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Dangerous rhythm: (l-r) Lopez and Gere
in Shall We Dance?
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Fancy
Free
By
Laura Leon
Shall
We Dance?
Directed
by Peter Chelsom
What seemed a very strange remake, Shall We Dance?
bears the unique prestige of being more its own picture than
a by-the-dots reissue of its predecessor, in this case the
enchanting Japanese film of the same name by Masayuki Suo.
It’s still about an executive who, haunted by some inexplicable
yearning, takes up ballroom dancing without family or business
associates knowing it. But whereas the first movie made hay
with the intricate nuances of Japanese society and sexual
roles, this newer, Americanized film plays the story very
generically.
It
would be next to impossible for director Peter Chelsom to
copy Suo’s story, if only for the fact that the same taboos
that beset his hero simply don’t exist in the U.S. of A. So
it’s not a big surprise to see that much of the humor driving
this version relates to confusion over one’s sexual preference
or predilections. In the case of protagonist John Clark (Richard
Gere), one of the more macho ballroom dancers assumes that
he is gay. Ha ha. In the case of John’s wife, Bev (Susan Sarandon),
she wonders if his newfound happiness is the afterglow of
a midlife affair.
Getting second billing is Jennifer Lopez, who plays dance
instructor Paulina, whose hauntingly fragile figure, seen
from the El train by John on his evening commute, compels
Clark to, literally, take a leap of faith. Lopez really looks
the part, but is given nothing much to do other than look
like she’s about to cry any minute—that is, when she isn’t
crying. There is a hint of steam from a nice dance sequence
between Paulina and John, but their romance is more a philosophical
thing, with nary a chance of impeding on the Clarks’ tranquil
domesticity.
What works better are the highly enjoyable dance sequences,
be they the lessons, taught by Paulina or the formidable Miss
Mitzi (a thoroughly delightful Anita Gillette), or, later,
the obligatory “big competition.” Bobbie (Lisa Ann Walter)
is an obnoxious blue-collar gal with a penchant for flashy
costumes and some real talent. Link (Stanley Tucci) is, by
day, John’s jock coworker, but, under cover of night, some
poorly applied self-tanner and a wig, he is the lord of the
cha cha. There’s also the gigantic Vern (Omar Miller) and
the aforementioned macho guy Chic (Bobby Cannavale). While
the competition bears none of the suspense and beauty of the
original, it does give off a wholesome, “go team” type of
quality.
Crammed into all this action is a delightful subplot, in which
Bev hires a private investigator (Richard Jenkins), who betrays
his own romanticism by falling first for his client and then
for—you guessed it—ballroom dancing. (By the way, Jenkins
has the best desk lunch scene since Walter Matthau in Charade.)
Sarandon, somehow, brings the focus back to a refreshing bit
of reality, in the way her anger and hurt are clearly more
about John’s secrecy than about his chosen hobby. And the
scene in which John finally comes clean about why he kept
mum for so long conveys more honesty about why couples keep
things from each other than stuff I’ve seen in far better
movies. Ultimately, Shall We Dance?’s best moves are
those that evoke the beauty of movement. Gere clearly has
a grand time hoofing it, and Lopez, toward the end, shows
off just how she got those taut ab muscles. Best of all, however,
is when Mitzi and her students, trudging homeward, stop, entranced
by a television store window in which all the boxes are playing
Fred Astaire and Cyd Charisse dancing in The Band Wagon.
The images of the two stars sauntering, plieing, vamping and
what have you washes over the starstruck visages of the gang,
and in one brief moment, you clearly understand the answer
to the title question.
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Taken
for a Ride
The
Motorcycle Diaries
Directed
by Walter Salles
In 1952, Ernesto Guevara de la Serna, a medical student, and
his older friend, Alberto Granada, a biochemist, set off from
Rosario, Argentina, to travel the length and breadth of South
America. Their trusty steed was a dilapidated motorcycle they
christened “the Mighty One.” In an act of both altruism and
resume building, they signed on as volunteers at a leper colony
for the last leg of their journey. Their months-long road
trip, which both men published books about, is given far greater
resonance by the fact that Ernesto, 23, was shortly to become
the iconic revolutionary Ché Guevara.
The
Motorcycle Diaries, directed by Walter Salles (Central
Station) is an overly picaresque and ultimately shallow
presentation of Guevara (Gael García Bernal) as a sensitive
young man, one not so different from many others from loving,
middle-class families. According to this beautifully filmed
travelogue, it’s the events on the long and winding road to
the sanitarium that planted the seeds of socialist insurrection
in Ernesto’s gentle heart. His friend Alberto (Rodrigo De
la Serna) is merely the comic foil, a vulgar rogue who fancies
himself a romantic conquistador. Never mind that Guevara was
already a well-traveled firebrand by the time of the trip.
Under Salle’s subtly reverential treatment, we don’t see the
slightest personality trait that might foretell of Ché, the
brilliant guerrilla-war tactician and Castro’s right-hand
executioner. This Ernesto is nearly beatific in his tenderness,
and Bernal doesn’t bring anything more to the role than his
delicate charisma. It’s Alberto, played with earthy gusto
by Argentinean TV actor De la Serna, who is the more fully
realized character. Despite his scam artistry, we get a strong
sense of Alberto’s stouthearted loyalty (Granada followed
Ché to, and through, Cuba).
Salles’ leisurely adaptation of their high adventure includes
a few talismanic events in between magnificent shots of the
untamed terrain and various run-ins with the locals. As soon
as they cross the border, Ernesto is dumped by his wealthy
girlfriend (through disinclination and coincidence, he remains
chaste for the whole trip). After the Mighty One bites the
dust, the men experience hunger and exposure and are reduced
to wheedling for food and shelter. They’re also brought into
contact with the oppression of the continent’s indigenous
people. In Peru, they share a campfire with a farming couple
who were forced off their land. The next day, the two men
watch in anger as disenfranchised natives are herded onto
a truck to work in the mines.
If there were more such encounters, perhaps the audience could
steep in the same realizations that Ernesto and Alberto do.
But after reveling in the ordinary, Salles tries to create
transcendence out of Ernesto’s internship at the leper colony,
where he fearlessly hugs and kisses the patients and finally
gives voice to his idea that all the countries of South America
should unite as one people—an idea that wouldn’t seem to mean
much to either the lepers or the Catholic nuns who care for
them.
And it may not matter to the viewer, who has been given very
little to go on concerning Guevara’s beliefs, political or
otherwise. In the opening narration, Ernesto refers to the
8,000-mile journey as “Two lives running parallel for a while,”
which Salles captures with lyrical immediacy. Problem is,
the audience is only along for the ride.
—Ann
Morrow
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Columns
& Opinions
