First, I must say that I highly recommend the film Il Divo, and not just because Roger Ebert says it's good. It was truly a gripping bio pic, a story about the much feared Senator for Life Giulio Andreotti. It was grand stylish bit of insight into Italian politics, the interconnections between parliament, the Vatican and the Costa Nostra, a camera eye's view of a closed, power-mad world that no one in their right mind would want to venture in.
Secondly, I have to say that while the picture was gripping, fearless and artsy-fartsy, all of which make for a good foreign film experience, I must admit I am happy at this time that I didn't shell the big bucks out in town to see it out in town and that, instead, I caught it upstairs in the luxurious comfort of the Futon Cinema.
"Why's that?" you might be aski, if you ever bothered to come by to inquire, asking as if you care while you sip your cooling latte and scan the latest reviews in Variety. Well, if only because it was one of those films where stylishness was at odds with historical complexity, where fatigue went to battle with the speed and complexity of the Italian language (and resultant sub titles that go along with it). I wasn't built for speed last night, I needed mindless entertainment. I seriously messed up as far as movie choices were concerned.
See, I have this belief that on the most part Americans want their movies served up like the chow they get at McDonalds. Go to Micky D's and the food is practically predigested for you. Eat, fill up, feel lousy afterwards but you can pretend, for a moment or two, that you had a meal of sorts. Same with an awful lot of movies that pass for entertainment these days. Pop one in or blow high dough at the local movie house, sit down, crack open the top your head and drop in the pre-viewed, edited to hell, focus group trimmed pablum that passes for art. Sometimes that works for me, too, especially after a hard day. Last night I wanted more and overdosed on a good thing. Pity.
See, that's what I'm saying about Il Divo. It was a grand masterwork, an incredible piece of cinema, but man, I needed to have my wits about me to follow it. The layering of characters, the swapping out of lies, details and fact, the fast and fancy editing, the speed of the language, the subtly of the acting, it was all too much to handle in the dark recesses of my room, a room overheated from a generous days' worth of sunshine. It didn't help that I was emotionally blown out from just having put a phone interview to bed, that I helped hump numerous pallets of food at Helpline, that I had just finished up a nice big heavy fried fish dinner that was breaking down in my belly and had about two thirds of a bottle of a delicious Australian Merlot under my belt as well.
Face it, it had nothing to do with the quality of the movie, it was a perfect storm of warmth, food and alcohol that pushed my ability to concentrate over the cliff. The more the details and facts stacked up to make the film interesting and thrilling, the less my anesthetizied brain wanted to deal with it. What it REALLY wanted was explosions, titilating sex and potty joke humor. It couldn't handle class, it wanted crass. Damn, foiled again by my own sense of wanting the best for myself!
So, now I know better. NO more fancy pants foreign films for me after a big supper, no sirree. I just can't wait to put on Il Divo again, but this time after a restful night's sleep and pot full of hot black coffee. Definitely a Sunday morning movie.
Now, where did I stash that copy of The Hangover?
Action!
Secondly, I have to say that while the picture was gripping, fearless and artsy-fartsy, all of which make for a good foreign film experience, I must admit I am happy at this time that I didn't shell the big bucks out in town to see it out in town and that, instead, I caught it upstairs in the luxurious comfort of the Futon Cinema.
"Why's that?" you might be aski, if you ever bothered to come by to inquire, asking as if you care while you sip your cooling latte and scan the latest reviews in Variety. Well, if only because it was one of those films where stylishness was at odds with historical complexity, where fatigue went to battle with the speed and complexity of the Italian language (and resultant sub titles that go along with it). I wasn't built for speed last night, I needed mindless entertainment. I seriously messed up as far as movie choices were concerned.
See, I have this belief that on the most part Americans want their movies served up like the chow they get at McDonalds. Go to Micky D's and the food is practically predigested for you. Eat, fill up, feel lousy afterwards but you can pretend, for a moment or two, that you had a meal of sorts. Same with an awful lot of movies that pass for entertainment these days. Pop one in or blow high dough at the local movie house, sit down, crack open the top your head and drop in the pre-viewed, edited to hell, focus group trimmed pablum that passes for art. Sometimes that works for me, too, especially after a hard day. Last night I wanted more and overdosed on a good thing. Pity.
See, that's what I'm saying about Il Divo. It was a grand masterwork, an incredible piece of cinema, but man, I needed to have my wits about me to follow it. The layering of characters, the swapping out of lies, details and fact, the fast and fancy editing, the speed of the language, the subtly of the acting, it was all too much to handle in the dark recesses of my room, a room overheated from a generous days' worth of sunshine. It didn't help that I was emotionally blown out from just having put a phone interview to bed, that I helped hump numerous pallets of food at Helpline, that I had just finished up a nice big heavy fried fish dinner that was breaking down in my belly and had about two thirds of a bottle of a delicious Australian Merlot under my belt as well.
Face it, it had nothing to do with the quality of the movie, it was a perfect storm of warmth, food and alcohol that pushed my ability to concentrate over the cliff. The more the details and facts stacked up to make the film interesting and thrilling, the less my anesthetizied brain wanted to deal with it. What it REALLY wanted was explosions, titilating sex and potty joke humor. It couldn't handle class, it wanted crass. Damn, foiled again by my own sense of wanting the best for myself!
So, now I know better. NO more fancy pants foreign films for me after a big supper, no sirree. I just can't wait to put on Il Divo again, but this time after a restful night's sleep and pot full of hot black coffee. Definitely a Sunday morning movie.
Now, where did I stash that copy of The Hangover?
Action!
Allmovie review: Il Divo:
NY Times article: pairing drinks with films, yes indeed!
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