Return to Montauk

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source: Return to Montauk

Volker Schlöndorff has made a career out of screen adaptations of major novels. His Death of a Salesman stands out as an excellent work, with Malkovich and Hoffman in some of the best work of their careers. Return to Montauk is his third movie in ten years, based on the story Montauk by Swiss writer Max Frisch, although it deviates substantially from that story and can almost stand on its own, this story about a writer on a book tour in New York catching up with his past. It is difficult to point out what went wrong here. His French co-workers cannot be blamed as the editing by Hervé Schneid (Amélie) is excellent, and also the cinematography by Jérôme Alméras doesn't disappoint. From the beginning there is tension in the movie after the inventive screen titles, and the first half of the movie sets up the story quite nice: It makes the impression of a more serious Woody Allen movie and the characters are well established. Stellan Skarsgård is good, Niels Arestrup is an excellent but underrated actor. However from the moment the trip to Montauk starts the movie loses its interest. First, the story-line from that point is so predictable that it becomes boring. Second, Schlöndorff's somewhat mechanical style doesn't help here either. And last, Nina Hoss is a real disappointment here and cannot pull off the kind and level of acting required. It is especially in the omnipresent medium shots and close-ups that her facial expressions and her body language aren't good enough to carry the movie, while she essentially is in the centerpiece of it. The theme (writing meeting his past) is so worn-out that nothing new is added to the movie universe here. The style and content of the movie feels old-fashioned and out of date. Times have moved on, so this was not well received at the Berlinale, where several festival visitors eagerly awaiting this movie talked about their disappointment afterwards. And the philosophy parts are so pseudo-intellectual it is an insult to the field.

_Return to Montauk_ is an unauthorized "sequel" to the late Swiss writer Max Frisch's semi-autobiographical _Montauk_. Max's former benefactor Walter plays a large role in the book. Stellan Skarsgard endears as the aging Max who is like a eager teenager when he is with the ladies. Nina Hoss' delayed entrance as Rebecca, his elusive object of yearning, is truly worth the wait. She is the Jeanne Moreau of our times. Rebecca contrives to spend the night with him in a Montauk hotel where they once stayed. There, on the white sand, a stone's throw from the iconic lighthouse, Hoss delivers a powerhouse monologue that shatters his hope of a long-term reunion. It is an absolutely electrifying performance, one can that recalls Nastassja Kinski's in _Paris, Texas_. As she jumps from wistful half-smiles to resignation to sadness, all within a matter of seconds, Hoss's gestures become so tender and lifelike -- utterly unpredictable yet jolt you with the shock of recognition. She has a way of averting her gaze, or cradling her boot on the bench, that tells you every word comes from deep within her, is drawn from heart-felt experience. Indeed her mannerisms remind me of a Slovenia woman I once knew, who has passed away... Nina Hoss has played so many sphinx-like ciphers in one-note movies directed by the overrated Christian Petzold, one almost forgets how good she can be. In fact, all the actors are extraordinary and unforgettable. Manhattan is perhaps the star supporting player; we are treated to the city at its most glamorous and its most grim. Max stays at the Algonquin Hotel even though he is broke; he is above it all, glides along in taxis and airplanes, globe-trots from city to city giving speeches, chasing dreams and women interchangeable to him. In contrast, the ladies who work and pine for him love him deeply and steadfastly. They never forget a thing about him. At the end of the film, Max finally understands this. In a moment of self-recognition even rarer in cinema, he realizes he will never change. The film begins and ends at JFK. Those of us still keeping the faith remember that Schlondorff's _Homo Faber_ also begins and ends in airports. _Homo Faber_ was his first adaptation of Max Frisch's novels; he showed the Swiss writer a rough cut before the latter's death, and Frisch "loved it." That was also the first "art-house" film I discovered for myself 30 years ago. Watching this extraordinary, deeply felt, lived-in sequel to another work by Frisch felt nothing short of the validation of my movie-going life.