The 74th Film Festival of Venice is over. What do we take from it?
Unforgettable moments: the finale of Ex Libris, by Frederick Wiseman, who entrusts the words of a writer — we are in the New York City Public Library — the poetry of his film, what the relationship between reality and his tale means. And then: the dance between the girl and the “monster,” who make love underwater in a wall-less room, in Guillermo del Toro’s movie, The Shape of Water, giving to the increasingly asexual screens an instant of erotic sensuality.
And also Nicki, the young protagonist of Suburbicon, to whom George Clooney, more comfortable with his political idea of cinema than with the paradoxical comic of the Coen Brothers, the authors of the original screenplay, entrusts his African American friend, betting for a different future after the battle. The sharp jokes and Frances McDormand’s sense of guilt in Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri, the boredom of bodies bundled up without love in the destiny of Kechiche’s Mektoub.
The power of John Woo, another “great old man,” or rather a “bad master” who can handle the martial arts in his cinema with irony and shamelessness, without repeating himself and without anesthetizing his images of self-restraint (Manhunt). Takeshi Kitano’s struggle, who in the closing film, one of the most beautiful of the festival, says goodbye to a part of his imaginary to reinvent it in forms that escape any “genre” classification (Outrage Coda).