Mopping up

I have been doggedly making my way through all the best-reviewed films of 2006 (aside from certain genres, usually bloody) to match my own ratings -- and other critical compilations -- against the Indiewire critics poll rankings, and the summation will be a forthcoming blogpost. The capstone was supposed to be the just-released-on-dvd Inland Empire, which came in at #4 in the Indiewire poll. Well, I watched enough to get a sense of it, though there was precious little sense to be made of it. I’m no fan of David Lynch, the only film of his I really love is the most uncharacteristic, The Straight Story. And if I couldn’t be bothered to try to figure out Mulholland Drive, then I certainly didn’t have the patience for the self-indulgent, shot-on-DV, three endless hours of Inland Empire. If ever there was an artistic movement or sensibility that leaves me cold, it would be surrealism. Rather than “Oh wow!” I go “Oh puh-lease!” (*NR* MC-72.)

In the same boat sinks The Science of Sleep -- I jumped ship once I saw that Michel Gondry minus Charlie Kaufman does not equal another Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. I like Gael Garcia Bernal and Charlotte Gainsbourg enough to have finished the film sometime, but it was due back at the library, and c’est la vie -- so many movies, so little time. (*NR* MC-70.)

And though I really liked Nine Queens, it took me three tries to get through Fabien Bielinsky’s follow-up -- and final -- film, The Aura. Mostly set in the woods of Patagonia, this Argentine film is certainly pleasant enough to look at, but as a quirky thriller it is so far off beat as to lose me. Ricardo Darin is an epileptic taxidermist with a mental hobby of masterminding imaginary heists, who after killing someone in a hunting accident, finds himself in the middle of a real deal going down. But the film is slow and enigmatic rather than swift and propulsive. If you’re fond of puzzlers, you may like this more than I did -- many do. (*6-* MC-76.)

I also join the minority on Deepa Mehta’s Water, which again was lovely to look at but troubling to think about. The attempt to combine Bollywood-style romance with a serious exploration of the practice of widow sequestration -- which was controversial enough to have Hindu fundamentalists shut down the film so it had to be finished in Sri Lanka -- leads to wobbles in tone and impact. We follow a bewildered 8-year-old, widowed before she even realized she was married, as she is deposited at a group home for widows, who are forbidden to remarry and in effect outcast. There’s a monstrous madam who runs the joint, whose power is mitigated by a wiser and kindlier woman. And there’s the ridiculously beautiful young widow, who is prostituted for the home’s upkeep. She is espied by an oh-so-hunky young man who is espousing Gandhian principles, and wishes to espouse the lovely widow, until he learns the details of her life. Gandhi himself arrives on the scene, just released from a British prison in 1938, as a deus ex machina. There’s no actual dancing, but plenty of music, and the glossy drama of the model-beautiful couple muddles the feminist message of the film. If you’re not bothered by the film’s failure to coalesce, you may find it pretty enough to view favorably. (*6-* MC-77.)