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- Director - Giuseppe Capotondi
- year - 2019
- Thriller
- The Burnt Orange Heresy is a movie starring Elizabeth Debicki, Claes Bang, and Donald Sutherland. Hired to steal a rare painting from one of most enigmatic painters of all time, an ambitious art dealer becomes consumed by his own
- Country - Italy
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Level 1 Let's take a moment to remember the cinematic tour de force that was "Freejack. " level 2 I haven’t seen the movie since it came out at the cinema years ago, yet mere mention of its name was enough to remind me of how bad this line delivery was level 2 Dan Gilroy's first writing credit level 2 I liked Anthony Hopkins so much that I saw that trash in the theater. level 1 He was fantastic in the trailer I saw, definitely excited for this. level 1 He'll never top Performance. level 1 Reviews are ok but the subject matter and actors appeal to me. Seeing it on Saturday. level 2 I see you fellow Mulaney fan! level 1 Patty and Selma Bouvier are going to be thrilled! level 1 I'll always think of him as ned kelly personally. level 1 I love all the money Jagger has poured into independent productions over the years, but Mick has NEVER been a film star. Bowie was almost a film star 35 years ago, but Jagger has never been there. level 1 At first I thought I read “Burnt Orange Hennessy”, which made me think of my college days down in Austin. level 1 Or is it actually Guy Pierce in age make-up playing Mick Jagger playing someone in a movie? level 1 Fun fact, Jagger has a very small penis, according to Keith Richards. Just goes to show you, it's not the equipment, it's the swagger! level 2 It was good enough for Bowie and if Bowie wanted bigger he could of got it. So I assume Mick is packing level 2 Wasn't it Mick who had the legend of stinging his tackle with bees so it would swell up?
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September 7, 2019 12:00PM PT
Claes Bang and Elizabeth Debicki have fizzing chemistry, but Giuseppe Capotondi's watchable art-scene noir doesn't take enough pleasure in it.
Watching “ The Burnt Orange Heresy, ” you may find yourself wishing one of two things: that Claes Bang and Elizabeth Debicki had been around to make elegant little mystery capers with Alfred Hitchcock in his prime, or that Hitch were around today to direct this one, a marble-cool art-fraud thriller that begins lithely and sexily before, somewhat mystifyingly, it takes a terminal turn for the dour. The first film in ten years from Italian genre stylist Giuseppe Capotondi, who competed on the Lido in 2009 with his sharp, twisty neo-noir “The Double Hour, ” this adaptation of Charles B. Willeford’s 1971 novel — about an art critic desperate to uncover a reclusive painter’s secret works at any cost — is considerably more intriguing in setup than in anti-climactic follow-through, which rather squanders the film’s best asset: the smart, hot, mischievous chemistry between Bang and Debicki, two actors who could sell you just about any Old Master knockoff.
If it’s never less than watchable, “ The Burnt Orange Heresy ” nonetheless works best as a kind of screen test for a star pairing in search of something friskier: Any enterprising casting directors with a script like “Duplicity, ” or an updated “To Catch a Thief, ” on their books should be first in line to see it. Distributors, meanwhile, will be drawn by the film’s name appeal and glamorous trappings — as if the leads weren’t soothing enough to the eye, Capotondi throws in some verdant Lake Como scenery for good measure — though it feels like once its festival run is complete, this year’s Venice closer will be seen mostly in ancillary platforms.
Enterprising marketing folk, meanwhile, may draw some kind of wavy connective line between Capotondi’s film and Ruben Östlund’s Palme d’Or winner “The Square”: The films are hardly alike, but make similar use of Bang’s lightly ruffled elegance as a performer, both casting the Danish star as a debonair art-scene aesthete increasingly in over his head. (Hey, as typecasting niches go, it’s a classy one to have. ) With a Cary-Grant-on-vacation wardrobe and a silky, unplaceable English accent, his character James Figueras exudes an air of slightly chipped polish from the first frame, which sees him delivering a well-rehearsed, glibly clever lecture on the power of the critic to a gormless group of American vacationers in Italy.
Using false historical context to talk his audience into admiring an unremarkable painting, he then pulls the rug out from under them: “I singlehandedly made you believe this was a masterpiece! ” he crows, to awed applause. Less impressed in the back row is wry, enigmatic drifter Berenice (Debicki), who playfully challenges Figueras over his lecture afterwards, and falls into bed with him not long after — though whether she’s merely a beguiling chance acquaintance or a femme fatale with more of an agenda is the first of the film’s various enfolded question marks.
In any case, the spark between them is sufficiently electric that we don’t question why Figueras immediately invites her as his companion on a trip to the swanky Lake Como estate of renowned art collector Joseph Cassidy (Mick Jagger, overplaying to jarring effect), who has a potentially career-enhancing proposal for the jaded critic: an interview with cult artist Jerome Debney (Donald Sutherland), who has been out of the public eye for half a century. The catch: he has to acquire one of Debney’s unexhibited, fiercely guarded new paintings. Needless to say, as Figueras’ opening lecture helpfully foreshadows for us, nothing that ensues is precisely as it seems — least of all Debney himself, played with a worn, wily twinkle by Sutherland, who blithely disagrees with the critic’s assertion that he has “a duty to posterity. ”
Relocating Willeford’s novel from Miami to Italy, the script by Scott B. Smith (“A Simple Plan”) blends simplified art theory with more general quippery, giving Bang and Debicki a surfeit of flirtatious banter to volley early on, before the tone takes a darker, nastier turn. Halfway through, however, the air goes out of the shaggy-dog plotting: a climactic pileup of unfortunate events is both rushed and unsurprising, leaving the actors with little room to dart and play. Capotondi’s direction, so ahead of his wild, joyriding narrative in “The Double Hour, ” feels a tad televisual here: Save for the chilly, brittle mood set by Craig Armstrong’s piano-based score, the filmmaking feels subservient to the script’s shifting demands.
Indeed, at 98 minutes, “The Burnt Orange Heresy” is the rare film that could stand to be a little more indulgent, teasing out its bluffing narrative with more of a wink, further drinking in the louche allure of its milieu — David Ungaro’s lensing is strong on shadow, but could use a dash of lurid oil-paint gloss — and letting its two delicious stars enjoy each other’s company a bit longer before the fix is in. Nice as it is of Capotondi’s film to acknowledge the art of the critic so generously, there’s no making anyone believe this is a masterpiece: The pleasures it has to offer, though, merit a bigger, more gilded frame.
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1 degree Celsius of warming and 13.4 inches (340 mm) of sea level increase since 1850 according to the IPCC AR5 report. If you live to 80 you will experience about half of that change and never notice it. so sure. go ahead and protest.
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Career options are in constant flux. Ambitious students who might once have embarked upon an arduous training in neurosurgery can now stream the sound of panpipes, invest in a clutch of jade eggs, and swiftly prosper as wellness consultants. No profession has risen quite so fast, however, as that of intimacy coördinator. It’s a hell of a job. You hang around on movie sets, telling people in various states of undress what they can do to one another, what they mustn’t even think of when they’re doing it, what they definitely can’t do, and, once they’ve not done it, how to treat the nasty case of tennis elbow that they developed along the way. Yet the hardiest intimacy coördinator—armed with a tape measure, a protractor, a magnifying glass, and a copy of Peter Singer’s “ Practical Ethics ”—would struggle, I suspect, with “The Burnt Orange Heresy” and “The Whistlers. ” These two new films have a surprising amount in common. In each case, near the start, a man and a woman have sex. The activity itself is vanilla but vigorous, like a frothing milkshake. But what of the motivations? In “The Burnt Orange Heresy, ” the spent participants, who only just met, lounge around, in ecstasy’s wake, and riff about what comes next. “We’ll move to the States. Connecticut, probably. Buy a house, porch, with a swing and a brook, ” one says. “Babbling, ” the other adds. You can sense that the riffing turns them on, and that they’re almost certainly lying about what brought them to this encounter. As for “The Whistlers, ” the couple isn’t a couple. He’s a cop and she’s a criminal, but they’re in league, and she pretends to be a sex worker, summoned to his apartment, because they’re all too aware of being watched on CCTV by those who wish them ill. In short, what appears to be consensual intimacy, in both movies, is an act of deliberate carnal deceit. Coördinate that. “The Burnt Orange Heresy, ” directed by Giuseppe Capotondi, stars Claes Bang (I’m saying nothing) as an art critic named James Figueras. Though handsomely clean-cut, he’s ragged around the edges in ways that are hard to define; you’d willingly lend him money, but you wouldn’t expect to get it back. We first meet him in Milan, where he’s lecturing to a group of culture buffs—spinning them a yarn about a nonexistent painter and then smoothly reeling them in. They are joined by a latecomer, the elegant Berenice Hollis (Elizabeth Debicki), of no fixed abode. She and Figueras, wasting no time, become firm friends, as detailed above, and he asks her along on his next jaunt: an invitation from a wealthy art collector, Joseph Cassidy, to his villa on Lake Como. Tough gig. Cassidy is played by none other than Mick Jagger, who has graced our feature films all too rarely since he played the reclusive rock star of “ Performance ” (1970), delivering “Memo from Turner” in a crowing drawl, among half-naked gangsters, with Ry Cooder on slide guitar. If Jagger’s character hadn’t been shot at the end of that movie, you could imagine him growing up into the comically rich Maecenas of “The Burnt Orange Heresy”—though not, as yet, growing old. Cassidy is an extraordinary figure: wicked, wrinkled, flute-thin, flawlessly dressed, with a head too big for his frame and a smile too big for his head. The smile suggests a perpetual amusement, as if he were enjoying a joke that is far too private to share. Identifying Figueras as a fellow-knave, Cassidy gives him a delicate sin to commit. The target is Jerome Debney (Donald Sutherland), the Salinger of painters—an object of both reverence and rumor, long vanished from the public eye. In fact, he’s dwelling quietly in the grounds of the villa, and Figueras’s mission, should he choose to accept it, is to steal a Debney, having inveigled himself into the artist’s confidence. What (or, indeed, whether) he has been creating of late is not the point. Cassidy, like all patrons, craves to possess. “The Burnt Orange Heresy” began as a 1971 novel by Charles Willeford: cavalryman, tank commander, poet, boxer, crime writer, and college professor. No bio-pic could contain so thronged a life. “ Miami Blues, ” published in 1984, four years before his death, was adapted into a sharp-witted thriller, with Alec Baldwin and Jennifer Jason Leigh, and I was praying for a repeat with “The Burnt Orange Heresy. ” Everything’s in place, and there’s not a weak link in the cast, with Debicki—lofty, playful, and unreadable—in especially beguiling form. The idea that art, like love, is something that you can make or fake, and that surprisingly few people can tell the difference, will always be ripe for exploration. And yet the movie stumbles. The book was set in Florida, and the prettifying switch to Italy adds languor but subtracts fever; even when the plot speeds up, in the final third, the atmosphere feels more hasty than intense, and the alluring promise of the early scenes, when you couldn’t tell if the hero was fooling the heroine, or vice versa, melts away. They should have stayed in bed. It’s been a while since whistling had a major role in a movie. Admirers of Hitchcock’s “ The 39 Steps ” (1935) will remember the earworm stuck in Robert Donat’s brain—the musical phrase that he couldn’t help whistling, and that returned to him, laden with fresh meaning, at the finale. Then there’s the emotional pick-me-up of “I Whistle a Happy Tune, ” as sung by Deborah Kerr (or, rather, by Marni Nixon, the queen of dubbing), in “The King and I” (1956). Now we have Corneliu Porumboiu’s “The Whistlers, ” the plot of which demands that the characters put their lips together and blow. Much of the tale is set in La Gomera, one of the Canary Islands. La Gomera is the ancient home of El Silbo, the nonverbal idiom by which its inhabitants have traditionally made contact across the island’s gullies and ravines. The component sounds of Spanish words, cut down to two vowels and four consonants, are conveyed by whistling, the trick being to curl your fingers against your mouth with one finger outstretched, as if your hand were a gun. That is how Cristi (Vlad Ivanov), a Romanian visitor to La Gomera, is taught the rudiments of Silbo by an expert, who explains, “If the police hear the language, they will think the birds are singing. ” Pastoral noir! The fact that Cristi is the police only proves what a heap of trouble he’s in. Still, he’s an ideal student of Silbo, being not just a quick learner but a taciturn sort, more likely to clam up than to spill. The less talking you do, in his line of work, the better. But what is that line? There’s no risk of my revealing what happens in Porumboiu’s film, because I remain, as I began, in the dark. All I can tell you is that Cristi’s a bent cop, based in Bucharest, and trying to operate on both sides of the fence. He has a scary superior, Magda (Rodica Lazar), who is battling corruption, although she, too, is prepared to flex the rules. That may be why her office is bugged. The official villains include a money-laundering gangster, Zsolt (Sabin Tambrea), and his girlfriend, Gilda (Catrinel Marlon), the woman who sleeps with Cristi in the interests of untruth. He warms to her, and, at one point, they communicate from afar in Silbo, as though it were a natural language of love. If Cristi were a Rita Hayworth fan, he would recall one of the first principles of cinema: Never, ever fall for anyone named Gilda.
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- Info: An unreconstructed Stalinist working with and for marginalised people, determined to leave this world with more freedom for more people than existed before