FilmFemme

Gomorra is a certain kind of movie in a certain kind of neorealistic style that lulls critics into a false sense of security.  That is, makes them believe that because of its brightly saturated colors, minimalist lighting, unprofessional actors and meandering story lines with dark themes and tragic consequences that it is “good.”  With this assessment, I must respectfully disagree.  Though Matteo Garrone’s tribute to his Italian cinematic predecessors is stylistically coherent in its handheld urgency and his determination to show the “real” side of contemporary organized crime in Italy is evident, the wandering, broad, confusing story and ssslllloooowwww pacing makes it difficult for an American audience to appreciate.  That is, I was bored out of my overeducated skull.

After a promisingly badass opening sequence in which (spoiler) a number of young Italian men are shot in the motherfucking throat at a spa (they are getting fake tans and manicures, naturally) the film proceeds to loosely weave together the stories of at least two crime families who find themselves at war in Naples, Italy.  The problems lie in the fact that it is difficult to negotiate who is who — if the gangly oversexed teens are on the same side as the suave overdressed gangster and his confused young sidekick or if the innocent and kind grocery delivery boy is really at war with the corpulent smoking men in tanktops.  Yes, this could indeed be the point, but in the course of a movie, sitting in the dark, trying to figure things out, not knowing what to feel or why the aging father is doing such a bad thing when he teaches the Chinese how to make haute couture, sometimes you just want to see some more motherfuckers get shot in the neck.

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