Bardem plays a man named Uxbal.  He lives in a gritty, impoverished area of Barcelona who’s skyline only provides distant and hazy glimpses of the city’s tourist and cultural sites.  He’s handling two kids by himself,  and an alcoholic, metally unstable ex-wife.  He deals in the labor of illegal immigrants, Chinese and African mostly.  And in one of the first scenes of the film, he pisses blood.  An initial doctor’s visit reveals it’s cancer, it’s taken over his prostate and liver already, he only has a few months to live.

Not a good hand to be dealt.  It’s made clear we’re expected to watch this man, a good father, kind to the illegal immigrants he works with, take punch after punch.  His suffering is epic, in every sense of the word.  A modern-day, Spanish Jesus, meant to take the world’s sins on his head.  Usually, I would be an emotional wreck during such a film.  The darker side of me finds beauty in the struggle of humanity.  But Iñárritu just flat out missed the mark here.  There’s no connection for me to empathize with, nothing to relate to.

That’s not to say the whole thing is a waste.  Uxbal also has metaphysical gift, one that’s downplayed so much it could almost slip under the radar of someone not paying full attention, it could be written off as dream sequences, or hallucinatory side effects of cancer medication.  He can speak to the recently dead, if they haven’t yet gone into the proverbial light yet.  Sometimes Uxbal’s reflection doesn’t behave as it should.  Some of these preternatural scenes are infinitely more effective than the rest of the nearly one hundred and fifty minutes.  When the audience is allowed to view these spirits they’re silent, often clinging to the wall and roof of a room, as if they lost their concentration, they would float away.  These brief moments do what Iñárritu wanted to do with Biutiful as a whole: create a sense of connection between secular and spiritual struggles and other platitudes more at home in pulp media.  Of the entire film, these are the scenes I took away as anything of value.

Bardem’s nomination for best acting by the AMPAS is well deserved.   The film would have crumbled in on itself if it weren’t for an actor who possess the solemnity and depths required by such a melodramatic story.  Iñárritu’s ability as a filmmaker, his compositions, his usually confident but meditative pacing (like we saw in Babel and 21 Grams) may have still made their appearrance in Biutiful, but it’s lost in the ho hum of a film too pedestrian for the audience it was shooting for.

2 out of 4 stars

A European friend of mine once told me that if I watched an Almodovar film, even if I hadn’t been to Spain, I’d feel like I had. I don’t know if that’s necessarily true, but I do know that I feel like I’ve been there now after watching Vicky. Or at least, I saw the the Spain that every American wishes existed. The film follows BFFs Vicky (Rebecca Hall) and Cristina (Scarlett Johansson) as they spend their summer in Barcelona. Both are frustrated artists at heart (but mostly they’re just pretentious as hell).  After a chance encounter with a Spanish artist, Juan Antonio (Javier Bardem), the three go away for a weekend of lovemaking.  Although Juan is quite clear about his intentions, both girls pretend they’re going to experience a different part of Spain (and I’m not taking about Juan’s part). Things are quickly complicated by the fact Vicky is engaged to be married, and Cristina had food poisoning. Then enters Juan’s ex-wife, the tortured soul: Maria Elena (Penelope Cruz).  Sound like French New Wave?  While it’s not the definition of the style, the love triangles, and the matter-of-fact narration (which I fell in love with) is New Wave as Allen has ever been.

This goes without saying, but the cast is so talented, it makes you feel like the film is sort of selfish, hoarding all this talent.  It’s a pleasure to see Bardem perform in such a different environment then that of No Country For Old Men, although I did keep waiting for him to kill someone.  Patricia Clarkson and Johansson are reliable, as always and were a pleasure to watch, but I think the real stars of the show are Rebecca Hall and Penelope Cruz, both of whom act the hell out of the parts (in a good way).

Allen denied himself some of the ridiculous self-indulgences he’s allowed himself in the past, like his off-pitch improv antics in 2006′s Scoop (also starring Johansson), or 2007′s Cassandra’s Dream which was weighed down by pointless, boring dialogue. Vicky is a tight, quickpaced, sensual (without being erotic) good time that will leave you endlessly entertained.

4 out of 4 stars

Rottentomatoes: 81% – Cream of the Crop: 85%

Rated PG-13 for mature thematic material involving sexuality, and smoking.