Getting into the Salle Debussy for David Cronenberg's new opus was like
living a scene from the film itself. I could see the headlines
already--"Critics Crushed in Crash Catastrophe!"--as I elbowed and kneed my
way through the mob of journalists craving entry to the must-see
Competition entry that they'd be heartily booing a scant two hours later.
But hey, it wouldn't be Cannes if you didn't put life and limb at risk at
least a couple of times for the sake of some movie you're not that eager to
see in the first place, and it was kind of amusing that I'd gone through
almost as much torment that very morning to view Aki Kaurismaki's new
"Drifting Clouds," as different from Cronenberg's picture as
it's possible
to imagine.
I read J.G. Ballard's novel "Crash" just a couple of years ago,
so it was
fairly fresh in my mind as Cronenberg's adaptation unspooled, capturing the
book's menacing weirdness while leaving out some of the thematic emphases
that I'd thought Ballard was most interested in. These include a detailed
fascination with prosthetic devices (represented in the film mainly by
Rosanna Arquette's scenes) and the notion of car accidents as "marriages"
in which fleshly and mechanical beings become "one flesh" in a kind of
technological matrimony. What's most interesting and problematic about the
movie, as with the slightly earlier "Naked Lunch," is that the more sick
and outrageous Cronenberg's material becomes, the more conventional and
conservative is the cinematic style he uses to explore it. "Crash" is
major-league kinky in its obsession with the erotics of automotive violence
and destruction, but as a movie it's a series of painstakingly correct
shots and countershots that develop little aesthetic interest, much less
adventurousness, despite the morbid goofiness of their narrative content.
Cronenberg may feel it's necessary to temper explosive content with
conspicuously tame style lest he lose any hope of a popular audience;
whatever his motivation, though, I find his recent movies more compelling
in conception than execution. In any case, James Spader is good as the
hero--it's a nice touch to carry Ballard's reflexivity an additional step
forward by casting the character named Ballard with an actor named
James--and Holly Hunter is unexpectedly strong as the accident aficionado
he falls in love with. Ditto for Elias Koteas as the demolition-derby guru
whose dream is to recreate Jayne Mansfield's last moments for the
entertainment and edification of the loosely knit cult he presides over.
"Crash" received more booing than applause at its evening press screening,
in contrast to the morning's showing of "Stealing Beauty," where pros and
cons seemed equally balanced to my ears. I won't quarrel with that verdict
on Bernardo Bertolucci's scenic romance, which combines great personal and
pictorial beauty--Liv Tyler looks terrific, as does the
Italian countryside
around her--with a story that's downright audacious in its refusal to
embrace anything with the slightest resemblance to intelligence. Bertolucci
evidently wants to rediscover his roots after the exotic excursions of "The
Sheltering Sky" and "Little Buddha," and a dull sort of tangle those roots
turn out to be, however gorgeous the camera makes them look on the surface.
Creative performers like Jeremy Irons and Sinead Cusack get into the spirit
of things by posing picturesquely against ripely rustic settings, and
Bertolucci livens the party up with occasional doses of MTV-style visual
energy. I can't imagine this picture will do anything to renew the august
reputation he enjoyed in the bygone era of "The Conformist" and "Last Tango
in Paris," but scenery buffs will enjoy it and Tyler fans can busy
themselves comparing her performance with the more substantial contribution
she makes to James Mangold's mood-driven "Heavy," also opening commercially
this summer.
Bertolucci and Cronenberg may be turning into more conventional stylists as
they grow older, but you can't accuse Aki Kaurismaki of any such problem.
"Drifting Clouds" carries his deadpan directorial demeanor to heights of
minimalism hitherto undreamed of, even by Aki himself. The story is "ripped
from today's headlines," as studio publicists used to say--laid off from
their jobs, a wife and husband suffer various torments and uncertainties
before blundering into a happy ending as preposterous as it is
gratifying--but Kaurismaki's storytelling is anything but fashionable,
reducing montage and mise-en-scene to bare-bones necessities as if he had
to economize right along with the penniless protagonists, themselves played
with Bressonian rigor by the sort of glamourless performers Aki has favored
throughout his career. Although it's dedicated to the late Matti Pellonpaa,
whose acquaintance I made (along with Aki's) during my years with the New
York Film Festival, this dark-and-dour romp has less humor than a
full-fledged Kaurismaki masterpiece like "La Vie de Boheme" or some of that
movie's immediate predecessors. But if it's not one of his most enjoyable
pictures, it's certainly one of the most impressive in its sheer stylistic
tenacity. It isn't every day you find a movie that makes the glacial "Match
Factory Girl" look like "Speed."
Suggestions? Comments? Fill out our Feedback Form.