By admin 
Karim Aïnouz, a filmmaker celebrated for his audacious explorations of saturated melodrama and raw eroticism, has embarked on a new cinematic journey with "Rosebush Pruning," a European production that, on the surface, appears to align more closely with his established sensibilities than his previous English-language foray, the historical drama "Firebrand." While "Firebrand," a meticulously crafted account of Henry VIII’s survivor Catherine Parr, showcased Aïnouz’s directorial proficiency and a talented cast, it felt like a stylistic departure, a departure so pronounced one might suspect divine intervention rather than deliberate artistic choice. Following a brief but potent return to his native Brazil for the hyper-carnal thriller "Motel Destino," Aïnouz now presents "Rosebush Pruning," a film that promises a return to his signature opulent, desire-drenched narratives. The initial impression is one of a snugger fit for his artistic palate: a sweating, absurdist family saga brimming with outsize gestures and desires that defy conventional boundaries, all rendered in visual hues so hot and drenched they verge on overwhelming, practically begging for a "wet paint" sign to be plastered across the screen.
However, as "Rosebush Pruning" unfolds, revealing its more outrageous and elaborate machims, it becomes increasingly apparent that the film transcends the confines of Aïnouz’s usual artistic territory, and perhaps, any easily definable cinematic wheelhouse. The film presents an alluring, yet thoroughly peculiar, amalgamation of comic, dramatic, and decidedly antic tones. Its increasingly indeterminate target of hollow social satire further complicates its categorization. The very creative DNA of "Rosebush Pruning" is a fascinating mosaic of influences. Screenwriter Efthimis Filippou, a frequent collaborator with Yorgos Lanthimos, drew loose inspiration from Marco Bellocchio’s stark 1965 debut feature, "Fists in the Pocket." While Bellocchio’s film presented a biting, anti-bourgeois fable conveyed through the deadpan language of the Greek "weird wave," Aïnouz’s distinctly ripe, maximalist touch transforms the source material into something entirely different. This metamorphosis is further amplified by the film’s deliberate juxtaposition of high and low-brow elements, particularly evident in its all-star cast.
The confluence of these clashing elements and impulses, coupled with some undeniably drool-worthy design contributions, positions "Rosebush Pruning" somewhere in the nebulous territory of a lavishly produced, almost Europudding-esque "Saltburn." While this is not an inherently unenjoyable proposition, it lacks substantial thematic grounding and is poised to be as divisive among audiences as such a comparison might suggest. For leading man Callum Turner, the film serves as a commendably strange and kinky vehicle, one that could very well propel him into the stratosphere of James Bond casting rumors. Yet, "Rosebush Pruning" ultimately proves to be far from business as usual for any of its collaborators, including its gifted director. Aïnouz himself seems to be drifting ever further from the warm romanticism that characterized his earlier works such as "Futuro Beach" and "Invisible Life," forging a new path that is both intriguing and, at times, disorienting.
The film’s odd, and perhaps deceptively prim, title, "Rosebush Pruning," originates from a rather clumsy proverb concocted by Edward (Turner), the neglected, semi-literate middle son of an exceptionally wealthy American family that relocated several years prior to the lush, verdant northeastern coast of Spain. Edward’s surly running voiceover introduces this peculiar philosophy: "People are roses, families are rosebushes," he intones. "Rosebushes need pruning." This statement, delivered with a certain detached melancholy, sets the stage for the internal dynamics of a family teetering on the brink of self-destruction, a family where the concept of natural selection seems to have been replaced by a more deliberate, and arguably more sinister, form of culling.
The question of who Edward perceives as candidates for this familial pruning is left open to interpretation, allowing the audience to choose from the ranks of the family’s variously louche, dysfunctional, and fashion-obsessed members. The patriarch, portrayed by Tracy Letts, is a blind and unfiltered figure, often found swathed in a scarlet satin bathrobe, a symbol of his unbridled authority and perhaps his own inner turmoil. His younger son, Robert (Lukas Gage), dedicates his days to an inappropriate and unrequited pining for the attention of his eldest sibling, Jack (Jamie Bell). Meanwhile, the stunted and overtly oversexed energy of the lone sister, Anna (Riley Keough), seems to erupt in all directions, a volatile force within the opulent confines of their Spanish villa.
The revelation of the children’s mother’s death two years prior, in a manner so bizarre it borders on the fantastical – torn apart by wolves in the local Catalonian woods – initially prompts a grim sense of relief. One might even conclude she is better off out of such a dysfunctional environment. However, this initial reaction is quickly tempered by the pervasive air of perverse adult fairytale that permeates the setup. The lack of any logical explanation for why four adult siblings, all in their thirties, remain tethered to their modernist family palace further underscores this surreal atmosphere. It appears that extreme wealth, in this narrative, acts as a potent anesthetic, rendering those born into it comfortably numb prisoners of their own privilege.
The potential for escape from this gilded cage appears to lie with Jack, the most sensible and straitlaced of the siblings. His burgeoning relationship with his girlfriend Martha (Elle Fanning), who hails from a merely quite privileged background, suggests a pathway toward a more normalized existence. As Jack and Martha begin to explore the possibility of establishing a home of their own, Edward, the terse, stolidly watchful observer who carries the film’s point of view, watches with a tacit envy. His own fleeting connection with someone from the "real world" has clearly left a mark. Conversely, Anna and Robert react to this impending disruption of the family unit with palpable despair. Their response is to initiate drastic, and escalatingly calamitous, steps aimed at preserving the status quo, a status quo that, while seemingly idyllic from the outside, is riddled with internal rot.
The ensuing fallout of their actions unleashes a cascade of nasty surprises and the shattering of deeply ingrained taboos. Yet, Filippou’s script achieves its most potent impact not through overt sensationalism, but through its nuanced dramatization of more everyday acts of cruelty and elitism. The film’s most discomfiting scene occurs during Martha’s strained introduction to the family. She is subjected to a ruthless appraisal by Anna, who meticulously dissects the visible price gap between Martha’s self-bought Zara dress and her gifted Bottega handbag. This subtle yet brutal social dissection is further compounded when the patriarch, with an air of calm entitlement, instructs Anna to provide a detailed description of their guest’s cleavage. This scene masterfully encapsulates the insidious nature of their privilege, a privilege that allows them to judge and categorize others based on superficial markers of wealth and status.
The fact that Martha emerges as the most sympathetic figure in "Rosebush Pruning" speaks volumes about the film’s characterizations, especially considering her own rather entitled retort to Jack’s hesitation when they are presented with a multimillion-dollar oceanside mansion: "I refuse to keep begging for the simple things." "Rosebush Pruning" effectively articulates its anti-capitalist sentiments through such moments, offering tart observations on the corrosive influence of extreme wealth. However, as the plot becomes more convoluted, it also veers increasingly into the realm of the absurd, with any semblance of social commentary beginning to feel like a thin veneer for an excess of luridly gross, glossy spectacle.
Despite these narrative and thematic complexities, there is an undeniable pleasure to be found in the film’s excesses, largely attributable to the way Aïnouz and his accomplished team present them with such febrile, iridescent beauty. Director of Photography Hélène Louvart immerses every frame in a symphony of sticky candy-apple reds, angelic greens, and eye-searing ultramarines. The brightness is turned up to an almost unbearable degree, a visual choice that, while perhaps not strictly necessary given the inherent beauty of the rolling Spanish landscapes and Rodrigo Martirena’s magazine-dream production design, contributes significantly to the film’s immersive and intoxicating atmosphere. The costumes, meticulously crafted by Bina Daigeler, are consistently covetable, unapproachable, and tailored to perfection, further enhancing the film’s opulent aesthetic. Matthew Herbert’s score, a lush and evocative soundscape, masterfully underscores the often disturbing events unfolding on screen. The question lingers: is all this lustrous polish truly necessary? Does "Rosebush Pruning" lose some of its critical perspective amidst such dazzling visual splendor? Perhaps. But as the film seems to argue, if one is to "eat the rich," as the adage goes, they might as well be presented as a delicious and visually stunning feast. This inherent tension between the film’s critical intent and its seductive aesthetic is precisely what makes "Rosebush Pruning" such a compelling, if occasionally perplexing, cinematic experience. It is a film that revels in its own opulent decay, inviting the audience to both condemn and admire the decadent world it so vividly portrays.