马丁弗罗斯特的内心生活

What motivated me to attend the New Directors/New Films festival to catch 'The Inner Life of Martin Frost' tonight was the brutal dismissal it received from the lead critic of The New York Times. "The less said about (it) the better," she wrote, and I figured any film capable of teaching Ms. Dargis the virtue of silence—even for a few column inches—would be worth the trip. And worth the trip it was. The film immerses us in a paradise of limpidly beautiful visual textures. The oaken rhythms of a country house nestled in springtime parkland, surrounded by luxuriant trees and luminous skies, bestow the soothing natural balm needed by Martin Frost (David Thewlis), a writer frayed by the grind of finishing a novel in New York. Thewlis vividly embodies the psychic wear and tear of a man whose inner machinery grinds against the banality of urban life. Then, paradise shifts into purgatory—leavened by dark comedy—as postmodern angelic visitations arrive in the form of Claire (Irène Jacob) and Anna (Sophie Auster). Yet, to my taste, the film’s verbal dimensions falter. The logic leans more toward fanciful contrivance than true imagination, and the narrative arc stumbles over creaky plotting—particularly in the pivotal early stages of Martin and Claire’s relationship, where plausibility is sacrificed to theatrical whimsy. Still, the film casts a beguiling spell. Sophie Auster’s willful vulnerability, the electric interplay between Thewlis and Jacob (and later Auster), and the broad humor of a rural everyman (Michael Imperioli) create a peculiar charm. It’s a pleasure to be carried along on the visual foam of uncertain sensual delight, drifting into the sense that this film’s oddly louche lightness somehow traces profound contours of the human heart. Go innocently.
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