Whores, spies and the devil meet at The Floating City

After last year’s brief glimpse of the Venice Film Festival, I readily return for number 68 – making my way to the watery city as the festival got underway from August 31 to September 10. This time it was Darren Aronofsky (director of the decorated Requiem for a Dream and Black Swan) who presided over the International Jury – making this another European Film Festival commandeered by a cherished American in Italy, after Quentin Tarantino presided over the post last year. On par with the exclusivity of Cannes, Venice, in a thick glamorous red, swoops down on 2011 with the public gearing at its forefront, alongside and on the red carpet to the Sala Grande and other theatres. Over this brief period, the Biennale bridges over the lagoon so that you cannot even choose to miss out on such cultural capital. Banners, posters, open houses, public exhibitions... Venice becomes an unending sandbox for adults. Its in-your-face accessibility cannot but be taken for granted at times. Initially, I waved around my €10 note expecting at least a student concession and instead, I was given a free ticket to the premiere of what by far was my personal best-watch: Whores’ Glory, from Austrian director Michael Glawogger. Brought to Venice through the Orizzonti line up – a selection dedicated to new trends in world cinema – Whores’ Glory showcased a triptych on prostitution. Visually stunning, it travels through three regions and three languages, presenting an in depth and humble look at the trade from Bangkok to Bangladesh and ‘The Zone’ in Mexico. You can never really miss a hit within such an exotic foray but the director remains at the back, respectfully listening along with the audience to those who partake within the enveloping world of Sex, Sacredness and Industry. Along with Whores’ Glory – which took away a Special Jury Mention Prize through Orizzonti – the Czech animated feature Alois Nebel, by Tomás Lunák, was another surprise among others from a relatively downplayed field; especially when taking into consideration that next door, bigger names like David Cronenberg and Roman Polanski were being regaled with standing ovations. Waiting and hoping is exhausting enough, but having to do that a few steps away from neighbouring screenings can easily lead one to have to make exasperating choices. As with any festival, I had to miss out on one for another and being that Madonna’s supposed ‘debut’ feature as a director – the subsequently critically-panned W.E. – was playing alongside Polanski’s Carnage, which features, amongst other notable names, Mr Christopher Waltz of Inglourious Basterds fame, I chose to sit in for the other double instead: Cronenberg’s A Dangerous Method and the family Garrell’s Un Été Brûlant. In dire times ye must have some faith in yourself and still trust your expectations. It also helps when some critics happen to be waiting in line to further confirm my rather brash prejudice as I overheard them bashing themselves for having to be nice to Madonna. In any case, I could still have grabbed a copy of the following day’s Variety magazine to hear what all the buzz was about while waiting in line at the movie village for my next ticket. I was quite mistaken in expecting something radical with Viggo Mortensen’s and Michael Fassbender’s impersonation of, as Cronenberg himself put it, “two of the worlds greatest minds” – Sigmund Freud and Carl Jung. All I needed to help qualify my initial thoughts was to hear Fassbender’s take on his role during the accompanying press conference: “I got a great book on Jung which was like Jung for children... eh... it was just sort of an idiot’s handbook.” In light of last year’s psychoanalytic treat – Jan Svankmajer’s Surviving Life – Cronenberg falls short of eliciting anything resembling an intriguing intellectual encounter and instead opts to present a very trivial narrative about an affair (centred around a mutual patient played by Keira Knightley) and a couple of supposedly witty comebacks from Sigmund Freud and his cigar. On the other hand, Steve McQueen’s Shame, earning Michael Fassbender the Volpi Cup (Best Actor) for this other lead role, was embraced by critics and audiences alike. Sadly, I had to miss it as a sudden strike got underway and the lagoon’s impressively efficient Vaporetto services ground to a halt... meaning that some areas were simply shut down while programming was set for reschedule. I decided to play chance, and came across to one of the most impressive theatres on the lagoon for an open-air screening of Thomas Alfredson’s Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy in Piazza San Polo, just off Rialto. Far away from the pigeons and tourists of San Marco, wine was passed around and Portishead played in the background. Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy – an adaptation of the John Le Carre’s spy novel, made popular by the 70s TV series – provided an epic whodunit plot which silenced the audience, and then broke it down with some of the most hilariously incongruent scenes of this year. I did leave with a few mosquito bites though. Having the privilege to sit a few seats away from directors – basking in their glory – while talking movies with passers-by and the occasional newly-met cinephile; I could not really miss out on the awards ceremony now and naively hope that, just as Alexander Sukorov’s Faust surprisingly won the Golden Lion, some of these titles would actually make it to our shores, someday.