Georges Bizet's canonical, much-adapted opera, Carmen, is steeped in a profound sense of time and place, intrinsically tied to the Kingdom of Spain not only through plot and setting but through atmosphere and harmonious composition. An effect at the heart of Benjamin Millepied's rapturous, beguiling and not always cogent reimagining. Gone is the lush, varied Spanish plane and in its place, a barren, unforgiving Chihuahuan desert that is home to the Mexican-American border, and the various contemporary socio-political crises that come with it.
Noticeably stripped down and gritty, Carmen uses its setting effectively and taps into a form of timelessness and myth, retaining its operatic sensibilities to create a tangible, lucid fever dream that is as inviting as it is heartbreaking. However, Carmen is also home to a clear identity crisis, caught between being a melodrama and an avant-garde musical about two lovers on the run — it never quite succeeds at both. Guided by pure ambition, it too often sacrifices narrative force and momentum, manifesting as an adaptation that is laced with brilliance but is unsatisfying as a whole.
Paul Mescal stars as Aidan (the film's Don José), a Marine Corps veteran who suffers from PTSD and lives in a South Texas town where the only gainful employment rests in hunting down Mexican border hoppers. He clearly despises it but is convinced by his sister to join the militia, where on his first night, he butts heads with the ravishing, feisty Carmen (Melissa Barrera), who escapes Mexico after her mother is murdered. After gunning down one of his compatriots, the two flee across the American heartland in search of a new life in the City of Angels.
It's a simple plot given force by a palpable sense of magical realism. The unvarnished dance numbers and the mystic, almost hellish soundscape embolden the film's clever take on the border crisis and the racial divide within America. It's a transposition that is purposeful and impactful, layering contemporary commentary with a timeless story to create something that deftly marches to its own hypnotic beat. It's all too easy to become swept away by the film's entrancing, rhythmic first half, despite it being so unadorned and bare-boned. A breathtaking anti-epic that feels more like a product of a parallel universe.
Jörg Widmer's sweeping cinematography is instrumental in achieving this effect. The majestic lens, awash with gorgeous sun-drenched vistas, brings the barren, hostile Chihuahuan Desert to life. Widmer and Millepied build a dynamic, picturesque visual language that is as intoxicating as it is unforgiving, distilling the very essence of the heartland's raw, intimate beauty. As Carmen transitions to a more urban setting, its cityscapes glisten and shimmer with the same melancholic beauty. The cascading camerawork casts a spell, conjuring surreal images that are sure to stay with viewers, like an elusive figure covered in reflectors or a glass filling itself with sand from a foreign battlefield.
Yet, it's Nicholas Britell's choral, chiming score that wonderfully grounds and invigorates the film's technical design. Building off his piercing, detailed work in Moonlight, the score reconceptualizes the opera's motifs into stunning, beautifully tragic ballads that permeate almost every moment. Defying categorization, it seamlessly shifts from wistful symphonies to Latin-infused dance medleys to aggressive, melodious rap songs ("Pelea" is a bonafide banger). It's an early contender for score of the year, fully capable of standing on its own outside of the film.
But for all Carmen has going for it, its visual and sonic design takes on a more numbing effect as the film trudges on. Millepied is driven by a desire to reformulate the opera for the modern age, but his vision is too caught up in a need to be different. As a result, the film emphasizes its surreal ambitions at the cost of cathartic, convincing storytelling — undermining the simple thrills of the original's straightforward narrative. Millepied's dream-like structure is achieved through editing that goes against the chronological grain, often randomly cutting to non-sequiturs that have nothing to do with the scene at hand. While it injects an ethereal edge into the film, much of the experience ends up feeling aimless, confused and utterly lacking in dramatic punch.
The transitions to the dance numbers also feel jarring, popping into the story without real rhyme or reason, ultimately serving form over function. The choreography itself is also a mixed bag, as it haphazardly shifts between elegance and extravagance, mostly given force by Britell's music. While the final two sequences are graceful ballets of violence and heartbreak, much of it is entirely forgettable, only serving to pad the runtime.
Moreover, Carmen's final act does away with its painterly landscapes and becomes far too constricted, nipping its momentum as it gets tied to a single location. In Millepied's quest to establish a singular identity, Carmen woefully struggles to find one, conflicted on whether it's an experimental dance piece or straight melodrama — achieving middling results in both respects.
Yet, Mescal and Barrera's innate, magnetic chemistry makes the film's various shortcomings a pleasure to sit through. Mescal nails the humble American persona, with his wholly subtle and lived-in performance clashing perfectly with the fiery Barrera. The two radiate a mesmeric aura that does a whole lot with very little, with each of their shared glances containing a world of desire that is cognizant of the demons they both carry. Frequent Pedro Almodóvar collaborator, Rossy de Palma as Masilda, Carmen's mother's best friend, is also a fascinating highlight. With her expressive visage and promiscuous tongue more akin to a classic sorceress than a nightclub owner.
Carmen peaks far too early, with its flashes of brilliance repeatedly undermined by a director trying too hard to be unique. While the experience oozes style, it's sadly never in the service of the story. Though Carmen does justice to Bizet's classic opera with its stunning visuals and music, it fails to make the same emotional impact. A cinematic experiment that is very admirable but rarely loveable.
(Mongrel Media)Noticeably stripped down and gritty, Carmen uses its setting effectively and taps into a form of timelessness and myth, retaining its operatic sensibilities to create a tangible, lucid fever dream that is as inviting as it is heartbreaking. However, Carmen is also home to a clear identity crisis, caught between being a melodrama and an avant-garde musical about two lovers on the run — it never quite succeeds at both. Guided by pure ambition, it too often sacrifices narrative force and momentum, manifesting as an adaptation that is laced with brilliance but is unsatisfying as a whole.
Paul Mescal stars as Aidan (the film's Don José), a Marine Corps veteran who suffers from PTSD and lives in a South Texas town where the only gainful employment rests in hunting down Mexican border hoppers. He clearly despises it but is convinced by his sister to join the militia, where on his first night, he butts heads with the ravishing, feisty Carmen (Melissa Barrera), who escapes Mexico after her mother is murdered. After gunning down one of his compatriots, the two flee across the American heartland in search of a new life in the City of Angels.
It's a simple plot given force by a palpable sense of magical realism. The unvarnished dance numbers and the mystic, almost hellish soundscape embolden the film's clever take on the border crisis and the racial divide within America. It's a transposition that is purposeful and impactful, layering contemporary commentary with a timeless story to create something that deftly marches to its own hypnotic beat. It's all too easy to become swept away by the film's entrancing, rhythmic first half, despite it being so unadorned and bare-boned. A breathtaking anti-epic that feels more like a product of a parallel universe.
Jörg Widmer's sweeping cinematography is instrumental in achieving this effect. The majestic lens, awash with gorgeous sun-drenched vistas, brings the barren, hostile Chihuahuan Desert to life. Widmer and Millepied build a dynamic, picturesque visual language that is as intoxicating as it is unforgiving, distilling the very essence of the heartland's raw, intimate beauty. As Carmen transitions to a more urban setting, its cityscapes glisten and shimmer with the same melancholic beauty. The cascading camerawork casts a spell, conjuring surreal images that are sure to stay with viewers, like an elusive figure covered in reflectors or a glass filling itself with sand from a foreign battlefield.
Yet, it's Nicholas Britell's choral, chiming score that wonderfully grounds and invigorates the film's technical design. Building off his piercing, detailed work in Moonlight, the score reconceptualizes the opera's motifs into stunning, beautifully tragic ballads that permeate almost every moment. Defying categorization, it seamlessly shifts from wistful symphonies to Latin-infused dance medleys to aggressive, melodious rap songs ("Pelea" is a bonafide banger). It's an early contender for score of the year, fully capable of standing on its own outside of the film.
But for all Carmen has going for it, its visual and sonic design takes on a more numbing effect as the film trudges on. Millepied is driven by a desire to reformulate the opera for the modern age, but his vision is too caught up in a need to be different. As a result, the film emphasizes its surreal ambitions at the cost of cathartic, convincing storytelling — undermining the simple thrills of the original's straightforward narrative. Millepied's dream-like structure is achieved through editing that goes against the chronological grain, often randomly cutting to non-sequiturs that have nothing to do with the scene at hand. While it injects an ethereal edge into the film, much of the experience ends up feeling aimless, confused and utterly lacking in dramatic punch.
The transitions to the dance numbers also feel jarring, popping into the story without real rhyme or reason, ultimately serving form over function. The choreography itself is also a mixed bag, as it haphazardly shifts between elegance and extravagance, mostly given force by Britell's music. While the final two sequences are graceful ballets of violence and heartbreak, much of it is entirely forgettable, only serving to pad the runtime.
Moreover, Carmen's final act does away with its painterly landscapes and becomes far too constricted, nipping its momentum as it gets tied to a single location. In Millepied's quest to establish a singular identity, Carmen woefully struggles to find one, conflicted on whether it's an experimental dance piece or straight melodrama — achieving middling results in both respects.
Yet, Mescal and Barrera's innate, magnetic chemistry makes the film's various shortcomings a pleasure to sit through. Mescal nails the humble American persona, with his wholly subtle and lived-in performance clashing perfectly with the fiery Barrera. The two radiate a mesmeric aura that does a whole lot with very little, with each of their shared glances containing a world of desire that is cognizant of the demons they both carry. Frequent Pedro Almodóvar collaborator, Rossy de Palma as Masilda, Carmen's mother's best friend, is also a fascinating highlight. With her expressive visage and promiscuous tongue more akin to a classic sorceress than a nightclub owner.
Carmen peaks far too early, with its flashes of brilliance repeatedly undermined by a director trying too hard to be unique. While the experience oozes style, it's sadly never in the service of the story. Though Carmen does justice to Bizet's classic opera with its stunning visuals and music, it fails to make the same emotional impact. A cinematic experiment that is very admirable but rarely loveable.
