New York to Venice: A Tale of Directors, Dissent, and Deserted Passions
Michael Mann returns to the screen with a project that casts a long shadow over his career, a portrait that frames the life of a legendary auto magnate named Enzo Ferrari. For decades, this was the director’s obsession, a pursuit that culminates in a film that arrives at Venice as a bold, personal statement. Yet the finished work reads more as an assured craft exercise than a vivid, kinetic personality study, lacking the spark of energy and conviction that fans might expect from a project of such scope.
The film narrows its focus to a single year, 1957, a moment when a constellation of pressures collided in the pilot’s seat of a renowned company that stood on the edge of collapse. The year also marks personal tragedy and a fragile marriage in turmoil, a convergence Mann describes in a press session as the year when everything shifted for Ferrari. Adam Driver, the actor who carried the film to audiences during festival week despite industry labor unrest that affected Hollywood, accepted a role free from studio backing, creating an independent production that avoids the machinery of major automotive lobbies. He even used his platform to critique the approaches of streaming giants during the industry’s ongoing conflicts.
Viewers may sense Mann’s fascination with Ferrari, yet the film offers limited reasons to believe in the man on screen. The supporting cast includes Penélope Cruz, cast as the wife, who travels to the festival for personal reasons that are not fully explored on screen; her presence remains a sketch rather than a fully realized character. This emphasis on psychological simplicity contributes to a conventional, somewhat detached tone. Even though Mann’s visual storytelling demonstrates extraordinary skill, the film largely sidesteps a distinctive staging approach or a deeper investigation, and even the racing sequences feel oddly static. With these choices, one wonders if Mann’s next project, including plans for Heat 2, could strike a different, more compelling chord.
Vampire Pinochet
Meanwhile Pablo Larraín returns to the festival with a film that excites and disappoints in equal measure. The Chilean director carries with him a reputation for probing his country’s difficult past, built through a string of provocative works such as Tony Manero, Post Mortem, No, El club, and Neruda. This time, he opens with a bold, provocative premise that instantly raises expectations.
The opening sequence sketches a provocative image: the dictator Augusto Pinochet imagined as a vampire who survives for centuries, refusing to be seen as a thief by the people who once stood against him. The narrative voice he offers appears daring, hinting at a pointed critique of impunity and power, and drawing a parallel to other authoritarian figures in history. Yet the film struggles to sustain that tension beyond a single striking image, and the material is stretched thin as it unfolds without a clear through line. The satire at the core grows dull and diluted, and the performers feel like improvisers in a school theater troupe rather than fully formed characters. Half a century after a dramatic coup in Chile, the project leaves the audience longing for a sharper edge and a more incisive interrogation of the past.
What begins as a promising, audacious concept loses momentum as the runtime expands. The result feels less a tightly wound portrait and more a sequence of scenes lacking a strong direction. Chilean cinema has thrived on digging into its troubled history with fearless candor, yet this edition does not push the conversation forward. The film misses an opportunity to engage in a deeper, more urgent depth of subject matter, settling instead for a surface that glimmers briefly before fading.
Luc Besson, to the limit
The latest entry from Luc Besson, The Count, continues his exploration of extreme physical and psychological damage. The filmmaker leans into a concept that oscillates between religious allegory, horror, and dark humor. A ferociously eccentric premise finds an odd alignment with a world where chaos and control rub shoulders in a wheelchair, among a cadre of canine aides who aid in both vigilantism and crime. The film treads a line between absurdity and menace, delivering a spectacle that is at once ridiculous and compelling.
On paper, DogMan (the project’s working title) seems poised for ridicule, yet the film remains stubbornly watchable. Besson’s stubborn belief in this project shines through, buoyed by a standout performance from Caleb Landry Jones that creates a character both impossible and strangely persuasive. Even so, the festival presence of Besson does not translate into the same narrative punch one might expect, leaving critics to weigh the gamble of a director who continues to chase a singular, feverish vision. The conversation around the film mirrors the broader debate surrounding its auteur, blending admiration for craft with questions about tonal consistency and scope.