After work we saw this film by Pawel Pawlikowski, My Summer of Love at 35mm. At first I thought the film was shot in the same Dogme 95 style made popular by Thomas Vinterberg and Lars von Trier. But it's not counted among the five British films officially recognised by the movement, not having adhered to at least two of the group's so-called 10 vows of chastity. Still its tight angles and jerky camera shots allow the viewer to focus, Dogme-style, more on plot and character development and less on extraneous qualities. The film appears to have been one of the most praised in 2004, being even mentioned in the same breath as Peter Jackson's Heavenly Creatures and Erick Zonca's La vie rêvée des anges (The Dreamlife of Angels). The most flattering review comes from the Guardian's Peter Bradshaw: "It has taken a Polish-born director to respond to the exoticism of the English countryside and English mannerisms of region and class. Within the Yorkshire Dales' sunlit expanses, he has created a swooning love story with wit, flair, eroticism and some New Wave attitude." He is echoed by the Times' James Christopher, who says the film is "more English than Alfie".
Apart from the nimble direction, intelligent script and natural cinematography, it is the complex and nuanced ensemble performance of the cast of three that makes this film altogether memorable. Emily Blunt, the girl who played Tamsin, was as luminescent as Eva Green could have been in a film I have yet to see, that of Bertolucci's The Dreamers. (I can't really tell since I only saw reviews and photos in Première Magazine, but it seems that by the time of Kingdom of Heaven, Eva Green had been reduced to an exotic, period-costumed mannequin.) She exudes such confidence in her role as a rich but neglected child that even her adult poses - drinking wine, playing Saint-Saens on cello, smoking cigarettes and talking about Nietsche and Freud - both come off as seductive and sincere. Tamsin, unplugged, sounds like this: "This is Edith Piaf. I just adore her. She was this marvellous Parisian woman who had such a wonderfully tragic life. She was married 3 times & each husband died in mysterious circumstances. The last one was a boxing champion and she killed him with a fork. She didn't even go to prison because in France crimes of passion are forgiven."
Then there's Natalie Press, who has been called the new Samantha Morton (the pre-cog in Spielberg's The Minority Report) for her performance here. She plays a freckled, wrong-side-of-the-tracks poor girl with such directness that her speech and attitude faze me at first. In the end she draws strength from her own unblinking, unapologetic understanding of her conditions. She reveals as much when Tamsin asks and answers her, straightfaced, what they'd want to do in the future: "I'm gonna get a job in an abattoir, work really hard, get a boyfriend who's like...a bastard, and churn out all these kids, right, with mental problems. And then I'm gonna wait for menopause... or cancer". Although the film's ending is unclear we somehow are left with a notion that, like Kyra Sedgwick's Delia Shunt in Personal Velocity, everything will turn our right for Mona.
Finally, there was the close-to-the-bone performance of Paddy Considine, the ex-con Christian fundamentalist brother of Mona whose inner struggle leads to the crumbling of his brittle convictions and faith. While I've always considered faith as essential the egregious nature of the modern church (less the singing and dancing, more about healing and speaking in tongues) has always been something I've felt uneasy about. In the end faith is a personal matter, I guess. In the film, while the portrayal of born-again prayer meetings was creepily accurate I wasn't too comfortable with the rejection of organized religion as the inevitable conclusion viewers would logically take after viewing.
Not having much time we decided to have dinner at Planeta Sushi at my Inessa's neighborhood in Shchukino. This is the second time I've eaten at this Rosinter chain in a week. This confirms without a doubt Planeta's rehabilitation as a more than passable restaurant. It somewhat embarrasses me that I denigrated it as perhaps the worst Japanese restaurant in Moscow (a charge that does not even see as fit for consideration the obiquituous sushi bar at every French, Italian or even Indian restaurant; Muscovites equate Japanese cuisine with sushi). Unlike Ohta-san, who has more stringent standards, I viewed Ginno Taki and Ichiban Boshi as perhaps two of the best and reasonably priced Japanese restaurants in Tokyo. Chef Kasajima Shigeru has done a really admirable job in upgrading Planeta to the same level. In fact I don't think any other establishment (certainly not the cosily interiored but overpriced Netske) probably offers gunkan, tataki and inari sushi. Now having tasted its sake chazuke, tataki zushi and iidako, I can definitely say that Planeta Sushi is indeed "more than just fresh fish", as its motto goes.
After taking my Inessa home I drive back, less sleepy and more pensive than usual. It's been three months since my muirnín and I got together. I must say we are getting along extraordinary well, despite my own silliness and unpredictability. There's always this fresh feeling every time we see each other, something that makes me hopeful for the future. In my note for this entry, I wrote: "Convinced as ever that my Inessa is the most wonderful creature on Earth." That she is.
This morning, I stumbled upon a couple of things that I was best inclined to notice. On Netscape's default page, there was an article based on recent Nottingham Trent University research findings about the nine different kinds of historical and cultural loves. Unlike those prepubescent quizzes in personal scrap books we used to answer about love and marriage, this proposes through scienfitic techniques that there are "a limited and interconnected variety of love stories at work in any particular culture". In my 36 years, I've practically run through the whole list. As for the obvious question of the here and now, I'd say we have a dyadic-partnership love. This is defined as:
Apart from the nimble direction, intelligent script and natural cinematography, it is the complex and nuanced ensemble performance of the cast of three that makes this film altogether memorable. Emily Blunt, the girl who played Tamsin, was as luminescent as Eva Green could have been in a film I have yet to see, that of Bertolucci's The Dreamers. (I can't really tell since I only saw reviews and photos in Première Magazine, but it seems that by the time of Kingdom of Heaven, Eva Green had been reduced to an exotic, period-costumed mannequin.) She exudes such confidence in her role as a rich but neglected child that even her adult poses - drinking wine, playing Saint-Saens on cello, smoking cigarettes and talking about Nietsche and Freud - both come off as seductive and sincere. Tamsin, unplugged, sounds like this: "This is Edith Piaf. I just adore her. She was this marvellous Parisian woman who had such a wonderfully tragic life. She was married 3 times & each husband died in mysterious circumstances. The last one was a boxing champion and she killed him with a fork. She didn't even go to prison because in France crimes of passion are forgiven."
Then there's Natalie Press, who has been called the new Samantha Morton (the pre-cog in Spielberg's The Minority Report) for her performance here. She plays a freckled, wrong-side-of-the-tracks poor girl with such directness that her speech and attitude faze me at first. In the end she draws strength from her own unblinking, unapologetic understanding of her conditions. She reveals as much when Tamsin asks and answers her, straightfaced, what they'd want to do in the future: "I'm gonna get a job in an abattoir, work really hard, get a boyfriend who's like...a bastard, and churn out all these kids, right, with mental problems. And then I'm gonna wait for menopause... or cancer". Although the film's ending is unclear we somehow are left with a notion that, like Kyra Sedgwick's Delia Shunt in Personal Velocity, everything will turn our right for Mona.
Finally, there was the close-to-the-bone performance of Paddy Considine, the ex-con Christian fundamentalist brother of Mona whose inner struggle leads to the crumbling of his brittle convictions and faith. While I've always considered faith as essential the egregious nature of the modern church (less the singing and dancing, more about healing and speaking in tongues) has always been something I've felt uneasy about. In the end faith is a personal matter, I guess. In the film, while the portrayal of born-again prayer meetings was creepily accurate I wasn't too comfortable with the rejection of organized religion as the inevitable conclusion viewers would logically take after viewing.
***
Not having much time we decided to have dinner at Planeta Sushi at my Inessa's neighborhood in Shchukino. This is the second time I've eaten at this Rosinter chain in a week. This confirms without a doubt Planeta's rehabilitation as a more than passable restaurant. It somewhat embarrasses me that I denigrated it as perhaps the worst Japanese restaurant in Moscow (a charge that does not even see as fit for consideration the obiquituous sushi bar at every French, Italian or even Indian restaurant; Muscovites equate Japanese cuisine with sushi). Unlike Ohta-san, who has more stringent standards, I viewed Ginno Taki and Ichiban Boshi as perhaps two of the best and reasonably priced Japanese restaurants in Tokyo. Chef Kasajima Shigeru has done a really admirable job in upgrading Planeta to the same level. In fact I don't think any other establishment (certainly not the cosily interiored but overpriced Netske) probably offers gunkan, tataki and inari sushi. Now having tasted its sake chazuke, tataki zushi and iidako, I can definitely say that Planeta Sushi is indeed "more than just fresh fish", as its motto goes.
After taking my Inessa home I drive back, less sleepy and more pensive than usual. It's been three months since my muirnín and I got together. I must say we are getting along extraordinary well, despite my own silliness and unpredictability. There's always this fresh feeling every time we see each other, something that makes me hopeful for the future. In my note for this entry, I wrote: "Convinced as ever that my Inessa is the most wonderful creature on Earth." That she is.
This morning, I stumbled upon a couple of things that I was best inclined to notice. On Netscape's default page, there was an article based on recent Nottingham Trent University research findings about the nine different kinds of historical and cultural loves. Unlike those prepubescent quizzes in personal scrap books we used to answer about love and marriage, this proposes through scienfitic techniques that there are "a limited and interconnected variety of love stories at work in any particular culture". In my 36 years, I've practically run through the whole list. As for the obvious question of the here and now, I'd say we have a dyadic-partnership love. This is defined as:
Love involves the merging of two people into a single functional unit in which both decide to place the mutually supportive nature of the love relationship ahead of their own individual needs. This demands much honesty, effective communication and mutual respect, but, if done properly, it can also be the most significant way of connecting with another person.Further reading unearthed this other fun article on the Beeb, about which the Teeming Millions may be of interest to know. It's the public broadcasting equivalent of love.about.com. (Maybe there is such a page...)
