Elvis: Great Performance, Same Old Story

Elvis (2022)

Directed by Baz Luhrmann

Warner Brothers pictures, 159 minutes, PG13

★★★

 

 

 

 

American culture circulates the word generation to stamp everyone born during a particular time period as cookies from the same mold. A recent screening of Elvis reminded of the inaccuracy of this. Elvis Presley meant nothing to me. I was an infant when he debuted, in elementary school when he made his first comeback, and was musically weaned on acid rock and protest music. I heard his songs on the radio, but wanted nothing to do with a guy who idolized Richard Nixon, then became a bloated has-been in Vegas, a place I've never desired to visit.

 

Elvis made scads of money because so many people do worship Elvis and flock to Graceland with religious-like fervor. As biopics generally go, this one traces its subject from boyhood poverty to stardom and tragic demise. At heart, it's about the relationship between Elvis (Austin Butler) and his Svengali-like manager Colonel Tom Parker (Tom Hanks). Elvis was the headliner, but it was Parker who made him more than a white trash rockabilly weirdo who shocked white folks in Memphis by hanging out with black musicians–B.B. King, Rosetta Tharpe, Big Mama Thornton–dressing oddly, and gyrating his hips and pelvis in “lewd” ways.

 

Parker tried to clean up Elvis, first by taking him on tour with Hank Snow (David Wenham) and then trying to package him as family entertainment. As most people know, he wasn't entirely successful in the latter effort, so Parker turned from cajoler to control freak to maximize the monetization of the “King of Rock ‘n Roll.”

 

Other aspects of the Elvis saga are on display–his stint in the army (that, or go to jail), his marriage to Priscilla (Olivia DeJong), the compliance of his father Vernon (Richard Roxburgh) in Parker's plans, and Elvis’s downward drug spiral. All of this is aimed at presenting Elvis as a fallen demigod.

 

Insofar as the historical record goes, it's a whitewash job that makes Elvis into an innocent victim. With some justification, Parker wears the black hat; he was a fraud, a con man, a problem gambler, and a schemer who was always one step ahead of Elvis. That said, I just don't buy the idea that a personality and ego as big as that of Elvis was passive in all of this. It denies Presley’s agency.

 

This is a Baz Luhrmann film, so you know the production values are high, though Elvis is certainly no Moulin Rouge. Luhrmann tries to walk the borders between gauzy and gaudy, but the second is hard to do because Elvis was already over the top. How could one even make a parody of Graceland? At times, it felt as if Luhrmann was just slapping some lipstick and ruffled shirts on Elvis, which is akin to adding a few more sparkles to Liberace’s jacket.

 

The good news is that Butler was spectacular. He did his own singing in one of the best Presley imitations ever, though he doesn't look that much like his subject. He plays the role of the caged artist with great aplomb. Tom Hanks, though, polarized audiences as the halt-of-speech Parker. I don’t how the real Parker spoke, so I leave it to you to determine if Hanks butchered the role, played according to a flawed script, or nailed Parker's patter.

 

The film was overly long, an ongoing problem with biopics that give childhood-to-grave coverage. A bigger problem: Most biopics dealing with musicians who die “young” are exactly the same. They follow the story arc of Joseph Campbell's “hero's journey,” but instead of a metaphorical return “home,” the hero dies. If we replace Elvis, change the songs and costumes, and alter some details (race, gender, nationality) it's the same thing we've seen with Jim Morrison (The Doors), Amy Winehouse (Amy), Freddie Mercury (Bohemian Rhapsody), Charlie Parker (Bird), Sid Vicious (Sid and Nancy), Billie Holiday (Lady Sings the Blues), and … the beat has gone on and on. I'm sure if one of the three stalled Janis Joplin films finally gets greenlighted, it will be the same thing.

 

Am I being callous? I admit Elvis wasn’t my idol. He could sing–though his repertoire didn't evolve much–but I acknowledge his importance in the evolution of rock music. Yet, had Butler not been so good, aside from Luhrmann's carnival-like touches, Elvis would have bored me. I’m among those who think it's time to put biopics out to pasture.

 

Rob Weir

David Maraniss New Biography of Jim Thorpe

PATH LIT BY LIGHTNING: THE LIFE OF JIM THORPE (2023)

By David Maraniss

Simon & Schuster, 568 pages (plus end material)

★★★★

 

 When Jim Thorpe won the pentathlon and the decathlon at the 1912 Stockholm Olympics, King Gustav V dubbed him “the greatest athlete in the world.” Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist David Maraniss focuses on Thorpe in Path Lit by Lightning. He doesn't break new ground, but Maraniss excels at locating Thorpe in history and adds tasty tidbits. (Who knew that poet Marianne Moore once taught at the Carlisle Indian Industrial School?)

 

If you don't know much about sports or have only seen the problematic film Jim Thorpe–All- American, Thorpe was a magnificent athlete, but a flawed human being. He was born in Oklahoma, was of Sac and Fox blood, and his Native name meant “Bright Path,” hence the book’s title. His year of birth is a matter of dispute but in 1907, he left Oklahoma and was sent to the Carlisle Indian School in Pennsylvania, where he gained attention by cleared a 5’9” high jump in his street clothing as he chanced upon a practice conducted by Glenn “Pop” Warner. Thorpe was a lousy-to-indifferent student, but excelled at track, baseball, basketball, and the disreputable sport of his day: football.

 

Many Native youngsters were given opportunities, but 186 died in Carlisle. It bore more resemblance to a military academy than a private school. Deprivation and racism were rampant; its philosophy was summed by Superintendent Richard Henry Pratt: “Kill the Indian, save the man.” Warner was a legendary coach, but he too was a confirmed believer in Anglo-Saxon superiority and threw Thorpe under the metaphorical bus when his gold medals were revoked because he was (barely) paid for playing minor league baseball as a summer job. Thorpe spent the rest of his life seeking restoration of his gold medals, often locking horns with I. O. C. head Avery Brundage, whose character was deeply assailable. Not coincidentally, Brundage was pulverized in a football match against Thorpe in which Carlisle defeated Illinois. Carlisle routinely defeated colleges such as Harvard, Michigan, and Notre Dame. Maraniss spotlights other stellar athletes at Carlisle, including Lewis Tewanimo and Pete Calac.

 

Thorpe ran afoul of Olympic “rules,” but it’s accurate to note that many sports had loose standards. He played football for Carlisle in 1907-08 and again in 1911-12, but how old was he? Today’s fans would not have recognized football. Touchdowns were worth five points, most extra points and field goals were drop kicks, equipment was primitive, forward passes were rare, now-banned formations were routine, participants played both offense and defense, and so many players died that President Theodore Roosevelt nearly banned the sport. Thorpe was said to punt the less-aerodynamic football over 80 yards, which seems unlikely, though Maraniss repeats the legend.

 

The 6’1” 202-pound Thorpe tried pro baseball between 1913-1919, mostly with the New York Giants. Manager John McGraw wasn't impressed, Thorpe’s career numbers were modest, and though Thorpe was fast and powerful, he had  trouble hitting a curveball. He did better at pro football. In 1915, he signed with the Canton Bulldogs in a league that became the NFL in 1920. Between 1921-23, he suited up for the Oorang Indians. Not many know that there was an NFL franchise in LaRue, Ohio made-up of Native Americans. In all, Thorpe appeared in 58 NFL games. After 1928, he coached, played whatever sport he could, and made his last on-field football appearance when he was at least 46 years old.

 

Alas, it was hard to make a living at pro sports during his day. Thorpe was often broke and performed manual labor during the 1930s depression. Numerous patrons secured work for him, but Thorpe was not a reliable employee, moved often, and perceived numerous jobs as beneath him. He even appeared in 70 Hollywood films, but almost always as a day-wage extra.

 

Thorpe struggled with alcohol, fathered eight children to whom he was mostly a stranger, and exhausted the patience of two younger wives who divorced him. (His daughter Grace became a Native American activist.) His third wife, Patsy Askew, organized Thorpe, though some saw her as a gold-digger. When Thorpe died in 1953, instead of interring him in Oklahoma, Carlisle, or Southern California, she struck a deal with Mauch Creek, Pennsylvania, a place where Thorpe's cleats never trod. The town changed its name to Jim Thorpe and that’s where he lies.

 

Moraniss highlights the racism and sports rawness of Thorpe’s days. His Thorpe is a hero, but a nuanced victim who was both wronged and suffered from self-inflicted wounds.

 

Rob Weir

Playtime a Jacques Tati Masterpiece

PLAYTIME (1967)

Directed by Jacques Tati

Janus Films, 124 minutes, Not-rated

In English and French (with subtitles)

★★★★★

 

 

Though he made only six full-length films in his lifetime, many film aficionados consider Jacques Tati (1907-82 ) one of Europe's greatest directors. That might be objectively true, but you need to appreciate droll humor, languid pacing, and surrealism for full impact.

 

Playtime is often viewed as his very best picture and many rank it among the top 50 greatest comedies ever made. If you are patient, you will find a sharp critique of pretense, consumerism, and manufactured desire. Tati was a mime in his youth, but don't hold that against him. His character, Monsieur Hulot, is a nattier version of Charlie Chaplin's Tramp in that he is the sort of guy who stumbles into weird circumstances but manages to land on his feet. He's also like Chaplin in that Hulot doesn't say much, so don't worry that this is a French film. There's more silence and English than French.

 

Playtime was made in 1967, a cultural moment in which post-World War II France had shaken off the blues of combat devastation, post-colonialism, and economic dislocation. Things are shiny and new in Paris, and some of its trendoids are anxious to show off its modern face and gadgets. Hulot arrives in Paris along with hordes of tourists, including some stereotypical “ugly Americans,” as showy, opinionated, and culturally ignorant US travelers used to be called. (It wasn't yet a multicultural world, but 1967 was on the cusp of many changes.)

 

Hulot is supposed to see Monsieur Giffard (Georges Montant), but we are never quite sure why. (Nor do we know why the film opens in what might be a medical clinic populated by people we will never see again.) Just getting through the front door involves mad scientist button-pushing that only places Hulot inside a glass cube with perplexing furniture. He eventually enters a Dilbert-cube maze, spots Giffard,  but never finds him. (Those who have seen Tati’s Mon Oncle know that Tati often took pot shots at International style architecture.)

 

Hulot ends up at a trade exposition where all manner of “innovations” are for sale, such as brooms with headlights, soundproof doors, and things Rube Goldberg might have cooked up. Visitors are thrilled by all of this, though one American, Barbara (Barbara Dennek), wants to see more than the Eiffel Tower reflected in a glass door!

 

Tati and cinematographers Jean Badal and André took chances in that most of the film is shot at street level. You don't need any fancy academic theories to see that Tati is lampooning the sterility of modern life. The shots of people living in street-facing glass apartments echoes the homogeneity of the offices and hotels seen earlier. Why would anyone wish to live in such places? Conformity, my dears! Note also what Tati does with cars and men in suits. Hulot gets waylaid in various ways, but eventually ends up at the Royal Garden.Up to this point, Playtime is so deliberate you might think it boring.

 

Things enliven at the Royal Garden in ways analogous to the future humor of Jean-Pierre Junot (Delicatessen, Amelie.) The spot is the hottest new nightclub in Paris, even though it hasn't even opened­­­­­–mostly because it's not actually finished. Management rush matters given the number of people in town with lots of money in their pockets. It’s not hard to see what Tati is driving at here. The scenes inside the club are hysterical. Barbara is there, as is a loudmouth cigar-chomping Yank (Billy Kearns) with designs on claiming the best table and procuring a big steak. No one wants the turbot, the featured dish from a kitchen that’s a construction zone. Early 1960s decorum, fancy threads, high heels, and big hair dominate, but what does it tell you that few are having fun until  things literally fall apart? Call it spontaneity versus sterility, capped the next morning with breakfast for the survivors at the drug store across the street, and a Chaplinesque moment between Hulot and Barbara. Even then the carnival isn't quite over.

 

One reviewer called the nightclub scene akin to a Bruegel painting and he wasn't wrong, though Tati’s canvas comes with naff music scored by James Campbell. Note allusions to change on the horizon and before you consider the entire film a snapshot from yesteryear, try switching out a few designs, desires, trends, and gadgets. Tell me where you land.

 

Rob Weir

A Louvre Sampler

Here are a few shots from the Louvre. I’ve labeled some of them. Best viewed in full size. 

 

Jacques-Louis David (1740-1825)

Henri Bellechose (1414-c.1445)

Jean Auguste Ingres (1780-18670 

Joachim Patinnir (1483-1524)

Francois Edoard Picot (1786-1868)

 

Mona Lisa Side View

 

 

Winged Victory of Samotrace

Some of the Crown Jewels

Baroque Ceiling

David: Coronation of Napoleon

David: Death of Marat

                                                            Bellechose: Martyrdom of St Denis

Ingres: Grand Odalisque

Picot: Cupid and Psyche

Patinir: St Jerome in the Desert

Paris in a Hurry? Can You Skip the Louvre?

 

 

 

When we were in Paris in June, the city was mobbed with tourists. Granted, Paris is always a popular destination, but the pent-up demand occasioned by COVID has made it more so and it looks like the crush will continue until late if the fall. 

 

 If you are going there and you have a limited amount of time, I have a possible time-saving recommendation: Skip the Louvre. That might seem blasphemous, but it really depends on your personal art tastes. If you’re not a fan of Neoclassical or ancient art and can live with not seeing the Mona Lisa, you can devote your time to other attractions in the City of Light.

 

First of all, if you decide to go, absolutely book tickets. If you don’t, there’s a very good chance you won’t be able to get in. Even if you book ahead, plan on standing in very long lines to get in–30 minutes or longer than what it says on the ticket. Dump your water bottle as you can’t take in liquids. (You can refill it inside if you can find a place to do so.)

 

Second, know that the Louvre is one of the most irrational museums in the world. You will enter via the giant glass Pyramide, once considered an atrocity by some, but it’s pretty spectacular and can be seen even if you don’t enter. Let’s say you want to make a beeline to the first level of the Richelieu Wing, where the Mona Lisa is on view. First, you’ll have to climb stairs as you’ll enter on Level 0. (There’s also a -1 level.) If you enter Gallery 700, you’ll next enter 701, and 711 is off it. If you mistakenly continue to 702, you’ll go down a set of stairs to get to 703 and then you’ll see Winged Victory along the way, but good luck getting to 704 to continue a sequential journey; there is no 704. Gallery 705 involves a circuitous jog and you’ll have to retrace to get to 706, then (you guessed it!) you come 708. And so it goes. In other words, even if you know where you want to go, you’ll have trouble getting there. The Louvre can be utterly exhausting.

 

Regarding the Mona Lisa, know that it’s quite small–30” x 21” (77cm x 53 cm) and you’ve probably seem better reproductions of it than you’ll see in person. That’s because you can’t linger in front of it. There is a very long line for those who must snap a selfie of themselves in front of Da Vinci’s enigmatic painting. Ironically, most selfie-takers grin like hyenas in front of a subject who might not be smiling at all! In theory, you can’t use a selfie stick, though you might be able to get away with it before the guard yells non!  You can speed the process by getting into one of the non-selfie side lines. You won’t get a front-on view, but you’ll see it just as well can and snap a shot or two before the crowd muscles you out of the way.

 

The campus is staggering in size and merely walking into the courtyard and the Tuileries Gardens will explain the off-with-their-heads phase of French Revolution. The term conspicuous consumption doesn’t even begin to get it! There’s not enough art in all of France to fill all of the buildings, so three sort-of-connected wings make up the collection. The Richelieu is the main one, plus the Sully and Denon wings. The Louvre is indeed filled with treasures–including the French crown jewels–but of a sort.

 

As noted, the bulk of the paintings are Neoclassical works from the High Renaissance or the 18^th and 19^th centuries. The term Neoclassical means a deliberate attempt to evoke ancient Roman and Greek themes and repurpose them. It’s formal in style, carefully balanced, is often enormous in scale, and presented dramatically, even  histrionically. Some indeed seems over the top, but I betray my own tastes with that remark.  Know that there is no art in the Louvre created after 1850, which means it  predates the Impressionists whose works are in Musée d’Orsay.

 

Another consideration. The Denon Wing has some interesting works from elsewhere in Europe, but don’t go trolling for any Vermeers. They are on loan for a big show at the Rijksmuseum in Amsterdam. Much of the bottom levels of each wing is devoted to ancient art that are where you can go to dodge the massive crowds. Elsewhere there are smatterings of Islamic, African, and Oceanic art but Paris has museums elsewhere devoted to each if you wish to indulge. The Louvre’s American collection is small and mostly unremarkable.

 

Maybe I was both over- and underwhelmed because I had been to the Louvre twice prior to this trip. Check out the photo gallery of Louvre shots that I’ve posted separately. They’ll either make you want to go or serve as all you need to see. For my money, those with limited time in Paris will find Orsay more stimulating. That’s the subject of another blog.

 

Rob Weir

Rod MacDonald, The Kennedys, Katy Guillen, Momi Maiga, Ros , Heart of the Dragon

 

It is often claimed that participatory protest folk music is in short supply now that Pete Seeger is gone, Baby Boomers are aging, and Dylan thinks he’s Sinatra. It’s still around…

 

…even in Florida, where white Trumpians accuse Ron DeSantis of being “too liberal.” Rod MacDonald isn’t falling for such nonsense. Rants and Romance is as advertised. The album opens cheerful and upbeat; “Come Out Annie,”  is sweetened by Ian Wilkinson’s bluegrass-laced fiddle. It’s never a bad idea to win hearts before you aim for minds. Dollops of irony help as well. MacDonald slathers on the latter in “Cry Freedom” by calling attention to tricksters hiding behind double meanings: They cry freedom while they're taking it away/They don't mean freedom for you/They mean the freedom for themselves to tell you what to do. He follows with the Darryl Purpose/Robert Morgan Fisher “Dangerous Game,” a brilliant patter song in the seam between talking blues and rap that connects the dots between war abroad and danger at home. Dave Barry also lives in Florida and MacDonald has a similar penchant for using humor to sneak in serious points. “What Happened to You” is a poke at those in the left (wing) lane who veered right. “The Pandemic” is similarly leavened with wry observations. It’s a putative “romance,” but not of the Romeo and Juliet variety. These are typical of the album’s 17 tracks. There are straight-up, tender love songs–“I Miss You Here and Everywhere” is lovely–self-deprecating songs (“I Didn’t Go to Woodstock”), crisp covers (Cliff Eberhardt’s “When We Were Kings), and shame-the-stupid selections like “Smallpox,” a slam at anti-vaxers and fearmongers: Yes it’s a shame we don’t have smallpox today/There was no one with the courage to stand in the way/When we all got vaccinated and the disease went away…. You’ll find yourself singing along to MacDonald’s refrains, but when I closed eyes for “Heal the World,”  I imagined a room harmonizing on the chorus. Rod MacDonald’s lyrics-forward approach is a balm for troubled times.

 

The Kennedys (Pete and Maura) used to live in Northampton–they’re in New York State now–and man, do I miss them. Their latest recording, Headwinds, is  dosed with rock, roots music, and pop, but they too ring warning bells. The Kennedys have long excelled at shifting moods, styles, and messages. Headwinds is a mix of the sublime, the serious, a call to think, and other fine songs to get you over whatever is dragging you down. Maura lures us into open highway dreams on “New Set of Wheels” by tearing out on nostalgic roads before downshifting to: Now I’m a woman on a mission in my fuel-efficient automobile. Pete sets a downhome jangly tone for “Silence is a Warning,” but don’t rest in the hammock; the “silence” is the absence of nature sounds we should be hearing but don’t. He amps up the tempo and ambience for Maura’s lead vocals on “The Sky Doesn’t Look Right.” It’s about bombs, not climate change, but you could be excused for imaging the latter in a summer marked by floods, searing heat, and mudslides. Leave it to their eclectic tastes to channel Dylan in “The Boy From the East River Shore,” which is about a nameless kid growing up amidst tenements, gangs, and violence. Swirling keys segue to electric guitars on a song brimming with pathos and poignancy. But let’s backtrack to how The Kennedys turn on a dime. Who else has the moxie to drag out ukes for a two-step string band take on nips washing up on beaches (“Little Green Bottles”). Note, though, that the serious stuff is interspersed with changes of pace and subject matter. The leisurely paced title track brims with yearning: The restless breeze made the leaving seem so easy/But headwinds make it hard to get back home. How about a bit of click-clack Caribbean-style (with some Django-like guitar licks thrown in) for the giddy “Tangerine,” or nature celebrated in the gospel-influenced “The Woods and the Wild?” The album rounds out with “Waging Peace” with a series of “How many” questions. If you’ve got no answers for them, you probably ought to join the march with Pete’s guitar reverb and Maura’s voice leading the way.

 

On to other things:

 

Katy Guillen and the Drive is a Kansas City-based duo with Guillen on lead vocals, guitar, bass (and occasional keys) and Stephanie Williams on drums and bass. As that implies the sound on Another One Gained is stripped to the bone. They call it indie rock, but you might also think lo-fi and retro. Guillen’s smoky vocals often echo in the mix, though she pierces through Williams’ pounding percussion. The bulk of the songs are about relationships, broken (the title track), probably needing to be so (“Avoiding Every Sound”), emergent (“Discoloration”), scared-but-going with it (“Bottom of Your Belly”), or celebratory (“Different”). She throws out great lines such as I’m cozy in my bed of nails and There is no reason to think about/What I would have changed/For an opportunity lost is another one gained. I was intrigued, but I enjoyed Guillen’s music in small doses. The album could use more variety of style and delivery. 

 

Momi Maiga is a Senegalese singer and kora player now based in Barcelona. The 21-stringed harp-like kora is plucked and well suited for solo runs. Its pitch usually matches the instrument’s voice, but Maiga’s vocals are also a strong complement for the kora. Nio feels like a summer breeze that invites deep listening, or simply lying back and letting the sprays of notes wash over you. Why not? One of the compositions is even called “Ocean.” Maiga’s arrangements often owe more to contemporary jazz and New Age music than West African traditional songs, but it’s all good. Try “Ocean” and “Dadje” for examples of jazz infusions and hear him sing on “Kumo” and “Wato,” the second of which evokes a late night club feel.

 

Ros (Ricard Ros I Roig) is also from Barcelona. I really liked De la Terra with a big qualification. Ros is Roig plays flutes and the sac de mus (bagpipes) His six-track EP is a mix of exciting tunes and lovely pastoral pieces. The band–sometimes four pieces and sometimes five with the addition of brass–offers quieter treasures such as “Arlovins,” but  gets the room hopping with fast-paced material such as “Sac buit.” But let’s talk about the percussion, which throws off the balance. Much of it is the tambori of Axel Balzquez, who also plays delicate flute. When I watched Ros videos, Balquez's hand drums are more constrained but, on the recording, I mistook them for a drum machine. They are so front forward and repetitive that they distract from the melodies rather than frame them. Listen to the sylvan “Juno” and you’ll hear the difference when the percussion is tamped down. Two things would make this a great album: better engineering and ditching the gimmickry.

 

If you like dreamy Asian music, try the Heart of the Dragon Ensemble. It’s an “ensemble” in the broadest possible way: a Chinese arts collaboration based in London that brings together musicians, acrobats, dancers, and visual artists. (You might recognize similarities to Chinese “opera,” which couldn’t be less like how Westerners perceive that term.) The Art of the Chinese Xiao and Hulusi celebrates festivals devoted to literature and music. The intent is to fuse East Asian and Western music, but the latter is mostly guitar and piano, with Chinese instruments such as the zither-like guzheng, the two-string bowed erhu, and the many-fretted (and often dramatic) pipa the stars of the project. Try “Wild Geese Over the Sands” for calmness and “The Moon Before Dawn” for something a touch more lively. Overall, this is a soothing, meditative album. 

 

Rob Weir

Three Tousand Years of Longing is a Magical Discovery

 

Three Thousand Years of Longing (2022)

Directed by George Miller

United Artists Releasing, 108 minutes, R (mild nudity and violence)

★★★★

 

 

 

No one has ever accused Tilda Swinton of playing it safe when it comes to considering movie roles. She’s unorthodox in demeanor, temperament, and appearance–the sort of actress that shows up as a sultry vampire or looks like a David Bowie doppelganger. In Three Thousand Years of Longing she’s a cross between a nebbish librarian and a gal wanting to unleash her libido. Plus, she has her own djinn (genie).

 

This fantasy film is based on an A.S. Byatt story but could have been culled from 1001 Arabian Nights. Swinton is Alithea Binnie, a narrologist, an overly serious and dorky scholar of stories, myths, and legends. She’s analogous to Dan Brown’s symbologist Robert Langdon in that she can instantly recall detailed meanings embedded in obscure sources. She is in Istanbul for a conference when she stumbles into a shop, sidesteps the owner’s efforts to sell her something elegant, and leaves with a misshapen blue bottle that somehow appeals to her.

 

When she’s alone, she prises off the top, inhales spicy dust, and the giant form of a djinn fills the room. Most people would be alarmed by that, but Alithea isn’t most people. At first, she thinks she’s hallucinating—she’s prone to doing so—but she’s not. Nor is the bottle’s resident djinn (Idris Elba) typical in any way other than being required to grant three wishes. Alithea is not falling for that. She’s a narrologist after all, and she can’t think of the scenario in which a genie’s granted wishes turn out well.

 

Our unnamed djinn is very happy to be out of his bottle but is perplexed by her lack of desire to wish for anything. He tries all his wiles to tempt her, but Alithea only wants to listen. As we learn, he’s a powerful djinn but not a very strategic one. Alithea is thrilled by his stories of course, and the djinn has many. He has had numerous lovers over the centuries, including the Queen of Sheba, one of Suleiman’s concubines, and a Turkish merchant’s wife. But he has always managed to miscalculate and become reimprisoned in his bottle, once for 3000 years!

 

It would be safe to say that Alithea and her djinn make an odd couple no Broadway play or TV show could conjure. He continues to badger her into wishing for something–maybe it’s in the genie bylaws that you need to do that–but she is the ice to his fire. In essence, it’s a standoff between a powerful spirit and a canny dweeb. When Alethia finally does wish for one thing, her choice is surprising and is willingly granted.

 

You probably know that genies are common in arid lands, but not so much in damp climes. Complications arise when Alithea brings her bottled djinn to London. Let’s just say that adaptations are the order of the day.

 

Despite what I have written so far, Three Thousand Years of Longing is a film for adults, not Harry Potter in a bottle. It only works because director George Miller of Mad Max fame sets free two terrific actors to find their comfort levels with one another. Of the two, Swinton is the oddest, which is quite an accomplishment when your co-star is a mythical figure. Swinton is rational and stubborn in temperament; Idris is, by turn, pleading, stormy, resigned, and tender. As a djinn, though, he has all the time in the world!

 

Like the characters in this film–and it’s largely a pas de deux–I cycled through various moods and impressions. At first, I found the entire premise absurd. But I grew perplexed, then anxious. In the end I was charmed.

 

This is a quirky film and I’m not at all shocked that it fared poorly in theaters. Even after having gone to DVD and onto numerous streaming platforms it has largely fallen between the cracks. That’s a nice way of saying that not many people have seen it. My advice is to watch it and let it work its magic.

 

Rob Weir