Written and Directed by Luc Besson

Starring: Jamel Debbouze, Rie Rasmussen, Gilbert Melki and Serge Riaboukine

88 min in CinemaScope and black-and-white

Were Hugh Hefner to do a remake of Wings of Desire, it would go something like this:

Andre (Jamel Debbouze) is a third-rate scam artist on the run from loan sharks. Beg as he might, even the cops won’t offer up one of their cells for a hideout. With nothing to live for, Andre decides to throw himself off a bridge.

As any good Screenwriting 101 textbook would have it, to Andre’s left stands a fellow jumper bent on saving him. Fortunately for Andre, instead of shining armor, his savior is a sultry, chain-smoking blonde Amazon (Rie Rasmussen) wearing a heavenly little, black “sexy bitch” dress. Are we all losing our short-term memories, or did Patrice Leconte direct a similar Girl on the Bridge (also filmed in monochromatic widescreen Paris) a few years back?

While Monsieur Leconte delivered a winning romantic fantasy, all Luc Besson is capable of is another serving of day-old tits. It’s the ultimate male heterosexual jerk-off daydream: our Playmate’s name is Angela, and not only will she put out on command, she’ll fuck an entire bar to help raise the funds needed to pacify the mob.

While our diminutive hero decries her slutty behavior, he sure doesn’t mind being seen escorting her around town. You see, Angela really is an angel, and being his elbow dressing is the best way she knows to teach Andre to love himself.

There is one beautiful bit of foreshadowing as Angela’s head appears juxtaposed atop a winged plaster statue. Once her other-worldly cover is blown, Besson uses it to justify her prior behavior.

After all, how can it be sexist if it was all pretend? As we later learn, Angela didn’t service any gentlemen in the bar’s bathroom. The trick was on them! After depositing their dough with Andre, Angela would invite the johns into a stall and bash their heads against the porcelain bowl. Oddly enough, no one in the place seemed to notice a sudden rise in head injuries.

As a director, Besson’s objectification of women and comic book plotting act as regular roadblocks to his artistry: he’s Tarantino with subtitles. As both District B13 (also starring Debbouze) and Arthur and the Invisibles prove, he fares much better as a producer. If anything, he’s a better marketing genius than filmmaker. As the promo stills attest, this looks like an ad campaigning for a new fragrance.

As predicted, Angela eventually sprouts wings and flies. It’s a shame that the rest of the film never takes off.

0 stars

Directed by Mira Nair

Written by Jhumpa Lahiri

Starring: Irfan Khan, Tabu, Kal Penn and Jacinda Barrett

122 min.

The Namesake was not my film of choice. After successfully avoiding two press screenings, it appeared as though this would forever be on my “wait till it comes out on DVD and don’t rent it” list.

No such luck. The Dead Girl was once again killed; for some reason Landmark doesn’t want to give San Diegans an open casket viewing of this exceptional film. Its sudden nonappearance left a gaping 12-minute hole in this month’s KPBS Film Club lineup. It was either The Namesake or Blades of Glory. Suddenly The Namesake looked like the missing reels of The Magnificent Ambersons.

I don’t do “feel-good” or “life-affirming” dramas very well. Watching Debra Winger slowly croak in Terms of Endearment or a clean and sober Michael Keaton jumping for joy with an AA chip in his hand only elicited contemptuous snickers from me. Irreversible is my definition of feel-good charmer.

Couple my dread with the prospect of Bollywood and you might as well dip my admission ticket in anthrax. If there is a more sickening example of film musicals on the planet, keep it the hell away from me. Comparatively speaking, Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band (George Burns, not Harrison) looks like Lubitsch in the ’30s. Fortunately this had more Holly and almost no Bolly.

Indian cinema may be more than just vacuous production numbers backed up by piercing vocals, but apart from Satyajit Ray and Mother India, I defy you to list its quality contributions to world cinema. My all time favorite Indian film, Jean Renoir’s The River, was directed by a Frenchman. After seeing five of her films, Mira Nair has done nothing to alter my assertions.

It wasn’t purgatory: This is miles ahead of Nair’s cutesy Monsoon Wedding. It’s a film in two parts. For the first half we follow the arranged marriage of Ashoke and Ashima Ganguli (Bollywood superstars Irfan Khan and Tabu) as they leave their mother country and immigrate to New York. The second, sudsy hour centers on their obstinate son Gogol (Kal Penn) and his attempts to come to terms with family tradition and the American way of life.

Who would dare name their kid after a Russian formalist and self-envisioned prophet? Probably Hindi parents who have no concept of how vicious American high school kids can be. Ten years later and the schoolyard taunts would transform his name into something akin to a popular search engine.

A near fatal train wreck left Ashima both clinging to life and a copy of Gogol’s collected works passed down to him by his father. As dad always said, “Books are for traveling without moving an inch.”

The Indian culture encourages parents to take as many years as necessary to name their offspring. In America, unless the kid has a handle, they can’t get a birth certificate. Not wishing to take out a six-year lease on a Mt. Sinai Hospital room, the couple decides to go with Gogol.

When his life as an adult kicks in, and Gogol starts to physically resemble a young Johnny Mathis, the film begins to quickly drown in a sea of soap opera clichés. The prodigal son turns his back on family. Mom can’t reach him on his birthday. Gogol would rather spend the holidays with his American girlfriend, Max (Jacinda Barrett), and her upper-crust family.

Nor does every scene advance the plot. A visit to the Taj Majal elicits little more than a Hallmark moment that convinces Gogol to become an architect. Albert Brook’s Looking for Comedy in the Muslim World brought about a much more rewarding visit to one of the world’s eight wonders.

From Lynch to Jarmush to Lee (Ang, not Spike), Frederick Elmes has proven there’s no better color cameraman at work today. He literally put the blue in Blue Velvet. No one in the history of cinema had captured as many burnished shades of blue as Mr. Elmes and he is easily the major reason to see this film.

With his hard-edged cinematography there is no need to superimpose “6-months-later” transitions over the action. We know exactly what season we’re in and how much time has passed simply by looking through his lens. The bleak, black-and-white-in-color shots of a pallid, snowy New York instantly justified my SoCal existence.

Slowly shifting lenticular photographs in an airport terminal act as a brilliant metaphor for assimilation. No matter how strong the director’s vision, in less capable hands a shot like this would have looked like smeared pixels on corrugated cardboard. But even Elmes has a difficult time pulling off a tired rack focus shot that foreshadows impending doom.

The same can be said for the lackluster attempts at period recreation. With his long hair, hippie beads hanging in the doorway and a “Grass” T-shirt, Gogol looks more like a product of America in the ’70s, not ’90s. And even back in the hippie era did anyone aside from a Madison Avenue pitchman ever actually say, “Don’t Bogart that joint?”

Given all its shortcomings, and my apprehensions going in, I’d still give The Namesake a qualified recommendation. The Dead Girl shows more signs of cinematic life, but until some brave booker comes forward with an engagement, this will have to do.

2 1/2 stars