My Salinger Year is an appealing movie, that honestly tries to be artsy. There has clearly been put much attention to the costumes and the set pieces to sketch either a naturalistic or an expressionistic image at the right times. They play with the fourth wall in a way that reminds of Woody Allan, like it or not, and the realism of most of the scenes are at times contrasted with images that are open for interpretation, also like it or not.
The characters and their dialogues are borderline caricatures (cribbed from The Devil Wears Prada, by the way), but are just barely saved from being a parody by the intimate performances. The tempo, though, is that of a rusty typewriter. Uncomfortable pauses in between scenes are abundant and the actors take their time for every sentence. Hereby the film wins believability, but loses my attention.
The movie rambles on like an omnibus train that at times halts in a little station where no one boards let alone leaves the train, but along the way does show a few mesmerising landscapes. Still, the finale is of much less meaning than the ecstatic waltz music make it appear; a little bit like arriving in Boulder while the broadcasting voice announces New York.
Apart from the critique, it should be said that this charming evening filler has encouraged me to write this text ("You're a writer, yes? - Yes - So write!"); at bloody ten past eleven in the evening with an already chilled tea next to me. A manuscript that I, miraculously, finished and put online where it will probably end up in the shredder of oblivion.
It's not an appalling movie. Mostly it's a slow movie, with dry humour, interesting images and the usual pretentious use of well known classical music to give the whole at least some "préséance".
The characters and their dialogues are borderline caricatures (cribbed from The Devil Wears Prada, by the way), but are just barely saved from being a parody by the intimate performances. The tempo, though, is that of a rusty typewriter. Uncomfortable pauses in between scenes are abundant and the actors take their time for every sentence. Hereby the film wins believability, but loses my attention.
The movie rambles on like an omnibus train that at times halts in a little station where no one boards let alone leaves the train, but along the way does show a few mesmerising landscapes. Still, the finale is of much less meaning than the ecstatic waltz music make it appear; a little bit like arriving in Boulder while the broadcasting voice announces New York.
Apart from the critique, it should be said that this charming evening filler has encouraged me to write this text ("You're a writer, yes? - Yes - So write!"); at bloody ten past eleven in the evening with an already chilled tea next to me. A manuscript that I, miraculously, finished and put online where it will probably end up in the shredder of oblivion.
It's not an appalling movie. Mostly it's a slow movie, with dry humour, interesting images and the usual pretentious use of well known classical music to give the whole at least some "préséance".