jcappy
Joined Jul 2001
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"Lisboa" is a bit of a conundrum. It goes for the box office perk with a smattering of gratuitous sex scenes, but it also refuses to fall for the "temptation" of a Hollywood ending. Perhaps both are aimed at an indie audience. I don't know but both, I think, detract from a solid crime drama, and from its two featured actors (Sergi Lopez, Carmen Maura), who in spite of the plot's blots, convincingly deliver compelling and memorable performances.
It's true that Joao is a road salesman of porn cassettes, but it doesn't follow in the least, given his disposition and innate principles, that he would sexually assault a distressed woman stranger in a bathroom. Nothing prior and nothing after would suggest even such a fleeting intent. In fact, the porn he pushes on his long tiresome sales routes might just as well be vacuum cleaners; for he's been longtime weary of not only his job, but his family, and his nationality. But his sex ad fulfilled, he and his unlikely prey, Berta, can now focus on her profound, and deeply disturbing plight. As her frightening nightmare gradually unfolds, he begins to act on and commit to what he learns, and to Berta herself, who knows too much of her family's investments in shady business and murder, and is on the run. A mutual respect and shared passion ensue only interrupted by another ad insert, this time in the form of Berte's exhibitionist daughter who warrants no more than a glance from Joao.
But Berta too must concede to the box office. In a rare moment of calm after a high intensity chase scene, she manages to offer Joao what he tried to take by force earlier: a free quickie--one that only a gymnast could perform. Could she be acting from madness induced by the excruciating stress she's under? If so, its form is way too convenient. And within seconds, Joao and Berta are back on the road, their lives in the balance, as the dangers, hazards, and betrayals of their exhausting ordeal mount. But Berta's has still not escaped her ulterior use; for her insolent and despotic husband drags her far aside and subjects her to a battering body search, as her daughter, who is set up as her competitor for sex and attention over Arturo in a female cat fight, is ordered to abandon her targeted mother. What it comes down to is that Berta is present to deliver both the good plot and its sensational tack-ons.
But that's not all Berta absorbs because "Lisboa's" disturbing ending also claims--or exploits her as this story's prime victim. True, the conclusion is no commercial break, but it's devious enough to undermine Berta's faith and courage, to deprive her of her own just conclusion, and Joao's championing of her. It also implies that a woman who doesn't know her place, who steps out of line, and refuses to collaborate, must serves as a sacrificial lamb. Does Joao sell her out? Well, he's never evasive, but he does fail to pull the trigger... But no, it's the movie's ending that's the explicit sell out.
It's true that Joao is a road salesman of porn cassettes, but it doesn't follow in the least, given his disposition and innate principles, that he would sexually assault a distressed woman stranger in a bathroom. Nothing prior and nothing after would suggest even such a fleeting intent. In fact, the porn he pushes on his long tiresome sales routes might just as well be vacuum cleaners; for he's been longtime weary of not only his job, but his family, and his nationality. But his sex ad fulfilled, he and his unlikely prey, Berta, can now focus on her profound, and deeply disturbing plight. As her frightening nightmare gradually unfolds, he begins to act on and commit to what he learns, and to Berta herself, who knows too much of her family's investments in shady business and murder, and is on the run. A mutual respect and shared passion ensue only interrupted by another ad insert, this time in the form of Berte's exhibitionist daughter who warrants no more than a glance from Joao.
But Berta too must concede to the box office. In a rare moment of calm after a high intensity chase scene, she manages to offer Joao what he tried to take by force earlier: a free quickie--one that only a gymnast could perform. Could she be acting from madness induced by the excruciating stress she's under? If so, its form is way too convenient. And within seconds, Joao and Berta are back on the road, their lives in the balance, as the dangers, hazards, and betrayals of their exhausting ordeal mount. But Berta's has still not escaped her ulterior use; for her insolent and despotic husband drags her far aside and subjects her to a battering body search, as her daughter, who is set up as her competitor for sex and attention over Arturo in a female cat fight, is ordered to abandon her targeted mother. What it comes down to is that Berta is present to deliver both the good plot and its sensational tack-ons.
But that's not all Berta absorbs because "Lisboa's" disturbing ending also claims--or exploits her as this story's prime victim. True, the conclusion is no commercial break, but it's devious enough to undermine Berta's faith and courage, to deprive her of her own just conclusion, and Joao's championing of her. It also implies that a woman who doesn't know her place, who steps out of line, and refuses to collaborate, must serves as a sacrificial lamb. Does Joao sell her out? Well, he's never evasive, but he does fail to pull the trigger... But no, it's the movie's ending that's the explicit sell out.
Does "Wakefield" follow the Christian sequence of providence, penitence, and redemption? If you take the raccoon for providence, some penitence follows, but redemption decidedly doesn't. For Wakefield, despite his self-imposed exile from wife and family, is nowhere near as vulnerable as he has made them. For his social power far exceeds theirs: he has the power to leave, the power of the purse, the power to watch, the power of interpretation of his and their acts, and the power to return. And wife/family, not his job, and not an alienating culture, are his prime target.
Wakefield can check out on the spur of the moment because nothing can stop him. There's almost no risk to him because he's passed them onto wife and children. And ditto with the inherent dangers of his flight. His wife Diane, married with twin daughters, could only withdraw from him after meticulous planning. Otherwise, imagine her going out after dark to scavenge for three, or living in a motel with her two children, and lap dancing to survive. No, hers would be an ordeal, not a encampment. And to boot, she must survive on his largess, and is locked into his economic set-up. She now pays the bills, the mortgage, loads his mart-like pantry, and upkeep his spacious suburban house. No way she can replicate his exit or exercise the freedom he does.
Two things that give boost to Wakefield's exit game, are his garage's raised window view and his stored telescope. Watching females for him is pure pleasure, and eyeing them continuously is vestal comfort. That he can giggle, hiss, smirk, he-he, mock, and cynically debase the female clime beneath him is as assumed as the air. His exposed wife can serve as a peeping Tom sex object or a goddess to his free wheeling male fantasies as he hides in the darkness interpreting family members he knows nothing about. What he does grasp is that he won Diane in a deceitful contest with a younger colleague, and ever since she's been deliciously his for keeps. But her thoughts he cares little for, and rarely interprets any facet of her life (moves and gestures) in a positive light. She's the silent actor who cannot answer him back.
But Wakefield, over time, and from the wear and tear of his isolating and depriving garage outpost, does experience pain--and penitence. He begins to question his presumptive behavior over his wife and daughters. He starts to chuckle over his self-pity, to cease his mockery, to take his absence and their presence more seriously. He admits-- to himself, his resentment and jealousy. And he even seems to glean that his wife's dependence is his independence--or who he is. But none of this understanding is long term, or much embedded in reality--his affinity with his impaired neighbors notwithstanding, and he's shown no unusual guilt. Moreover, his self-questioning is mainly limited to his private self. So, redemption is not in his scope. But he still has his power of return, and when spurred on by jealousy incurred over a new younger suitor, he makes his move. Whether his wife and daughters will embrace or reject his newly spiffed up self or reject him, no one knows, because the frame of family doorway is "Wakefield's" last frame.
Wakefield can check out on the spur of the moment because nothing can stop him. There's almost no risk to him because he's passed them onto wife and children. And ditto with the inherent dangers of his flight. His wife Diane, married with twin daughters, could only withdraw from him after meticulous planning. Otherwise, imagine her going out after dark to scavenge for three, or living in a motel with her two children, and lap dancing to survive. No, hers would be an ordeal, not a encampment. And to boot, she must survive on his largess, and is locked into his economic set-up. She now pays the bills, the mortgage, loads his mart-like pantry, and upkeep his spacious suburban house. No way she can replicate his exit or exercise the freedom he does.
Two things that give boost to Wakefield's exit game, are his garage's raised window view and his stored telescope. Watching females for him is pure pleasure, and eyeing them continuously is vestal comfort. That he can giggle, hiss, smirk, he-he, mock, and cynically debase the female clime beneath him is as assumed as the air. His exposed wife can serve as a peeping Tom sex object or a goddess to his free wheeling male fantasies as he hides in the darkness interpreting family members he knows nothing about. What he does grasp is that he won Diane in a deceitful contest with a younger colleague, and ever since she's been deliciously his for keeps. But her thoughts he cares little for, and rarely interprets any facet of her life (moves and gestures) in a positive light. She's the silent actor who cannot answer him back.
But Wakefield, over time, and from the wear and tear of his isolating and depriving garage outpost, does experience pain--and penitence. He begins to question his presumptive behavior over his wife and daughters. He starts to chuckle over his self-pity, to cease his mockery, to take his absence and their presence more seriously. He admits-- to himself, his resentment and jealousy. And he even seems to glean that his wife's dependence is his independence--or who he is. But none of this understanding is long term, or much embedded in reality--his affinity with his impaired neighbors notwithstanding, and he's shown no unusual guilt. Moreover, his self-questioning is mainly limited to his private self. So, redemption is not in his scope. But he still has his power of return, and when spurred on by jealousy incurred over a new younger suitor, he makes his move. Whether his wife and daughters will embrace or reject his newly spiffed up self or reject him, no one knows, because the frame of family doorway is "Wakefield's" last frame.
Let's keep the four central characters/actors in "Before I Go to Sleep" and switch it from a thriller to a drama. Cut all the fleeting images of eroticized violence, the requisite of women as punching bags, all the flashbacks (including the narcissistic camera toy,) the daily blank memory, the claustrophobic darkness--and incidentally, the son (the husband would only be referred to). Central to the new plot is the transformation of Mike from a reprehensible misogynist and villain to someone more exemplary--Colin Firth already expresses both in acting out Ben.
Mike and Christine (Nicole Kidman), on the way to the airport hotel, have an accident in which she suffers a similar serious brain trauma, which requires long term institutional care. Ben gets a distant job offer, and divorces his disabled wife. Mike gets wind of this, and begins to visit Chris. Over time he volunteers--out of a sense of culpability, accountability, and devotion, to undertake her care at his home. As he watches over her-- replicating many of the nursing home chores himself, he awakens to a new perception of women. He begins to exorcise his demons, his falseness, his posturing. He puts behind him the accusatory press coverage of the accident, and intensifies his efforts to get Chris's life back. The two soon share humor and laugh together. She begins to remember things like her free-lance editor job and to reassert her identity. Out in a park on a weekend, she recalls her closest friend, Claire, whom Mike will soon locate. And Chris herself contacts Dr Nasch. This trio contributes to her recovery.
Of course, there are tensions which create drama and interest. To Christine, Mike is initially more of a stranger than a trusted friend. The unassigned diary she's begun is kept hidden from him, and her distrust of Mike is also shared by Dr. Nasch, who reads press accounts of the accident--the velocity, the alcohol. Both Christine and Mike experience some dark thoughts over their myopic affair--balanced only slightly by reminders of Ben's divorce. No one champions Mike: he's a misfit at his science job, and his few fast lane pals dispersed after the accident. Claire and Dr. Nasch can also vex him, he with his suspicions, and she with her natural affinity to Chris. In fact, his new care experience is bent on distortions not so dissimilar to Chris's own as a brain trauma victim. But he's clear about his selfishness, and about Christine's losses, next to which his are minimal.
But Mike and Chris's relationship is like two distinct persons descending opposite staircases. They never quite meet at the bottom, but mutually stop on one of the lower stairs, because both, via questioning, have reached demanding self-realizations. Each knows what a partnership can and cannot be. And they are no longer part of the shallows. Or of the modern detached "love" which kept both their lives in abeyance. She was a dependent in his car, in his bed, and now in his house. She and Mike could have perished; now they have lives to live. Mike finds a new road, not to romantic love, but to committed friendship. And Christine commits her life to her self--to getting stronger and healthier. So, she will live with her spirit-lifting pal Claire until she finds independence.
Mike and Christine (Nicole Kidman), on the way to the airport hotel, have an accident in which she suffers a similar serious brain trauma, which requires long term institutional care. Ben gets a distant job offer, and divorces his disabled wife. Mike gets wind of this, and begins to visit Chris. Over time he volunteers--out of a sense of culpability, accountability, and devotion, to undertake her care at his home. As he watches over her-- replicating many of the nursing home chores himself, he awakens to a new perception of women. He begins to exorcise his demons, his falseness, his posturing. He puts behind him the accusatory press coverage of the accident, and intensifies his efforts to get Chris's life back. The two soon share humor and laugh together. She begins to remember things like her free-lance editor job and to reassert her identity. Out in a park on a weekend, she recalls her closest friend, Claire, whom Mike will soon locate. And Chris herself contacts Dr Nasch. This trio contributes to her recovery.
Of course, there are tensions which create drama and interest. To Christine, Mike is initially more of a stranger than a trusted friend. The unassigned diary she's begun is kept hidden from him, and her distrust of Mike is also shared by Dr. Nasch, who reads press accounts of the accident--the velocity, the alcohol. Both Christine and Mike experience some dark thoughts over their myopic affair--balanced only slightly by reminders of Ben's divorce. No one champions Mike: he's a misfit at his science job, and his few fast lane pals dispersed after the accident. Claire and Dr. Nasch can also vex him, he with his suspicions, and she with her natural affinity to Chris. In fact, his new care experience is bent on distortions not so dissimilar to Chris's own as a brain trauma victim. But he's clear about his selfishness, and about Christine's losses, next to which his are minimal.
But Mike and Chris's relationship is like two distinct persons descending opposite staircases. They never quite meet at the bottom, but mutually stop on one of the lower stairs, because both, via questioning, have reached demanding self-realizations. Each knows what a partnership can and cannot be. And they are no longer part of the shallows. Or of the modern detached "love" which kept both their lives in abeyance. She was a dependent in his car, in his bed, and now in his house. She and Mike could have perished; now they have lives to live. Mike finds a new road, not to romantic love, but to committed friendship. And Christine commits her life to her self--to getting stronger and healthier. So, she will live with her spirit-lifting pal Claire until she finds independence.