REVIEW - STILL LIFE (UBERTO PASOLINI)

A simple, solitary life, defined by rigour and routine, devoid of any and all hints of spontaneity or flamboyance. Filmmakers have been down this route before, and even in Still Life's national setting of the UK, but there's something about these islands that seems such an ideal fit for studies of mundanity like this. It's the land of tea and toast, of grey skies and grey people, too cold and urban for comfort, and thus it is sought in the strictures of a simple, solitary life, still so easily led, even in an ever-more connected world. The grace with which Eddie Marsan can communicate an entire life lived, all those thoughts and feelings and memories, with variations on the one expression - there's such despondency in it, implying that those memories may not be as fondly recalled as a soul might wish, but there's deflation in it too, implying that he perhaps cherishes them, and pines for what minor ambitions he may once have had. It's nostalgia for a more optimistic past that provides Still Life with its poignancy, beautifully articulated in Uberto Pasolini's slightly too-formal dialogue, and this poignancy is sustenance enough to imbue a great proportion of this film with much food for thought. Pasolini has a delicate touch, but it's affectedly delicate; he would do better to concern himself with even less, and formalise his film even further - find comfort in self-imposed strictures like his protagonist - since his exploration of British society is rather too mannered. There is an unstressed sweetness to his quiet ruminations on life, death and loneliness through the film, though, which resonates past its deplorable final shot; another small theatricality employed in pursuit of gravitas, but at the expense of emotional sincerity.