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Rating: Stuffed into a pack of cigarettes, I couldn't glimpse the sound horizon of such yearning. Coppola, with his mocking stride, managed to awaken me from a vigorous autumnal oblivion. Reflections in the car, a wooden cinema in a November week sprinkled with alcohol and boredom.
By now having shifted to independent productions, old Francis flaunts the ranks of an admiral without having to answer to anyone, the public included. What dull muffled monotony could DIVERT ATTENTION FROM AN INSUFFICIENT DETAIL? What sparse slander could undermine the bearded director?
Saturating the lucrative synapses, the Italian-American filmmaker embarks on a fruitful attempt to grasp the merry moment of the tortuous tale of a vanished brother. How many shots evoke the steady hand of the master; intrusive but necessary photography, a strong but carnivorous screenplay. Bones break: the taste of leather and licorice in the theater.
I head back home imagining Scott Fitzgerald numb and tipsy in a café in Buenos Aires...
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By Hellring
Labeling this film as a failure is absurd, just as saying it represents the masterpiece of the latter part of the Italian-American director’s career.
Some have labeled the visionary ballets in the last half hour, while others still do not fully understand their cinematic utility.
