I had a strange dream last night about Romania and Malta, India and Switzerland. In my dream, Francis Ford Coppola had made a new movie, something about an old man who is hit by lightning and grows a new set of teeth. He collects roses and languages and Bruno Ganz was there, too. He owned a German-made tape recorder, for which he apologized. A beautiful woman spoke in tongues and changed her name and lived in a cave for a thousand years. In Walter Murch’s hands, close-ups of cigarette smoke turned into drifting clouds illuminated by the full moon. Mad Nazi scientists electrocuted horses, and I couldn’t remember if I left the third rose in a safe deposit box or inside a shattered mirror. There was never enough time. By the seaside, I made promises and broke them, but all of my friends were at the Cafe Select.
I know, I know — there’s nothing duller than listening to other people’s dreams. And yet… the shared fantasy Coppola created from Mircea Eliade’s novella weaves a strange magic, mysterious, playful, philosophical, and loopy with romance. I’d like to hold on to that gossamer enchantment for just a little while longer, privately, before it’s time to take out the stainless steel critical apparatus and cut this one open. Check back for a proper review before the opening on December 14. With Tim Roth and Alexandra Maria Lara.
Youth Without Youth. Francis Ford Coppola, 2007. ****
The trailer:
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Me = Jealous. Very much want to see this, but not as much as There Will Be Blood. If I don’t see that soon I am going to pass out. I’m not even that much of a PT Anderson fan, but I can already tell that that will be my favorite film of the year (think I’m setting myself up for disappointment?)
She is so yummy looking… as is that trailer. Glad there’s another Christmas gift in cinemas later this year. (I think Keith saw it, too, and liked it. Hope I’m not giving anything away to the ‘sphere.)
She really is, isn’t she? Glad to hear somebody else liked this, too — especially if it’s Keith. Walking out of the screening, I had the distinct sensation that everybody else hated it, but that’s often deceiving.