The Double Life of Veronique (La double vie de Véronique, 1991)

The Double Life of Véronique (with a mesmerizing performance from Irene Jacob), is quite possibly the story of separated-at-birth identical twins. At least that's premise I'm working under. Véronique is a music teacher in France, and her doppelganger Weronika, a budding vocal soloist in Krakow, Poland. Neither knowing the other exists. When Weronika suddenly dies, Véronique is greatly moved by a sudden, ethereal sadness. Determined to put these emotions on the back burner, Véronique moves on with her life but suffers an epiphany which draws her to an author/puppeteer, and ultimately towards the film's realization.

Kieslowski's documentarian roots no doubt play an huge part in the way The Double Life of Véronique holds onto it's linear progression, while the film tends to want to obfuscate and metamorphosize. Similarities to other existentialist directors/films have been thrown around as in works from Luis Buñuel (That Obscure Object of Desire) and David Lynch (Lost Highway); I tend to believe Kieslowski's work is more in line with Buñuel than with Lynch for the simple fact that the two directors, specifically with the two aforementioned films, are more obvious in with their intentions. That is to say, whatever obfuscation that arises is wholly on the viewer; like a musical "phantom beat" or a veritable optical illusion. Veronique's doppelganger can also signal Kieslowski's intention to portray Véronique's struggle to remain an individual as she grows. Weronika is a bit childish in comparison to Véronique. The doppelganger (a phenomenon faithfully constructed in film's of Kiyoshi Kurosawa) generally causes confusion and usually foretell a character's demise or downfall. Is there something more sinister and malicious going on with Kieslowski's story? A major cinematic tool Kieslowski utilizes in "The Double Life" are mirror images of and reflection on Véronique; Weronika isn't treated equally in that respect and since doppelgangers are thought to have none we might draw conclusion on Kieslowski's focus (i.e. allowing us to come to a conclusion that the two women are one in the same). What's creates a more mysterious circumstance is, and is in line with doppelganger folklore, Weronika does indeed die soon after seeing hers. So as one can see, interpreting The Double Life of Véronique can go way beyond it's literal story. But all of this is speculation of course and isn't vital to enjoy a simply fantastic story.

To wrap this up, a hearty nod goes to The Criterion Collection and their treatment of the Kieslowski & Krzysztof Piesiewicz written, Slawomir Idziak photographed film. With newly translated dialogue, a brilliant edition in every respect. An interesting enough note from IMdB had b-movie staple Andie MacDowell on the short-list for the part of Véronique/Weronika... Insert congratulations on Kieslowski's good fortune for Irene Jacob here.

Repulsion (1965)

Not as terrifying as expected (read: as advertised) all told. Save for Catherine Deneuve's more-than-effective take, as one Carole Ledoux, on the paralyzing of the mind. Polanski's tone, cast upon Deneuve, of religion vs. lost innocence and abandonment of redemption is heavy-lifting at times. In the face of her sister/roommate's adulterous comings-and-goings, Carole's tormented, severe prude-ism becomes and is in utter control of her life; that is to say, her every action manifests itself in terms of the view she holds of her sister's life-choices. When her sister chooses to leave on holiday with an older married man, Carole becomes unhinged mentally.

One could look upon Polanski's Repulsion as an indictment on the male species, or as the catch-22 of society, in it's entirety, has become. Carole's "boyfriend" is failing to reach her, her job falls apart, and it's apparent she's long grown weary of random advances from men she meets in the course of her daily life. What may come off a snobbish or elitism to these people is sadly an ever-tightening, already claustrophobic, mind which is steadily grinding into madness. Relationships be damned? Who knows. Carole seemed to never of had a chance....

A mix of randomness and plenty of symbolism fills out Repulsion's world very nicely.

Ils / Revolver

Watched Guy Ritchie's Revolver. Not too much to say on this one, really. The entire experience seemed a tad self-involved. I guess that was the point? Jason Statham is his same 'ol character acting self as Jake Green; Ray Liotta is comically sinister as Dorothy Macha, but ultimately his predictable self; Vincent Pastore is good, although his screen time-to-dialogue ratio is heinously out of proportion; André Benjamin (André 3000) is perfectly cast as the enigma-mouthed Avi — last but not least, Guy Ritchie's chose an impeccable soundtrack, one arranged and immaculately utilized. Case in point, Emmanuel Santarromana's "Opera" lends itself in an oddly collected scene where character Lord John (Tom Wu), flanked by a sizzling succubus and bathed in the rich, demonic red glow, sends his regards to Liotta's Macha. I efforted a clip, but none are readily available besides his MySpace page. All in all, Revolver has Lock, Stock and Snatch -like aspirations, but it's parts tend to outshine the film as a whole. Worth a look though.


Oh how I waited to see Ils. Check. Writer/director tandem David Moreau and Xavier Palud generate a truly living film — one which celebrates both the innocence and repugnance in our world. Pretty much a siege film, "Them" drops in on a transplanted schoolteacher named Clementine (Olivia Bonamy) and her writer husband Lucas (Michael Cohen) in the beginnings of a somewhat Arcadian life on a simple and sequestered estate outside of Bucharest. It's not France, but it will do. As the (true?) story goes, Clem and Lucas' bliss is broken in the span of one night — first by the irksome ringing of their telephone, then compounded by the spraying of car headlights. This is simply the beginning of a horrific night for our proto-couple.

Days of Heaven & Dostoevsky or: What I happen to be consuming at the time.

So I finally watched Terrence Malick's Days of Heaven and enjoyed it tremendously. The film is most certainly is an experience. The sprawling Texas, 'erra, Canadian, expanse lends itself to an expressed womb, of sorts, vitalizing and comforting our senses yet concealing the imminent. Why this guy doesn't make more films is a question to be asked/answered. Well worth the rental and probably a future purchase. No, I won't be rushing out to see The New World... sorry. Without spoiling anything, the film's parting line (in part): "I was hopin' things would work out for her. She was a good friend of mine" is as powerful a piece of summation as is in all of filmdom.

On the literary front, I finally dove into Dostoevsky's The Double: A Petersburg Poem (part of a split release with his own The Gambler) after some months and it's turning out to an absorbing little thriller where a diminutive, paper-pushing bureaucrat is traumatized during a office soiree held at a superior's home. The nature of this trauma is that he...

...come now, you didn't believe I'd launch into one of the story's most impressive scenes did you? I'm two-thirds into this little gem, this my third Dostoevsky; Crime & Punishment and Demons being the others. All translated by Richard Pevear and Larissa Volokhonsky. I make mention of the decoders (if you will) simply to champion the profoundly preferable translations by this husband and wife team.  I compared several passages in The Brothers Karamazov, Anna Karenina (which I have read in full), The Master and Margarita, the all three of the aforementioned Dostoevsky novels, as well as Gogol's Dead Souls only to be blown away by the lucidity and fluidity of the Pevear/Volokhonsky editions. If these translations haven't replaced the Constance Garnett translations as the editions of reference, particularly in schools, someone has dropped the proverbial ball. Trust me.

My Kid Could Paint That (2007)

Marla Olmstead "at work".

Jumping straight into my My Kid Could Paint That analysis: While director Amir Bar-Lev sat face to face with little "prodigy" Marla Olmstead's parents, Laura and Mike, to unequivocally requested to film her creating one of her masterpieces, the look on Mark's face was a fatigued one — Laura face was already handing Bar-Lev excuses even before her mouth opened. What followed was all the evidence needed to bring the whole "prodigy" debate into perspective. After much debate (more off camera, to be sure) and permission in hand, cameras were concealed which showed little Marla displaying absolutely none of the endurance, deliberation, or reflection necessary to paint these canvases — some which commanded many thousands of dollars from devotees online as well as at several gallery events.

There is zero doubt in my mind. More believable is that Mike Olmstead, an accomplished hyper-realist painter in his own right, either drew inspiration from Marla's ham-handed floundering for his own creations. Or, went as far as to assist or "finished" what Marla has begun and quickly became bored with, as evidenced by the video of her almost immediately abandoning most canvases she began. I could also entertain the idea that Mark's own painting style (in terms of sophistication and restraint) is such that he might consider "Marla's" abstract expressionism as a joke, and these finished paintings are simply a giant middle finger to the art community which fails to embrace his own. This latter theory would no doubt exist on the fringes of this film's debate. I any case, again, I see little or no evidence that would lead me to believe Marla has anything at all to do with these paintings. Oh, and the comparisons to Jackson Pollock (who's work I honestly find boring) and Picasso are so far removed from reason to be laughable. But again that's me talking.


The documentary itself is very well put together and furnishes a couple of revelation points where sentiment is pulled to and fro, a la Errol Morris' The Thin Blue Line, containing similar ebbs and flows that lend to intrigue. And at a swift 80-some minutes, it's a perfect afternoon watch while enjoying a nice lunch. Just no toast points this time please.

Terror's Advocate (2007)

I'll simply start off by saying that Terror's Advocate (L'Avocat de la terreur) isn't so much as fascinating or intriguing as I had heard and read. Quite frankly, I found it a somewhat boring. First and foremost there's next to zero courtroom action involving the litany of despots, tyrants, terrorists, and dictatorial murderers one Jacques Verges, defense attorney to the indefensible.

Whether he insisted on, or was chosen to, represent. this caliber of client is debatable, he began his career like many "freedom fighting" militants, slashing and burning, plotting and sneak attacking, striking when it's convenient for him — all of this culminated in a marriage to an Algerian terrorist (self-described) soon after the country's independence from France. At the time the upwardly mobile, now attorney, settled for clientele consisting of low-rent petty criminals and thugs, but combined with this caliber of clientele, his unsavory courtroom tactics, and the fact he held on to his radical political stances, his services fell out of favor. For a time, that is.

A large part of Barbet Schroeder's documentary revolves around Verges' 10 years of self-imposed exile following the deterioration, as it were, of his client base. Historian, private detective, and journalist testimony assemble a virtual puzzle of Verges' activities during this period of hiding as he was thought to travel frequently between France and Algeria. This turns out to be a less than fascinating, and shallowly explored angle to his story. The interest piques when he begins to plumb the theories revolving around Jacques Verges' stay inside Cambodia and his affiliation with The Khmer Rouge. The documentary plays connect-the-dots with a phalanx of German, Palestinian, French, Algerian, Spanish, and Iranian terrorist bombings, plots, affiliations, and the like, which constituted the violent geopolitical landscape of that time.

Mr. Untouchable (2007)

What Ridley Scott, et al, might have hoped and dreamed for American Gangster, writer/director Marc Levin realizes with his 2007 documentary Mr. Untouchable. What Frank “Superfly” Lucas wished he had been, Leroy “Nicky (The Godfather of Harlem)” Barnes was. A mash of gritty and loathsome street footage and interviews, “Mr. Untouchable” relives, if not somewhat romanticizes, the reign of "Nicky" Barnes (now under the protection of WITSEC) and his “Council (of Seven)” during the New York heroin boom — a boom The Council themselves were largely responsible for and one which they proctored from the nightclubs and posh exurban homes. In a span of just a few years, Barnes rose from common street thug and junkie to the most revered man in black culture — a tenuous post no doubt, as those who held Barnes in the highest regard were the very people he was climbing over as he ascended to the top of the New York drug trade.

Ironically, Barnes would once again play the junkie thug, with the added bonus of being a snitch, when the heat bore down on his enterprise. In terms of the ‘American Gangster’ compare/contrast, this documentary illuminates, with sober precision, the very facts which ‘American Gangster’ writer Steve Zaillian (and whatever researchers he may or may not have employed) chose to co-opt for his film; something which became very clear after its release. Yet I don’t want to make this a hit-piece.

Set to a grinning retro best-beat soundtrack including several clever and original tracks, Mr. Untouchable is a largely even-keeled exploration of a group of friends who revolutionized the drug trade on the east coast of the United States, became veritable kings in the process, then were “shitted on” by Barnes (now known in certain circles as "Snitchy" Barnes) when his back was against the wall. This group included Barnes' own wife, Thelma Grant. While Barnes remains unapologetic on every level, his words do sometimes take on a more somber tone when he talks about what he did to families and individuals alike by making an unending quantity of drugs available, yet in true gangster fashion he always winds up shrugging it off and simply business. Keep it real.

I Am Legend (theater) / Omega Man (dvd)

To be completely honest, I didn't expect to see much difference between a Charlton Heston helmed Omega Man and the Will Smith fronted I Am Legend, and what do you know there wasn't. Same source material, similar outcome. Other than Legend's CGI that is. As Hello Siesta mentions, the film's defining attribute (throughout its many incarnations), is its religiosity, which skulks in the shadows throughout. Similarly, and likewise differently, Omega Man first smacks religious when Heston meets the other survivors but Legend holds out until the very end to trumpet the Smith character's Christ-like underpinnings and eventual sacrifice. One difference.

Contrarily, Heston's "Neville" ventures into this territory when he finds there are other survivors, or more precisely, when the survivors find him — Smith's "Neville" is somewhat noncommittal about his divinity; one moment waxing poetic about Bob Marley style peace & unity, the next screaming there's no God!. I'm not saying it's what I enjoyed about the two films, in fact I barely enjoyed both (first half of I Am Legend aside), it simply strikes me as lack of effort in capitalizing on Smith's Chuck Noland-esque execution, ... or maybe it's due to the story's supposed unfilmability.