This should have been called The Death of Talent. Where to begin? One-dimensional, clichéd characters; generic-to-the-core plot; junior high improv class dialogue; laughably lazy "dancing" and "singing"; zero magic, chemistry, or basic understanding of classic musicals and what made them work. That a film this trite and hollow is receiving praise is more proof that the world has gone completely mad.
The inevitable backlash is somewhat depressing: this is a supremely crafted piece of escapist fluff that absolutely fulfills its purpose, serves its audience and earns its ticket. There are so many giddy stylistic flourishes on display that I can't wait to see what Chazelle does next. Emma Stone is a genius, but it's Gosling's surprisingly note-perfect comic chops - if not his singing - that earn it that fifth star.
I am aware of the influences: Singin' in the Rain, An American in Paris, Astaire/Rogers, the New Orleans Jazz scene, the meta flourishes, the hipster muso sensibilities, memories of past love, and high-minded aspirations of romantic millennials. I get it. Stone and Gosling are a delightful pair, and Chazelle proved a commendable director with 'Whiplash', but it is far more self-congratulatory than genre-defining.
há um momento conseguido, perto do fim do filme, em que o Goshlingue já no seu clube vê a saloia e quase paralisa. Mas não é esse o momento, é a seguir, quando se senta ao piano e há uma pausa de alguns segundos, de vazio, silêncio (que tanta falta faz neste pseudo-musical, no lugar do fogo de artifício, ou só do artifício, porque fogo nem vê-lo), de tensão, em que pensamos que se calhar nem vai conseguir tocar, mas
Thank you La La Land. You show me insanely colorful, horrifyingly beautiful, supremely egocentric and all the more wonderful dream with a certain man's dreadful egoism & deepest insanity by distorting so long movie history, jazz history & American history into individual preference. Thank you Damien Chazelle, I can't say anything except that. But Thanks. Don't mind that accident. GO, Damien Chazelle.
La La Lame. Fists what it pitifully tried to pay homage to. 50.cal rounds worth of clichés. Emma Stone carries the whole movie by herself. Gosling is invisible and plain. Chazelle's a phony & pretentious wide-eyed "film lover" that "creates" a hollow, shallow, & meaningless film. A corpse has more spunk than this. Predictability fest. Nothing sadder than puke soup sold as sophisticated Vichyssoise. G'ahead, Oscar it∇
The musical numbers are great especially in the first hour and Gosling's weird characterization, reminiscent of DeNiro's work in NEW YORK NEW YORK, def kept my attention at first but I didn't feel the story covered new ground and just recycled characters from other musicals, although with excellent enthusiasm. Emma Stone gives it her all as well and that saddened me becasue she deserved a better movie to inhabit.
Emma Stone is a treat! And with that, tra la la, I'm out of nice things to say. Well, no, there are a few pretty good lines in there, and a few pretty colors. But rather than being, as advertised, exhilaratingly alive, La La Land is as dreary, as lazy, and as jazz-free as Ryan Gosling is (at best) miscast and (sorry, but apparently) dead inside. If this is hope, we're clinging to awfully threadbare ropes, folks.