Movies
Sentimental
3
Genre:
Comedy
Sex, regardless of how it is practiced (alone, in company or on Tinder),
is basically a dirty exercise.
Only if stain is enjoyed, only if it shakes, even a little, the territory of normality, of the everyday, perhaps of morality, fulfills its psychological and lyrical function.
If someone else takes the trouble to prohibit it, then yes, it reaches the level of mandatory.
Sentimental
, not to be confused, it is a sexual comedy and it is so obvious.
More than talking about sex, it is sex that speaks for her.
And hence, his intelligence, good tone and even class.
Deep down, as soon as we look at it closely, we tend to believe that, because of the naturalness with which sex appears to us in our lives, it is necessarily a free (or repressed) form of expression and, in reality, few of our hobbies (let's call it that) are so meticulously artificial and imposed.
And that is why sex is so desirable for someone who aspires to impose its standards.
So marketable if you will.
Otherwise, we do not have sex, it is sex that uses our bodies to, and with due forgiveness, cum.
And run.
Cesc Gay
is aware of this and turns
Sentimental
into a fun exercise not so much about cinema, but also about sex that speaks to us, that tells us and, if necessary, puts us in evidence.
Based on the play that is also the filmmaker's debut on the stage,
The Upstairs Neighbors
, the film proposes the not-so-unreal encounter between two couples.
Those above, and to summarize a lot, fuck (bellows), make noise and, how could it be otherwise, bother.
The ones below, no.
They neither snort (hence the bellows) nor bother.
It is, therefore, about making them agree and forcing them to explain themselves.
And, of course, they have no choice but to get muddy, get dirty and talk about sex.
Or, better yet, let the sex speak for them.
They all shine: from Javier Cámara's wounded sarcasm to Griselda Siciliani's guilty innocence, through Alberto San Juan's sympathetic brutality and Belén Cuesta's irrepressible self-confidence
The film is limited to closely following the surprised faces of the defendants who are also bodies (in the most carnal sense) of the crime.
They all shine.
From the wounded sarcasm of
Javier Cámara
to the guilty innocence of
Griselda Siciliani,
through the sympathetic brutality of
Alberto San Juan
and the irrepressible self-confidence of
Belén Cuesta
, all of them operate a precise and precious machinery in which each interpreter is nothing more than a It is never clear whether an instrument for freedom or for the simplest of subjugations.
It's comedy, but elegant enough to elicit that postcoital feeling so close to sadness.
It is true that
the stage equipment weighs more than necessary.
Let's say that the set does not manage to join the plot (it could well be the prison of
The Exterminating Angel
) or to remain transparent, it is simply there as an artificial limit to the action and as an imperishable reminder that before it was a movie, it was theater.
Be that as it may,
what matters is still not so much the pleasure of sex exercised as of sex represented and ultimately consumed, which, in effect, consumes us.
It is not so much the sex that speaks, as it speaks to us.
The hue, in effect, leaves a stain.
+ Each of the interpretations captivates in its elegant naturalness-Annoying the forcefulness of a decoration as perfectly aseptic as it is irrelevant;
theatrical in the worst sense
According to the criteria of
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