Minte-ma frumosi is technically well made, but artistically worthless.
The photography is very competent, I'd definitely trust all my 30 second advertising spot needs to these engineers. The sound people have studied every square inch of Guy Ritchie, and are evidently more than capable of answering exactly "what'd the master use for a soundtrack here". They probably have a converted Roland workbench, orga de lumini. They watch the film and push the correct buttons. It's art, what, dismal pecking for a dismal setting.
Andi Vasluianu, the supposed jeune premier in this production sports a beard about as gray as mine, which is still a compliment considering he is actually older. Diana Dumitrescuii works extremely well in her role -- she's a model that aged off the runway into soaps. All she can do is gaze, which apparently is sufficient for a dream girl -- notwithstanding the ridiculous in-universe pretense of her being in charge of things & matters etcetera. The complete ineptitude and utter inadequacy of the "actors" serves well a film entirely dedicated to the ineptitude and inadequacy of a... let's call it generation, if we must, although I do not recognize the aspirations to humanity of these "kids today". Sorry.
Which brings us to the sadness : Minte-ma frumos is a mistaken identity comedy. So is Romeo and Juliet, of course, but the problem here is that while the film tries to stay true to its subject, the comings and goings of that sad troop of useless, boring mental deficients spawned by the first generation to not have directly experienced World War 2iii, it completely avoids any serious, deep problem. It remains entirely unsubstantial, there's absolutely nothing there past the varnish, if you peel off the pretend-broker and pretend-car and pretend-everything else all the way to pretend-Mircea, all that's left is... nothing. Exactly and strictly, absolutely nothing.
It's not its fault, of course. The film follows a generation which doesn't, properly speaking, exist. The misfortune is that while the inexistent generation could nevertheless vegetate, inexistent, so as to provide its biomass for some future usage even if devoid of any intellectual substance whatsoever, to play womb for actual men, incomprehensible, from far away -- a film can not. Nor can a book, nor a play, no product of the spirit can survive the absence of spirit, and the fact that it was trying to render the golum, spiritless as it is, devoid of a soul and unworthy of a name, provides it scant protection. Yes, it succeeded, and in that success it disappears. Yes, Minte-ma frumos manages to recreate the image of the "new generation". There's nothing there. Who cares, why would they ?
A glorified cook and a glorified factory worker meet, just as they used to. Their problems, we are asked to kindly believe, are no longer the piinea si pizda of yore. Oh no, certainly not them, not theirs, no no nononono NO! Their problems are rather immense hollow spheres of self representation, meaningless and impersonal, thick ample balloons of conceit which do not satisfy ; but also keep them separated, incapable of any sort of human connection.
A guy who is too fat to date (in his own judgement) pictures himself a... magician, properly speaking. He calls it "hacker", but only because he believes this is the current proper name for magicians, and because he fears, with that 12 year old's fear -- dried and smoked in his soul, a сало slice of fear -- that he'll be identified by his failure to use the proper names! I can call the ancient whores that compose this world by their ancient names, names they carried before Rome was even invented, that's all fine and good for me, but they -- they'd better use the latest version 7.1 or else! And they're the fucking magicians, fancy that wonder.
This guy meets a girl, who also is too fat to date. And he halluciantes an alternate image of himself, which he idiotically, incomprehensibly calls "his friend". His imaginary friend. She does the same. The imagos meet, for the sake of their sad, fat, shriveled, helpless anchors in the world, and fall, angelically, in some kind of "love". Amusingly, the ecology of this nonsense does interest the inept authors of the mess -- but not in the proper sense. They do not kill the sad dreamers they created for no purpose other than to satisfy their own, unsatisfiable need of alienation, from everything and first of all themselves. No, that'd have been much too substantial, see, infinitely too final, intolerably alight. No, there's something or the other that happens and doesn't amount to much at all. Much better that way, wouldn't you say ?
Those projected self-images, those brave beings without a body and devoid of soul which dared kiss ("on the first date ?!??") but dared no more, nor could ever dare anymore. Their kiss was not properly stolen, in the good tradition of the flea, but merely pretended. Not a real kiss obtained under false pretenses, but a false kiss, entirely pretended. "Paparazzi", ie the threat of publicity, that's when the frigid blondy with her dumbass hair sprays and hydrating creams gets her pitch-likeiv fluids going. That's the one time the automatons simulate function : when the inspection's looking. It's not that the fat girl, or the thin girl she hallucinates, or the aging girl acting the thin girl the fat girl hallucinates are, at any point, anything in particular. Not really excited, not really involved, not properly speaking even working here. Not anymore. They're not even all that distinct, come to think of it. So who are they ?
Nobody. Nothing happened. There's nothing here.———
- 2012, by Iura Luncasu, with Andi Vasluianu, Loredana Groza. [↩]
- This "hacker" made website actually redirects from / to /site/. Professional & shit, you know how it is. [↩]
- Also known as "the dumbest generation of narcissists in the history of the world", and there's plenty of documentary evidence to back the diagnosis. [↩]
- I'd compare her to a reptile but sadly the reptile is much too earthen to be so insulted. [↩]