A big, well-packaged, You may recall Given these The press notes The three roles Adam’s This isn’t Additionally, Whether it Szabo’s Actors connect
unapologetically middlebrow and trying-hard-to-be-mainstream history tour, Sunshine
turns on threes: it lasts three hours; focuses on three generations of Sonnenscheins
as they endure three poisonous authoritarian regimes (imperial, Nazi and Stalinist);
and stars Ralph Fiennes in three successive lead roles. Yes, I know Ralph isn’t
the least bit Magyar, even in triplicate. But then neither are William Hurt,
Rosemary Harris, Jennifer Ehle, Miriam Margolyes and many of the film’s
an era when there were several vital (if largely state-subsidized) national
cinemas in Eastern Europe, turning out movies in which local issues and themes
were grappled with by local actors speaking the local languages and dialects.
That kind of cinema no longer exists on any significant scale. What we have
now, in the erstwhile Eastern bloc as elsewhere across the globe, are commercial
imperatives that recall the time when "international coproduction"
was a dread and risible term: the language must be English, the actors must
be international stars and the cultural reference points must be broad enough
not to provoke frowns of puzzlement in Dubuque or (worse) Burbank. So much for
the diversity allowed by the Pax Hollywoodiana. (But hey, at least Sunshine
doesn’t star John Malkovich, who has emerged as postmodernity’s very
own Horst Buchholz.)
constraints, which have turned many a European movie into unwatchable goulashes,
Szabo acquits himself remarkably well. Sunshine may not be notably profound
or original, but its storytelling skills are sure and vigorous, and its impassioned
sense of history’s importance never falters.
claim that Sunshine is Szabo’s "most touchingly personal film,"
but they don’t say if its script, which he cowrote with New York playwright
Israel Horowitz, was based on his own family’s history. No matter. Sunshine
is less a standard tale of Jewish struggles in the past century (nor does it
properly belong to the now overpopulated and cliche-prone Holocaust genre) than
it is an account of Hungarian history as refracted through the prism of a proud
bourgeois Jewish family. Indeed, the problems endured by the Sonnenscheins might
not have been so acute if they hadn’t been such good, loyal Hungarians.
played by Fiennes chart a course through the perilous and ultimately tragic
seas of assimilation. Initial protagonist Ignatz Sonnenschein, after deciding
not to follow the family magic-elixir trade despite the remonstrations of his
patient, God-fearing father (a very nice performance by David de Keyser), elects
to become a lawyer, and chooses to change his surname to Sors to rise in his
profession. Yet his loyalty to the doomed Austro-Hungarian monarchy only brings
him a miserable decline. His son Adam goes to even greater lengths to ingratiate
himself, and falls even harder. An Olympic fencer, he converts to Christianity–"Jesus
himself converted," he’s advised–to further his social advance,
and ends up murdered in a concentration camp because he refuses to admit to
being anything other than an Hungarian national hero, which of course he is.
son Ivan mutely witnesses his father’s slaughter, and survives the Nazi
horror to become a Stalinist security operative in Communist Hungary. Told that
the avuncular officer who’s been his mentor (Hurt) is a Zionist agent and
that he must conduct the investigation, Ivan commits the same moral crime he
did in the concentration camp: stands by passively, to save his own skin, while
injury is rained on an innocent man he should defend.
the drama’s end, but it is the Sonnenscheins’ spiritual nadir, and
it’s a far more subtly horrendous one than most similar films manage. Ultimately,
I found myself missing the voice of Ignatz’s devout, clear-eyed father,
who could read the world’s trials with sobering clarity by seeing them
as the works of God. Secular literatures, in dispensing with that interpretative
lens, put a sometimes overwhelming responsibility on the understanding of both
author and reader, and we are poorer for it. But Szabo recognizes the cruel
extremes provoked by the abandonment of faith–in historical terms, the
perils of such extremism is his main theme–and he carefully avoids them
himself. Just as Sunshine doesn’t stew in recrimination, neither
does it culminate in self-loathing.
the story has a domestic/ sexual aspect that provides a balancing set of troubles.
Ignatz, to his mother’s (Margolyes) deep consternation, insists on marrying
his high-spirited cousin Valerie, who eventually betrays him but lives to become
the family’s moral polestar (she’s played by Ehle as a young woman,
then by Harris). In the next generation, Adam’s vanity leads him into a
dangerous liaison with his brother’s neurotic wife (Rachel Weisz). When
it’s Ivan’s turn, he continues the male Sonnenscheins’ hapless
romantic tradition by having an affair with a woman (Deborah Kara Unger) who
clearly will never leave her kids and powerful husband.
be Roots or Heimat, 1900 or The Godfather, such
history-conscious, multigenerational family epics all have the built-in fascinations
of blood, speculation ("might it have been different?") and narrative
expanse. Szabo’s version has some additional assets as well. Curiously,
Ralph Fiennes isn’t chief among them. Though his continuous presence and
various reappearances give the film an odd sort of human anchor, his work in
three roles makes you realize that his range simply isn’t that great; apart
from their styles in facial hair (beard, mustache, clean-shaven: the century
in a shaving mirror) and a few superficial mannerisms, his three Sonnenscheins
remain largely–and sometimes rather spookily–undifferentiated.
notable skills with actors come to the fore, however, in many other performances,
especially the mother-daughter pairing of Harris and Ehle as Valerie at different
ages; the character is supposed to be vibrant, beautiful and idiosyncratic,
and these extraordinary actresses make her that in spades. Also, weirdo though
he may be, William Hurt manages another shrewdly unsettling character study
as the upright officer betrayed by Ivan.
us to Szabo’s most famous character, the diabolical opportunist at the
center of Mephisto, a living emblem of the guilty compromises that often
accompany survival in a vicious regime. Yet if Szabo is a second- rather than
a first-rate artist, that’s partly due to his inability or unwillingness
to link the central failing of his characters to his own creative history. Part
of a large wave of talented Hungarian directors that arose in the 60s (Miklos
Jancso, et al.), Szabo is that generation’s only real survivor in terms
of international success. While much of his renown is deserved, it has been
earned by a kind of assimilation that must finally remind us of the Sonnenscheins.
This correlation at once gives Sunshine its power, its conviction and
A big, well-packaged,
You may recall
The press notes
The three roles
Groove In contrast, Combining the Except that
Directed by Greg Harrison
is Roger Corman when you need him? Or do I mean Busby Berkeley? Actually, the
most appropriate name here is Doug Liman. In the early scenes of Liman’s
Go, one of last year’s most underrated movies, when the young characters
go off to a rave in an abandoned building, the film itself leaps to a swooning,
Roman-candle visual mode that perfectly captures the event’s druggy sensory
onslaught. It’s maybe the most lyrical and purely beautiful evocation of
psychedelia I’ve ever seen, and it works so well because of Liman’s
integral sense of mood, composition and kinetic cutting.
Greg Harrison’s Groove has the grace of an overweight traffic cop
trying to be Balanchine. Set just before and during a rave that spans a single
night, the low-budget film obviously means to pay tribute to (okay, and maybe
cash in on) current rave culture, but it’s so flat-footed in every way
that the homage ends up feeling like an insult. I can’t imagine many ravesters
will view it as anything but a rip, and noninitiates will be bored to distraction.
worst traits of old-style exploitation filmmaking (minus the fun) with those
of Sundance-style indiedom, Groove lurches beyond ersatz hipness into
total cluelessness. A la American Graffiti and the like, its story intercuts
between several sets of characters, all of whom are vapid, utterly uninteresting
and played with grating amateurishness. I’ll admit that I find this sort
of "music" mostly a noxious, indistinguishable drone, but its fans
hardly stand to be pleased by the film, which never lingers on a dance scene
for than 15 or 20 seconds before cutting away to its inane characters and their
tedious little melodramas. Given the choice, I would take torture-by-music.
Harrison hasn’t a clue how to shoot people dancing. Static, dark long shots
of writhing bodies and hands being flung in the air? Over and over? Puh-lease.
Doug Liman’s rave in Go had such poetry and brilliance that I would
have spent the whole movie there. But 10 minutes is too much in Groove,
a film without the slightest scintilla of a visual groove.
Reeling Turning to
the enormous and unrelenting obstacles the U.S. government places in front of
visitors from Iran, even great artists and humanitarians, it’s understandable
that the director Abbas Kiarostami doesn’t make it to New York very often.
But, Clintonreich permitting, he’s scheduled to be here this Friday for
the opening of a show of his landscape photographs at the Andrea Rosen Gallery
(525 W. 24th St., betw. 10th & 11th Aves., 627-6000). The opening reception
will take place 6-8 p.m., and the exhibition will continue through July 14.
The Wind Will Carry Us, Kiarostami’s latest film, opens in New York
in late July.
obstacles on the other side of this great divide, the government of Iran has
recurrently banned films by some of its leading directors. One such was Dariush
Mehrjui’s The Lady, which was banned from its making in 1992 till
1999. The first in a de facto tetralogy of dramas about the difficulties of
women in Iran (the last of the four, Leila, had a successful U.S. release),
The Lady was unavailable when Lincoln Center held its tribute to Mehrjui
two years ago. Now in circulation in Iran and abroad, the film–which concerns
a rich woman whose house is overrun by poor interlopers; Mehrjui admits the
parallels to Buñuel’s Virdiana–will have its U.S. premiere
as part of the 2000 Human Rights Watch Film Festival, with showings June 19-23
at the Walter Reade Theater at Lincoln Center (875-5600). The festival itself,
which includes 30 films from around the world, runs June 14-29.