I agree with the general enthusiasm that reviewers here have expressed for this film -- indeed, I share with you what seems to be a real affection for it.
The idea is strangely similar to a film from decades ago, "The Yellow Rolls-Royce." In that film, the yellow Rolls passes through the hands of four owners, and with each owner comes a story of the life of the owner and his friends during his association with the automobile. It was not as good a film as "The Red Violin," by any means, but the parallel is curious.
"The Red Violin" is, indeed, a wonderful film, by any criterion one might apply to a film. My remarks, however, speak to what has been said here about the film -- and to what has not been said.
I viewed the film on DVD just a day or two ago. When I sat back to think about it, I realized, above all, that this is a very slyly droll film. The romance and fine sentiments that everyone speaks of are all well and good, but they hardly speak to the artistic heart of this film -- which is humor, irony, satire, and -- well -- fun.
Didn't anyone notice the extraordinary lack of sentimentality in this film? The lack of romance? Oh, romance is present -- in the form of a sort of parody of romance, especially in the segment depicting Pope's possession of the instrument. Then there was the wonderful -- and perfectly comic -- performance of Jean-Luc Bideau, culminating with the death of his young prodigy, a death which, if you noticed, was less tragic than it was gently comical and ironic. No one seemed terribly sad when the poor tyke toppled over -- they seemed chiefly bemused.
The "life" of the instrument is then continued by dint of an act of grave-robbery, as it passes into the hands of rogues and gypsies, on its way toward even more extraordinary, and more lunatic, ownership.
All the while, we are watching Moritz (Samuel L. Jackson), vetting the instrument for Duval's, chasing down the intimate secret of its varnish, and generally playing the perfectionist, business-like expert. Ah, however -- we discover that what his heart truly is set on is simple larceny (and, incidentally) putting one over on a pompous would-be owner of the violin -- a bumptious bidder who is correct in his charge that Moritz had warned him off the instrument for self-serving reasons. The irony sizzles when the butt of Moritz's trickery buys the fake red violin. Moritz then escapes with the real article to give to his own child -- another irony, because, as much as he knows about the violin, he does not realize that he may be passing on to his offspring, along with the instrument, a virulent curse.
A lovely film, an ironic film, a very tongue-in-cheek film, and a very funny film, this is (albeit with some drama and pathos); but it is neither sentimental nor romantic. Quite the contrary. From the beginning -- and others have noted this -- Bussotti is a singularly unsentimental man. We see this in his treatment of Anna and in his treatment of his apprentices. He was clearly distraught at his wife's death; but it immediately became for him another problem to overcome before getting on with his work.
I loved this film for its beauty, its wit (a quality that today's movie viewing public should be better schooled in), for its technical acumen (cinematography, sets, and so on), for its clever structure, and for its masterful quality of spoof and satire, blended with a curious innocence in everyone who possesses the instrument, from the unfortunate orphan to the conniving Moritz.
The idea is strangely similar to a film from decades ago, "The Yellow Rolls-Royce." In that film, the yellow Rolls passes through the hands of four owners, and with each owner comes a story of the life of the owner and his friends during his association with the automobile. It was not as good a film as "The Red Violin," by any means, but the parallel is curious.
"The Red Violin" is, indeed, a wonderful film, by any criterion one might apply to a film. My remarks, however, speak to what has been said here about the film -- and to what has not been said.
I viewed the film on DVD just a day or two ago. When I sat back to think about it, I realized, above all, that this is a very slyly droll film. The romance and fine sentiments that everyone speaks of are all well and good, but they hardly speak to the artistic heart of this film -- which is humor, irony, satire, and -- well -- fun.
Didn't anyone notice the extraordinary lack of sentimentality in this film? The lack of romance? Oh, romance is present -- in the form of a sort of parody of romance, especially in the segment depicting Pope's possession of the instrument. Then there was the wonderful -- and perfectly comic -- performance of Jean-Luc Bideau, culminating with the death of his young prodigy, a death which, if you noticed, was less tragic than it was gently comical and ironic. No one seemed terribly sad when the poor tyke toppled over -- they seemed chiefly bemused.
The "life" of the instrument is then continued by dint of an act of grave-robbery, as it passes into the hands of rogues and gypsies, on its way toward even more extraordinary, and more lunatic, ownership.
All the while, we are watching Moritz (Samuel L. Jackson), vetting the instrument for Duval's, chasing down the intimate secret of its varnish, and generally playing the perfectionist, business-like expert. Ah, however -- we discover that what his heart truly is set on is simple larceny (and, incidentally) putting one over on a pompous would-be owner of the violin -- a bumptious bidder who is correct in his charge that Moritz had warned him off the instrument for self-serving reasons. The irony sizzles when the butt of Moritz's trickery buys the fake red violin. Moritz then escapes with the real article to give to his own child -- another irony, because, as much as he knows about the violin, he does not realize that he may be passing on to his offspring, along with the instrument, a virulent curse.
A lovely film, an ironic film, a very tongue-in-cheek film, and a very funny film, this is (albeit with some drama and pathos); but it is neither sentimental nor romantic. Quite the contrary. From the beginning -- and others have noted this -- Bussotti is a singularly unsentimental man. We see this in his treatment of Anna and in his treatment of his apprentices. He was clearly distraught at his wife's death; but it immediately became for him another problem to overcome before getting on with his work.
I loved this film for its beauty, its wit (a quality that today's movie viewing public should be better schooled in), for its technical acumen (cinematography, sets, and so on), for its clever structure, and for its masterful quality of spoof and satire, blended with a curious innocence in everyone who possesses the instrument, from the unfortunate orphan to the conniving Moritz.