Tripleheader

Every once in a while, I watch three films in one night and return three disks to Netflix the next morning. So now I have three reviews to write, but at least I don’t feel the need to make a special case for any of them. The first was certainly my favorite -- The Secret Life of Words (2005) has received little attention, but I found it an effective antidote to Breaking the Waves, as a story set on a North Sea oil rig, in which a damaged woman ministers to a wounded man. Instead of woman-tormentor Lars von Trier, this film is directed by a female, Isabel Coixet, in a production as polyglot (one of the producers is Almodovar) as the skeleton crew left on the decommissioned oil rig. Sarah Polley, whom I admire both as actress and director (Away From Her), is a survivor of the Balkan wars who has retreated into herself in silence and exile, but in a chance encounter gets to resume her profession as nurse, in caring for Tim Robbins, who has been burned and blinded in a fire on the rig. You know where this is going, but a sense of suspense and involvement is nicely maintained, with a real kicker of significance. (MC-68.)

Medicine for Melancholy (2009) is mainly about a look and a mood. Barry Jenkins bleaches his digital images of all but the occasional hint of color, as a black man and woman spend a day following a drunken one-night stand trying to get to know each other, while visiting various attractions of San Francisco, not incidentally the least-black major city in America. The man is played by Wyatt Cenac, of Daily Show fame. This is the sort of film that may stand out at an indie festival, but hardly stands on its own. A worthy apprentice effort rather than satisfying in its own right, it’s local in ways both good and bad. (MC-63.)

All you need to know about Julia (2009) is two words: Tilda Swinton. She gives an all-out performance as an alcoholic hellion who gets involved, way out of her depth, in a kidnapping. Julia/Tilda demands attention, and attracts it magnetically to her flame-haired intensity. Erick Zonca made a memorable debut with Dreamlife of Angels a dozen years ago, but hasn’t been heard from again till now. The film is too long and too meandering (between LA and Mexico), but effectively creepy and scary along the way, with the caper taking crazy turns that are probably truer to the insanity of such a crime than clockwork suspense. But the director certainly forces us to share his own fascination with his leading lady, even if she is nothing like a lady. (MC-62.)