76 Days Adrift
Quentin Dupieux
2024, 105 mins.
The young man and the sea
Imagine setting sail on a record-breaking cross-Atlantic solo trip in 1982, only to have your boat (Napoleon Solo, no less) soon scuppered then have to hang on for dear life in a 4x4 life raft with hopes of, somehow, riding the North Atlantic currents and, hopefully, reaching terra firma somewhere in the Caribbean.
That is exactly what Steven Callahan faced, but obviously (or there would be no movie), lived to tell the tale (quite of bit of which he convincingly narrates through his journals, at first never sure if anyone would ever read them).
In many ways, the film is a delight to watch (the cinematography—especially underwater from Henry Nonnenmacher—captivates in every frame). The music (Patrick Stump’s original score, ably assisted and abetted by some of the tracks nobly retendered thanks to the Royal Scottish National Orchestra, especially Day 14, even if the balance might have more favoured the musicians) adds much to the ebb and literal glow of Callahan’s memories of rationed food, frequently failed fishing, unrecognized flares, but, finally, “Land ho!”
A viewing is highly recommended for old salts and landlubbers alike. Happily, the harrowing crossing did not end up underwater on Day 75, or this production would never have seen the light of day. JWR
Frida
Julie Taymor
2002, 123 mins.
The art of living together
Frida Kahlo (1907-1954), one of Mexico’s most esteemed artists is given a feature-length biography in Julie Taymor’s film (aided and abetted by writers Clancy Segal, Diane Lake, Gregory Nava and Anna Thomas—based on a book by Hayden Herrera—too many cooks?) that is a pleasure to watch, more so for the familiar art than the family values, disagreements, ostracization than a reconciliation that seems more based in Hollywood, rather than in Mexico City.
In the title role, Salma Hayek is pitch perfect as the prolific artist who overcomes physical disability (catching a late tram only to be thrust into near-immobile state; “Let’s make sure she lives first,” opines her doctor) and a lecherous fellow artist, sometime lover (Alfred Molina fires on all nasty cylinders as Diego Rivera).
The road to recovery is well paved, from butterflies on her body cast, to a bed easel that keeps the paint flowing (accompanied by a beautifully played guitar, which, happily, reappears throughout the production), before once again standing on her own—portrayed with equal amounts of defiance and grit—traits that most certainly flow steadily through her canvases.
Another musical/visual highlight comes when much-recovered Frida has a certainly lesbian turn on the dancefloor with a tango that speaks volumes about the copious moments of sexuality that seem never to be far from the narrative surface (the emerging artist eventually marrying serial philanderer Diego, also a significant painter/muralist “It was just a fuck,” he confesses as if that is nothing worth destroying a marriage over in his own right).
A truncated pregnancy also serves as a metaphor for the perils of love without real commitment.
Sadly, the final straw comes when it is revealed that Diego has also penetrated Frida’s sister, Christina (Mía Maestro readily serves up the familial honours).
On the political side (a frequent companion to art), is the unlikely couple’s decision to house Leon Trotsky (stoically played by Geoffrey Rush). Naturally, like so much else in this portrait, that couldn’t end well.
Taymor’s film is well worth a viewing and then a review of Frida’s masterpieces is highly recommended to add context to both visions of the artist. JWR