His fears are more logistical than spiritual, and also function as aphrodisiacs. Michel is like a man who knows he can cop an orgasm if he manages to be in the right place at the right time and rubs up against the right partner. But stealing has a specific psychosexual meaning for him, beyond fulfilling the simple need to eat. Les mise?rables, after all, is about a man implacably hounded by the law for stealing a loaf of bread. Often it is necessary, and its drastic punishment is more wicked than the crime. His decision to tempt exposure and shame on a daily basis is a difficult one, but not because he wonders, terrified like Raskolnikov, whether he’s truly capable of it. They are enlarged to epic scale only by his neurasthenic imagination. His crimes never rise above the level of common, small-time transgression. A man commits forbidden acts, gets caught, and goes to prison, where his suffering is ameliorated by the steadfast love of a good woman.īut Pickpocket’s central character, Michel (played by the Uruguayan nonactor Martin LaSalle), with his watery, feebly asserted version of Raskolnikov’s Nietzscheanism, is merely a petty thief, conspicuously lacking the will to monstrosity of Dostoyevsky’s ax murderer. Some of them were plausible, some undoubtedly true, but many just sounded convincing once art becomes a religion, you can say any high-minded nonsense about it with utter impunity.Īs per standard critical note, Pickpocket is obviously “inspired” by Fyodor Dostoyevsky’s Crime and Punishment. Since I hadn’t absorbed the truisms about Bresson that even then encased his work in a gelatin of spiritually heroic cliche?s, I was, after Pickpocket, skeptical about the thematic platitudes critics and film writers routinely and confidently attached to him. (Even on acid, I was never one to enjoy Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs.) Pickpocket (1959) was the first one I saw, at the old Orson Welles theater in Cambridge, Massachusetts, in my late teens it was also the first movie I saw on LSD. And it was not fun.Ihave an unusually easy way of remembering when I first became fascinated by Robert Bresson’s films. I try to be a movie-goer that steers clear of fanboyism, but it didn't work here. As it stands, that Nathan Fillion fan film from a few years back (I'm serious, go watch it) still reigns supreme. It just didn't happen, and I couldn't make these actors fit these characters. I admit personal bias in the strongest sense this series of games makes my desert-island list, no question, and I wanted to be surprised by this. But to make us wait ninety-odd minutes for Drake to even pick up a gun is ridiculous. To the movie's credit, it picks up considerably in the third act, and even goes nuts in the set piece department (that airlift scene was pretty cool). And as a result, I have to admit, I was bored to tears. ![]() They don't look like these characters and they don't sound like them, despite the mid-credits afterthought of a scene that's supposed to satisfy this requirement. Because to have that, you need Drake and Sully, and both Holland and Mark Wahlberg are way off they're not even close. But sweet merciful Jesus, this is not an Uncharted movie and that is a torpedo that sinks the whole thing. If you've never owned a Playstation, that's really all you need to have a good time. It's a good reason to leave the house for that big-screen spectacle that we all live for. ![]() Ideal for fans of Tom Holland and devil-may-care treasure hunts, "Uncharted" is a solid action movie with crazy stunts, beautiful locations and surprising star power.
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