Marx, with forgiveness, called a rumbous form “Fetish of merchandise” and about that concept built all the rest.
What German came to say is, basically, that the goods have a ghostly nature that does nothing but hide the exploitation inherent to the creation of surplus value.
That at the beginning.
Then a society came, now, that more than simple things actually produces things that, in their unreal force, do nothing more than add fog into fog, ghosts to confusion.
And so.
Let’s say that ‘the good pattern’, by Fernando León de Aranoa, plays in this terrain not so much Marxist or postmarxist or antimarxist as simple and plethorically revealing and chaotic.
It is about composing a comedy with the materials traditionally attached to the drama.
It is social but tremendously selfish cinema.
It is a horror movie not so much because of sinister and right.
The idea is to offer a portrait of what happens to us very aware that the labor reality is that it is, it has ceased to be that hard thing of greedy entrepreneurs and covered proletarian.
Now, it tells us the tape, the mechanics by perverse force of the market and of desire can everything.
And they flow between the cracks.
Nobody escapes the logic of the desire that is consumed in the festive celebration of consumption.
We have arrived.
The film, to situate, count five days in the life of the owner of a family business.
White scales, from the White Lord, wait for the visit of the Commission on which the local prize of business excellence depends.
Everything must be immaculate, perfect and, of course, balanced.
However, and suddenly, things begin to twist.
The head of production crazy from jealousy, an accountant dismissed camping megaphone in front of the factory, the Becaria conspires to stop being and the good pattern does what it can to be good.
Although that takes you to the worst of the evils.
Everything are braided desires converted into merchandise that, suddenly, are transformed into fetishes.
It is not so much the fetishism of merchandise as the mercantilism of the fetish.
Almost 20 years seen from ‘Mondays to the sun’ with which he won the golden shell right here in San Sebastián in 2002, Lion de Aranoa does not hide that what it is about now is to offer everything that was not seen then
, the counterplane.
If that was a history of unemployed that were painted from a fractured identity by the market and its industrial reconversions, the one that occupies us is a story of a man so aware of being exactly who he wants to be that even scares.
And have fun.
Bator, but nice.
Let’s say that the problem is about succeeding.
Of course, everything around him follows, as then, perfectly broken.
It is the market, friend.
The strategy of the film is nothing other than placing a huge Javier Bardem and let the world, without exaggerations or caricatures, without excesses or miseries, appear before him.
And it is discovered in the complex and very confused integrity of it.
Pure fetish.
It is comedy because, as Mack Sennett well knew, a drama is the pain caused by a stepfather and a farce is that a man falls into a ditch and dies.
The film runs through the screen with a martial lightness that swepts everything.
Sports with the clarity of a revelation that invites with the same evidence to laughter and despair.
Everything is a rude disaster, but as close and unreal at the same time, it can not be more than our most intimate and personal disaster.
The performance of which before, in ‘on Mondays in the sun’, was holy and is now white approaches the proverbial.
Each gesture is there to draw the contour of a precipice.
Bergson said that laughter suspends emotion and that causes reflection pure and without interference.
And that is where a Bardem is applied that is transformed up to a place to two steps of the miracle.
From the rhythmic click of the tongue in the way of tilting head passing through those embraces so distressed, everything crapes the perfect description of the hilarious and very sad at the same time disrupted in which we are.
What is left is a movie, but also an event that nobody comes out unscathed: neither workers without consciousness nor politicians are from right or lefties or journalists are paper or digitally nor jurored them with or without
club.
Nobody.
It is a party and a wake.
Let us put us as we put, we are designed to be ridiculous and that, with Bergson, makes us mark distance with the facts, by very brutal that they are, and we get closer to others.
Even in the vellators.
Especially there.
Call it masterpiece or pure fetish.
For the rest, the official section was completed with the work of the Chinese debutant Zhang Ji ‘Fire on the Plain’.
Input, the name of Diao Yinan as a producer puts on warning.
Indeed, the director of larger jobs as ‘The Lake of the Wild Goose’ or ‘Black Coal’ officia of something more than just inspiration in a movie that could well be considered if not yours, by manners, atmosphere and despair, almost yours.
A series of murders in the city of Fentun serve as an excuse for a ‘Thriller’ that is actually just Apocalypse.
The existential adventure of a partner separated by something more than the misfortune guides the steps to a hallucinated and immoderic portrait of a city and a time falling apart.
When young people be seen again eight years later, she, who dreamed of passing to another city, is mutilated and lives hooked to morphine.
Everything is fall.
Zhang Ji makes up and unscrupulous a rare poem of the desolation of the hand of a fractured and uncomfortable story so close to the uneasiness as of the same vacuum.
It is not what is said the funniest way to end the day;
But yes, the senses happy surprise of a festival on a streak.
