So dense, so overcrammed with stuff, is the movie The Tree of Blood that it could serve the needs of a soap opera for at least a year.
Written by director Medem in collaboration with one Scott Page-Pagter, it's full of melodramatic materials treated in a rather unmelodramatic way. The movie spans the length of Spain, from the Costa Brava to Pais Vasco, the land of the vacas on a collision course with the land of the toros. I already wrote a long review that somehow got snuffed by the browser before I could press Submit. I'm not going to summarise the plot again, not just because I'm vexed at losing my first draft, but because one can hardly keep track of everything that is tossed into the mix of this movie, even after multiple viewings.
Suffice to say, The Tree of Blood has all the themes, all the elements of classic Medem, so if you know his stuff you'll probably feel this movie is a sort of artistic summation, but not necessarily the summit of his artistry. Realistically there's far too much, but on the plus side it sure ain't boring. Just a bit too busy, ping-ponging from one crisis to another.
I'll tell you, there are doubtless many reasons why a viewer might be reluctant to revisit a movie, even one they liked. Perhaps because of one tough scene, or a plot twist that spoiled things, or just because it is too exhausting an experience to want to go through it all again any time soon. How often could you sit through The Passion of the Christ, for example? Once a decade. In this case, an overdose of sex appeal is the sticking point. Actor Joaquin Furriel, in the role of Olmo, is so hyper-masculine he scarcely appears human; more like a werewolf in a man costume. He's matched by the unbearably hot Ursula Corbero, playing the role of Rebeca; adult Rebeca, I should say, since there is also baby Rebeca, six-year old Rebeca, young teen Rebeca, all different actresses. Corbero flaunts a body that, not since Nastassja Kinski made all our eyes water in Cat People (1982), has there been such a derriere in a movie, such stupendous legs. It makes one want to cry and scream and smash the screen. Why, why, why must I know that such limbs, such a tush exists in the world?
The movie has a massive complication of details, scenes, events, plot points, all tangled together like the roots of the tree, all separated like long hair brushed before bed, all arranged to make a picture like tiny pieces of colour in a mosaic. The construction, the visual beauty, these things make Tree of Blood successful. But what actually happens is pure, mad, melodrama. Melodrama, eroticism, mystery, magical realism, all thrown together to make some kind of crazy punch drink. Take a shot of it and you'll be spinning, smiling too.
Written by director Medem in collaboration with one Scott Page-Pagter, it's full of melodramatic materials treated in a rather unmelodramatic way. The movie spans the length of Spain, from the Costa Brava to Pais Vasco, the land of the vacas on a collision course with the land of the toros. I already wrote a long review that somehow got snuffed by the browser before I could press Submit. I'm not going to summarise the plot again, not just because I'm vexed at losing my first draft, but because one can hardly keep track of everything that is tossed into the mix of this movie, even after multiple viewings.
Suffice to say, The Tree of Blood has all the themes, all the elements of classic Medem, so if you know his stuff you'll probably feel this movie is a sort of artistic summation, but not necessarily the summit of his artistry. Realistically there's far too much, but on the plus side it sure ain't boring. Just a bit too busy, ping-ponging from one crisis to another.
I'll tell you, there are doubtless many reasons why a viewer might be reluctant to revisit a movie, even one they liked. Perhaps because of one tough scene, or a plot twist that spoiled things, or just because it is too exhausting an experience to want to go through it all again any time soon. How often could you sit through The Passion of the Christ, for example? Once a decade. In this case, an overdose of sex appeal is the sticking point. Actor Joaquin Furriel, in the role of Olmo, is so hyper-masculine he scarcely appears human; more like a werewolf in a man costume. He's matched by the unbearably hot Ursula Corbero, playing the role of Rebeca; adult Rebeca, I should say, since there is also baby Rebeca, six-year old Rebeca, young teen Rebeca, all different actresses. Corbero flaunts a body that, not since Nastassja Kinski made all our eyes water in Cat People (1982), has there been such a derriere in a movie, such stupendous legs. It makes one want to cry and scream and smash the screen. Why, why, why must I know that such limbs, such a tush exists in the world?
The movie has a massive complication of details, scenes, events, plot points, all tangled together like the roots of the tree, all separated like long hair brushed before bed, all arranged to make a picture like tiny pieces of colour in a mosaic. The construction, the visual beauty, these things make Tree of Blood successful. But what actually happens is pure, mad, melodrama. Melodrama, eroticism, mystery, magical realism, all thrown together to make some kind of crazy punch drink. Take a shot of it and you'll be spinning, smiling too.