Roma

         

           I’ve always considered myself to be a reasonably good reviewer of books, music, and movies, especially of movies. I’ve been a faithful moviegoer all my life, and I can usually tell good acting from not so good, good plots from stupid plots, clever film techniques from stuff that’s over-cute rather than innovative. I’m still a bit unsure what makes one director better than others, so I’ll just leave that aspect alone. And I’m usually not very far off what other reviewers have said about a movie. When it comes Oscar time, I usually agree with films and actors that have been nominated. However, I fell flat on my nose when Moonlight won for best picture two years ago, because I didn’t think it was very good, nor that La La Land should have won, because it wasn’t a very good musical, but Fences or Hell or High Water were better than either of them. In 2017, Dunkirk was nominated but didn’t win, thank goodness, losing out to The Shape of Water. In 2014, Birdman won but it wasn’t nearly as good as Boyhood. In 2012, Argo won but it wasn’t nearly as good as Silver Linings Playbook. And the list goes on, films that I panned when most others were praising them. More recently, I saw Bird Box and thought it was downright stupid while a bunch of others thought it was very good.

          And now I’m about to stick my foot in my mouth again, when I say that I didn’t care for Alfonso Cuarón’s latest attempt at gravitas—Roma— nor did I think it should merit all the praise it’s getting, considered by many to be the front-runner in the best movie category, and a best-director nod to Cuarón, and best actress and best supporting actress nominations for Yalitza Aparicio as Cleo, the young housemaid, and Marina De Tavira as Sofia, the young abandoned wife. I can’t see any way these two can compete against the other nominees in their categories. And Roma got six more nominations in other categories, making ten all together. Am I that blind? What did I miss that others saw? I even went to some of the reviews to see what everyone was so enraptured by. Oh, they moaned, the black-and-white filming was so realistically beautiful, and Cuarón’s understated score was excellent in its emphasis on the tiny sounds of everyday life in 70’s Mexico City. They even had praise for the big piles of dog poop that Cleo had to scoop off the garage floor so the good (bad?) doctor could park his car. I watched it for the first hour and kept wondering when all this wonderment would begin. Some of the reviewers mentioned that the film comes across much better in a large theater than it does on your television Netflix showing. And the obtrusiveness of the Spanish subtitles rolling across the bottom of the screen didn’t do much for me. In that first hour I kept waiting for the magic to happen, for the poignancy that would bring tears to my eyes for this tale about a semi-affluent family and the women who served it. Never happened. All I got was a much too long view of Muchacho, the martial arts fan who puts on a show for Cleo in their hotel room, much too much Muchacho in a full-frontal nude demonstration of his martial arts moves. I’m pretty sure that scene didn’t serve for any poignancy or beauty of storyline. Muchacho did, though, manage to get Cleo pregnant, and then vanished from the movie theater and her when she told him about it. Whatta guy!

          I quit watching halfway through, but now I feel obligated to watch the other half to discover what I may have missed. I really do hope that Muchacho gets his and Cleo and Sofia get a happy ending. Or not.