’estime on its home ground, winner of several Cesars, Dominik Moll’s murderous dark comedy opens with a young paterfamilias escaping momentarily from his hot, cramped automobile (a bit of hell on wheels populated by a harried wife and three demonically whimpering tots) for a gas-station men’s room and a chance meeting with an insistently friendly, barely remembered classmate.
Michel (Laurent Lucas) seems a poor, overburdened schnook married to the similarly put-upon Claire (Mathilde Seigner); Harry (Sergi López), by contrast, is rich and healthy, with a perpetual smirk and a cutie-pie fiancée named Plum (Sophie Guillemin) whom he is planning to take to the Alps. So why do Harry and Plum insist on following Michel and Claire back to the decrepit old farmhouse they have purchased as a weekend home? Amid the domestic muddle of bottle warming, nappy changing, and ongoing brattiness, Michel discovers that his meddling parents have taken it upon themselves to install a fuchsia bathroom, which eventually serves as the movie’s nexus of fantasy. Clearly Harry and Plum are not the only ones to have invaded Michel’s life. By contrast to this cheerily conspiratorial couple, he and Claire are always frowning.
What exactly does Harry want? Is he a con artist, a wife swapper, an insurance agent? (The answer turns out to be less complex than one might imagine.) Bizarrely supportive when not boasting about his sexual exploits with the compliant Plum, Harry appears to have committed all of Michel’s schoolboy poems to memory and, in between lavish gifts, keeps bugging his host to give up his unproductive teaching job and resume writing. How long will it be before Harry is acting out Michel’s repressed desires—or vice versa? Inspired by his new friend’s obsessions, Michel does begin scribbling, staying up nights in the pink bathroom.
As the title With a Friend Like Harry . . . alludes to Hitchcock’s The Trouble With Harry, so Moll’s movie takes something of its premise—or, rather, its set of expectations—from another Hitchcock, Strangers on a Train. The atmosphere of bourgeois bickering and longing is, however, more suggestive of Claude Chabrol. (A nice bit of nastiness: When Michel visits his parents, his dentist father immediately insists on examining his teeth.) Moll’s style is low-key and straightforward. His blandly outrageous ending allows Michel to finally crack a smile.
Those with an interest in true crime should attend the pair of video documentaries opening this week at Cinema Village.
Pegged to the 10th anniversary of the Gulf War victory celebration, a fiesta that lasted nearly three times longer than the fighting itself, the 60-minute Hidden Wars of Desert Storm investigates the most significant Bush family operation before the 2000 Florida vote count. Directors Gerard Ungerman and Audrey Brohy reiterate the big question—why, in the months leading up to the crisis, was Iraq repeatedly assured that the U.S. had no security agreement with Kuwait?—and further suggest that the Bush administration deliberately misled the Saudis as to the magnitude of the Iraqi threat.
A useful demonstration of American military power as it might be applied without significant casualties in the post-Soviet era, Operation Desert Storm was ended prematurely when various anti-Saddam Hussein rebellions broke out and it seemed as though Iraq might disintegrate (presumably to the advantage of Iran). In any case, the filmmakers maintain, the war’s basic objectives were achieved—namely, the creation of quasi-permanent American military bases in Saudi Arabia and huge arms sales to governments in the region—all at the expense of the Iraqi people. Having argued this case, the movie ends by considering the malign effect of battlefield uranium weapons on the U.S. soldiers who served in the Gulf.
Moving from foreign affairs to the domestic sphere, The F.L.I.R. Project—a shorter, more concentrated film—returns to the scene of the crime in Waco and uses the analysis of infrared video to argue that, all protestation to the contrary, FBI gunmen took aim at the Branch Davidians trying to escape their burning compound. Do the tapes show “glint” or gunfire? Michael McNulty devotes most of his film to debunking the official re-creation of the incident as part of the cover-up. The close reading of the evidence is both stupefyingly labored and persuasive—a secondary mystery is the filmmaker’s decision to score his revelations with a porn-style musical loop.
This article from the Village Voice Archive was posted on April 17, 2001