THE OPINION OF THE “WORLD” – WHY NOT
What happens when a badass Australian puncher cultivates his blue flower temperament? When your name is George Miller and you’ve signed four madmax devastating, with hordes of barbarians ravaging post-apocalyptic wastelands, this gives Three thousand years waiting for you. Take the story of a disenchanted middle-aged English bachelor, a narratologist by profession, who, in an Istanbul souk, unearths an old lamp, from which emerges, once she returns to her hotel, a jinn in fairly good working order. Of course, he offers her the three traditional wishes, which the respectable and rational subject of the British Empire literally does not know what to do with. Tilda Swinton here is Alithea Binnie, Idris Elba, the genius. Who pass in short, she in a terrycloth bathrobe, endowed with an ear of Spock and a piece of red beard, their time chatting in a hotel room. We pinch ourselves to believe it.
Especially since Miller endeavors to respect the narrative tradition of oriental tales, in the forefront of which The thousand and One Nights, embedding in a quickly exhausted conversation the turbulent story of his existence that the unfortunate and prolific genius begins to tell to his liberator. Mechanically propelled through the various eras that the genius has gone through (from the Queen of Sheba, where he fell victim to Solomon, to Suleiman the Magnificent), themselves enhanced by the epic vein of the misadventures that keep him prisoner of the lamp, the spectator is however asked to return regularly to the hotel room, where another story is however gently woven. The narratologist and the genius, recognizing each other as solitary destinies, fall in love with each other and return to England together.
Praise of the imaginary
We will not reveal anything more about the plot of this film, which is characterized by a heavily deployed staging and a plastic ugliness badge. The boredom it distills, despite a few welcome overtones, is therefore paid a bit dearly for the metaphor that this emphatic praise of the imagination seems to convey. Like Flaubert and La Bovary, Miller invites us to think that he is the narratologist, and that, nothing being easy in this world, he needs, from time to time, the wing of a genius. annoyed who brushes against him so that he gets going a little bit. This allegory of the creator to the pain gives, logically, a film which is not less.
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