KnotMissPriceless Why so much hype?

Hayden Kane There is, somehow, an interesting story here, as well as some good acting. There are also some good scenes

Mandeep Tyson The acting in this movie is really good.

Fleur Actress is magnificent and exudes a hypnotic screen presence in this affecting drama.

chaos-rampant Ruiz was quite something back in the 80's, one of the most promising filmmakers I have recently discovered. He made films that throbbed with magic volition, with steps travelling inwards to the place where images are born. It was a dangerous cinema, sultry with the impossible.Then came the second phase, the period of maturity as it were. More prestigious films starting in the mid-90's, starring actors of standing (Mastroyanni, Huppert, here Deneuve and Malkovich) and with some clout of respectability. Watching these makes me cherish so much more the spontaneous upheaval of Three Crowns or City of Pirates.So, this is the landmark film of that second phase, a bulky, sprawling film about French writer Marcel Proust and his work. About sprawling deathbed recollections of a life lived, arranged into a story about stories in an attempt to reveal something of their machinations (and ours in weaving them in the mind, before or after the event).It is a noble effort, with multiple points of interest.Oh the sets are sumptuous, roomfuls of an impeccably dressed society at the doorstep of disaster—WWI is booming away in close proximity—who mingle in coquetry at the clinking sounds of fine glassware. Vice as the last means of sating a self that can never seem to please itself. Bunuel stuff.Charmingly amusing tidbits abound, sure—a scene at the funeral, for example, of a decorated general, whose wife takes solace in a stash of letters she discovered written by the deceased brave. We know, of course, that the love pouring out of them was no doubt intended for his secret homosexual lover.Now all of this as memory, with the narrator present and included in the scene of it. And then a camera—the internal narrator of memory—that introduces the distorted distance of time, this is quite marvelous, as actually reordering reality—furniture move around on whims, our narrator. Fine stuff so far.But, this really falls with Proust's ideas on the role of fiction, the thinking man so hopelessly removed from the actual, tangible things of life, that he can only find solace in turning them to their spiritual equivalents. Who instead of loving, can only write about love; who wastes the manifold possibilities of 'now!' in tinkering with dead time.Earlier filmmakers astutely exposed this destructive facet for what it is; a chimera of the mind that traps the soul in old films of memory. Resnais in his fascinating overall project about memory, Antonioni in Blowup, earlier yet it was film noir. Beckett has captured the dissication better than anyone, pungent stuff his. Ruiz by contrast romances the idea as though it was a pleasant stroll. He romances it so earnestly that it drains his entire film.It is all so fine—like the glassware—so refined and pliable with some grace of apparent form. But a form refined to the point of ornament and sofness, mere trinket that is hollow and devoid of life. No other filmmaker once promising I can think of, matured into so much indifference.

simuland TIME REGAINED (Fr., dir. Raul Ruiz, 165 min.) doesn't even pretend to stand on its own; is an homage useless and unintelligible to anyone who hasn't read and remembered Remembrance of Things Past. Having digested only the first 2 of the 7 novels which comprise this opus, and this long enough ago to have allowed memory of them to deteriorate, I confess much of the film remained beyond me. But even with the book as scorecard, the film functions as hardly more than a metasoap opera, a costume pageant of the book's characters who parade by, talk and walk, without ever coming to life. Nothing much happens onscreen; the movie is practically void of action. Despite impeccable staging, it consists largely of one conversation after another, endless scenes of dinners, lunches, social gatherings, etc., in which people dispassionately discuss events and relationships that have already transpired elsewhere. To make up for this, Ruiz moves furniture about, has near and far fields migrate disjointedly in opposite directions, litters the screen with symbols and leitmotivs, and mingles different times in the same frame, so that, like Bruce Willis in Disney's Kid, Proust observes, is observed by, and even converses with his younger self. Scenes shift so fluidly back and forth through time that one easily gets lost, disoriented, unless thoroughly familiar with the book. The movie fails, has to fail, because of the impossibility of translating the book to film. The book is too introverted, too subjective, too fundamentally static and multilayered. Cinema-time is linear and dynamic; even though it can create the illusion of multiple things happening at once, it is restricted to a sequence of events, actions, happening one after another, one at a time, all of which are, above all, visual, graphic, right there before your eyes. The novel, however, layers the past on the present so that the two effectively coexist, are simultaneous; and delves into subjective states and ideas, interweaves mood, reminiscence, and philosophizing inseparably with place and person. The subject of time and memory, as elusive and evocative as it is on the page, is near nigh impossible to get hold of with film, that most literal and physical of mediums. It's like trying to photograph the passage of mist, of fog--all you see is a mess of grey. The movie also fails because it can only gloss the myriad details with which the novels slowly, deliberately mount their magnificent edifice. In the end, all you get here is a rushed visit, a mad dash through a museum of images, a disordered travelogue of the psyche.

Aw-komon Fans of 8-1/2 and Juliet of the Spirits (Fellini's two most Proustian films by way of Jung) take note: Here's another worthy contender to those two masterpieces. It damn near reaches their level and it sure looks expensive and ultra-authentic, and only time will tell if it holds up as well. If you've read some Proust (I've only read around a 1000 pages of 'The Guermantes Way' myself and it was at turns the toughest, the most excruciatingly boring and most deeply rewarding reading I've ever inflicted on myself), you will know exactly where this movie is coming from; if you haven't, make plans to read some later, but watch this movie with the knowledge that there is NO STORY IN THE CONVENTIONAL SENSE; it is about how a person's memory works and how and what it chooses to remember and forget and how all these different things effect each other, blah, blah. It aims for the spirit of the books and a taste of what their atmosphere is like, and knows that to even approach this humble end it must, at the very least, begin by pushing the means of the cinema to their limit. It is not stupid enough to think it can equal the intellectual effect of Proustian prose. That would be absurd and impossible. So how does Ruiz's film fare? Suffice it to say that it does not take long to realize that this not a pretentious film but a deeply thought out, planned, and fully realized one. If it manages to capture the spirit of Proustian investigation, it did not do this easily and don't expect to digest it in one or two viewings. You will certainly be immediately impressed though, I'll tell you that much. Be prepared to ACTIVELY participate rather than be DONE TO. There are constant shifts of time period between the different stages of Proust's life and the fully mobile camera never stands still for your convenience.The acting is top notch and multi-faceted all the way and the production design is magnificent. Although it certainly looks very expensive, I can't imagine anyone doing a better job with less, except maybe Truffaut (Jules and Jim) or Renoir (French CanCan). There are plenty of distractions along the way, especially the butt-gorgeous Emmanuel Beart for us helpless men of hetero persuasion, not to mention the jaw-dropping, classical beauty of Chiara Mastroianni in her one scene, which she steals. On second viewing, after having just watched the Coen brothers' ultra-subtle and hilariously clever 'Blood Simple,' I did vaguely detect some weaknesses that someone like Eric Rohmer or Rossellini and Scorsese in their prime would have been careful to authenticate to 3 dimensions; but they weren't noticeable enough to put your finger on right away.I have never seen another Ruiz film before, but I think that the greatest thing he did here was to let Proust's general sense of things, his ultra-cultured neurotic sensibility, become his co-director on the film. I'm sure, at the very least, he made all his actors read the book he was adapting and discussed it with them thoroughly. Just the experience of doing that will enrich the aspirations and imagination of any actor, because Proust's writing is all about going into long analyses of things that may seem trivial at first glance. All I can say is Ruiz really blew me away on this film and I can't wait to see what else he had up his sleeve all these years that I've been missing his movies.

cjs-10 I've only read parts of _À la recherche du temps perdu_, but this film struck me as one of those that doesn't follow the story of a book, but captures the sense and feel perfectly. The non-linear motion of time and the placement of characters of one age in another slowly builds up a set of impressions, a mosaic, as it were, that resolves to a sense of M's life during the period this last book covers. The technique goes far beyond mere flashbacks, perhaps making this film a bit avant-garde (not to mention long!) for some. Certainly I can't imagine it having much commerical success, or even playing outside of an art house. But I found it interesting enough that I'll definitely see it again.