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Up to here, the film is hypnotic, an extraordinarily precise and subtle piece of filmmaking. But not it seems for all, and the Cannes audience responded with whistles, laughter and booing.

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Moving at the traditionallyjapanese pace of a slowmoving brook, the film agonizingly details a further descent in breakdown and incarceration. But at the very nadir, with the parents separated from their children and dead within, a rebirth finally becomes possible. However, the path back to stability will be a difficult and tortuous one. On an important level, Oguri charts how the post-war industrial boom in Japan gave a Western sheen to a lifestyle that was still ruled, often subconsciously, by traditions and values centuries old.

A painful period of re-adjustment was ahead, one that would test not only the contradictions of sex roles but of materialism and its clash with the spiritual culture. But for Westerners, it is perhaps the story of a marriage racked by jealousy that is most telling. It is frightening companion piece to The War of the Roses, where a death of desire, of respect, can lead to the most awful cruelty and destruction. But in many ways it is the film from Cannes which lingers most in the memory.

The French have made many poetic, almost ethnographic, films; this is one of the most interesting. But, being Russia, nothing is black and white, and the forces that corrupt can also bind with a kind of love. Schlikov Piotr Zaitchenko is a taxi driver who knows and plays the black market: But one night a drunken group of passengers disappear before paying the rouble fare. Obsessed with its recovery, Schlikov tracks down one of the passengers, Liocha Piotr Mamonov , and forces him into menial tasks to repay the debt.

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But because Schlikov is so limited by his own blinkered vision, he becomes a greatly tragic figure, symbolic of changes within Russia which put materialistic imperatives ahead of humanist. And unless it can see itself able to countenance both, Russia seems set on a doomed course. Liocha is discovered by a visiting jazz musician, Hal Singer, and is whizzed off to the U. Schlikov is forced to watch from the sidelines and his attempts to re-establish their old relationship fail. Like his great Russian predecessors, Lounguine realizes that evil is nowhere near as far from goodness as the Manichean system suggests, that relationships can never be entirely pure but are a shifting, uneasy tension between the various forces that mould individuals and nations.

Taxi Blues is a wonderfully rich film of perostroika. One can hardly wait for the second instalment in this fascinating chronicle of a lovehate relationship with a soulful motherland. Also at Cannes were two previously suppressed films from the once Communist block. Ludvik Radoslav Brzobohaty , a high government official, and his wife, Anna Jirina Bohdalova , are at a coldly-formal presidential function in Prague when Ludvik begins noticing that several of his colleagues and superiors are missing.

A few guests even make oblique remarks of surprise at seeing Ludvik there. The couple then return to their up-market house to find it dark and the power cut off. Clearly a purge is in progress: As the night unfolds, Ludvik and Anna re-examine every word and gesture overheard or glimpsed at the function, hoping for some clue, some hidden signal of their fate.

Ludvik then frantically bums. Safe from no one, least of all themselves and their half-truths, Anna and Ludvik then wait it out to the expected arrest before dawn. But morning brings its own surprise with a call from the president and news of a promotion. In Stalinist Prague, the easiest way to keep tabs on the suspected is to put them in a position where they can be easily watched and can afford to do nothing but follow the official line.

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During that increasingly tense and stressful night, Ludvik and Anna also re-examine the state of their marriage. That said, The Ear is a crisply made film and gloriously shot in black and white. At its best, it reminds one of the marvellous, but sadly long gone, halcyon days of the Czech cinema. Butin these post-Communist times it is easy to lose perspective and imagine that life in all the Eastern block countries was nothing less than a nightmare.

In all, 22 films in less than two decades. It is quite possible, though, that Kachyhafelt his career was on the line and nothing should be taken away from the obvious bravery of the man. Oh that Australian films were so boldly and precisely confrontational.

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In the great Cannes tradition of bizarre prize giving, Janda won the award for Best Actress. It is the story of a Polish doctor who cared for, and then voluntarily died with, two hundredjewish children from the Warsaw ghetto. The children are absurdly pure, as stereotyped in their different way as the brutal German officers. Not even Disney at its most saccharin would attempt an ending as twee as this.

Korczakis a. His decline as a filmmaker is traceable directly from their first film together, Bez Zioieczulenia Rough Treatment , written before Gzlolvick z Marmur Man of Marble. The lifeless Dyrygent The Conductor is another telling example.

On the whole, the Polish treatment of its Jewish people during the war rivalled the efforts of the Germans. No two films could be more different. The Godard is very much in the tradition of his recent work, particularly from Hail Mary through Detective and King Lear. It is a very hard film to review after one un-subtitled screening, the voice-overs and dialogue continuing his intensely non-narrative interest in philosophical and poetic summations.

What can be said is that the film is as visually hypnotic as Passion, though far more muted in tone, and the conceit of Alain Delon playing two brothers with the same mistress, to show two sides of love which are in fact the same , works very well. It felt like one of the best films at Cannes, but a viewing under better circumstances would help. In fact, he carried the print to Cannes with him - ever the cinematic showman.

Another reason for wanting a second viewing is to try and settle the most discussed issue at Cannes: Many French speakers felt there was only one character, who dies but is reborn in a different guise. Still others said that Delon did play two different people, but that there was nothing in the film to confirm if they were brothers.

And so it goes It is even harder to write about Wild at Heart because sitting through more than 50 minutes of it was more than this reviewer could bear. It is clumsy in a way that defies description. Take for example the plethora of flashbacks near the start. Some are clearly in their scripted position, given the visual or verbal lead-ins. But many more are not and seem slotted into inappropriate positions in a desperate attempt to put an end to an obviously troubled posriproduction Lynch even tries to blur the inevitable jerkiness with some singularly inappropriate dissolves.

Willem Dafoe makes an okay. But not here: The rest ofjury, exhausted it seems from the battle to separate Taxi Blues, The Sting ofDeath, Daddy Nostalgieand the Lynch, looked far less convinced. While Loach must be applauded for being one of the few prepared to tackle that Irish question on film and he is presently fighting politicians and even film critics back home who want it banned , it is one of his weakest films.

Loach has never been a stylist with the possible exception of Res , but here he is plain crude. The acting, with the notable exception ofjim Norton as the Ulster police chief, is rarely adequate Mai Zetterling is particularly ill at ease , the photography makes 16 mm look good and the badgering tone is unlikely to convince anyone. The title comes from an Italian folk blessing: Sergio reacts angrily and retreats to his native home, before taking on the life of a priest.

The film is ravishing at the start, both Usually and emotionally, but falters badly when the religious aspects take precedence. There is a growing feeling among some critics that the Tavianis are not the filmmakers they were once heralded to be. Night Sundoes nothing to quash this view. It is a film of quiet reconciliation set against the pains of living in an increasingly hard, directionless world. She is of a different time and world brought up by a nanny and never having felt close to her socially active parents.

Reflecting on the wonderful, glittering life he has led, Daddy unconsciously pro-. Caroline brightens at his advice and the warm tone between them resumes.

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So subtly does Bogarde etch this moment that it may well remain the finest of his career. The last half-hour, in fact, is near masterpiece, as Cyrano suffers deeply from having promoted another into the arms of his beloved. As death approaches, he nobly holds back from revealing all,. If only Rappeneau had cared less for his lavish sets and epic setpieces, and concentrated more on Cyrano, he might well have had a great film on his hands. Still, it is hard to imagine a better largecanvas film coming along for many years, nor one blessed with a great actor in such poetic flight. Forget the sub-titles, just listen to the beauty of his voice.

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It concerns the imprisonment ofjapanese Americans in camps during. World War II thus mirroring closely an Australian situation. It is on this level that the film succeeds best: Their reunions, after long separations, are powerfully felt and a measure of a sensitivity in Parker rarely glimpsed outside Shoot the Moon. Where Parker occasionally falters is with the too-explicit and didactic rendition of the historical events. Characters deliver speeches where naturalistic dialogue would be better and the whole narrative is too neat by half.

Yes, they do represent two contrary tensions within the Japanese-American community, but why make them brothers? And why so simplistically drawn? On occasions, it is also a great love story. He gets the accent very well, but he always looks like Eastwood trying to be Huston. A lesser-known actor could have been more convincing and distracted less from what is an amusing tale. Eastwood directs in a European manner and even tosses aside the two sequences that most American directors would have made showstoppers: Rodrigo D is the sort of film that is probably more important as a force in social change than as a piece of art.

But its craft level is unusually strong, the mood well maintained and the tone always unsettling. But one does wish for a. So begins a series of events that lead in their quietly inevitable way to death. The filmmaking is as slick as any mainstream film, relying on the wry tone and understated humour to set it apart. Though ultimately a little insubstantial, Tilaimakes one look forward to the next film from the Ouedraogos.

If Australia likes to believe it forged a nation out of the military setback of Gallipoli, Portugal, according to Oliveira, was born out of a series of crushing defeats. Set during the last Portuguese colonial war Africa, , and using lavish historical recreations as flashbacks, the film is a relatively convincing portrait of false military pride and the stupidity of the non-defensive wars. While interesting as history lesson, the film has the usual Oliveira hallmarks of listlessness he sets up epic shots with thousands of extras and then has nothing happen and a meandering pace.

He has the obstinacy of a Bresson, but none of the montage skills. Shots linger and the editing is basic.