The whitest movie I've ever seen, which wouldn't be so bad if it didn't seem like Scoppola would at least try to address that. See opening shot, objectification of Johansson's butt (it's a lovely butt, we'll move on) cut to Bill Murray, rubbing eyes like he's in a silent comedy short, objectifying Japan. Surely this means that Scoppola has identified a fundamental miscommunication! She'll resolve this, most definitely--such a myopic perspective is prime material for subversion. But nope: she…
Lyrical to a fault, its tone leaving little room for more than distant engagement (although it does try). One would expect something more visceral from that title, but instead whatever emotional turmoil there was kept bubbling; a loaded gun that never fires, so to speak. Nichols does have an eye, though, which is probably why people are excited. Shot by shot he way outdoes GUMMO in evoking southern angst, but an unwillingness to push into more exciting places, in favor of safer artier structure, refuses any claims to greatness. Minor, but accomplished.
A car sputters uselessly over the highway, as if it were going somewhere. In transit: criminals, lovers, or both, or somewhere in between, or neither. Kids, probably, just kids--aware of love as a concept, unaware or perhaps too humble, too innocent to consider it an option or a reality. But it is a reality--for Bowie & Keechie, what else do they have except love? Certainly they don't have a place to be, and even if they did it wouldn't matter.…
Yay, finally a good-almost-great Bertolucci! Still annoyingly forays into incomprehensible behavior at random, as if just because it's pretty it's allowed to be willfully abstract and realist at the same time (period setting doesn't help). But hot damn the compositions and lights in this one work like gangbusters to alleviate any forehead smacking its ideas may induce, plus the elegant camera movements, etc. The acting struck me as a little outsized, which I've found in basically all Bertolucci films, so…