Gianni Di Gregorio, Mid-August Lunch, 2008, stills from a color film, 75 minutes. Left: Gianni (Gianni Di Gregorio). Right: Aunt Maria (Maria Calì) and Gianni's mother (Valeria De Franciscis).

MID-AUGUST LUNCH (2008) is an easy film to underrate. Its considerable charm lies on its surface; less immediately apparent, but underpinning the whole of the film, is the terror of grappling with the loneliness of aging. Italian actor/writer/director Gianni Di Gregorio demonstrates his multivalent talent, but not in a way that calls attention to itself. The actors, mostly nonprofessionals, are remarkably natural. At times, one can imagine Mid-August Lunch as a documentary.

A fifty-something bachelor, Gianni (Di Gregorio) lives with his ninety-three-year-old mother. The manager of Gianni’s condo solicits him to let his aunt and mother stay with Gianni and his mother; subsequently, Gianni’s doctor requests the same favor for his mother. Gianni winds up cooking and looking after four elderly women for several days. On paper, this sounds like sitcom material, but as filmed by Di Gregorio it flows like a well-crafted ’60s pop song. Mid-August Lunch treads a fine line between naturalism and cloying cuteness, thankfully keeping largely to the former. It’s hard to picture a contemporary American movie being so unself-conscious about its protagonist’s smoking and heavy drinking. Gian Enrico Bianchi’s cinematography has a golden glow, and indeed, the film captures the look and mood of summer in the south of Europe.

Di Gregorio has worked with the filmmaker Matteo Garrone as both a screenwriter (Gomorrah) and an assistant director (First Love; The Embalmer). Garrone, who produced the film, has been one of the few recent signs of life in Italian cinema, but after Mid-August Lunch, one can add Di Gregorio to the brief list of promising Italian directors.

Steven Erickson

Mid-August Lunch is available on DVD from Zeitgeist Films beginning October 5, 2010. For more details, click here.

Axelle Ropert, The Wolberg Family, 2009, color film in 35 mm, 80 minutes. Production stills. Photos: Carole Bethuel.

“LET ME DOWN EASY,” Bettye LaVette begs, in the searing 1965 soul nugget that opens The Wolberg Family, Axelle Ropert’s trenchant, aurally dazzling debut feature. The plea, sung to a lover right before a breakup, could just as easily be the appeal overbearing Jewish paterfamilias Simon Wolberg (François Damiens), a proud small-town mayor, makes to his wife and two children, who, fed up with his grandstanding and prying, insist that he change. This small, modest film explores, with persistent acuity, one of life’s thorniest struggles: how to carve out an identity wholly separate from one’s kin.

In her screenplay for La France (2007), directed by frequent collaborator Serge Bozon (he plays Simon’s brother-in-law in Wolberg), Ropert gloriously reimagined both the war movie and the musical. Wolberg, which Ropert also scripted, fulfills an even greater challenge: reinvigorating the nuclear-family drama, one of cinema’s most shopworn genres. “Family isn’t sexy,” Simon’s daughter, Delphine (Léopoldine Serre), a few weeks shy of her eighteenth birthday, announces at the dinner table to her father, a man who insists that what defines a family is its lack of secrets (though he himself is hiding something). Simon’s wife, Marianne (Valérie Benguigui), must also constantly discredit his desperate, suffocating ideas about closeness: “We all have our own private world.” With these pithy pronouncements, Ropert shows that movies about what Susan Sontag once referred to as “that claustrophobic unit” need not constantly erupt into hysteria (cf. Rachel Getting Married) or relentlessly catalogue simmering grievances (cf. Revolutionary Road). What distinguishes Ropert’s celluloid clan is their ability to honestly articulate the complexity—and enormity—of their emotions. Like LaVette, Sam Fletcher (whose “I’d Think It Over Twice” is one of Marianne’s beloved 45s), and Wilson Pickett (whose framed head shot, along with those of other ’60s legends, adorns Simon and Marianne’s bedroom), the Wolbergs stir the soul.

The Wolberg Family screens March 20 and 21 at New York’s Walter Reade Theater as part of “Rendez-Vous with French Cinema.” Axelle Ropert will be present at both screenings. For more details, click here.

Melissa Anderson

Kathryn Bigelow, Strange Days, 1995, still from a color film in 35 mm, 145 minutes. Lenny Nero (Ralph Fiennes) and Lornette “Mace” Mason (Angela Bassett).

A PAINTER WHO ENROLLED in the Whitney Program before migrating to Columbia Film School, Kathryn Bigelow is something of an anomaly in Planet Hollywood. Combining an affinity for the frenetic rhythms of the thriller with a taste for subversive genre-bending that recalls her “high art” beginnings, Bigelow is a consummate technician whose balletic action sequences remind us how cinematically pure the language of violence can be. Her latest film, Strange Days (1995), is a tech-noir set in a Los Angeles on the brink of the millennium, where conflicting visions of rapture and revolution divide the collective psyche, and the apolitical insulate themselves by getting high on other people’s lives.

With a script by director James Cameron (True Lies, 1994) and writer Jay Cocks (The Age of Innocence, 1993; The Last Temptation of Christ, 1988), Strange Days—a cyberpunk extrapolation of the archetypal noir—recasts Chandler’s mean streets as paramilitarized zones where tanks roll by impassively while wasted youth bludgeon Santa Claus on the curb. Scurrying through the back alleys of a decadent underground like an oiled rat, Lenny Nero (Ralph Fiennes) peddles other people’s realities preserved on MiniDiscs through the magic of SQUID (Superconducting Quantum Interference Device), a technology that records and plays back human experience “straight from the cerebral cortex,” allowing the user to be anyone this time around, for a price.

Nero has broken the first commandment of the Dealer’s Credo—“never get high off your own supply”—and has be come a memory addict, hooked on a feedback loop of happier times with a femme fatale who has gutted his life by the time the film begins. When he gets a snuff clip of his friend’s murder, he reluctantly assumes the mantle of Philip Marlowe, and enlisting the aid of Mace (Angela Bassett), an Amazon Warrior moonlighting as a chauffeur, becomes embroiled in a conspiratorial web with enough red herrings to rival The Big Sleep.

Like Polanski’s Chinatown (1974), Strange Days is no less noir for being in color. Bigelow’s blacks are black, and her light, what there is of it, is dark cyan, a visual correlative to the creeping rot eating away at her characters. And, as in her last three studio releases (Near Dark, 1987; Blue Steel, 1989; Point Break, 1991), Bigelow is no slave to the fast cut. Strange Days, her best film to date, closes with a sequence that leaves us rattled long after the credits roll. The camera lingers on the bloody face of a racist cop. Gun drawn, he drags his suicided partner along by his own handcuffs, attempting, one last time, to effect his Final Solution as confetti falls from the night sky like acid snow.

ANDREW HULTKRANS: It’s quite a leap from Conceptual art to the culture industry.

KATHRYN BIGELOW: It does seem like a departure. I was studying painting at the San Francisco Art Institute and one of my teachers put me up for the Whitney Program, so I went. This was ’73 or ’74, when Conceptual art really came to the fore. I did a couple of videos with Lawrence Weiner, and I worked with Art & Language, an artists group who were critiquing the commodification of culture. So I was very influenced by them, and my concerns moved from the plastic arts to Conceptual art and a more politicized framework. And I became dissatisfied with the art world—the fact that it requires a certain amount of knowledge to appreciate abstract material.

Film, of course, does not demand this kind of knowledge. Film was this incredible social tool that required nothing of you besides twenty minutes to two hours of your time. I felt that film was more politically correct, and I challenged myself to try to make something accessible using film, but with a conscience. I still work off that foundation. So I shot this short piece called Set Up [1978].

Nordic Track


Niels Arden Oplev, The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, 2009, still from a color film in 35 mm, 152 minutes. Lisbeth Salander (Noomi Rapace) and Mikael Blomkvist (Michael Nyqvist).

AS A PERSON OF SWEDISH DESCENT and somewhat dark sensibilities, I was piqued by the idea of The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, a Swedish adaptation of the first novel in Stieg Larsson’s Millennium Trilogy, a posthumous publishing smash that spread the reputation of Nordic noir around the globe. As someone who rarely, if ever, reads contemporary mysteries, I had managed to avoid said publishing smash and hoped to get a taste of the Larsson phenomenon through the film, which has already won a smorgasbord of Swedish awards and was Europe’s top-grossing movie of 2009. I can’t say whether it is particularly faithful to the much-loved source novel, but the film is a serviceable potboiler, though given Sweden’s near-arctic winters, we might call it a potsimmerer—and simmer it does, for a good two and a half hours.

Much like the Scream franchise’s cannibalization of horror-movie history, Larsson laced the novels in the Millennium Trilogy with copious references to classic mystery fiction—Agatha Christie, Dorothy Sayers, Sue Grafton, and others—so perhaps I shouldn’t have been surprised by how derivative the film’s plot is. A disgraced investigative journalist is hired by an aging member of the wealthy, secretive Vanger clan—old-money Swedish industrialists who live on a remote island—to look into the decades-old disappearance of his niece, whom he suspects was murdered by one of their relatives. Enlisting the help of a young woman (the titular girl with tattoo), an antisocial cyberpunk hacker who has suffered the abuse of men all her life, the journalist moves into a cottage on the Vangers’ island and begins digging into the long-buried past.

The tableau of a prominent Scandinavian family being rent apart by suppressed secrets seems lifted from Thomas Vinterberg’s Danish Dogme 95 gem The Celebration (1998) (the secrets are the usual suspects—incest, sex murders, Nazism); the multiply pierced, coldly violent hackstress is a dead ringer for Molly Millions from William Gibson’s 1984 cyberpunk novel Neuromancer (and other Gibson stories); the beleaguered detective in the frozen rural North recalls a better version of Nordic noir, Erik Skjoldbjærg’s Insomnia (1997); and there’s even some cryptic biblical hoo-ha that smacks of The Da Vinci Code. Larsson (and the screenwriters) weave these borrowed elements gracefully, but this still doesn’t account for the film’s rapturous reception in Europe.

Besides the stark, magic-hour beauty of the Vanger clan’s island and Michael Nyqvist’s understated, empathetic turn as the investigative journalist, the film is primarily distinguished by the taut, thoroughly credible performance of newcomer Noomi Rapace as the young, sexually abused female hacker. As a motorcycle-riding Valkyrie exacting harsh vengeance for every woman and girl who has been raped, molested, or harassed by men, she is the heart of the film, and Rapace owns the part. The novel and film’s original title was Män som hatar kvinnor (Men Who Hate Women), and the story is really more about her than the twisted Faulknerian shame of the Vanger family. Note to Hollywood: If Neuromancer ever gets out of development hell, the producers should give Rapace a call.

Andrew Hultkrans

The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo opens Friday, March 19.

Out of Time


Left: Marguerite Duras, Destroy, She Said, 1969, still from a black-and-white film in 35 mm, 100 minutes. Right: Marguerite Duras, India Song, 1975, color film in 35 mm, 120 minutes. Production still.

I FELL HARD for the films, novels, plays, and essays of Marguerite Duras roughly thirty years ago and then spent the decades between then and now resisting the sensuous beauty of their imagery, the tough-minded, spare elegance of their prose, and their rigorous morality. When I complied with the ridiculous ritual of drawing up for various publications lists of the greatest films of the twentieth century, her masterpiece, India Song (1975), did not appear. It should have been among the first five.

Duras’s subject is primal—eros and death; her fragmented, elliptical narratives, whether fact or fiction, are located in the quicksand of the psyche. To revisit her films is to be again overwhelmed by her languid femmes fatales, her wandering madwomen, her lovesick outsiders, everyone in exile whatever their gender. They are characters in a personal mythology of longing and loss, of the history of colonialism and the failure of all political programs and ideologies. Merely to reencounter the names—Anne-Marie Stretter; Michael Richardson; the Vice-Consul from Lahore; Aurelia Steiner; Lol V. Stein, present only in the novel named for her, Le Ravissement de Lol V. Stein, and significant for her absence from the films (Lacan wrote about her name and her “ravishing”)—is to realize that they never left my mind.

The monthlong program “In the Words of Marguerite Duras”—presented by Anthology Film Archives, the Baryshnikov Arts Center, the French Embassy, and the French Institute Alliance Français—concludes with a series of films (March 12–18) at Anthology: seven features and two shorts projected in 35-mm prints with English subtitles. These are rare objects—only a few of the films Duras directed exist as subtitled prints, and only one of them, Nathalie Granger (1972), is currently available on DVD. If you’ve never seen any of them, do not start with her stilted early feature Destroy, She Said (1969) or even with Nathalie Granger, widely regarded as her most accessible, perhaps because its cast includes a charming black cat, a young girl who may or may not be exceptionally disposed toward violence, a restless Jeanne Moreau who seems not to know what she’s doing in this strange movie, and Gérard Depardieu as a confused washing-machine salesman (one of his first screen roles), all of them in imminent danger, at least according to news broadcasts, from a pair of teenage killers roaming the countryside. The danger remains offscreen, lurking perhaps in the overgrown garden or behind a half-opened door inside the comfortable but neglected house—the lamplight soft, the paint peeling from the walls. The only violence we see is a close-up of a piano teacher’s hands cruelly gripping those of her pupil.

Instead, begin with India Song, an evocation of colonialist India in the 1930s—1937, to be precise, the year before the war would change everything. A memory piece that calls up the dead, its heroine, Anne-Marie Stretter (Delphine Seyrig), dances with her lover, Michael Richardson (Claude Mann), in the ballroom of the French Embassy in Calcutta, where her memorial—a photograph, a stick of burning incense, some flowers—is already arranged on the piano. Time folds in on itself in India Song, and space is fractured by the huge mirror that nearly covers one wall so that the reflection of the room is a constant; it is always different, however, from the framing of the room by the camera, whether still or moving. The image created by Duras and cinematographer Bruno Nuytten is at once ghostly and eroticized, so delicately colored that it seems hand-tinted, and the closeness of the air, weighted by the insufferable heat, is palpable. India Song puts all the senses on high alert, and yet it is not in any sense realism. No one would be surprised to learn that it was shot on a set constructed in a crumbling mansion near Paris.

There is the image, and then there is the sound track, its tonalities as subtle and rich as the color and play of light on the screen. There is no sync sound in India Song. The narrative—the backstory, the description of the actions and relationships of the characters—is conveyed by some half-dozen offscreen voices, their fragmentary speculations, mixed occasionally with bits of dialogue spoken asynchronously by the main characters (the dark, throaty timbre of Seyrig’s voice is unmistakable), an undercurrent of unseen party guests; Carlos D’Alessio’s great score is punctuated by the repeated melody of the “India Song Blues” and bits of Beethoven’s Diabelli Variations, a Duras signature. Two other voices emanating from the offscreen space are crucial. When the Vice-Consul from Lahore (Michael Lonsdale), already driven mad by his unrequited love for Mme. Stretter, is rejected by her at the party, he goes into the garden and bellows like a wounded animal. The Vice-Consul is all too human—he sweats, his clothes are wrinkled, he cannot keep his feelings in check—which is why his love is doomed. Also in the garden is a beggar woman who lives among the lepers although she is not diseased herself, simply mad. She never appears on-screen, but it is her song and her high-pitched laugh that we hear at the opening and closing of the film. For seventeen years, we’re told, her path has paralleled that of Mme. Stretter’s, from the Mekong through all the great cities of the Far East to Calcutta where she, the colonized, will remain after the colonizer, her “double,” has committed suicide in “the islands of the Delta.” India Song shows us the face of European colonialism, but India itself . . . there is no way for the colonizer to put that on the screen. As in Alain Resnais’s Hiroshima mon amour (1959), for which Duras wrote the screenplay, representation has limits, specific to a particular point of view, historical and personal. (“You can never understand Hiroshima,” says the Japanese man to his French lover.) India Song is a great film because every fetishized image and sound is finally merely a substitute and a shield for what remains invisible. It presents a moral argument, not simply about colonialism but about its representation.

The other film not to be missed is The Truck (1977), a more minimalist work than India Song but just as remarkable for its precise balancing of interior and exterior, sound and image. Duras and Depardieu sit across from each other at a round table in Duras’s home. She reads aloud the shooting script for a film titled The Truck, for which she has cast Depardieu as the driver, a doctrinaire Communist Party member. En route, he picks up a hitchhiker, one of Duras’s madwomen of a certain age. The truck driver doesn’t hide his contempt for her, but she also gets under his skin because there is no way she can fit into his schematic view of proletarian victory. As Duras reads, Depardieu occasionally interrupts with questions that seem to be spontaneous but are not. They are the lines assigned to him in the script for The Truck, which will never exist in any other form than this reading. Intercut, however, with the Duras-Depardieu table read are sequences of a truck speeding along various highways and byways of France, accompanied by, what else, the Diabelli Variations, which end this conceptual and comic road movie on a note of triumph.

Amy Taubin

Marguerite Duras on Film” runs March 12–18 at Anthology Film Archives in New York. For more details, click here.

Clift Notes


Left: Howard Hawks, Red River, 1948, still from a black-and-white film in 35 mm, 133 minutes. Matt Garth (Montgomery Clift). Right: Elia Kazan, Wild River, 1960, still from a black-and-white film in 35 mm, 110 minutes. Chuck Glover (Montgomery Clift) and Carol Garth Baldwin (Lee Remick). Images courtesy Photofest/BAMcinématek.

NAMED AFTER A SARCASTICALLY JUBILANT LYRIC from the Clash’s “The Right Profile,” the Brooklyn Academy of Music’s Montgomery Clift retrospective—“That’s Montgomery Clift, Honey!”—might have also taken a more somber title from REM’s “Monty Got a Raw Deal.” Defined by tragedy and qualified by what-ifs, Clift’s story is one of Hollywood’s saddest: a preternaturally attractive and talented actor permanently marked, at age thirty-six, by an automobile accident that altered his face, forced him into a crippling drug dependency, and led to his early death ten years later.

Clift made his reputation in prestige pictures like A Place in the Sun (1951) and From Here to Eternity (1953), though other films better demonstrate his infrequent brilliance. Rather than the brooding violence of Brando or the hip dissidence of Dean—to whom he was a Method-esque predecessor—Clift’s handsomeness suggested melancholic introspection, a quality exploited in Howard Hawks’s Red River (1948), where he plays the conscientious cowboy protégé who stands up to John Wayne’s half-mad cattle baron, and later in Alfred Hitchcock’s morality play I Confess (1953), in which he assumes the role of a conflicted, tortured priest. Throughout his career, Clift’s nobility would both hasten his characters to and steel them for sanctifying punishment, as in the former film when he unblinkingly welcomes a beating from Wayne before their climactic showdown and in the latter when he endures public scorn by holding in his confidence a vindicating confession.

Legend has it that Clift’s good looks were ruined by his 1956 accident. The truth is that while his appearance didn’t drastically change, his demeanor did. In pre-accident films like the surprisingly terrific The Big Lift (1950), Clift possesses a natural yet humble confidence; post-accident (cf. the tepid Lonelyhearts [1958]), he’s often painfully self-conscious, shoulders slumping and hands fiddling around his mouth as if guarding against the morbid curiosity of his audience. And yet the second half of his artificially bifurcated oeuvre features some of his best work. The Misfits (1961) remains poignant almost exclusively for its pairing of Clift with similarly doomed contemporary Marilyn Monroe, but the real gem is Wild River (1960), a Tennessee Valley–set drama about environment, politics, race, and heritage that gave Clift a chance to work with Elia Kazan, the spontaneity-friendly director with whom he should have perhaps been working all along.

Michael Joshua Rowin

“That’s Montgomery Clift, Honey!” runs at the Brooklyn Academy of Music March 11–25. For more details, click here.