Ah, Paris, J'tamie: a love letter to Paris. Only people in long-distance relationships write love letters. The movie is a collection of 18 short films: all are set in Paris, virtually all are by non-French directors.
Between American or British tourists (Steve Buscemi), backpackers (Elijah Wood), ex-pats (Nick Nolte), movie stars (Maggie Gyllenhaal), actors (Bob Hoskins) honeymooners (Emily Mortimer) apprentice artists (some Gus Van Sant-directed moppet) and the ghost of Oscar Wilde (Oscar Wilde!) the actual French people in this Paris are a distinct minority, and most of the non-tourist characters are immigrant Arabs, Africans and Asians.
The wildly different moods and styles can be jarring. One moment, Elijah Wood is licking his fangs in the most erotic vampire cinema this side of actual vampire pornography; the next, a secular teenager is quietly bewitched by a headscarf-clad young woman. And then there are the mimes. Lets not even talk about the mimes.
The directors of the different films take their signature moves to the extreme. In Tom Tykwer's film, the fast motion is extra fast; the trance music extra trance-y. In the Coen Brothers', the violent characters are extra violent. In Alfonso Cuarón's, the bilingual characters switch from French to English extra fast, sometimes mid-sentence. In Gus Van Sant's, the floppy haired boys' hair is extra floppy.
Yet for all these distinct styles, the films seem virtually identical. A person played by a famous actor meets a person played by a non-famous actor and they interact in a way that is superficially routine but deeply, deeply meaningful. (Okay, Van Sant uses two unknown actors, but in twenty-nine years of filmmaking, Sean Penn and Sean Connery are the only actors he's employed who were over the age of consent.)
Not to complain all that much. All the different flavors mean there'll be something for everyone to like. Isabel Coixet's story of a man, his mistress, his wife and a case of terminal cancer seemed genuinely, wonderfully French. It's excellent fun watching Gena Rowlands and Ben Gazzara trade barbs in a witty little film co-written by Rowlands and Gérard Depardieu. And the final film manages to capture the banality of foreign countries and human solitude without being sarcastic or bitter.
But truly great films force you into their reality, so nothing else matters. This one never quite made me forget I'd had a long day at work.
Between American or British tourists (Steve Buscemi), backpackers (Elijah Wood), ex-pats (Nick Nolte), movie stars (Maggie Gyllenhaal), actors (Bob Hoskins) honeymooners (Emily Mortimer) apprentice artists (some Gus Van Sant-directed moppet) and the ghost of Oscar Wilde (Oscar Wilde!) the actual French people in this Paris are a distinct minority, and most of the non-tourist characters are immigrant Arabs, Africans and Asians.
The wildly different moods and styles can be jarring. One moment, Elijah Wood is licking his fangs in the most erotic vampire cinema this side of actual vampire pornography; the next, a secular teenager is quietly bewitched by a headscarf-clad young woman. And then there are the mimes. Lets not even talk about the mimes.
The directors of the different films take their signature moves to the extreme. In Tom Tykwer's film, the fast motion is extra fast; the trance music extra trance-y. In the Coen Brothers', the violent characters are extra violent. In Alfonso Cuarón's, the bilingual characters switch from French to English extra fast, sometimes mid-sentence. In Gus Van Sant's, the floppy haired boys' hair is extra floppy.
Yet for all these distinct styles, the films seem virtually identical. A person played by a famous actor meets a person played by a non-famous actor and they interact in a way that is superficially routine but deeply, deeply meaningful. (Okay, Van Sant uses two unknown actors, but in twenty-nine years of filmmaking, Sean Penn and Sean Connery are the only actors he's employed who were over the age of consent.)
Not to complain all that much. All the different flavors mean there'll be something for everyone to like. Isabel Coixet's story of a man, his mistress, his wife and a case of terminal cancer seemed genuinely, wonderfully French. It's excellent fun watching Gena Rowlands and Ben Gazzara trade barbs in a witty little film co-written by Rowlands and Gérard Depardieu. And the final film manages to capture the banality of foreign countries and human solitude without being sarcastic or bitter.
But truly great films force you into their reality, so nothing else matters. This one never quite made me forget I'd had a long day at work.