Arguably Shakespeare’s most morally fucked-up play, Macbeth has enamoured some of cinema’s greatest filmmakers, from Akira Kurosawa to Orson Welles and Roman Polanski, each to their own producing dark visions of…
So that was the Order of the Day. In what seemed to be the most packed, challenging and personally rewarding day of the festival so far. I went out to check out the Audiards, Mungius and Kiarostamis steam-rolling in cinemas all day.
A pair of powerful performances from Cotillard and Schoenaerts lend Rust and Bone some muscular, dramatic gravitas, only to be hampered by a preposterously conceived final hour that completely betrays the audience’s emotional investment in the first half. Audiard hasn’t put a foot wrong so far, until now.
It’s that groovy time of the year again (no, I’m not talking about Christmas just yet). For all of us in London who couldn’t afford to sail to Cannes or go back-packing en-route to Venice, October is a super special time for self-confessed cineastes with a shoestring budget like me so I could go film-whoring along both sides of the Southbank in the 56th London Film Festival.
It’s the breeding season of cinema, folks. What d’you expect. This is the much awaited time when auteurs pull out their wangs (that’s artistic egos for you, uninitiated ones) for public stroking and adoration. It’s the battle of men this year. Not that we’ll witness somebody like Haneke beating the life out of somebody like Kiarostami, but at least we’ll expect their films will make some particular impact. Let’s not kid ourselves, Cannes is the most prestigious film festival in the entire circuit. The French know and love their cinema. 9 out of my Top 10 Films last year all premiered in Cannes.
What promises to be a bombastic musical with a shamanic alignment of megawatt star-power ends up with barely a bang. Rob Marshall’s Nine, despite of its lavish, slick production, gorgeous cinematography and art direction that oozes with 60’s retro chic, is a film of misfired ambitions. Far from Fellini’s original 8½, this is a mediocre, passable, if not entertaining, affair.