Capote разочаровал. Американцы в очередной раз расписались в своем неумении снимать психологические фильмы. Они похоже просто не понимают, что это такое. Они почему-то думают, что психология - это про маньяков, насильников и канибаллов. И чем больше он зарезал и съел, тем больше психологии. А если герой еще и голубой, то вещь можно сразу в шедевры записывать.
Короче, получилась тоскливая тягомотина, без мыслей, без какой-либо внятной идеи. Хоффман в этой роли, конечно, весьма забавен, Оскара ему дали за дело. Но режиссер слил по полной, режиссура нулевая.
А вот Brokeback Mountain неожиданно понравился. Ang Lee молодец, раскрутил в своей буддийской медитативной манере и получилось очень хорошо, ровно, убедительно. Без каких-либо претензий на глубину, а глубина получилась сама собой.
посмотрел фильм Capote - в чем смысл?
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Pups
- Уже с Приветом
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Мне фильм показался неплохим. Вот review, которое в принципе отвечает на поставленный вопрос "О чем же кино
"GETTING THE STORY “Capote” and “Good Night, and Good Luck.”
by DAVID DENBY
On November 15, 1959, while luxuriating in abundant literary and social success in New York, the young Truman Capote was called to an unexpectedly spartan test. On that day, in Holcomb, Kansas, two ex-cons looking for money and thrills murdered four members of the Clutter family on their farm. A few weeks later, Capote, who had been eager to expand the boundaries of journalism, went to investigate the case for The New Yorker. Whatever his ambitions, Capote was an odd man for a police-blotter job. He was born in 1924 in New Orleans, and grew up in Alabama, Connecticut, and New York, where he went to the Trinity School for a while and worked briefly as an office boy at this magazine. For years, many readers (and, in particular, writers) have wondered how this habitué of Le Pavillon and La Côte Basque, with his high, thin, goose-quill voice and his floating palms, could possibly have gained the trust of the straightforward men and women of rural Kansas. In “Capote,” which stars Philip Seymour Hoffman, the writer, Dan Futterman, and the director, Bennett Miller, satisfy that curiosity. “Capote,” which draws extensively on Gerald Clarke’s 1988 biography, is devoted almost entirely to the five years in which Capote lived and wrote “In Cold Blood,” an assignment that became a four-part series, a best-selling book, and a literary classic. Small-scaled and limited, “Capote” is nevertheless the most intelligent, detailed, and absorbing film ever made about a writer’s working method and character—in this case, a mixed quiver of strength, guile, malice, and mendacity.
Moviegoers who have followed Philip Seymour Hoffman’s supporting work in such films as “The Talented Mr. Ripley” and “Cold Mountain” sensed that he had a lot more to give, and here it is. As the cinematographer, Adam Kimmel, moves in close, Hoffman’s Capote looms up like some strange Rushmoric outcropping—heavy-domed skull, golden hair, pink skin, double-peaked upper lip, owlish glasses, and blue eyes that occasionally peer directly at the bruised ego and longings of the person in front of him. Hoffman starts with the physical and works inward to the soul. He’s only a few years older than Capote was when he went to Kansas, but his thicker features seem to forecast the coarsening of face and body and the spreading spiritual rot that afflicted the writer in the years after the book came out. As Hoffman plays him, Capote is an actor, too: a wounded personality who remade himself; a public figure capable of facing down scorn. Holding forth at parties with cigarette and glass in hand, he dispenses rancorous gossip in a way that cuts off any possible life beyond his perfect sentences.
Although Capote, working hard, eventually befriended several people in Holcomb, his first foray there would have been a disaster were it not for his childhood pal Nelle Harper Lee (Catherine Keener), who was soon to publish “To Kill a Mockingbird,” and who came along as his assistant. As Capote waltzes around the dour courthouses and landscapes in a sheepskin coat and an enormous Bergdorf’s scarf, Lee makes the initial contacts and performs the introductions. Never taking a note, he boasts of near-total recall; he boasts, too, of the book he’s going to write before he has written a word of it. He sobers up only when he sets eyes on one of the captured murderers, Perry Smith. (The movie almost dispenses with the other killer, Dick Hickock.) As Perry, Clifton Collins, Jr., is not as sensual and insinuating as Robert Blake, who crooned his way through the role in the frightening 1967 movie version of “In Cold Blood,” but he’s darkly handsome, with an abashed, yearning manner. Alone with Perry in his cell, Capote is stunned: this beautiful sociopath is material—a gold mine, in fact—and also a sympathetic human being whose miserable childhood and need for recognition match Capote’s own history and ravenous hungers. “It’s O.K. It’s Truman. It’s your friend,” Hoffman says in his strangely incisive baby voice. In those early moments of interest and empathy, the masterpiece is born.
Perry warms to Capote’s attentions, and the rest of the movie turns into a complicated struggle between the two of them, with a desperate Perry telling Capote enough of his story to try to motivate the writer to help him, and a devious Capote both kid-gloving and bullying Perry until he opens up and describes the night of the murders. Determined to create a new form—the “nonfiction novel”—Capote gets in deep with Perry. As the court appeals go on, staying the executions, their relations become an artistically necessary but morally questionable mixture of affection, fascination, and exploitation. But by 1965, Capote, exhausted from his bouts of research and writing, turns ruthless and antic; Hoffman swings back to party mode as Capote privately and publicly longs for the men to hang so that he can finish his manuscript.
Strictly speaking, this intense little movie is not an independent film: it was a dying major, United Artists, that entrusted a reported seven million dollars to the former high-school friends Dan Futterman, an actor, and Bennett Miller, who had directed only the documentary “The Cruise.” But “Capote” is unimaginable without the independent-film movement of the past twenty years or so. Apart from some sweeping shots of an extremely horizontal Kansas (the movie was actually shot in Manitoba), the filmmakers work intimately, with an easy, unstressed understanding of such things as Capote’s homosexuality and the fervent solicitude that his friends felt for him—solicitude mixed with jealousy, exasperation, and dismay. No doubt people will pick at inaccuracies in the portrait and say, “That’s not Truman,” but “Capote” is Truman enough—and an image likely to make any writer grimace in recognition. There are some oddities: Harper Lee’s character is a little fuzzy, and the filmmakers turn William Shawn (Bob Balaban), the editor of The New Yorker, into an aggressive force who pushes the plot along. For the record, Shawn was not in the habit of demanding the bloody details in stories about murder, or of rushing off to the Midwest to keep his writers company at executions. Finally, the filmmakers’ suggestion that Capote never recovered from the death of Perry Smith, or from the success of “In Cold Blood,” strikes me as doubly sentimental. Capote was ultimately done in by alcohol. Yet, however one interprets it, the finale is acrid: the chronicler of death triumphs, and then has nowhere to go but to his own inglorious end.
"GETTING THE STORY “Capote” and “Good Night, and Good Luck.”
by DAVID DENBY
On November 15, 1959, while luxuriating in abundant literary and social success in New York, the young Truman Capote was called to an unexpectedly spartan test. On that day, in Holcomb, Kansas, two ex-cons looking for money and thrills murdered four members of the Clutter family on their farm. A few weeks later, Capote, who had been eager to expand the boundaries of journalism, went to investigate the case for The New Yorker. Whatever his ambitions, Capote was an odd man for a police-blotter job. He was born in 1924 in New Orleans, and grew up in Alabama, Connecticut, and New York, where he went to the Trinity School for a while and worked briefly as an office boy at this magazine. For years, many readers (and, in particular, writers) have wondered how this habitué of Le Pavillon and La Côte Basque, with his high, thin, goose-quill voice and his floating palms, could possibly have gained the trust of the straightforward men and women of rural Kansas. In “Capote,” which stars Philip Seymour Hoffman, the writer, Dan Futterman, and the director, Bennett Miller, satisfy that curiosity. “Capote,” which draws extensively on Gerald Clarke’s 1988 biography, is devoted almost entirely to the five years in which Capote lived and wrote “In Cold Blood,” an assignment that became a four-part series, a best-selling book, and a literary classic. Small-scaled and limited, “Capote” is nevertheless the most intelligent, detailed, and absorbing film ever made about a writer’s working method and character—in this case, a mixed quiver of strength, guile, malice, and mendacity.
Moviegoers who have followed Philip Seymour Hoffman’s supporting work in such films as “The Talented Mr. Ripley” and “Cold Mountain” sensed that he had a lot more to give, and here it is. As the cinematographer, Adam Kimmel, moves in close, Hoffman’s Capote looms up like some strange Rushmoric outcropping—heavy-domed skull, golden hair, pink skin, double-peaked upper lip, owlish glasses, and blue eyes that occasionally peer directly at the bruised ego and longings of the person in front of him. Hoffman starts with the physical and works inward to the soul. He’s only a few years older than Capote was when he went to Kansas, but his thicker features seem to forecast the coarsening of face and body and the spreading spiritual rot that afflicted the writer in the years after the book came out. As Hoffman plays him, Capote is an actor, too: a wounded personality who remade himself; a public figure capable of facing down scorn. Holding forth at parties with cigarette and glass in hand, he dispenses rancorous gossip in a way that cuts off any possible life beyond his perfect sentences.
Although Capote, working hard, eventually befriended several people in Holcomb, his first foray there would have been a disaster were it not for his childhood pal Nelle Harper Lee (Catherine Keener), who was soon to publish “To Kill a Mockingbird,” and who came along as his assistant. As Capote waltzes around the dour courthouses and landscapes in a sheepskin coat and an enormous Bergdorf’s scarf, Lee makes the initial contacts and performs the introductions. Never taking a note, he boasts of near-total recall; he boasts, too, of the book he’s going to write before he has written a word of it. He sobers up only when he sets eyes on one of the captured murderers, Perry Smith. (The movie almost dispenses with the other killer, Dick Hickock.) As Perry, Clifton Collins, Jr., is not as sensual and insinuating as Robert Blake, who crooned his way through the role in the frightening 1967 movie version of “In Cold Blood,” but he’s darkly handsome, with an abashed, yearning manner. Alone with Perry in his cell, Capote is stunned: this beautiful sociopath is material—a gold mine, in fact—and also a sympathetic human being whose miserable childhood and need for recognition match Capote’s own history and ravenous hungers. “It’s O.K. It’s Truman. It’s your friend,” Hoffman says in his strangely incisive baby voice. In those early moments of interest and empathy, the masterpiece is born.
Perry warms to Capote’s attentions, and the rest of the movie turns into a complicated struggle between the two of them, with a desperate Perry telling Capote enough of his story to try to motivate the writer to help him, and a devious Capote both kid-gloving and bullying Perry until he opens up and describes the night of the murders. Determined to create a new form—the “nonfiction novel”—Capote gets in deep with Perry. As the court appeals go on, staying the executions, their relations become an artistically necessary but morally questionable mixture of affection, fascination, and exploitation. But by 1965, Capote, exhausted from his bouts of research and writing, turns ruthless and antic; Hoffman swings back to party mode as Capote privately and publicly longs for the men to hang so that he can finish his manuscript.
Strictly speaking, this intense little movie is not an independent film: it was a dying major, United Artists, that entrusted a reported seven million dollars to the former high-school friends Dan Futterman, an actor, and Bennett Miller, who had directed only the documentary “The Cruise.” But “Capote” is unimaginable without the independent-film movement of the past twenty years or so. Apart from some sweeping shots of an extremely horizontal Kansas (the movie was actually shot in Manitoba), the filmmakers work intimately, with an easy, unstressed understanding of such things as Capote’s homosexuality and the fervent solicitude that his friends felt for him—solicitude mixed with jealousy, exasperation, and dismay. No doubt people will pick at inaccuracies in the portrait and say, “That’s not Truman,” but “Capote” is Truman enough—and an image likely to make any writer grimace in recognition. There are some oddities: Harper Lee’s character is a little fuzzy, and the filmmakers turn William Shawn (Bob Balaban), the editor of The New Yorker, into an aggressive force who pushes the plot along. For the record, Shawn was not in the habit of demanding the bloody details in stories about murder, or of rushing off to the Midwest to keep his writers company at executions. Finally, the filmmakers’ suggestion that Capote never recovered from the death of Perry Smith, or from the success of “In Cold Blood,” strikes me as doubly sentimental. Capote was ultimately done in by alcohol. Yet, however one interprets it, the finale is acrid: the chronicler of death triumphs, and then has nowhere to go but to his own inglorious end.