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Pearl blue evenings scented with honeysuckle and wine create a sense of serene confidence along the Lungomare Marconi on the Lido, the sandy beach island that houses the show La Mostra. Artistry is less evident here than along the Grand Canal, and in the bowels of Canerregia and Il Giardino, where the Biennale infuses every street with the reminder that man is a creator as much as a destroyer. But Venice is a lady with centuries of experience and tradition, so it is fitting that Sukarov’s Faust would win the competition. In this part of the world it takes a lot to rise above the legacy of Marco Polo. Slender Prada-clad women are ushered around in Lancia Limos and the general public seems rather raggedy by comparison. There is a sense of celebration, but also a kind of languid joy. |
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“The 68th Venice Film Festival offered austere, unsurprising cinema reflecting the international state of the art.”
Red Carpet Interviews at th Palazzo del Cinema, 2011
Azzure Auguri
Tony Zaza
Pearl blue evenings scented with honeysuckle and wine create a sense of serene confidence along the Lungomare Marconi on the Lido, the sandy beach island that houses the show La Mostra. Artistry is less evident here than along the Grand Canal, and in the bowels of Canerregia and Il Giardino, where the Biennale infuses every street with the reminder that man is a creator as much as a destroyer. But Venice is a lady with centuries of experience and tradition, so it is fitting that Sukarov’s Faust would win the competition. In this part of the world it takes a lot to rise above the legacy of Marco Polo. Slender Prada-clad women are ushered around in Lancia Limos and the general public seems rather raggedy by comparison. There is a sense of celebration, but also a kind of languid joy.
The 68th Venice Film Festival offered austere, unsurprising cinema reflecting the international state of the art. There were many American entries, one from Todd Haynes -Mildred Pierce, and George Clooney’s The Ides of March could hardly be considered as breaking any molds, but they did supply ample celebrity beefcake. Al Pacino’s Wilde Salome and Steven Soderberg’s Contagion seemed that they were presented like favors for old friends more than the result of risky choices.
Be concerned; be very concerned then with the state of the medium. Even though its history is driven by ego, worldwide cinema trends suggest auteurism has been replaced with artless self-indulgence. Traditional cinematic narrative that is infused with the beauty of composition in time, and edit cuts in movement suspending time, ellipsis, and emotive off-screen presences are now little more than creation of a branded style, like long advertisements for its creator, these signatures can’t sustain the emotional or intellectual commitment of the viewer but rather challenge the audience to absorb their soft skilled dalliance.
In Maternity Blues by Fabrizio Cattani, for instance, profiles of tormented women in a psyche ward try to examine motherhood and the impact of birth. These carefully directed episodes, insecure in their dignity and integrity, get infused with distractions such as an inmate singing at a party, murder, suicide, and tabletop sex.
4.44 Last Day on Earth from Abel Ferrara further testifies to the anxiety disorders of its creator whose vision of damnation is reduced to the one act play format that its star Willem Dafoe is accustomed to presenting at Soho New York’s Performance Garage. Claustrophobic and reactive, this romance fits perfectly in the mold of a Twilight Zone episode but flaunts its directorial obsession with submissive feminists.
More staunchly and truly self-indulgent is L’Hiver Dernier by John Shank, a kind of Belgian cowboy drama boiling over with uncompromising male inflexibility and land-locked dramatic constipation. It had trouble releasing emotion while slowly disclosing all the nuances of farm life, the beauties of nature, and the resolve of a stubborn homesteader against the will of a village cooperative that seeks new business. It’s a celebration of uncompromised ego both of the lead character and director.
But nothing surpasses Wim Vandekeybus’ Monkey Sandwich for sheer egocentricity and theatricality. It shares with all the other offerings a boyish adolescent audacity and lack of narrative sophistication. Moving from what appears to be theatrical improvisation in scenes in which a theatre director provokes emotion from his players, to scenes of disaster and transformation, this highly verite styled and structured film feels like an exercise in method acting and bravura stagecraft.
What was missing in most of the showcased features was any evidence that the directors knew how the language of cinema could propel story and plot. Everything has the feel of elaborate multi-leveled cell phone apps, all style and no content. And it is amazing that there is very little movement in these motion pictures.
Everyone did a good job of simulating good television drama, but as far as extending the language of cinema and discovering new cinematic idioms, Venice is a warning that we need to plant the seed of challenge now for the Z generation.
*** This article was published by NY Arts Magazine, 2011. NY Arts Magazine is published by Abraham Lubelski. Sponsored by Broadway Gallery, NYC and World Art Media.
