note: contains spoilers.
this is a shallow, heavy, dull, and pretentious soap opera calculated to make spiritually empty, corrupt, and lazy cinema viewers feel they have been morally transformed by "high art." it is one of the most dishonest films i've seen in quite a while. it is also -- assuming one is not part of the target audience-- astonishingly boring to watch.
the drama-- such as it is-- is on the level of the cheapest tv serial. a girl is injured in a motorcycle accident and her father-- a surgeon-- stands outside the operating room waiting for God (and other doctors) to decide her fate.
as he does, he remembers a sordid love affair he had fifteen years ago-- precisely at the time his daughter was conceived.
the love story is with a girl who is presented as a cheap tramp. she appears to be a prostitute, and the surgeon (who is presented as living a passionless life) follows her home and rapes her. inexplicably, she falls in love with him, and we find out that, far from being a prostitute, actually she's an angelic immigrant who cleans up hotel rooms (i.e. other people's messy lives; i.e. she's a saint).
on the other hand, when she is not presented as a docile madonna who likes being raped, she does scream a lot, which while not interesting in terms of character development, i suppose was calculated to address the surgeon's (and audience's) sense of guilt, which ultimately is the main theme of the film, even though it is dramatized in the most infantile manner imaginble.
much of the film's running time is spent watching some astonishingly unpleasant sex scenes, visually favoring the physically unattractive male lead (who also happens to be the director). the directorial/narrative strategy of these scenes is quite ambiguous. we are also treated to a lengthy shot of the star/director urinating on a potted plant.
i think this was one of the longest shots in the entire film, and remain confused as to the dramatic intent except to think it was perhaps it meant to illustrate the contempt for which the protaganist views the natural world (he p****s on flowers the way he deflowers his victim herself) in any case yuck! it also must have wasted the skills of a large team of physical effects technicians.
in any case, it's another example of the dishonesty of a film which wants to be taken as a character study but in fact is esssentially an exploitation drama with an antonioni delusion. the characters, incidently are paper thin, though penelope cruz does an admirable job presenting the surface characteristics of this updated "gelsomina/virgin/waif" stererotype. and claudia gerini (as the rapist's wife) deserves serious praise for making the most of a criminally underwritten role. sergio castellitto-- normally a very watchable actor-- does remarkably little with his role here as the surgeon/rapist. it's as though the strain of exhibiting his sexual energies and urinary prowess had left him bereft of his usual acting skill and common sense.
but back to the extended flashback story. our angelic waif who falls in love with her surgeon/rapist now is pregnant with the surgeon's child--and does what victims are supposed to do in cheap melodramas like this: the poor girl has an unsafe abortion and develops peritonitis. the surgeon tries to save her (his medical heroics are utterly ridiculous but are intended-- i guess--to display his love for the girl). despite all the bathos, the girl dies.
however, just so the hero (and audience) can walk away with a clean conscience, in the parallel story, the hero's daughter survives. and so, like magic, you have a happy ending. morally despicable, yes. like a cheaply bought absolution for a medieval murder, it wreaks of a fundamental decadence of the soul.
i realize this story sounds like a long forgotten 19th century opera or perhaps a Bombay Musical, but this is actually the story of a 21st century movie! and this phony "art film" derives all of its supposed drama from prolonged and ugly sex scenes and from prolonged and ugly scenes of two young girls on their death beds.
this is the stuff of a fifties ross hunter B-movie weepie, but it is presented with with the somemnity of antonioni. (the filmmakers are seriously deluded about their intellectual qualifications). worse is the utter moral corruption of the point of view, in which the audience is encouraged to identify with the "hero's" state of suspense about his own daughter's fate, which is metaphorically presented as a kind of judgment about his own soul.
this is primitive absolution fantasy reasoning. the drama of the story never actually forces the surgeon to transform-- or confront himself. everything happens to him, so his pure narcissicm (and the audience's) is never disturbed. his daughter survives so he can put away the bad memory of his crime, and go on and do whatever he wants. (maybe next time he'll rape his own daughter), but surely he'll be absolved for that too).
to underline the facile and puerile point of view, the writers even give the two women signifying names: the daughter is angela -- a kind of beatific (because in coma) metaphoric replacement for his lover, whose name is Italia, which has obvious and infantile meaning for this perfect virgin/whore, who perfectly serves the purpose of her dishonest, violent, and ugly macho rapist. incidently-- and astonishingly-- a fair number of italian males seem to be able to relate to this character. the relative success of this film in italy speaks volumes about the moral, spiritual and creative condition of italian society.
i won't waste time describing the final shot of the film, which presents a grotesque symbol of the hero's casting off the shadows of the past, but suffice to say it is as cheap and vulgar and ending as one could imagine. the crass pop song that accompanies it seems to hit exactly the right note so to speak. that is to say: water finds it's own level.
in short: truly a wretched film: dishonest, ambtious, pretentious, pseudo-intellectual. i suppose if you're a lapsed catholic with vague leftist leanings and no real intellectutal or moral spine--and suffering a life long existential crisis-- it might appeal.
in the meantime, check out the films of paolo virzi-- a young italian director whose films are fun to watch and yet honest and penetrating. a true humanist in an age where solemnity too often passes for seriousness. i like "caterina goes to the city" and "my name is tanino," films which attempt to reclaim the old traditions of italian films like the comedies of monicelli, germi, and dino risi. italian film used to be fabulous, which makes travesties like "non ti muovere" all the more to be denounced.
this is a shallow, heavy, dull, and pretentious soap opera calculated to make spiritually empty, corrupt, and lazy cinema viewers feel they have been morally transformed by "high art." it is one of the most dishonest films i've seen in quite a while. it is also -- assuming one is not part of the target audience-- astonishingly boring to watch.
the drama-- such as it is-- is on the level of the cheapest tv serial. a girl is injured in a motorcycle accident and her father-- a surgeon-- stands outside the operating room waiting for God (and other doctors) to decide her fate.
as he does, he remembers a sordid love affair he had fifteen years ago-- precisely at the time his daughter was conceived.
the love story is with a girl who is presented as a cheap tramp. she appears to be a prostitute, and the surgeon (who is presented as living a passionless life) follows her home and rapes her. inexplicably, she falls in love with him, and we find out that, far from being a prostitute, actually she's an angelic immigrant who cleans up hotel rooms (i.e. other people's messy lives; i.e. she's a saint).
on the other hand, when she is not presented as a docile madonna who likes being raped, she does scream a lot, which while not interesting in terms of character development, i suppose was calculated to address the surgeon's (and audience's) sense of guilt, which ultimately is the main theme of the film, even though it is dramatized in the most infantile manner imaginble.
much of the film's running time is spent watching some astonishingly unpleasant sex scenes, visually favoring the physically unattractive male lead (who also happens to be the director). the directorial/narrative strategy of these scenes is quite ambiguous. we are also treated to a lengthy shot of the star/director urinating on a potted plant.
i think this was one of the longest shots in the entire film, and remain confused as to the dramatic intent except to think it was perhaps it meant to illustrate the contempt for which the protaganist views the natural world (he p****s on flowers the way he deflowers his victim herself) in any case yuck! it also must have wasted the skills of a large team of physical effects technicians.
in any case, it's another example of the dishonesty of a film which wants to be taken as a character study but in fact is esssentially an exploitation drama with an antonioni delusion. the characters, incidently are paper thin, though penelope cruz does an admirable job presenting the surface characteristics of this updated "gelsomina/virgin/waif" stererotype. and claudia gerini (as the rapist's wife) deserves serious praise for making the most of a criminally underwritten role. sergio castellitto-- normally a very watchable actor-- does remarkably little with his role here as the surgeon/rapist. it's as though the strain of exhibiting his sexual energies and urinary prowess had left him bereft of his usual acting skill and common sense.
but back to the extended flashback story. our angelic waif who falls in love with her surgeon/rapist now is pregnant with the surgeon's child--and does what victims are supposed to do in cheap melodramas like this: the poor girl has an unsafe abortion and develops peritonitis. the surgeon tries to save her (his medical heroics are utterly ridiculous but are intended-- i guess--to display his love for the girl). despite all the bathos, the girl dies.
however, just so the hero (and audience) can walk away with a clean conscience, in the parallel story, the hero's daughter survives. and so, like magic, you have a happy ending. morally despicable, yes. like a cheaply bought absolution for a medieval murder, it wreaks of a fundamental decadence of the soul.
i realize this story sounds like a long forgotten 19th century opera or perhaps a Bombay Musical, but this is actually the story of a 21st century movie! and this phony "art film" derives all of its supposed drama from prolonged and ugly sex scenes and from prolonged and ugly scenes of two young girls on their death beds.
this is the stuff of a fifties ross hunter B-movie weepie, but it is presented with with the somemnity of antonioni. (the filmmakers are seriously deluded about their intellectual qualifications). worse is the utter moral corruption of the point of view, in which the audience is encouraged to identify with the "hero's" state of suspense about his own daughter's fate, which is metaphorically presented as a kind of judgment about his own soul.
this is primitive absolution fantasy reasoning. the drama of the story never actually forces the surgeon to transform-- or confront himself. everything happens to him, so his pure narcissicm (and the audience's) is never disturbed. his daughter survives so he can put away the bad memory of his crime, and go on and do whatever he wants. (maybe next time he'll rape his own daughter), but surely he'll be absolved for that too).
to underline the facile and puerile point of view, the writers even give the two women signifying names: the daughter is angela -- a kind of beatific (because in coma) metaphoric replacement for his lover, whose name is Italia, which has obvious and infantile meaning for this perfect virgin/whore, who perfectly serves the purpose of her dishonest, violent, and ugly macho rapist. incidently-- and astonishingly-- a fair number of italian males seem to be able to relate to this character. the relative success of this film in italy speaks volumes about the moral, spiritual and creative condition of italian society.
i won't waste time describing the final shot of the film, which presents a grotesque symbol of the hero's casting off the shadows of the past, but suffice to say it is as cheap and vulgar and ending as one could imagine. the crass pop song that accompanies it seems to hit exactly the right note so to speak. that is to say: water finds it's own level.
in short: truly a wretched film: dishonest, ambtious, pretentious, pseudo-intellectual. i suppose if you're a lapsed catholic with vague leftist leanings and no real intellectutal or moral spine--and suffering a life long existential crisis-- it might appeal.
in the meantime, check out the films of paolo virzi-- a young italian director whose films are fun to watch and yet honest and penetrating. a true humanist in an age where solemnity too often passes for seriousness. i like "caterina goes to the city" and "my name is tanino," films which attempt to reclaim the old traditions of italian films like the comedies of monicelli, germi, and dino risi. italian film used to be fabulous, which makes travesties like "non ti muovere" all the more to be denounced.