Review: In ‘Porto,’ a Night of Bliss and Heartbreak

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Lucie Lucas and Anton Yelchin in “Porto.”

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Kino Lorber

“Porto,” named for a coastal city in Portugal where it takes place, is a unhappy mood square about a one-night mount between incompatible expats, an American masculine and a Frenchwoman.

The movie’s loyal subject, however, is time: a thoroughfare and promise, a weight and disappointments. Looping behind and brazen — and regulating no fewer than 3 forms of film batch — this initial account underline from Gabe Klinger seduces with breathtakingly pleasing visuals that feel both achingly sentimental and elegantly modern.

These mostly ravishing aesthetics and stylistic quirks act as soothing restraints, gripping us examination notwithstanding a near-total deficiency of story and a thinly sheltered opinion of masculine entitlement. When Jake (Anton Yelchin) spies Mati (Lucie Lucas) in a late-night cafe, he starts a review that ends on a mattress in her apartment. She is a intimately assured tyro in her 30s with a story of deceptive mental illness; he is a 26-year-old drifter with no aspiration and a bad back.

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Trailer: ‘Porto’

A preview of a film.


By KINO LORBER on Publish Date November 16, 2017.


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Their solitary night together — revisited regularly via a film in augmenting fact — unspools with small preliminary and a clichéd shorthand of passionate fantasy. A mesmerizingly pleasing lady offers herself, mixed times, to an heated and needy stranger, who brings her to formerly different orgasmic heights. (One shot of Ms. Lucas, posing provocatively in slip and tip hat, directly recalls Lena Olin’s intimately brave impression in “The Unbearable Lightness of Being.”)

So when Jake falls in adore (with stalker-like obsession) and Mati moves on, we are primed to perspective her as whimsical and unreliable. Tainted by a book that tells us probably zero about her past other than that she was once a small crazy, her after choices seem cruel and questionable. Yet, to any essential woman, Jake is a terrible bet, directionless and untrustworthy — we’ve already seen him try to coax drinks from bizarre women — and a movie’s refusal to call him out is irksome.

The choice of Mr. Yelchin, however — whose recent death casts a unhappy shade over an already unhappy film — goes some approach toward creation a impression some-more sympathetically comfortless than he deserves to be. With his skinny cheekbones and condemned eyes, a actor adds a emotional peculiarity to Jake’s nervous perambulations. Alone on a damply cobbled streets, wrapped in Wyatt Garfield’s erotic cinematography, he seems no some-more than a throw of a person, as threadlike as ardour itself.


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