Film review

  • The Summer with Carmen

    Old YorkerFilm review

    To Kalokairi tis Karmen

    Zacharías Mavroidís (2023)

    Zacharías Mavroidís’s comedy announces its meta credentials immediately.  Along with eye-catching images of a place and the people in it, Mavroidís gives viewers plenty to read on the screen.  For starters, ‘the four golden rules of screenwriting:

    1 – Every movie has three acts

    2 – Every movie has a hero

    3 – Every hero has a goal

    4 – Every hero changes in pursuit of his goal’.

    Opening shots of the film’s two main characters are accompanied by biographical summaries.  Demosthenes (Yorgos Tsiantoulas) is ‘the hero, 33, former actor, now a public servant’.  Nikitas (Andreas Lampropoulos) is ‘the hero’s friend, 27, former actor, now a film director’.  To be precise, a would-be film writer-director – Nikitas is trying to devise a scenario that finds favour with movie producer Jean-Sébastien who, Nikitas says, has asked for something fun, sexy, Greek, queer and low budget.  Demosthenes (Demos) and Nikitas are spending the day – a gloriously sunny day – on an Athens beach.  The Summer of Carmen‘s narrative moves back and forth between their conversations there and the events of two summers ago, which mostly concern Demos’s love life or, at least, his sex life.  He and Nikitas debate turning those events into a script that meets Jean-Sébastien’s specifications.

    The title character is a dog – a little mongrel with huge ears:  Carmen looks a cross between Jack Russell and chihuahua.  Demos and his partner of four years, Panos (Nikolas Mihas), split.  Soon after, Panos acquires Carmen.  When he urgently needs a dog-sitter, he asks his ex to help out, and Demos agrees.  When he later discovers that Panos is planning to get rid of the dog (and probably seeing other men), Demos begs to look after Carmen again.  He can’t keep her indefinitely because he’s out all day at work but Carmen finds a home elsewhere in the family:  after Demos’s father dies, his mother (Roubini Vasilakopoulou) adopts the dog, showing more affection for Carmen than she has for either her son or her dying husband.  The Summer with Carmen is consistently meta:  Zacharías Mavroidís and Xenofón Chalátsis, who wrote the the screenplay with him, launch the closing credits with the film’s six ‘Messages in order of appearance’ (details below).  Its knowing edge certainly gives the piece shape and focus it would otherwise lack but it’s limiting, too.

    Despite her appealing presence, Carmen is rather a symbolic creature – she represents, as well as Demos and Panos’s unease at ending their relationship, the acidulous mother’s way of filling a sudden gap in her life.  Mavroidís and Chalátsis understand that only too well, of course; it follows that so do Demos and Nikitas, who say as much.  This is what’s smart and airtight about the set-up.   Mavroidís, through self-awareness, swerves or pre-empts criticism.  For example, in the two-years-ago part, there are enough graphic sex scenes to get you wondering (in this viewer’s case, worrying) if you’re merely watching soft porn; in the present day, Nikitas expresses a similar anxiety about including sex scenes, making clear he considers porn artistically unworthy of him – as well as not what Jean-Sébastien might want.  Nikitas’s remark leaves us in no doubt that Mavroidís himself is both aware that The Summer of Carmen could attract charges of pornography and intent on delivering Jean-Sébastien’s list of ingredients.  The film is certainly Greek and queer and it couldn’t have cost a fortune.  The critical consensus in the UK to date, though there aren’t many reviews yet on Rotten Tomatoes, is that it’s also sexy and fun.

    Some of those reviews, labelling Mavroidís’s essential setting a gay nudist beach, have compared it to the setting of Alain Guiraudie’s Stranger by the Lake (2013).  There’s a bit to unpack in the comparison.  Unlike Guiraudie’s lakeside personnel, not all Mavroidís’s beach people are male, though most are.  While some are actively homosexual in the cliffs above the beach, one older bloke just wants to watch and/or have a bit of social contact; an older woman – another dog owner – is a bit of an oddball, too.  The (un)dress code and cruising protocols are more flexible than in Stranger by the Lake:  swarthy beefcake Demos is usually completely naked on the beach whereas slight, queeny Nikitas never is.  Beyond the generic gulf between the two films, The Summer with Carmen is relatively thin:  Stranger is an erotic murder story; Carmen, though even more physically explicit, is pink candyfloss, its lack of substance sometimes emphasised by that physical explicitness, as well as by the film’s self-referential approach.  When the camera is scrutinising various sections of the leading man’s exposed body, it’s a struggle not to think this is just a different kind of objectifying male gaze.  When the camera on the beach supplies, as it occasionally does, a shot of male genitalia without bothering even to show the rest of their owner (let alone characterising him), The Summer with Carmen seems even more a peep show.  The land-and-seascape, luminously captured by DP Theódoros Michópoulos, is easier on the eye and the mind.

    As Nikitas, Andreas Lampropoulos is sensitive and funny though his character is contrasted almost too neatly with Yorgos Tsiantoulas’s Demosthenes – build, voice, temperament, type.  Tsiantoulas is sometimes funny, too, but also gives off an impacted melancholy whose strength isn’t a matter of the actor’s imposing physique.  This quality lends some depth to the obvious reasons for Demos’s sadness – unloving mother, homophobic father, differently unsatisfying liaisons with sexually compromised Panos and his successor, Thymios (Vasilis Tsigristaris), who gets top marks for bedroom performance but who, as Demos confides to Nikitas, is also a ‘bit boring’.  The film isn’t too clear about Demos’s promiscuity.  It’s a given to the extent that he needs eventually to move beyond it (according to the fourth golden rule of screenwriting):  Demos comes to recognise, in his feelings for Nikitas, the importance of platonic friendship.  I was never sure, though, how much Demos was meant to have controlled his needs during his four years with Panos, especially since he’s found Panos a somewhat frustrating partner.

    I’ve written more negatively and earnestly than intended about The Summer with Carmen.  I did enjoy the film, which is often witty and entertaining.  I liked how Nikitas, in his less obvious moments, comes across as someone genuinely trying to write a decent screenplay:  when he rejects suggestions from Demos, who insists these make sense because they really happened, Nikitas makes the excellent point that that’s not enough in creative writing.  ‘Reality is not always realistic’ ends up as the third of the film’s six concluding messages.  It’s preceded by ‘There are straight people who don’t look it’ and ‘Every mother has felt embarrassed for her child’; and followed by ‘We are all sad little sissies’, ‘Self-knowledge is a convenient self-deception’ and ‘Bisexuals are real’.  How thoroughly Mavroidís has illustrated all these points – as distinct from simply including them as lines in the script – is open to question.  So, too, is how seriously he and Xenofón Chalátsis mean some of them.

    It’s worth staying with The Summer with Carmen right through the closing credits.  As these roll, Mavroidís shows minor characters leaving the beach in the evening twilight:  the solitary elderly man, for the first and only time, speaks to someone – the woman with the dog – without being rebuffed.  Meta-ness has the last word, though, albeit spoken rather than text on the screen.  The two principals stand side by side, taking a pee (in backview, thank goodness) before they head off from the beach.  ‘Why don’t we,’ one says to the other, ‘make the screenplay a movie within a movie?’

    1 May 2025

  • The Only Game in Town

    Old YorkerFilm review

    George Stevens (1970)

    In 1964, and beyond, Frank D Gilroy’s play The Subject Was Roses was a critical and commercial hit.  It won the Pulitzer Prize for Drama, two Tony awards and ran on Broadway for 832 performances.  For the 1968 film of the play Patricia Neal was Oscar-nominated as Best Actress and Jack Albertson won the Oscar for Best Supporting Actor.  Just before it was released, another Gilroy play had completed its Broadway run:  The Only Game in Town opened on 20 May 1968 and closed on 1 June of the same year, after 16 performances.  By the time this play flopped, though, 20th Century Fox had paid more than half a million dollars for the film rights so they pressed ahead with a screen version written by Gilroy (like the screenplay for The Subject Was Roses).  The two leads were Elizabeth Taylor, a few pictures on from Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? (1966), and Warren Beatty, in his first film since Bonnie and Clyde (1967).  Taylor was paid $1,125,000 and Beatty $750,000.  The result was another flop – according to Wikipedia, Fox’s second-worst financial failure behind Cleopatra (1963).  The Only Game in Town was also the last film directed by George Stevens.

    The story is set in contemporary Las Vegas, where Fran Walker (Taylor) is a past-her-prime showgirl and Joe Grady (Beatty) a lounge pianist and compulsive gambler.  He and Fran first meet when she goes for a meal after work to the restaurant-bar where Joe’s playing; they get talking, he comes back to her apartment and stays over.  Fran has been having an affair with rich, San Francisco-based Tom Lockwood, a married man who comes on occasional visits to Vegas:  she’s given him repeated ultimatums about ending his marriage but there’s no sign that Tom will oblige.  Joe plans to make five thousand dollars on the Vegas craps tables before he leaves the city to start a new life as a pianist in New York.  Since he keeps losing more money than he wins, his move east doesn’t seem an imminent prospect either.  What both Joe and Fran expect to be a one-night stand turns into a continuing, no-strings relationship, though it’s rarely a pacific one.  Joe moves into Fran’s apartment until Tom Lockwood (Charles Braswell) turns up there unexpectedly – pretending that Joe has just given her a lift home, Fran sends him on his way.  Even more unexpectedly, Tom arrives armed with decree absolute documents, a ten-carat diamond engagement ring and two plane tickets to take Fran and himself on a European honeymoon.

    Fran is overcome and confused – she confesses to Tom she’s been living with Joe – but he doesn’t mind.  She changes into a wedding outfit before deciding she can’t through with it.  Now it’s Tom who exits and Joe returns but he and Fran instantly fall out.  She wonders if Tom’s the best bet after all, books a plane ticket, leaves Joe a goodbye note but, as she’s about to leave the apartment, turns to see him in the corridor.  He explains how he lost all his money in the casinos and even had to sell his car … before his luck turned in a big way.  Fran is sceptical until Joe produces from his jacket pockets his winnings – twenty-two thousand dollars.  He then proposes to Fran:  marriage is another kind of gamble but, says Joe, it’s ‘the only game in town’.  Fran takes a lot of convincing – she’s scared of things going wrong – but Joe tells her she loves him as much as he loves her, and she eventually admits it.  They’re in each other’s arms on the final fadeout.

    A pair of characters spend most of their time arguing but realise at last that they can’t live without each other.  This kind of romantic comedy two-hander – as The Only Game in Town virtually is, apart from Tom Lockwood’s one scene – can work well on stage.  Another American play of the 1960s, Bill Manhoff’s The Owl and the Pussycat, is a good example.  It depends on rather stereotyped conceptions of its chalk-and-cheese characters – he’s an intellectually snobbish, emotionally fearful would-be writer; she’s a chatterbox prostitute, brassy yet vulnerable – but both roles are securely written and Manhoff’s dialogue is lively and often funny.  The evidence of its short-lived Broadway run, of course, is that The Only Game in Town didn’t work well on stage:  judging from Gilroy’s screenplay, you wonder if a main problem was that his characters aren’t clearly defined.  Neither Fran nor Joe is given much context.  She is glimpsed in a chorus line then a communal dressing room at the start but that’s about all we see of her work, even though it matters to Fran that she can pay her way and isn’t Tom Lockwood’s kept woman.  When Joe quotes lines from Kipling’s ‘If’ and, in the closing scene, The Tempest, it sounds like the screenwriter rather than the character demonstrating his breadth of reading.

    When a theatre piece, perhaps especially one like this, is turned into a film, there’s the perennial dilemma of how much to open it up.  The movie of The Owl and the Pussycat – written by Buck Henry, directed by Herbert Ross and released the same year as The Only Game in Town – invented numerous minor characters, although I still remember only the principals, played by Barbra Streisand and George Segal.  The screen version of The Only Game in Town is much more sparing with a supporting cast but not to its credit since the bits that aren’t Taylor-Beatty numbers are feeble.  Charles Braswell has a thankless task playing Tom Lockwood, who’s merely there to move the plot forward.  Other residents of Fran’s apartment block include a tall man with a tiny dog; their repeated appearances are the closest the film gets to a visual running gag.  There’s also a smallish woman with a big dog.  George Stevens inserts occasional montages of neon-lit venues on the Las Vegas strip but you feel his desperation in doing so.  Maurice Jarre’s music makes matters worse.  If it’s possible to miscast the composer of a film’s music, here’s an instance.  It sounds as if the man who wrote grandiose scores for David Lean’s Lawrence of Arabia (1962), Doctor Zhivago (1965) and Ryan’s Daughter (again in the same year as The Only Game in Town) has listened to the soundtracks of a few other recent rom-coms, mixed in a bit of jazzy stuff that he thinks is vaguely Vegas-y, and hoped for the best.

    Frank D Gilroy’s material is unworthy of the director and his stars yet The Only Game in Town is often fascinating, chiefly for the pairing of Elizabeth Taylor and Warren Beatty – and for what feels wrong and right about that pairing.  Fran and Joe are such thin characters that it’s hard to be sure he’s meant to be older than her although that’s what the original Broadway casting of Barry Nelson and Tammy Grimes suggests:  Nelson (who also directed the play) was fifty and Grimes thirty-four.  That Taylor seems much older than Beatty is partly illusory – there’s only five years between them, and she still wasn’t forty when the film was made.  But because she’d been a big name in Hollywood since the mid-1940s Taylor seems decades senior to Beatty, who made his screen debut in 1961.  He signed up to play Joe Grady when Frank Sinatra had to drop out:  The Only Game in Town was postponed due to Taylor’s ill health and Sinatra was committed elsewhere (Caesar’s Palace in Las Vegas!) during the revised shooting schedule.  Although the age difference between Sinatra and Taylor was nearly the same as that between Barry Nelson and Tammy Grimes, Sinatra too began in movies in the 1940s:  he and Taylor seem part of the same generation of Hollywood stars.

    Taylor has a mutton-dressed-as-lamb look here, thanks to the mini-dresses she wears.  The Hollywood royalty treatment she inevitably gets doesn’t help her characterisation either.  The opening credits name two costume designers specifically for Elizabeth Taylor (Mia Fonssagrives and Vicki Tiel); you wonder why, when she’s playing a working woman trying her best to be financially independent.   The hairstyle for ‘Miss Taylor’ was created by Alexandre de Paris.  The art directors have furnished Fran’s apartment to a standard she surely couldn’t afford.  These accoutrements are galling given Taylor’s natural aptitude for coarseness.  In spite of everything, though, her acting gifts, which also include empathy, shine through:  she makes Fran genuinely frustrated and fearful.  Her comic timing is spot on and the connection between Taylor and her co-star (like Sinatra, a notably relaxed performer) is strong – as actors, she and Beatty are on the same wavelength and come across as entirely contemporary.  Because of his enduring public image you tend to forget how convincingly but unsentimentally Beatty could play anxious men, even losers.  Stevens includes too many casino sequences but Beatty plays them well enough to hold your interest:  the level of Joe’s emotional reactions to winning or losing rings true – even in a scene where a gorgon-like rival gambler (Olga Valéry) repeatedly thwarts Joe, cackling vengefully each time she does.

    This was the last of my four visits to BFI’s ‘The Old Man is Still Alive’ season.  Knowing something in advance of the film’s reputation, I worried it was also going to make for the saddest viewing – an ignominious end to George Stevens’ career.  Like William Wyler’s The Liberation of L B Jones, Stevens’ swan song has plenty of regrettable features but – as with Wyler’s Hollywood envoi, too – I worried more than I needed to.  This was the third time that Stevens and Elizabeth Taylor worked together:  on the first two occasions – A Place in the Sun (1951) and Giant (1956) – he won the Academy Award for Best Director.  Warren Beatty has named Stevens (along with Wyler and Elia Kazan) as a particular inspiration in his own career behind the camera.  Stevens’ final film is proof that he always retained one of his outstanding talents.  He was exceptionally skilled in directing and creating synergies between actors, as Elizabeth Taylor and Warren Beatty demonstrate in The Only Game in Town.

    25 April 2025

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