Andrada Pintilescu

Uneasy Lies the Head That Wears the Crown: «Victoria» S3

Andrada Pintilescu — Tue, 28 Jan 2020 11:55:19 +0000

If we were to draw a parallel with The Crown, we can identify the common topic of the monarchy’s stability, as both series speak at some point of events that seem to endanger the establishment. Thus, this stability is questioned and the Crown is under strain in Victoria Season 3, due to the 1848 revolutions in Europe and the petitions of the chartists adding a closer threat. It is perhaps the most delicate moment for Victoria and Albert in terms of royal (and couple) stability and the season manages to show this transition from an expanding political fire (relatives and friends taking refuge from France and Germany) towards a regained popularity.

Season 3 is one of generalised crisis: everything seems to go wrong. Europe is on fire, cholera expands over London, the royal couple faces constant strain, assassinate attempts take place, political tensions occur in the empire etc. Even Albert’s projects concerning a family summer residence (at Osborne) and, subsequently, the Great Exhibition, are challenging for the Queen and the previously installed harmony. The family’s constant expansion – including Victoria’s estranged sister Feodora – add to the generalised pressure. This character – shaped into a stereotypical “evil sister” – schemes on every front, from politics and marriage plans to interference in Victoria’s family. Thus, she manages for a while to turn Albert against Victoria and question the latter’s sane judgment in the context of multiple pregnancies.

Thus, Feodora is depicted as an antagonist to the younger sister, the one “fortunate” to have become a queen (a status Feodora implies to have had indirect claims to, as a possible consort). Victoria is, by contrast, romantically innocent of all the corruption, political initiatives and matrimonial scheming of her elder sibling. Justice is, of course, eventually made and with this the cliché of antagonism is even more apparent although perhaps exaggerated sometimes.

Another subplot that bears clear marks of romantic stereotyping is that related to a lady in waiting, Sophie, Duchess of Monmouth. Her “lady and the tramp” love story with a footman, and all the additional “Victorian” sequences culminate with Sophie’s seclusion as the “madwoman in the attic”. Another love story – the subplot about Skerrett, who leaves service and her dear queen to pursue what we expect to be a happy union – undergoes a less stereotypical development and ends in tragedy. The cholera episode is, however, revealing, in line with Prince Albert’s concerns about science, education and improvement, about the Victorian achievements and progress.

All in all, Season 3 counts on a very good performance on behalf of the protagonist, successful in revealing a transition towards maturity – both at the personal and professional level – and tackling, in a fortunate manner, some sensitive topics. The threads to be unfolded in the next season concern, it seems, mainly Albert’s health and demise and, most likely, Victoria’s children. Among them, young Bertie already made an impression in Season 3 as a sensitive and somehow problematic heir, especially in comparison to good and smart little Vicky. Both are “on display”, so to speak, for the Great Exhibition, an event in which previous scepticism and negative expectations are met with all the weaponry of royal paraphernalia, a significant step towards the strong marketing dimensions of today’s British monarchy.

Andrada Fătu-Tutoveanu

Andrada Pintilescu

LOVE AMONG THE RUINS: «COLD WAR» (2018)

Andrada Pintilescu — Sun, 27 Jan 2019 08:00:54 +0000

Shot in black and white, with the grey shades of the times themselves, Cold War (2018) is a revelation and a cinematic jewel, as proven by the numerous awards bestowed upon it. Thus, for Cold War, the director Paweł Pawlikowski – who also signed the acclaimed and Academy Award winner Ida (2013) – won the Best Director award at the 2018 Cannes Film Festival, five European Film Awards, to mention just the most significant prizes, and was selected to represent Poland at the forthcoming Academy Awards.

Cold War (Zimna wojna, in original) emphasises from the title the significance of the period and of the Iron Curtain, itself a character of major significance in the film. The most striking elements are the already mentioned cinematography (in black and white contrasts and subtle aesthetics, especially in the Paris shots), the impeccable and expressive cast and the music (signed by Marcin Masecki), by no means secondary, given the occupation of the characters and their setting in the musical milieu. The musical subtleness is impressive in the transitions between genres, especially striking in the orchestration of a Polish folk song into a Parisian jazz piece.

The sense of space is also impeccably captured, as the characters move from devastated post-war rural Poland to the city, then the countries in the Eastern bloc following the fall of the Iron Curtain – with a particular emphasis on a bombed East Berlin, in its days before the building of the wall – and, finally, Paris. The latter is depicted as in a Bohemian dream, reconstructing the 1950s-1960s French film atmosphere.

The film settings change, yet the story remains one of “love among the ruins”, which is particularly emphasised in the final scenes. Post-War Poland and post-War Europe are depicted in ruin, despite the inherent differences between communist Poland and the artistic environment in Paris, for instance. Among the ruins of WWII, Wiktor saves Zula for the first time, noticing her “je ne sais quoi” among many girls searching for a musical career. The mission of the musical director and his female colleague seems to be one of rescue: of isolated but incredibly beautiful folk songs, of traditions and of people.

Soon, the political intrusion becomes apparent and unavoidable, as the propaganda makes room into the exclusively artistic (by then) endeavour. This increasing pressure and limitation of freedoms culminates with the political secret surveillance on Wiktor, of which Zula admits to be part because of blackmail. This forces them into searching for an escape on the other side of the Iron Curtain (not so impenetrable yet, as the Berlin Wall was not yet built) in the artistic “El Dorado” of Paris.

The story is not linear, however, and the couple seem to be constantly unsettled and threatened, sometimes by their own self-endangering actions. Especially Zula, with her star quality and her promising careers both in Poland and France, is unable to fit and interrupts several times her seemingly stabilised life. The Cold War is ubiquitous and Zula, who due to her past was forced to sign from the very beginning the “Deal with the Devil”, keeps falling deeper and deeper into the power of the regime. Pawlikowski’s work manages to capture, through these fragmented episodes and through this focus on the couple (a bit like in The Lives of Others), the tragedy and disasters of the Cold War and profound traces in Eastern Europe, as well as of post-War Poland, spaces deeply marked by trauma.

The love story is doomed from the beginning, despite no visible social or family boundaries other than the political ones. But the tragedy of the characters in the midst of both external and internal disasters preserves its beauty through the love bond, a kind of invisible thread connecting the protagonists, and which remains – despite their multiple separations – unblemished and unchanged through space and time.

Andrada Pintilescu

FIVE REASONS TO WATCH VANITY FAIR (2018)

Andrada Pintilescu — Tue, 25 Dec 2018 05:00:55 +0000

“Welcome to the Vanity Fair! A world where everyone is striving for what is not worth having”, warns the Narrator in the opening of each episode of the 2018 ITV and Amazon Studios series. Daring from the very beginning (illustrated with Bob Dylan’s «All Along the Watchtower», played by Afterhere with a very contemporary sound), the series combines an impeccable period drama style and perfect cast with the interesting narrative techniques and dialogues with the reader which are famous in Thackeray’s novel. The fair is also associated from the initial scenes and until the end of the series to the metaphor of the carousel. Therefore, there are at least five reasons to watch the series.

1. The Cast. The cast is impeccably chosen and especially the protagonist is (surprisingly for such a famous character where seems to little room for originality) fresh and genuine, filling the part in the minutest of details, such as the French accent or very expressive ways of suggesting Becky’s intrepid and versatile nature as well as her sarcasm or hypocrisy. Olivia Cooke brings spontaneity and freshness to a character that can be challenging through its famousness, both as a literary and as a film character. She manages to create an impeccable Becky, original and different from the equally good role made by Reese Witherspoon.

2. The Direction. There is an attempt to bring freshness and novelty to the directing of the series. This stands out from the opening scene, recurrent in all the episodes, in which the Narrator/ Thackeray welcomes the audience to the Vanity Fair and until the final scene, different from the novel, in which we see the characters joining the carousel (the metaphor persisting through the series), with the Narrator commenting in an upset tone that nobody was supposed to have fun in the Vanity Fair.

3. The Setting and Costumes. This comes as no surprise because being a period drama we could anticipate some flamboyant Regency outfits. However, the manner in which they are treated in detail and adequate to the changes that occur in the status of the characters (such as Becky’s rise or Amelia’s downfall in terms of social position) is most convincing and aesthetically impeccable (this would be the word that could best define this adaptation).

4. The Music. This is the daring element, although from Sophia Coppola’s Marie Antoinette to Versailles or Medici: Masters of Florence, the insertion of contemporary themes into period dramas seems to become increasingly common. In this case is not just the sound of the opening theme but also the lyrics, that perfectly suggest the metaphor of the “Vanity Fair”: “There must be some kind of way outta here/ Said the joker to the thief”

5. For Revisiting a Classic. It goes without saying that Vanity Fair can stand next to Pride and Prejudice, Wuthering Height, Tess or other 19^th century major classics in terms of a continuous interest in adaptations, both for the cinema and television. The fascination with these works seems never to cease and with the advances in both filmmaking and technology, there is an inevitable interest in revisiting these iconic literary works. However, the fame and general knowledge of the audience with the plot and characters only make it the more difficult with every new attempt, due to the inevitable comparisons. As with sequels, some new attempts have suffered when compared to one or another iconic version (see, for instance, the famous 1993 BBC Pride and Prejudice). But in this case, we have a winner, despite the great predecessors (such as the above-mentioned Witherspoon version), as it is both delightful, impeccably played and historically accurate.

Andrada Pintilescu

5 REASONS TO WATCH “VERSAILLES”

Andrada Pintilescu — Sun, 30 Sep 2018 14:51:03 +0000

Daring enough to approach in English one of the key stories of French history – and initially bearing some resemblance to Sophia Coppola’s Marie Antoinette – Versailles possesses all the ingredients for a captivating period drama. Explicitly and implicitly combining historical facts with fictional characters and plots and numerous poetic licences, the TV series (broadcast in three seasons between 2015-2018) combines the expected complicated costumes and setting with a great cast and several complicated plots. In a way, the viewer’s expectations for an extravagant protagonist and the lavish setting of Versailles (taking into account the huge notoriety of both) are contradicted or, better said, diverted towards unexpected focus points. It seems to have been one of the intentions of the creators to focus less on the historical accuracy and more on consistent and appealing narratives.

1. Alexander Vlahos / Philippe, Duke of Orléans

Although central, the character of Louis XIV does not receive exclusive attention and somehow the expected larger-than-life character is rendered more humane and vulnerable. One of the reasons for this is the emphasis on the two royal brothers, the King and the Duke of Orléans, the latter’s character being by no means secondary but given a strong protagonism within the story. Thus, from the complicated sexuality and gender identity (based, as both the story and history reveal, on being encouraged from childhood to develop as more feminine so as not to challenge his brother’s authority) to his strong relationship with Louis, Philippe develops as a complex and multi-layered character. Alexander Vlahos has a great contribution in this, revealing charisma and depth. Perhaps his age, the same as in the King’s case, at some point loses verisimilitude, as they appear to remain in possession of eternal youth despite years passing by and having grown up children but this is just one of the poetic licences of the series.

2. Conspiracies, detective plots and mysteries

Although predictable as part of the palace intrigues and more so if one considers some actual historical events of the time such as the Affair of the Poisons (l’affaire des poisons), the conspiracies and detective narrative are still a great bonus of the TV series, being largely developed in several subplots during the three seasons. They are skillfully alternated, shifting the focus from the king to the queen or other members of the court in murder attempts (some of which successful), espionage, betrayals and mysteries (among them, the famous one of the Man in the Iron Mask, interestingly solved in the story). The atmosphere generated is that of ubiquitous suspicion and permanently renewed conspiracies, some of them unwrapping in an intentionally surprising way or with unexpected denouements.

3. Tygh Runyan / Fabien Marchal

The key figure in all of these is the character of Fabien Marchal (the king’s head of police/security), one of the fictional additions to the historical gallery. He manages to project a very interesting mixture of charisma and violence, always justified by his role on the “right side”, defending the king. However, this justification seems to fade in time and Marchal ends up by questioning his purposes and challenging the king’s actions, abruptly changing sides. His fate is left unsolved, as one of the few unsolved narrative threads. The same Marchal is the protagonist of a couple of romantic episodes, alternating between true love and espionage, revealing more angles in a character that is, nonetheless, depicted most of the time as engaged in enemy chase, torture and other violent actions. It is therefore and achievement of the creators that such a character is built as a complex hero/anti-hero, proving, as mentioned above, even more conscience than the protagonist himself.

4. Love stories

The romantic plots are, of course, essential to the story, mostly because of the kings’ multiple and complicated affairs. However, the series emphasises the emotional engagement (despite the numerous explicit sensual scenes), depicting the king as actually involved in the problematic romances such as with his sister-in-law, Henrietta of England, or with Marquise de Maintenon, whom he eventually marries against all political reasons. Still, Madame de Montespan occupies, predictably enough, a more central part in the series and her dark affairs and intrigues (culminating with murders and Black Mass performances) turn gradually her character into that of an antagonist. Another very interesting romantic plots is that between Philippe and the Chevalier de Lorraine, which at some point turns into a (surprisingly stable) love triangle when the Duke marries for the second time. The story between the two follows different stages, from a troubled youth romance to a mature partnership, including, as mentioned above, Lieselotte, the Princess Palatine Elisabeth Charlotte.

5. Costumes and setting

Of course, when talking about Versailles as one of the most iconic places in the world, the setting and costumes have to be one of the attractions of the series. However, it is less so than expected, especially in the case of Louis, who is in very few occasions depicted in extravagant Sun King costumes or staging theatrical performances. Instead, he is most of the time depicted as troubled, sometimes with deep reflections on his role and purpose and some other times losing contact with reality in his power bubble but nevertheless more humane and vulnerable than expected. The castle starts as a project and its construction is part of the plot, so the viewer is not exposed suddenly to grandeur but rather sees it flourishing. On the other hand, the salons are alternated with dark hidden passages and dungeons, so the atmosphere created is never that of a museum but of an actual setting for human dramas.

The series accomplishes many of its multiple intentions and is especially successful at the level of character impact, counting with an almost impeccable cast. Its ending in the third season is in a way unexpected and leaves the story not such much open as unfinished in a certain way, perhaps having told the essential but missing a few more episodes to complete the ambitious project.

Andrada Pintilescu

Poldark 4: The London Season

Andrada Pintilescu — Sun, 26 Aug 2018 09:00:00 +0000

As expected, the fourth season of Poldark is defined by a change of scenery or, rather, by alternating the already famous Cornwall landscapes with a significant number of London scenes. Mostly employing the same resources in terms of the construction of the characters – the brave protagonist (always unselfishly defending the poor) versus the antagonist, lacking all morals although somehow weakened –, this season proves, however, more conventional and predictable than the previous ones.

The recent series of eight episodes represents the adaptation of two more volumes of Winston Graham’s saga. The years that have passed since the hero’s return from the war in season 1 are most visible in the age of Geoffrey Charles although not so much in the looks of characters from the previous generation, who are apparently ageless. Thus, a still young (although more moderately restless) Ross Poldark continues to stand for the rights of his less favoured peers, but in this case he is no longer a Romantic outlaw but a Member of Parliament.

Perhaps the most significant novelty in terms of plot lines this season is related to this change of setting. Plausible as far as Poldark’s aristocratic pedigree is concerned, as well as his status that would have favoured his emergence as a political representative of the county, Ross’s rise towards an MP chair also comes with a standpoint and views (in terms of social protection and welfare) perhaps too advanced for his time and milieu to be fully convincing.

Poldark’s election is preceded by the expected political competition but, previously, appears as a plot twist in the context of a tragedy: Hugh Armitage’s fatal illness, ruining all his uncle’s political ambitions for him. This tragic episode of Hugh’s terminal illness and later demise fits in the Romantic conventions (and even clichés) already familiar to the Poldark viewers and discussed, in part, in a previous post. Among them the Romantic hero/anti-hero himself, facing misfortunes, dangers and tragedies. Here, leaving aside the newly achieved political status and respectability, the script revives this typology in a few significant episodes, among them a flood in the mine where Ross saves the life of his men and, even more compelling, a duel.

This latter plot line starts with Demelza’s exposure to the London customs and manners and, more significantly, to an unscrupulous MP. Fuelled by the recent episode around Armitage, Ross takes disproportionate measures towards Adderley’s provoking behaviour and fights the latter in a duel, which creates the climax of the season. It is here where we rediscover previous Romantic hero/anti-hero, as his new political career, together with his family life, seemed to lay a bourgeois mark on Ross’s behaviour.

This confrontation, again, very significant in terms of Romantic conventions, concludes a tense period in Ross’s marriage and a series of events triggered by Demelza’s infatuation with the tragic figure of Hugh. For a series of episodes, some of them in the previous season, we witness the reversed situation in terms of ambivalent feelings, jealousy and doubts between Ross and his wife, as Elizabeth is no longer the reason for their crises. The previous encounter between the latter, however, and Ross remains problematic through its consequences and the topic reappears unexpectedly this season, with a tragic denouement. It is this subject that allows the antagonist to reveal his weaknesses and deep feelings for Elizabeth, which obviously contributed to his delusion for a few years, despite Aunt Agatha’s revelations on the true fatherhood of the Warleggan child. This time, however, the situation takes an irreversible turn, following a casual and thoughtless remark of young Geoffrey Charles.

Other dramatic plot lines related to children and parenthood are linked to Caroline and Dwight and their first baby, whose death, anticipated by the doctor, leads to crisis and estrangement. On the other hand, in the case of Morwenna, the loss (of her husband and, later, unborn child) comes with unexpected changes for the traumatised woman, captive in her abusive marriage.

All in all, this new, “London season” as we can call it, brings a softer, more conventional approach to the story of a more mature and successful Ross Poldark, with some Romantic and tragic touches to maintain the interest of the viewers, although perhaps both protagonists were more in their comfort zone in the previous (exclusively) Cornish setting. And there is more to be expected in the already announced fifth – and perhaps final – season.

Andrada Pintilescu

Twisted plot or Agatha Christie revisited in «Crooked House» (2017)

Andrada Pintilescu — Sat, 30 Jun 2018 14:21:03 +0000

Signed by Julian Fellowes, this 2017 adaptation of Agatha Christie’s post-war novel, is obviously meant to attract and impress mainstream audiences: the cast gathers a countless number of celebrities (Glenn Close, Terence Stamp, Gillian Anderson or Max Irons, to mention just a few) and combines glamour and style with screenplay twists and surprises in Agatha Christie’s style, despite not bearing entirely her mark.

The gathering of numerous and surprising characters as suspects of murder in a confined area is, however, one of her landmarks. In this case, the screenwriter plays with the setting of the ostentatious mansion of the wealthy Leonides family and with the whims and mysteries of the latter. Similarly to other Christie novels, the title is inspired from a nursery rhyme, suggesting the unnatural way in which the family members, including the youngest ones, have evolved. It deserves insisting on the issue, as the child, Josephine (impeccably played by Honor Kneafsey) is a central figure of the adaptation, seeming to be surrounded (and surround herself) of an aura of mystery and danger. Not in the expected way, though, as it is later revealed.

Max Irons plays the detective, motivated by both personal and professional reasons to solve the mystery of the Leonides patriarch’s death. The family (and list of suspects, implicitly) consists of a series of clichés, meaning to cover all the range of characters and motivations: the actress, the young and beautiful widow, the son who is need of money, the scientist, the little girl (dreaming to be a ballerina) and, significantly, the matriarch, played by the exquisite Glenn Close, an old aunt who seems aware of everything and extremely dangerous. Naturally, in the Christie way, nothing is what is seems among the harmless and the harmful characters and Crooked House is, as the title announces, quite twisted from this point of view. The plot also adds to the mystery the ingredients of spies and exoticism that Christie seems to be so fond of (Cairo, where the British intelligence agent falls for the beautiful niece of the millionaire etc.).

It is, therefore, no surprise that, with all the intended mysteries (successful, as always, in Christie’s books and adaptations), the clichés diminish the interest in the story and make various scenes predictable. One of the best achievements remains Close’s performance, followed by a few more (most remarkably, Terence Stamp, in a supporting role, yet, nonetheless exquisite as well).

However, although interesting, when compared to other recent adaptations of the mystery novelist’s works, this one would not, probably, rank first. Although more balanced than Kenneth Branagh’s (also star garnished) The Murder in the Orient Express, is less accomplished, in my view than the classic turned into a miniseries And Then There Were None (2015), which manages to go beyond the clichés and the known plot but without the exaggerations in Branagh’s adaptation (or in his performance of Poirot). This is, of course, not an easy task when the plot or character are so familiar to the audience that the inevitable alternatives are those of repetition or risky changes. But, in this case, the context itself was not promising for Branagh’s Shakespearian persona. All in all, Crooked House makes an interesting option but, in a sense, disappoints if the expectations are measured against the impressing resumes of the screenwriter and cast

Andrada Pintilescu

Andrada Pintilescu

Frantz (2016): On Misleading Identities, Guilt and Healing

Andrada Pintilescu — Wed, 30 May 2018 08:00:44 +0000

Photographed in black and white, apart from a few, meaningful scenes, François Ozon’s film is centred around a man’s misleading identity and a woman’s loneliness in the midst of war traumas, which had left them both emotionally scarred. The choice of sober greys (a César Award winner for Best Cinematography) seems very adequate for the intended atmosphere, reminding the viewer of Schindler’s List or, to some, of The Master and Margarita (the Russian 2005 TV series, where the Moscow scenes are shot in black and white, in contrast to those from Christ’s Jerusalem).

Although Anna, the female protagonist, seems for a long period of time to be just a discreet, secluded woman, a sort of embodiment of Life-in-Death, in fact she is the heroine of the film. We witness an evolution of her character, through pain, hope and recurrent depression. It is the story of a lonely struggle to regain hope and then free herself from the past and from the net of lies and guilt created around her by Adrien, the male protagonist. Discreet and composed, Anna (Paula Beer, in an acclaimed and award-winning performance) starts as expression of pain, solitude and mourning, a modern version of the heroine of a Greek tragedy, while at the end we encounter her in a posture of independence and detachment from the previous traumas.

The director’s approach, in which less turns to be indeed more, brings to the fore two extremely expressive protagonists, the tormented Adrien and the profound and evolving Anna, who communicate far beyond their limited dialogue or discreet body language.

The title mentions an absence: young Frantz, Anna’s fiancé, has died in the recent WWI and she, despite her youth, lives almost buried in the state of mourning, between the house of her grieving in-laws (her only family, marking from the beginning her loneliness) and the cemetery where she goes daily. The cemetery itself hides an absence: Frantz could not be found and brought back home, the grave being, therefore, empty. The title of the film is, thus, related to this game of absence and presence, and, though the film is a remake of Broken Lulluby (Ernst Lubitsch, 1932), itself an adaptation of Maurice Rostand´s L’homme que j’ài tué, it does not use these titles.

The cemetery sets the scene for an interruption in Anna’s sad rituals that seem to occupy her life: Adrien, a Frenchman, visits the tomb and seems to open a gate towards Anna’s comeback to life. He alleviates the pain of the parents and fiancée with a happy story about Frantz’s stay in Paris before the war, visiting museums and learning to play the violin, with Adrien as his instructor.

Cultivated and refined, the Frenchman plays the violin for the broken family and takes Anna to walks, swimming or dancing, despite the disapproval of a community, still hurt and prejudiced against the recent war enemies. Fascinated, Anna (as well as her father-in-law) supports and befriends Adrien, who appears as a substitute for the lost one (see the metaphor of her dream in which there is an ambiguity on who is the young man playing the violin).

This game of ambiguity takes, however, an unexpected turn that reveals a misleading identity and, besides the war traumas and loss, a story of guilt and lies. It is not the expected solution to the mystery of Adrien’s pain (the viewer is mislead to think for a while that Adrien and Frantz had been lovers) but a more tragic one: he killed the German boy about whom he wants now to know more. Anna keeps away from the family and eventually forgives the dark secret shared by Adrien, despite having taken her on the verge of suicide in her despair to cope with this while in love with the Frenchman. Anna’s struggle to find forgiveness is part of the story of her solitude: she even hides her suicide attempt, asking her saviour to say nothing to Frantz’s family. She equally reveals nothing of Adrien’s guilt, so as to preserve his illusion and comfort of forgiveness.

This leads to the innocent parents’ advice to Anna to follow her heart and search for Adrien in France, in an attempt to overcome grief and guilt and materialise the romance anticipated during his visit. Here, the net of lies and ambiguity that seemed to have been overcome, unfolds in new painful revelations. Anna’s journey – that would eventually help her free herself from the past and overcome grief – takes unexpected turns, from her fears that guilt had led Adrien to depression and suicide (Manet’s painting on the topic is a leitmotiv of the film) to the paradoxical discovery of a renovated, rich and happy Adrien, overwhelmed with joy to see her.

The promise of the romantic happy-end is again brutally interrupted, however. While seemingly welcome to the beautiful chateau, with gratitude for her help to Adrien’s recovery, Anna encounters a totally unexpected reality: Adrien, a different person than the one she had expected, restored to life and enjoying a rich lifestyle, has a fiancée, although he had mentioned nothing about her during their “brief encounter” in Germany or their correspondence.

Marked by war, nonetheless, he will not, after all, substitute the deceased and fulfill the unspoken promises made in Germany, but go on with the life that the war and tragedy had just for a while interrupted. In the series of discoveries she makes during the film, Anna is struggling all by herself to cope with shock and loss but her strength (the same that had saved Adrien from his torment and guilt and restored him to his previous life) prevails. She manages, in the final scene, to contemplate Manet’s painting, with all its painful associations, and enjoy it, as a symbol of her own survival.

Andrada Pintilescu

OF POISONOUS MUSHROOMS AND OTHER DEMONS: PHANTOM THREAD (2017)

Andrada Pintilescu — Fri, 30 Mar 2018 07:43:25 +0000

When young and shy waitress Alma (Vicky Krieps) meets the sophisticated – yet pathologically control-obsessed – fashion designer Reynolds Woodcock (Daniel Day-Lewis), the viewer is deluded to expect a rather predictable development: the young innocent girl meeting the mature, elegant man, something in the style of the couple in Daphne du Maurier’s Rebecca (famously adapted by Hitchcock). Impeccably and most adequately played by Daniel Day-Lewis – a renowned perfectionist actor himself – Reynolds appears at the beginning of the film as having his life arranged into the minutest details.

As if not controlling enough himself, the designer is guarded by a rigid and devoted sister, obsessed with making sure his multiple manias are respected and that not even his own life partners can bother his silence and daily rituals. In such an episode, Cyril (Lesley Manville) – an obvious toxic presence in Reynolds’ life, cultivating his absurd routines and isolation – “protectively” assumes finishing, in his name, her brother’s ongoing sentimental relationship. In the meanwhile, at her suggestion, the designer retires into the countryside, as if withdrawing from the exposure to mortal weaknesses and pains.

However, the sister’s scheming to keep her brother apart from other attachments than their toxic relation (following, as it appears, a similarly complicated one with their mother), fails, as Reynolds meets Alma, the opposite of the people in his sophisticated and artificial milieu. The flirting game is ingenious and refreshing, Alma proving from the very beginning that she hides more resources than she would appear to.

Again, the viewer would expect a beneficial influence of the genuine, innocent woman – whom he appears to like precisely for her simplicity, as we see him symbolically wiping her lipstick or walking outdoors, hand in hand with her – over the life of the controlling, aging man. Instead, the contrary happens, as Alma is absorbed into the complicated environment of Reynolds’ house and life, becoming his muse but in the same time feeling left aside and frustrated by his whimsical behavior, lack of commitment and constancy. In this frustration, she oscillates between obedience, respecting and even embracing his peculiarities – like in the episode in which she undresses for him an unconscious customer – and some demonstrations of rebellion, such as tempestuously leaving for a New Year’s party.

However, in the midst of pathologic liaisons – in which Alma seems a victim without defense in a mined field, on the verge of being excluded any time from the suffocating environment, so jealously preserved as such by the eternally watching eye of Cyril – the roles suddenly change. Alma fights the asphyxiating, toxic relationship with the same weapons, turning Reynolds into the victim, only to protect and cure him herself. Cultivating this need for her in such an unusual manner, Alma (her name fitting the role she plays in Reynolds’ life, humanizing him) takes over the impeccable order, disturbing it with her risky and, equally pathological, actions. One must mention at this point that her motivations remain deeply anchored in her endless love for Reynolds, which actually ends up convincing him to accept the – literally – toxic behavior.

Cyril sees herself disarmed and ends up accepting Alma’s emergence and, eventually, the wedding. Speaking of which, the bridal gown, which is a leitmotiv of the movie and one of Reynolds’ obsessions, is, paradoxically, absent from the ceremony, extremely simple and natural, considering the environment of high couture gowns the designer lives into.

It seems, again, that Alma leaves a mark of her own personality, strong and yet adaptable, as she appears to cover a whole spectrum of roles during the plot, from the shy waitress to a fashion muse, as well as from an aggressor to a nurse. Vicky Krieps is equally convincing in all these hypostases, being considered quite a revelation, by no means less remarkable than Day-Lewis and Lesley Manville (both in brilliant performances, as expected). The cast is, therefore, the main asset of the movie, beyond the – predictably – impressive outfits, that, luckily, remain secondary both to the story and the movie, playing only the role of an elegant setting for the actual protagonists and their complicated – and poisonous – network of relations.

Andrada Pintilescu

Now and Then: ‘Howards End’ (2017)

Andrada Pintilescu — Tue, 27 Feb 2018 09:00:07 +0000

With the very famous 1992 precedent, starring Thompson and Hopkins in memorable parts, the 2017 adaptation of E. M. Forster’s novel cannot do otherwise but try a different approach, starting with its very genre and structure. A four-part TV series, directed by Hettie MacDonald, the new version seems to be focused precisely on change – of pace, of style, of the characters’ age, even of race (in the case of Jacky), not to mention the attempt to vary in the choice or length of scenes. Besides the inevitably common London setting, in this chase of alternatives perhaps the one who most reminds the viewer of the previous version is Matthew Macfadyen in his Hopkins-style acting. This choice – whether made by the director or by the actor – seems, paradoxically, to be unfortunate, as would be any other intention of copying a famous original, despite the quality of the acting itself.

On the contrary, Hayley Atwell’s acting as Margaret Schlegel is freshly original without appearing to play a forced alternative. This is, perhaps, the greatest achievement of the series: create the setting for her round, natural and credible character, with a marked personality and yet filled with patience, tact and adaptability. If Thompson achieved this result through appearing pondered and mature, Atwell manages to be plausible in both her youth and temperance. And the chemistry between the two protagonists and Macfadyen’s acting towards his partner add freshness and romanticism to his acting, which, as mentioned above, is too faithful to Hopkins’ model.

This touch of romance also contributes to the achievements of the series, partly through the age of the two characters, as the classic previous version balanced the mature and somehow conventional match with the reckless affair of the young pair. Speaking of which, Helen’s character is intentionally projected in a different light: almost a teenager, immature but well-behaved. However, the above mentioned recklessness (emphasised twice in the novel and adaptations, first through her failed attempt to engage to Paul Wilcox and then through the brief affair with Leonard Bast, which has complicated consequences) is implausible as the character is too mild and, as already mentioned, well-behaved, for an otherwise rebellious character.

The passionate temperament, so well illustrated in Bonham-Carter’s masterpiece acting and so well suited by her physical appearance – enhanced, in the film, by the hairdressing and clothing – is difficult to be encountered in the series, whose pace is, anyway, much slower anyway. And the lack of the actual explicit romantic scene between the two extremely reluctant and well-bred characters does not make the affair more credible on screen.

Another forced change, in a visible attempt to go in a different direction than the famous precedent, is Jacky’s character, played by a more mature, coloured actress. Her character, despite being impeccably played, stands out as rather implausible. Although the character is meant to be inadequate and contrast Bast’s lack of experience and ingenuity, this version, with the racial touch which adds to the implausibility, is slightly exaggerated in this intention to diverge and, also, not convincing enough when it comes to language, too polished for the character’s status.

Finally, Julia Ormond’s version of Ruth Wilcox, although interesting and credibly distant in partly adopting the ethereal attitude magnificently played by Vanessa Redgrave, fails to convince as far as the genuine and warm attachment to Margaret, a key part of the plot. All in all, the series is agreeable and conducted professionally on all fronts but with the exception of Atwell’s outstanding performance, the inevitable comparison with the illustrious precedent cannot favour it and perhaps can be enjoyed only if accepting its conventions and leaving aside both the novel and the classic Hopkins and Thompson adaptation.

Andrada Pintilescu

“YOU ARE MY JOB” (II) The Crown – Season 2

Andrada Pintilescu — Thu, 25 Jan 2018 08:00:38 +0000

The complexity of both plot and narrative structure of the most recent season of The Crown makes it difficult to summarize its key points in one blog entry. So, if the previous analysis focused on Philip as the most active and visible of the two protagonists this season, a new entry on the series is necessary as Elizabeth’s role is nonetheless significant. The season mainly depicts her as surviving and reacting to a whirlpool of personal and political crises. Thus, the second season covers a period rich in challenges of different types and sizes, overwhelming both the woman and monarch, especially as the very centre of the family life is at its most vulnerable point and her roles as a wife and mother of an increasing family seem to become every time more complicated and difficult. Moreover, the novelty and complexity of the situations she has to overcome while being on the border of divorce and having to survive scandals, pregnancy issues etc. are intensified by the international (even military) conflicts and other significant political challenges.

Claire Foy manages to brilliantly capture the modesty, shyness and fear of scandal of the queen while suggesting with subtlety the dimensions of her inner crises, anxieties or shocks and her constant concern to conceal these overwhelming feelings. Her fitness for playing the most visible part of a queen is discussed more than once during the season, especially when compared (or feeling compared) to Jackie Kennedy or to her own sister, Margaret.

Although the queen appears as more mature – mother of an increasing family and concerned about her turning into a middle-aged woman – the feeling Claire Foy manages to convey with subtleness is of not being prepared for none of these crises and not knowing how to react in other ways than withdrawing into solitude and/or following the advice of her councillors although sometimes these prove to be wrong, situations in which her full trust and lack of critical judgment stand out. At some point this attitude threatens to become dangerous, as the queen seem to be on the edge of disastrous decisions, such as in the case of being tempted to accept her uncle, the former monarch, back into the family and even trusting him with a diplomatic mission. Some political revelations and good advice from Philip and other people in her entourage prevent a disaster but this is not the case in some other situations that finally explode.

The season covers different time sequences, playing with narrative strategies, and also very different contexts and events, from Nazi Germany and King Edward’s involvement with it to the Kennedy assassination (with an interesting and surprising focus on Jackie’s and the Queen interaction), or from Princess Margaret’s wedding and the shadows surrounding it to the political games with the Soviet Union over Ghana or the Profumo scandal.

A very interesting episode (Marionettes) departs from a seemingly minor yet visible attack from a critical journalist (Lord Altrincham) and ends up in questioning the entire evolution of the British monarchy and the changes necessary for it to survive in the 20^th century and on, eventually emphasizing the positive influence of this journalist’s ideas on the actual survival of the institution. The episode touches, after all, the delicate issue of the roles and relevance of the monarchy in the contemporary world, an issue also brought to the fore in season 1, mainly around the Coronation event. These points and counterpoints, although not dominating the series, are poignant enough to raise questions and a perspective which if not critical, could be described at least as interrogative and seminal.

Andrada Pintilescu