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What happens when two hustlers hit the road and among them suffers from narcolepsy, a snooze disorder that causes him to quickly and randomly fall asleep?
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Where’s Malick? During the seventeen years between the release of his second and third features, the stories in the elusive filmmaker grew to mythical heights. When he reemerged, literally every ready-bodied male actor in Hollywood lined up to get part of your filmmakers’ seemingly endless army for his adaptation of James Jones’ sprawling WWII novel.
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The timelessness of “Central Station,” a film that betrays Not one of the mawkishness that elevated so much from the ’90s middlebrow feel-good fare, can be owed to how deftly the script earns the bond that forms between its mismatched characters, and how lovingly it tends to the vulnerabilities they expose in each other. The benefit with which Dora rests her head on Josué’s lap inside a poignant scene suggests that whatever twist of destiny brought this pair together under such trying circumstances was looking out for them both.
For all of its sensorial timelessness, “The Girl over the Bridge” can be too drunk on its own fantasies — male or otherwise — to shimmer as strongly today mainly because it did within the summer of 1999, but Leconte’s faith during the ecstasy of filmmaking lingers all the same (see: the orgasmic rehearsal sequence set to Marianne Faithfull’s “Who Will Take My Dreams Away,” evidence that all you need to make a movie is really a girl along with a knife).
When it premiered at Cannes in 1998, the film made with a $seven-hundred a person-chip DV camera sent shockwaves through the film world — lighting a hamsterporn fire under the electronic narrative movement during the U.S. — while with the same time making director Thomas Vinterberg and his caught assy babe holed in compatriot Lars Van Trier’s scribbled-in-45-minutes Dogme 95 manifesto into the start of the technologically-fueled film movement to lose artifice for artwork that set the tone kayatan for 20 years of lower budget (and some not-so-lower spending budget) filmmaking.
Still, watching Carol’s life get torn apart by an invisible, malevolent pressure is discordantly soothing, as “Safe” maintains a cool and continual temperature all of the way through its nightmare of a 3rd act. An unsettling tone thrums beneath the more in-camera sounds, an off-kilter hum similar to an air conditioner or white-sound machine, that invites you to sink trancelike into the slow-boiling horror of all of it.
And however “Eyes Wide Shut” hardly involves its astounding meta-textual mythology (which includes the tabloid fascination around Tom Cruise and Nicole Kidman’s sick-fated marriage) to earn its place as the definitive film in the nineties. What’s more critical is that its release inside the last year on the last 10 years of your twentieth century feels like a fated rhyme with the fin-de-siècle energy of Schnitzler’s novella — free porn movies established in Vienna roughly one hundred years before — a rhyme that resonates with another story about upper-class people floating so high above their own lives they can see the whole world clearly save for your abyss that’s yawning open at their feet.
The film ends with a haunting repetition of names, all former lovers and friends of Jarman’s who died of AIDS. This haunting elegy is meditation on sickness, silence, and the void is the closest film has ever come to representing Dying. —JD
Gus Van Sant’s gloriously unfortunate road movie borrows from the worlds of creator John Rechy and even the director’s very own “Mala Noche” in sketching the humanity behind trick-turning, closeted street hustlers who share an ineffable spark during the darkness. The film underscored the already evident talents of its two leads, River Phoenix and Keanu Reeves, while also giving us all many a explanation to swoon over their indie heartthrob status.
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Mambety doesn’t underscore his points. He lets Colobane’s turn towards mob violence transpire subtly. Shots of Linguere staring out to sea mix beauty and malice like handful of things in cinema since Godard’s “Contempt.”