Tuesday, May 13, 2008

Love, Cholera, & the Search for the Cinematic Silver Lining


I noticed a few years ago how credits at the end of the film seemed to have swelled over the years. One day I realized every name meant a family and mortgage and a full life for everyone on that list. They all had W4s and bank accounts. Someone brokered or hired them to do some kind of job on this little piece of universe I just watched that some big bank cut a check for with the hope that there would be what James Brown called "The Big Payoff."

So, okay if that last statement seems a little cynical, but in today's nexus crossroads switchyard of art and commerce, the payoff gets all the attention: Oscar nominees, Sunday night headlines of how well Rocket or Spider or Sequel Man did and all of that. But what about all of those well intended efforts that basically turn into commercial dissappearing acts after the first weekend? There is a special place in my Netflix queue for them. I bring them to my home kind of like how one wishes they could adopt pets at the humane society. "Oh (insert name here, latest being Love in the Time of Cholera)" can you possibly be only worth stray dog status? Here, let me spend my two hours with you and see if all of these efforts by all of these fine folks resulted in something that will only be recycled by cable channels after midnight less than a year after big ads in the NY Times posited your presence."

Hence, my motivation to see lots of films I reflect up on here in the Buffet. And now, Love in the Time of Cholera. I have never taken to Mr. Gabriel-Marquez's fiction so can't give any book/author comparative remarks here. What I saw was a big canvased movie with lots of missteps (John Leguizamo in costume dress--please help) but it had a great reel at the end. But only if you could last through the female protagonist's whining and ranting, the infidelities and bland short comings of of her fairly spineless doctor husband, and the deep three digit stickman superficial stud adventures of the well-meaning schmo who obsessed about her for five decades.

Latin actors must of lined up big time for this one. There is a lot of care and detail and a sense that folks wanted to try to do justice well to this material. It strives to be a Dr Zhivago, but all of those names at the end of the film, headed up by director Mike Newell (A 65 year old English director with a Harry Potter movie, a few critical successes, and a lot of TV in his list of credits--what would this film have been like if directed by Alfonso Cuarón or one of the other new Mexican Cinema or another up and coming latin director?) did not create efforts of big payoff either artistically or in bottom line. But here is a viewer who believes in the noble well-intentioned effort. And if a few smiles or pauses in the heart or striking images resulted in spending a twelfth of a day that resulted in the hundreds of hours of their efforts, then does it truly deserve to be in the cinematic pound of late night scheduling and extra copies soon to be on the 3 DVDs for $12 table at Blockbuster or Hollywood Video?
posted by well-executed buffet at 11:37 PM
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