The Polish film Cold War (2018), by Pawel Pawlikowski, concerns two lovers who live and travel in a 1950s-early 60s Europe that wants to be, and must be, divided.  Why?  Because of communism.

The Poland in which Wiktor (Tomasz Kot) and Zula (Joanna Kulig) meet goes Red, then Wiktor resides for a time in Paris.  There, a musician, he can play music dissociated from Stalinist politics; in Poland communism is contaminating the arts.  Also, he makes love there to the visiting Zula despite a straw marriage she is in.  This is Europe of the Cold War, although there is, as well, a certain cold war imposed on Wiktar and Zula’s relationship.  Once in a while it heats up.

As with his movie Ida, Pawlikowski filmed Cold War in black and white, which is palpably austere but also unnecessary and a trifle too lustrous to be deeply artistic.  And yet the movie is artistic.  It can’t be denied that, as Manohla Dargis said, “it is filled with ordinary and surprising beauty.”  Of various kinds.

(In Polish with English subtitles)

The Polish film Cold War (2018), by Pawel Pawlikowski, concerns two lovers who live and travel in a 1950s-early 60s Europe that wants to be, and must be, divided.  Why?  Because of communism.

The Poland in which Wiktor (Tomasz Kot) and Zula (Joanna Kulig) meet goes Red, then Wiktor resides for a time in Paris.  There, a musician, he can play music dissociated from Stalinist politics; in Poland communism is contaminating the arts.  Also, he makes love there to the visiting Zula despite a straw marriage she is in.  This is Europe of the Cold War, although there is, as well, a certain cold war imposed on Wiktar and Zula’s relationship.  Once in a while it heats up.

As with his movie Ida, Pawlikowski filmed Cold War in black and white, which is palpably austere but also unnecessary and a trifle too lustrous to be deeply artistic.  And yet the movie is artistic.  It can’t be denied that, as Manohla Dargis said, “it is filled with ordinary and surprising beauty.”  Of various kinds.

(In Polish with English subtitles)

The film opens with an adulterous couple, Paul and Raluca, naked in bed.  Then we see Paul, a married man, doing ordinary domestic things with his wife and daughter.  Afterwards there is an increase in silent pain and silent stress, followed by . . . nothing good.

Tuesday, After Christmas (2011) is a deeply sophisticated and realistic Romanian movie about marital infidelity.  Its characters live for the love of an adult, for amatory love; and the new adult for Paul, Raluca, is a trade-up to replace good wife Adriana (go figure).   The film reveals the easy destruction which immorality brings about, and the frequent quietness with which people introduce disaster to a particular sphere.

It’s a subdued work directed by Radu Muntean, who uses no music to speak of and a myriad of medium shots in long takes.  As for the acting, Mimi Branescu (Paul) is perfectly true as a middle-class man who is ordinary but not boring and hardly without moral awareness.  Marie Popistau (Raluca) supplies subtlety and nimbleness as a dentist-cum-mistress.  Exquisitely Mirela Opriser gets everything right as Adriana, a conventional woman suddenly thrust into anguish and rage.

By the way, what negative criticism this fine film received was sadly stupid.

(In Romanian with English subtitles)

Tuesday, After Christmas (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Most of today’s screen musicals deserve to be left alone.  They’re not even as satisfying as the music video for Michael Buble‘s “Haven’t Met You Yet” (2009), a song-and-dance mini-musical in which a lovelorn Michael enters a supermarket and meets his future wife-actual wife, Luisana Lopilato.  Employees and customers alike become hoofers, and, well, people in the store somehow multiply, dancing admirably to a delectable pop song.  Michael has met his one and only, and yet in this fluffy “video” it’s just a fantasy.

Although it differs much from the Buble routine, the music video for the Evanescence song, “Call Me When You’re Sober,” is another happy-making effort better than most contemporary musicals.  Gothic and garish, it proffers red capes, candles, wolves, and a great rock ditty sung by Amy Lee.  There are dancing creeps—I don’t know what else to call them—surrounding Amy before she rises into the air; and then the creeps rise into the air and start twirling.  The song is better than the visuals, but the whole thing is weird fun.  It’s rather cheap, but less so than much of Moulin Rouge. 

Once again in a Western, bloody conflict revolves around cattle theft, albeit the 1957 Gunfight at the O.K. Corral, serving up the stuff of (mere) legend, also forces Wyatt Earp (Burt Lancaster) to contend with cold Doc Holliday (Kirk Douglas) before seeking the killer’s help.

It’s a world of stouthearted men disinclined to talk too much, gutsy toughs who walk away without responding to somebody’s utterance.  Directed by John Sturges, the film is not quite tidy enough:  it lets unattached Earp lose Rhonda Fleming—I mean Laura, whom Fleming plays—almost as an afterthought.  In addition, one ought to object that insufficient sympathy is shown for Kate Fisher (Jo Van Fleet), the harsh Holliday’s mistreated lady-friend.  All the same, there is an attractive look, decent dialogue and enjoyable action.  And the early tension between Earp and Holliday is so interesting it alone makes the movie watchable.