by J. Hoberman
CANNES, France—The world’s preeminent ﬁlm festival celebrated it’s 60th birthday party—the opening banquet catered by the world’s hippest, or is that once hippest?—ﬁlmmaker.
Hardly the disaster many feared but far from the triumph others anticipated, Wong Kar-wai’s ﬁrst English-language feature My Blueberry Nights—starring Norah the U.S. as a wild, lonely succession of highways and diners—part Robert Frank, part Edward Hopper—isn’t exactly a revelation but the only truly egregious cliché is the Ry Cooder twang that takes over the soundtrack when Jones arrives in Vegas.
Minor, if not without its privileged moments, My Blueberry Nights does include one of the most erotic sequences in any of Wong’s ﬁlms, a fetishistic mega close-up of the sleeping Jones’s pie a la mode ﬂecked lips. But akin to seeing Wong without his trademark shades, the movie unavoidably inspires two mental exercises. The ﬁrst: imagining it in subtitled Chinese, recast with Chinese actors (Tony Leung in place of the too-eager-to-please Jude Law). The second: replaying Wong’s greatest hits sans Orientalism—were the performances in 2046 as mediocre and the dialogue as trite as in My Blueberry Nights? Well, we’d still have the melancholy and the visual style (as is true here, even if the cinematography is too glam and the dessert colors a shade too rich). All of the ﬁlmmaker’s themes—memory, regret, loss, insomnia—are present, along with the misfortune of an American-style happy ending.
Blueberry Nights set the tone for Cannes’ ﬁrst week, characterized by a wistful globalism and dominated by Chinese and American movies. The ofﬁcial section boasts four American Palm d’Or-eates—Joel and Ethan Coen, Quentin Tarantino, Gus Van Sant and Michael Moore—along with Steven Soderbergh’s Ocean’s Thirteen and David Fincher’s Zodiac. Sicko and Zodiac were particularly well received, as was the Coens’ lean gothic western No Country for Old Men—a movie unencumbered by ideas or characters save for Javier Bardem’s implacable killer and an early favorite for a top prize.
The epitome of globo-absurdity, however, has been Olivier Assayas’ meta-trashy, mainly English Boarding Gate, which winds up with sullen s/m hooker hit- triumph of globo-absurdity, complicated by genius, is thus far Hou Hsiao-hsien’s supposed remake of the 1956 kid’s ﬁlm The Red Balloon. Both were included in the festival’s more experimental “Un Certain Regard” section, with Hou’s Flight of the Red Balloon the opening attraction.
Commissioned by the Musee d’Orsay and supposedly sent back twice for reediting by the Cannes powers that be, Hou’s ﬁrst non-Asian feature is not so much a ﬁlm as a ﬁlm object: it’s densely edited, conceptually complicated and enchantingly eccentric. The eponymous balloon is at once a character, a (literally) free-ﬂoating metaphor, and the subject of a student movie being produced by the movie’s lone Chinese character.
Like Boarding Gate, Flight of the Red Balloon is centered on a spectacular, courageously off-putting performance—namely Juliette Binoche’s turn as a distracte exivity, the movie is surprisingly close to Hou’s masterpiece The Puppetmaster—albeit looser, more lyrical and much devoted to the problem of orchestrating “nothing” in impossibly tight spaces.
The ofﬁcial section includes two other Chinese ﬁlm-objects: Triangle, in which Tsui Hark, Ringo Lam and Johnnie To play the surrealist “exquisite corpse” game of exte a more productive instance of less-as-more is Wang Bing’s three-hour, three set-up documentary Fengming: A Chinese Memoir. Unprompted and unre revolution in a torr performance.
The biggest Chinese crowd-pleaser, however, has been Li Yang’s Blind Mountain. An apt follow-up to Li’s corrosive coal-mine thriller Blind Shaft, Blind Mountain—in the shockingly abrupt ending brought down the house at normally soignée Salle Debussy. The scene in which rural medics demand payment upfront before attending a dying patient was worthy of Michael Moore’s pamphleteering Sicko, a scattershot evisceration of the American health system that’s most effective when identifying said system as a raging capitalist symptom.
Speaking of social ills, it’s pretty darn amazing that each of the last three Cannes ﬁlm festivals has featured a terriﬁc Romanian movie. There was The Death of Mr. Lazarescu in 2005, 12:08 East of Bucharest (soon to open stateside) in 2006, and this year Cristian Mungiu’s 4 Months, 3 Weeks & 2 Days. The title r
Set in 1987, when abortion was illegal in Romania, 4 Months depicts late Communism as a barter economy in which everything is a hassle and male privilege is a give unsentimental humanism was all the more impressive in the light of Andrei Zvyagintsev’s The Banishment, a Christian allegory also in competition centered on an unwanted pregnancy. Zvyagintsev won ﬁrst prize at Venice his ﬁrst time out with The Return. The Banishment is even more accomplished. but while it is in essence the imitation of art, 4 Months is the imitation of life.
A movie of long, behavioral takes, 4 Months resembles Lazarescu—which was shot by the same DP—in choreographing a process. The tone, however, is more grim than grimly humorous. Brilliant as it is, 4 Months is likely to be a harder sell. It’s a movie about abortion that makes Vera Drake look like Mary Poppins.
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