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Showing posts from August, 2007

THE GOLDEN DOOR. Dir Emanuelle Crialese. 2006

Vincenzo Amato leads the cast in this story about leaving your homeland and dreaming of a golden future. Opening in Sicily, onto a landscape made up of nothing but stones it’s not much of a surprise that the farmers there are barely able to scrape a living. It’s an arid, barren, uncomfortable place, and the locals are firm believers in superstition; the biblical reference to seeds falling on stony ground is picked up later with the idea of being transplanted into more fertile soil in the United States. Widower Salvatore Mancuso (Amato) and his little group are lured to America by doctored photographs of gigantic chickens and enormous vegetables. Crialese uses surreal sequences such as Mancuso swimming in a river of milk while a carrot bigger than himself floats by as relief from the scenes of difficulties and discomfort. Mancuso leaves with his aged mother, a healer and symbol of the Old World, his sons and two young women who have been ‘sold’ to wealthy Americans. These girls

PARIS, JE T’AIME. Dir Various. 2006

Twenty-one directors contribute a short film each to make up this homage to Paris, and the international cast make this a cosmopolitan collection. There are cranky American and British divorcees (incl Bob Hoskins), a grieving Frenchwoman (Juliet Binoche), a stoned actress (Maggie Gyllenhaal), amongst the characters, and there is more than a hint of the mystical in many of the shorts. They range from the comic and surreal to the poignant, and there’s even a vampire romance. Watching these quite different films one after another plays havoc with the emotions; each film draw you in, absorbs you in its mini drama, then abandons you, only for you to be picked up by the next story and manipulated all over again, twenty-one times, with no time to let the sensations settle. So much material, so many storylines, baffling, charming, quirky and delightful.

Under pressure

No posts for so long? Bin’ working innit? Deadlines, you know the drill. Okay, I just need to whine now, for quite some time. Can’t print, won’t print? Phone the helpline. Spend the next forty minutes moving all your furniture, pulling out your printer and your computer, disconnecting cables from the back, trying to find numbers that are unreachable and, when you find them, are printed so small that they are indecipherable to the naked eye. The man in Delhi or Bombay may have a little trouble understanding RP English but it doesn’t matter if he thinks your name’s Samantha when it’s Amanda, or that everything you say has to be spelled out using the phonic alphabet: name, address, serial numbers, ad nauseam, because he’s been trained to say, “Thank you for your patience,” at frequent intervals. He can’t see me crawling round on the carpet with my office in a state of chaos, and so 'impatient' I am almost in tears. His advice: to unplug cables and plug them in again. I could have