Roland Greedy

Beautiful, wild, and overflowing creatively, this film is everything but sloppy. You’d think in this tumbling plot and scores of characters, inevitably there will be loose threads. But Iñárritu stays focused on Silverio (a modern Marcello from 8 1/2). The aura of other great filmmakers is ever present in this film. The meta-ness of Kiarostami and the playful surrealism of Fellini both sprang to mind while watching. But that’s where the comparisons end since this film, like Mexico herself, can’t be attributed to any one thing. This film isn’t about Mexico, it’s for Mexico. The production design, lighting, and VFX, mesh perfectly to the tone of the film, along with the ridiculously wide lenses. Here they belong. Their anamorphic presence stretches Mexican identity as far as the frame will allow. We’re inside this character’s head, Silverio, performed impeccably by Daniel Jimenez Cacho as he stands in for Iñarritu. The opening shadow trying to fly, the meeting with an ambassador from the U.S.A and re-enacting of the Mexican-American war, Silverio crawling through a flooded bus-house in search of salamanders, these images all tumble over each other to the sound of a brass band. But while these scenes announce the goofiness of the film, the still-birth scene establishes something deeper is at play here. A life that never was, something that could have been. If the United States has always been the future, Mexico has always been the past. The violent collision of the Old and New Worlds is ever present there, lacking the white picket fences erected to gloss over our own genocides here. Their loss of land to their colonial neighbor was the bitter medicine of another colonizing force. Iñárritu doesn’t shy away from calling out Mexico’s own treatment of native peoples. The dual identity he feels isn’t shared universally across his country. The morality of claiming that identity is another issue tackled head on in this film, his native side something exploited yet beneficial in Hollywood, but potentially deadly in Mexico. The fleeing refugees speak of their Mayan identity, he is specific on which Mexican’s are suffering the most from the fall out of Western capitalism and colonialism. Silverio is a “first class immigrant,” a title he suffers like a self-inflicted wound, since it erases any chance to voice his existential pain. The film walks a fine line, incredibly self-aware at the hypocrisy of complaining about the ethereal issues of identity while enjoying the privilege of the upper class. Because of its self-awareness, often used as humor, it gets away with its focus on bourgeoisie issues. The scene of Silverio talking to his father, wishing he’d raised his children the way he was raised, is one of the most touching in modern memory. I was embarrassed at how overwhelmed I was by the bobble-head version of Cacho hugging the memory of his dad, but I shouldn’t be. If this film taught us anything, it’s to not judge what we feel. This was a simply incredible movie, time will tell if it’s his opus.

Arthouse darling or solid B movie? I had a hard time deciding between the two and apparently so did the director. Much of the praise surrounding this film seems to be lumped upon Cage for his performance. He fully deserves it, it's a great role, but it's not a good sign if people's positivity towards something begins with “It was actually pretty good.” This film tries its best to go deeper than “John Wick: Pig Version.” Unfortunately, dressing up plots, themes, and characters with words like tragedy, loss and grief, has the same effect as labeling a loaf of bread “artisanal”. You can add all the descriptors you want but ultimately it’ll come down to taste.

This film reaffirms how beautiful this craft can be. The story is told in a broken mirror, a spider web of reflections capturing the world around it. Burnett opens with a scene unconnected (but not unrelated) to the rest of the film; a young boy disciplined for not defending his brother in a fight. Is it the younger version of the main character, a kid from the neighborhood, or a symbolic character, standing in for the lack of support members of this community give each other? We never get an explanation, and we never need one. The plot of this film might wander but the story is focused. Burnett doesn’t exhibit a never-before-seen style, or content; his cinematic language is fluent but learned. But it is great in its entirety. The genius of this film is its elegance. It doesn’t deride or preach. It doesn’t back down from its point either. The main character is scraped thin emotionally, self-loathing in some ways. Because his self-respect hangs by a thread, how can he accept his wife’s love of him? But he refuses to give up. He pushes for a better job, to be better himself. Perhaps he’s Sisyphus, but while imagining him happy is improbable, ignoring his beauty is impossible.

The tribulations of a people often come out through their art. When I think of Black soul, music comes to mind. The Irish have traditionally expressed themselves through poetry and other writing. As for the Italians, the sorrows of Italy are told most beautifully through their films. On paper this film could seem meandering, even boring. The plot can be summarized as; a young man, Domenico (Sandro Panseri) gets his first job for a large company downtown. He has a crush on a co-worker, attends a company sponsored dance, and is promoted when an older coworker passes away. The film’s structure will accelerate and then dally, such as in an extended sequence of getting coffee and walking around observing construction sites in Milan. But that would be a trite summation of the story. For underneath this bare-bones plot is the crushing threat of losing yourself to this type of work. There’s the suicide of the frustrated writer. There’s the harrowing scene of an older man struggling to pass a proficiency test, left alone in the large hall as people half his age fly through it. It’s a heartbreaking film in many ways. However, the story isn’t bleak. From its heartwarming devotion to the everyday joys of a cup of coffee, or a dance with your partner, Il Posto knows full well the power of simplicity. No relationship is ever explained, no dynamic needs dialogue for us to understand it. It’s all in the performance. We are privy to simple, elegant scenes, such as the look of pride the father shares with his son as they both rise early for work, walking to the bus together. All these little moments, from a first job to a first love, highlight the beautiful along with the heartbreak. The core of this film is the lead performance. Domenico is given his three dimensionality through action. We see his bossy side towards his little brother, his industrious and grateful work ethic with his co-workers and, what the film is really about, his helpless infatuation with Adionionetta (Loredana Detto). He’s immediately in love with her and the simple afternoon of coffee and a walk through the city is a film within a film. He’s constantly described as a “good kid,” and he really is just that. Never before have I seen such a simple, nice, character celebrated so wholeheartedly on screen, or a performance so honest and vulnerable. It doesn’t romanticize working class life, nor does it victimize the lives of these people. It’s pure cinema, giving each and every moment an equal amount of care, putting the emotions and form above the plot. But as Andre Bazin said, “Pure poetry is not that which has nothing to say.” The same is true here. By withholding so much, it provokes a deeper dive into the themes of working, love, and creating meaning for the lives we are given.

If there’s a superfluous frame in this film it’ll take a MFA class to find it. Cary Grant’s charm and in-the-know personality makes running a newspaper look like a Bond film. However, he’s not the cool, calm, and collected Bond, with a cat-like self-absorption. He’s sassy and domineering, bluffing and bullying his way out of each and every corner he’s painted into. And the film isn’t even about him. Rosalind Russell doesn’t steal the show, it was written for her. From the moment she enters she commands the respect and attention of everyone in the room. While Grant zips around like a hockey puck on ice, Rosalind saunters along, gracefully cutting the legs out from under any obstacle racing towards her. Her weapons of choice are poise and wit. The plot of a guy trying to win back his ex has been done to death these last eighty years, so it’s a marvel that this film has retained any appeal at all. The director doesn’t expect us to judge Rosalind’s headstrongness, or independence, any more than she would expect Grant to open a door for her, or carry her bags. She’s every inch a lady, but Hawks refuses to equate that with a damsel. Not only is every man in the film intimidated, respectful, and/ or in love with her, none of them are surprised that she is capable of this reputation. Too often do “feminist” movies make a woman’s identity the butt of the joke, calling obnoxious attention to their women mechanic’s, women cops, women CEOs... If you need to elbow the audience in the ribs each time you write a woman character who is successful and confident you are actively working against promoting their equality. This film is a fun, funny, and endearing look at a relationship. Grant and Russell are two peas in a pod and the longer we watch them interact, the more we realize how perfect they are together. While the language and filmmaking style has certainly changed nearly a century later, the humor, wit, and relationship dynamics make it as relevant as it was when it was made.