During a film festival retrospective of his work, renowned director Sandy Bates is haunted by memories from his past, which served at major inspiration for his movies, while amid a circus of fans. Inspired in part by Federico Fellini’s 8½.
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If we continue to look at films by what they exhibit and not by and how they are made, maybe we'll keep on ignoring its relevance. From a composite film of very clear references, including his own humor mark, Allen finds the exact form of matter that memory-dreams are made, the stardust of its title, combining in a multi-layered structure the immense beauty of Gordon Willis cinematography. A free-complex-form joint.
"I know people think that I'm egotistical and narcissistic, but it's not true. I, as a matter of fact, if I did identify with a Greek mythological character, it would not be Narcissus." "Who would it be?" "Zeus."
I'm fucking crazy about Woody Allen so I'm suspicious to talk about it. I thought it would surprise me, but that's was wrong. The film desapointed me in so many points, like the three womans who he have sex/have a friendly relashionship/etc. This confused me, and the people around him that show off SUDDENLY annoys me. But I loved the way Woody express him mind, such a crazy way, such a beautiful way.
I usually think Allen is overrated by his fanbase as a filmmaker and this one is such an 8 1/2 ripoff but I love Charlotte Rampling in this. The Allen films I like tend to depend on him casting some of my favorite actresses (see Gena Rowlands in Another Woman) but Rampling's 2 min (?)ish scene involving her breakdown in the mental hospital is arguably her best acting ever, which is saying something!
9 1/2? Somewhat more curdled than his contemporary output, but all the better for it, with a pleasingly bitter take on celebrity, which occasionally strays a little too far into navel gazing but otherwise strikes a suitably dour coffee-table vibe (and is superior to the later Celebrity). Willis' strikingly composed cinematography and continuation of spatially-detached Manhattan compositions helps considerably.
Oh, the shenanigans Allen had to came up with just to rub his hands all over Charlotte Rampling in the name of art... I thought the film was a pretentious and sort of lazy take on a film director facing a creative/emotional pseudo-crisis. Allen may deny this was autobiographical, but I mean... it was, right? I don't, I felt that Rampling was just too good for this boring film.