With anticipated and prejudiced fatigue, I approach a cinema next to my house to see a Spanish film that is giving a lot of life to the faltering box office.
Speaking of Spanish cinema, I enjoyed it with unforgivable delay and also felt something moving at various times with
Cinco lobitos
, directed by Alauda Ruiz de Azúa, truthful and complex cinema, talking about what motherhood can mean, its front and back.
I couldn't write about it when it was released.
But it's still on the billboard.
Try to get it back.
The advice is free.
But I'm getting lost: I am astonished to see that the Conde Duque Santa Engracia rooms are closed.
Someone on the street makes it clear to me that this closure is final from Monday.
Also others from the same company, such as the Conde Duque Alberto Aguilera.
And the initial shock is followed by sadness.
Cinemas close.
Most small bookstores did.
And the record stores already belong to the memory.
And they are places to which I owe much of the best things that have happened to me in life, solid shelters against all kinds of storms, places that gave continual pleasure.
Y,
e-book
, that you have access to all the music (except Neil Young and Joni Mitchell, bless them) on Spotify, that movies can be consumed anytime, anywhere on a mobile screen.
I do not doubt it.
And nostalgia is probably a mistake.
But also that she can serve as an evocation and consolation, nothing to do with masochism.
Perhaps they are obsolete jeremiads about some things in the world of yesterday, but in my case also a real feeling.
They have been released for a few days in theaters, but as of this week you can see
The Invisible Agent
on Netflix .
And I suspect with sizeable audiences.
This platform has long been producing and exhibiting what for my tastes is the film of the year, in times of fierce drought.
I see this every time I review extraordinary cinema such as
Roma
, by Alfonso Cuarón, and
Mank
, by David Fincher.
And there is style and something unsettling in the very murky
The Power of the Dog
, although I am not passionate about it.
But that only happens in the long term.
In the rest, the norm is almost always mediocrity, cinema as predictable as it is forgettable, or simply burdensome.
In
The invisible agent
it is assumed that its directors, the brothers Anthony and Joe Russo, authors of the last two installments of
The Avengers
and
Captain America
, have changed the theme in this plot indebted to the intrigues of James Bond, but their visual style and the way of narrating are identical to the previous works that have been made by the spoiled children of the Marvel factory, the almighty queen of a Hollywood as routine as painful.
Here, the leading role is exercised by a former CIA agent with a license to kill wearing permanent camouflage and stripped of public identity, who must face an endless pursuit and duel to the death with a former colleague who continues to act as a killing machine.
Nothing is original or surprising in this noise-filled intrigue.
Marvel fans point out the audacious and amusing paradox that Chris Evans, the embodiment of the patriotic and heroic Captain America becomes the absolute villain here.
I don't care if I interpret one or the other.
And Ryan Gosling, who must be delighted with himself and his seductive drooping eyes, doesn't really motivate me either.
There will be an audience for
The invisible agent
will be the height of entertainment.
It's not my case.
the unseen agent
Direction:
Anthony Russo, Joe Russo.
Cast:
Ryan Gosling, Chris Evans, Ana de Armas, Billy Bob Thornton, Regé-Jean Page.
Genre:
Thriller
.
USA, 2022.
Duration:
122 minutes.
Limited theatrical release:
July 15.
Platform:
Netflix, premiere on July 22.
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