BINOCHE SOBS IN HEADSCARF, VALENTINO STEPS DOWN: VENICE REVIEWS
Review by Farah Nayeri

Bloomberg
Aug 29 2008

Aug. 29 (Bloomberg) — Juliette Binoche has no language problems
acting in the Iranian movie "Shirin." She never opens her mouth.

Binoche is one of 114 silent, headscarf-wearing actresses in Iranian
filmmaker Abbas Kiarostami’s movie, screened at the Venice Film
Festival. The women’s faces are shown one by one as they watch the
filmed adaptation — heard but not seen by us — of the 12th-century
epic poem "Khosrow and Shirin," about the thwarted love of a Persian
king and an Armenian princess.

Binoche, wrapped loosely in a headscarf and looking gaunt in the
grayish light, pops up briefly in the film’s first half hour, gazing
sadly at the screen. When the camera later comes back to her, tears
are streaming down her face.

Other cast members, Iranian and of all ages, also come into
intermittent focus. They smile faintly when the plot gives them
reason to, cringe when the king slays his enemy, and cry when he
marries another woman and leaves Shirin hopelessly alone.

Binoche was absent from the film’s Venice press conference. Asked
about her headscarf, Kiarostami paraphrased her as saying it was
"out of respect for those who choose to wear it, and in sympathy with
those who are obliged to."

How the production was put together is at least as intriguing
as the film itself. The set consisted of four movie- theater
seats. Each actress was told to sit and stare, for five minutes, at
a piece of paper marked with three dots, and conjure up key personal
memories. When all 114 were done emoting, Kiarostami spent six months
putting the pieces together like a puzzle, making their expressions
fit the drama.

"Shirin" is the slowest movie by Kiarostami, who is already known
for plotless musings on cinema. This is his tribute to the filmgoing
public, the fulfillment of a lifelong wish to watch the viewer
watch. The end result is a triumph of form over content, medium
over message. Still, it’s easy to be drawn into the unseen drama
and the musicality of the Persian verse — especially if you speak
Farsi. Rating: **1/2.

Valentino

Valentino Garavani was, for close to 50 years, the lone Italian in
Parisian haute couture: a gifted designer who dressed generations
of past and present royals, Hollywood stars, and high-society New
Yorkers in his signature red. His time ended last January when he
produced his final collection and bowed out, allowing the fashion
house’s new shareholders to usher in a thirtysomething substitute.

The story of Valentino’s spectacular rise and voluntary exit is
movingly told in a documentary by Vanity Fair contributor Matt
Tyrnauer, "Valentino: The Last Emperor," screened and well received
at Venice. For two years, Tyrnauer trailed Valentino and his business
partner and companion Giancarlo Giammetti as they bickered daily over
the ins and outs of their fashion empire.

Machine Following

"There was a machine following me everywhere, even when I went to the
toilet," the beige-suited couturier told reporters in Venice after
posing with model Eva Herzigova. "It bothered me, but then I accepted."

The documentary opens in his Rome atelier, where senior seamstresses
fuss over every flare and fold of a luxury fabric, stick pins in
mannequins, and storm off when all is not right. Sitting amidst them
like a king at court is Valentino himself, who has flares put in, then
taken out, then put back in. This, we discover to nostalgia-inducing
waves of Fellini film music, is the secret of his ageless chic.

As the designer unashamedly displays ill temper on camera, snapping at
Giammetti every chance he gets, we follow him around his many homes:
the splendid chateau outside Paris, the villa on Rome’s Via Appia
Antica, the chalet in Gstaad, and the T.M. Blue One, a 46-meter yacht
where Warhol’s portraits of him hang.

Elton John

We watch the pair entertain a guest list that would give any paparazzo
an epileptic fit. Gwyneth Paltrow and Elton John, among others,
arrive to toast them in their twilight moment at a magnificent party
in the chateau.

There are plenty of funny moments, starting, of course, with the
spats. "You look a little too tan," Giammetti warns the leather-faced
Valentino in a chauffeur-driven limo. When Valentino poses with his
pugs and boasts of how good they are during photo shoots, one roams
off to urinate on the parquet.

Capitalism soon sends tremors through their empire, forcing them
to sell bigger and bigger slices. Valentino and Giammetti fight to
the last, then give up, organizing a series of farewell bashes in
spectacular European settings.

First-time director Tyrnauer’s documentary lacks the finish of
others recently screened on Mike Tyson or Marlon Brando. What he
does convey is the touching relationship between the designer and his
silver-haired, behind-the-scenes guy, whose role is only now becoming
publicly known.

Giammetti himself puts it best. "To be with Valentino as a friend,
a lover, or an employee is a bit the same," he sighs. "You need a
lot of patience." Rating: ***.