THE TRIP
Directed by Michael Winterbottom.
100 minutes.
Not rated.
Screening: Thurs., April 21, 6pm at Clearview Cinemas Chelsea. Sat., April 23, 12pm, at AMC Loews Village-7. Tues., April 26, 6pm and Sat., April 30, 1:30pm at Clearview Cinemas Chelsea.
For tickets ($16 evenings/weekends; $8 matinees), purchase at the Box Office or call 646-502-5296 or visit www.tribecafilm.com.
Review BY RANIA RICHARDSON
Michael Winterbottom’s uproarious British highbrow comedy “The Trip” follows comics Steve Coogan and Rob Brydon on a culinary tour of northern England. Elite dining and literary references inform the humor in the six-episode British television series that has been edited into a feature film. The two men play semi-fictionalized versions of themselves in a continuation of their performances in Winterbottom’s “Tristram Shandy: A Cock and Bull Story” (2005) — where they joked, bickered and jockeyed for superiority.
In “The Trip,” Coogan plays a pompous movie actor who accepts a newspaper assignment to review a few fancy restaurants that serve (sometimes bizarre) cutting-edge cuisine. His hope is to impress his American girlfriend with a paid vacation dining in the beautiful English countryside. When she dumps him, he recruits his friend, Rob Brydon (a happily married television personality), to journey from one Bed and Breakfast to the next, critiquing the gourmet eateries along the way. The two embark on a midlife male bonding road trip, like “Sideways” on English Lit. They eat, drink, discuss movies, music, Lord Byron and his ilk — but their mission is to outdo each other with over-the-top impressions of Michael Caine, Woody Allen, Michael Sheen and many others. Along the way, each man defends his lifestyle — Coogan as a self-involved womanizer with lofty career aspirations, and Brydon as a warm-hearted and stable family man.
I have to admit that because I’m not familiar with Coogan and Brydon’s television work, and because “The Trip” is an English production, I probably missed some of the country-specific humor and references. But it didn’t matter. I was doubled over laughing the entire time.
Photo courtesy of the Tribeca Film Festival
“The Assault” director Julien Leclercq.
THE ASSAULT (L’ASSAUT)
Screenplay by Simon Moutaïrou
Directed by Julien Leclercq.
95 minutes.
In French and some Arabic, with English subtitles.
Thurs., Apr. 21, 9pm & Sat., Apr. 23, 10pm at Clearview Cinemas Chelsea (260 W. 23rd St., btw. 7th & 8th Aves). Sun., Apr. 24, 8:30pm & Thurs., Apr. 28, 3om at AMC Loews Village 7 (66 Third Ave. at 11th St.).
For tickets ($16 evenings/weekends; $8 matinees), purchase at the Box Office or call 646-502-5296 or visit www.tribecafilm.com.
Review By Bonnie Rosenstock
With the Middle East and North Africa in turmoil — and the tenth anniversary of 9/11 looming — this harrowing retelling of the 1994 hijacking of an Air France airplane in Algiers, is timely (and was prescient).
On Christmas Eve of that year, four Islamic fundamentalists, members of the GIA (Armed Islamic Group) boarded the Paris-bound plane with 227 passengers on board, and demanded the release of two of their jailed comrades. They also wanted the pilots to fly the plane to Paris. But to what end?
Algeria is a vague geographical blip in the States. An essential introduction to its history would be Gillo Pontecorvo’s seminal “Battle of Algiers” (1966), a brilliantly reconstructed account of urban guerilla events during the brutal war of independence against French rule (1954-62). While documentary in style, no archival stock was used.
Since independence, the beleaguered North African country, nestled between Morocco and Libya, has been ruled by a series of despots. (I traveled through the country’s backwater villages and the Sahara in a nine-seat van in spring 1986 during a time of relative quiet — except for Ronald Reagan’s bombing of nearby Tripoli.) A devastating civil war in 1992 — when the Algerian army cancelled an election that the Islamist party was winning — lasted until 1998 (although clashes are ongoing). The hijacking and suicide mission in “The Assault” was meant as payback for the West’s support of the military-backed president.
Director Julien Leclercq explains that his narrative is “liberally inspired” by the three-day hostage standoff. The dramatic rescue in Marseilles, where the plane landed to refuel, was broadcast live on TV and viewed by over 21 million people — and the filmmaker makes use of the chilling you-are-there footage.
The action shifts seamlessly back and forth from each group of major players. Inside the airplane, filmed with tight, claustrophobic shots, the increasingly desperate and out of control leader (Aymen Saidi) rants, threatens, praises Allah and kills three hostages. As the French ministers in Paris rationally discuss alternatives like ransom money, rescue and body count, a convoy truck is offloaded with 30 empty wooden coffins (the estimated body count from a rescue attempt). The precision training of the GIGN (National Gendarmerie Intervention Group), France’s special ops and counter-terrorism and hostage rescue unit, is especially gripping. Thierry (Vincent Elbaz, with his expressive, world-weary eyes), a tough unit member, comes to represent and humanize this well-oiled killing machine. He is portrayed as a loving husband and father, despite his deadly and deadening profession. His wife’s emotional rollercoaster embodies the fear that gripped the nation.
I toast this well-crafted edge-of-the-seat saga with a bottle of French wine. Santé.
Spoiler Alert: It wasn’t known until after the rescue that the hijackers had a cache of explosives aboard — they told passengers they were planning to crash the plane into the Eiffel Tower. While they did not succeed, a few months later, terrorists did bomb a Paris metro station.
MY LAST ROUND
87 minutes.
Screenwriter and Director: Julio Jorquera.
In Spanish, with English subtitles.
Sun., Apr. 24, 5:30pm & Tues., Apr. 26, 10:30pm, at Clearview Cinemas Chelsea (260 W. 23rd St., btw. 7th & 8th Aves). Fri., Apr. 29, 6pm, at AMC Loews Village 7 (66 Third Ave. at 11th St.).
For tickets ($16 evenings/weekends; $8 matinees), purchase at the Box Office or call 646-502-5296 or visit www.tribecafilm.com.
REVIEW BY SCOTT STIFFLER
As even the most casual observer will tell you, there’s nothing remotely sexy, or sexual, or homosexy, about boxing. Two muscular, sweaty brutes wailing on each other while a man in a white shirt and a bow tie periodically separates them when the holding becomes too prolonged and intense? No, sir, admirers of the male form will find nothing to lick their lips over within the state-sanctioned confines of a boxing ring.
Too much polite restraint regarding the sexy gay elephant in the room is what makes the competent but tepid queer boxing flick “My Last Round” such a letdown. It’s like the shock and hurt you experience when you’ve shelled out half your paycheck for dining, dancing, popcorn and a movie only to be rebuffed by a complete and total lack of delivery on certain implied promises. It’s not fair.
Although there’s some skin on display, very few are likely to get all hot — but many will surely be bothered — by the sheer magnitude of lost potential and roads not taken (narratively speaking). What should have been a queer “Rocky” worth cheering for turns out to be a polite stab at merging the classic narrative of a boxer in search of one last victory with an equally classic tale of forbidden love that triumphs over adversity.
So move over, Ang “Brokeback Mountain” Lee. There’s a new director whose melodramatic tale of doomed gay romance and homophobic violence and peace achieved only on the other side of the grave is set to take America by storm — or at the very least, persistent rainfall.
Steeped in decay and seemingly cursed by an endless stretch of overcast days and stormy nights, director Julio Jorquera’s Chile is an ugly/beautiful world where everything from the sputtering cars to the peeling wallpaper to the scuffed-up mirrors are on their last legs. Add to that list two very damaged people.
Middle-aged Octavio is a closeted boxing champ who has the admiration of those in his small town. Young, sad-eyed and recently unemployed dishwasher Hugo throws some subtle flirtations Octavio’s way — but when the pudgy pugilist acts on them while the two take a wizz during a rainswept camping trip, Hugo rebuffs the advances he seemingly invited.
Eventually, the two get together and take the bus to the capital city of Santiago — with Octavio working as a barber and (literally) directionless Hugo finding employment driving the delivery truck for a pet shop. It’s not long before Octavio succumbs to the siren call of the boxing ring once more. Also happening in short order is Hugo’s naïve flirtations with a clueless girl at work who thinks the clumsy kiss he pulled back from on Lookout Point means they’re going steady. Newsflash, Jenny: That double bed he shares with Octavio in their cramped apartment? It’s not just a space-saving strategy.
Well, if you can’t see where this one is going, you’ll probably think those seizures Octavio hides from all concerned are just going to level off. Savvy queer moviegoers will soon tire of the predictable plot and thoroughly unempowering narrative arc. That’s too bad; because there are things to admire here, mostly found in the moody cinematography and the economy of scale employed by both lead actors. Nothing except perceived betrayal seems to justify reactions that surpass the raising of eyebrows. But that stoicism in the face of an increasingly hopeless love story has an odd cumulative effect. As the film lurches towards its utterly predictable ending, the feelings you’re hooked on are too little, too late — but they nevertheless catch you on the chin like a cruel and unexpected southpaw punch. Spoiler Alert, boxing fans: Ring scenes are few and far between and bereft of any erotic appeal. The first truly great queer boxer’s love story has yet to be made — at least on film. Swishy Spielbergs, are you listening?
