Late-Life Crisis
Festival de Cannes
MOVIE REVIEW
A Brighter Tomorrow (2023)
It is a truth universally acknowledged that once a middle-aged male artist hits a certain level of success, his works of art become only about the struggles of a middle-aged artist to maintain that level of success. Though normally this happens in literature – cf. every campus novel about a professor sleeping with his students – director Nanni Moretti is here interested in how a middle-aged filmmaker and former radical is meant to achieve genuine artistic success without the help of Netflix. And there is one mercy – the woman having a relationship with a much older man is the director’s daughter. So, time is marching on and looking up at least? Sometimes, yes, but for the most part this is a movie for making, not for watching.
Giovanni (played by Mr. Moretti himself) and his wife/producer Paola (Margherita Buy) are on the cusp of starting their new picture, about a Hungarian circus troupe stranded in Rome after the 1956 Budapest rebellion. But Paola decides that actually she’s not happy, either in the working relationship, or the marriage, and not only moves out but also starts working on a violent shoot-’em-up designed for international distribution. Giovanni has no idea why she’s left him but is more horrified about the new film Paola is working on, with nothing innovative to say about real life or society. Tell us what you really think, Mr. Moretti! Personal drama aside, the show-within-a-show must go on – only that circus elephants are very expensive, the lead actress will keep wearing mules (“I hate mules!” says Giovanni, “If I have to see the back of the foot I should also be able to see the front!”) and the producer (Mathieu Amalric, really leaning into his cheery weirdness) may or may not actually have any money. So will this movie strike the winning blow for communism that Giovanni was hoping for? Does the pope shit in the woods?
Participating in this was an act of kindness on the part of everyone except Mr. Moretti, along the lines of the audience for a school play. No one goes to those expecting a memorable night out, but as an act of love for the performers. Mr. Moretti knows where to put the camera; editor Clelio Benevento keeps things brisk; Franco Piersanti’s music maintains a buoyant tone; and the “Seventy-Six Trombones”-style finale piles plot point on top of celebrity cameo to make a fairly vicious attack on Italian politics, but not vicious enough to justify all the hard work. It’s as indulgent as an ice-cream sundae and twice as forgettable.
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