This film at best, is nothing but amateurish detritus which not only bores the viewer, but makes him contemptuously dislike all forms of snobbery or upper middle class portraits in film or literature.
I've read a few of the other reviewers who attempt to become apologists for the director's lack of talent at establishing even a modicum of interest, they say if you haven't read Proust then you will have a difficult time comprehending this, which in itself is entirely fatuous and pomp. Imagine everyone having to read one of the most lurid and over-rated books of the 20th century to see a film which should substantiate itself. What an exaggerated claim. There's no place for "intellectual hubris", or their own "in-group manifesto" here.
I had high hopes for this film actually, but after the first hour I noticed that it was devoid and lacking any duality which would allow us to reflect on what is occurring. It is played by rigid, high handed oafs who are completely spoiled to begin with.
Most of the first hour is infested by artless vignettes which are probably the deluded Proust's memory, and they are reworked in such a disordered way that what comes out is merely a bunch of meaningless, trite and vacuous scenes with banal jargon, not only because they hold absolutely no interest for us, but because they do not invite a further contemplation of what 'time' was to Proust; imagine listening to a bunch of snobs talk about the weather, well, that is what this basically is, how philosophical can one get from that point of reference? It begins to wear thin after the first scene, and you pray that there will be no more discussions by those prosaic characters. And it doesn't help that Proust himself is an insipid dandy who parades around in his best suits with his neatly trimmed moustache and becomes a voyeur; if you are asleep already, I don't blame you.
Many of the scenes deal with characters which are entirely devoid of any human warmth or expression, they are petty aristocrats, snobs who sit and drink tea and eat stuffy food while looking down at the poor. They are perverts who visit homosexual brothels and think themselves noble because they hold high office positions during the war, all while the common man spills his guts out at the front lines. This is a complete waste of time!
Malkovich is even an absurd caricature in here, and his little dubbed French voice is entirely insipid. I laughed at most of this. We learn that he is a libertine who likes to visit male brothels and be whipped by sincere proletarian scum, wow, what a revelation on the mystery of human existence.
From the look of the period pieces and the arrangements, it was expensive, but that doesn't carry a film with people walking around with no reference to the viewer. Film is supposed to move us in a way, either disgust us or interest us in some form of merit which it presents itself to us in human understanding, but boredom to me is no artistic achievement.
Don't even bother with this pretentious and ennui filled work.
I've read a few of the other reviewers who attempt to become apologists for the director's lack of talent at establishing even a modicum of interest, they say if you haven't read Proust then you will have a difficult time comprehending this, which in itself is entirely fatuous and pomp. Imagine everyone having to read one of the most lurid and over-rated books of the 20th century to see a film which should substantiate itself. What an exaggerated claim. There's no place for "intellectual hubris", or their own "in-group manifesto" here.
I had high hopes for this film actually, but after the first hour I noticed that it was devoid and lacking any duality which would allow us to reflect on what is occurring. It is played by rigid, high handed oafs who are completely spoiled to begin with.
Most of the first hour is infested by artless vignettes which are probably the deluded Proust's memory, and they are reworked in such a disordered way that what comes out is merely a bunch of meaningless, trite and vacuous scenes with banal jargon, not only because they hold absolutely no interest for us, but because they do not invite a further contemplation of what 'time' was to Proust; imagine listening to a bunch of snobs talk about the weather, well, that is what this basically is, how philosophical can one get from that point of reference? It begins to wear thin after the first scene, and you pray that there will be no more discussions by those prosaic characters. And it doesn't help that Proust himself is an insipid dandy who parades around in his best suits with his neatly trimmed moustache and becomes a voyeur; if you are asleep already, I don't blame you.
Many of the scenes deal with characters which are entirely devoid of any human warmth or expression, they are petty aristocrats, snobs who sit and drink tea and eat stuffy food while looking down at the poor. They are perverts who visit homosexual brothels and think themselves noble because they hold high office positions during the war, all while the common man spills his guts out at the front lines. This is a complete waste of time!
Malkovich is even an absurd caricature in here, and his little dubbed French voice is entirely insipid. I laughed at most of this. We learn that he is a libertine who likes to visit male brothels and be whipped by sincere proletarian scum, wow, what a revelation on the mystery of human existence.
From the look of the period pieces and the arrangements, it was expensive, but that doesn't carry a film with people walking around with no reference to the viewer. Film is supposed to move us in a way, either disgust us or interest us in some form of merit which it presents itself to us in human understanding, but boredom to me is no artistic achievement.
Don't even bother with this pretentious and ennui filled work.