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Tonight I saw Living (the Ishiguro adaptation of Kurosawa's Ikiru) for which Bill Nighy has been nominated for an Oscar. I would be in a better position to evaluate the film if the projector had not copped out in a blaze of teal and red during the first office scene, instigating a hard reboot and a 10-minute break during which I obtained a second glass of Chardonnay, which ensured that I wept through the remainder of the showing.1
I think I thought it was charming, that it did not fulfill its promise, and that it moved me anyway.
There are some wonderful cuts, such as when we suddenly leave the film to enter what appears to be Movie B, a dialogue between a rogue writer (I thought filmmaker but other reviewers seem to differ) (Tom Burke) and a seaside café-keeper, only to reunite with Movie A when we notice Bill Nighy sitting in a rear table offering the writer the use of a suspicious number of sleeping pills. They spend a night of mediocre revelry together; me, I fell in love with Burke's sweetly louche Virgil and would have liked more of him.
And then again the bold cuts forward and back in time, though I would have liked more payoff on the return.
The film's thesis is that rather than seek hedonistic fulfillment in our few brief moments, we should aspire to do something of lasting good, even if it is something very small. I cannot argue with that.
I think I agree with NPR's Tom Powers when he says that "rather than retool things for the present, the film sinks into Britain's boundless obsession with its past" -- the film is a beautiful period piece -- just fantastic pinstripe suits -- but would have had more teeth in a contemporary setting. The opening stock footage suggests that the question of individual purpose is a problem of the past, yet this could not be more contemporary, at least as far as I and the chardonnay are concerned.
Ikiru itself, NPR helpfully tells me, was inspired by The Death of Ivan Ilyich. There is something beautiful about this long chain of adaptation.
I would go on but I have had rather too much wine and Ritz crackers in order to cope with my personality tonight.
{rf}
1. It wasn't technically Chardonnay, but some kind of blend; however, it had the spiritual resonance of Chardonnay. Then I came home and drank cheap Australian Sauvignon Blanc, a practical but satisfactory narrative device.
I think I thought it was charming, that it did not fulfill its promise, and that it moved me anyway.
There are some wonderful cuts, such as when we suddenly leave the film to enter what appears to be Movie B, a dialogue between a rogue writer (I thought filmmaker but other reviewers seem to differ) (Tom Burke) and a seaside café-keeper, only to reunite with Movie A when we notice Bill Nighy sitting in a rear table offering the writer the use of a suspicious number of sleeping pills. They spend a night of mediocre revelry together; me, I fell in love with Burke's sweetly louche Virgil and would have liked more of him.
And then again the bold cuts forward and back in time, though I would have liked more payoff on the return.
The film's thesis is that rather than seek hedonistic fulfillment in our few brief moments, we should aspire to do something of lasting good, even if it is something very small. I cannot argue with that.
I think I agree with NPR's Tom Powers when he says that "rather than retool things for the present, the film sinks into Britain's boundless obsession with its past" -- the film is a beautiful period piece -- just fantastic pinstripe suits -- but would have had more teeth in a contemporary setting. The opening stock footage suggests that the question of individual purpose is a problem of the past, yet this could not be more contemporary, at least as far as I and the chardonnay are concerned.
Ikiru itself, NPR helpfully tells me, was inspired by The Death of Ivan Ilyich. There is something beautiful about this long chain of adaptation.
I would go on but I have had rather too much wine and Ritz crackers in order to cope with my personality tonight.
{rf}
1. It wasn't technically Chardonnay, but some kind of blend; however, it had the spiritual resonance of Chardonnay. Then I came home and drank cheap Australian Sauvignon Blanc, a practical but satisfactory narrative device.
