The Pelvis of J.W.

The Portuguese auteur João César Monteiro can be his own worst enemy. Leaden, talky stretches wear out even that rare moviegoer who'll warm to the idea of a two-and-a-half-hour philosophical comedy about God and Lucifer, theater and cinema, dirty old men and fetching young women.

Monteiro often gives himself star billing, and as long as he's on screen, The Pelvis of J.W. is repellently compelling. He has a dual role: an actor in a white linen suit playing God in a Strindberg drama that opens the film, and a rascally sailor who stows away on the set. The sailor's obsession with John Wayne's manly strut sparks debate within the arid coterie of actors putting on the Strindberg, and it gives the film its wonderful title.

In both parts, Monteiro is shameless -- lewd as a hyena yet carrying himself with the elegance of the last true gentleman in Europe. Unfortunately, the director keeps the actor at bay, shooting the film mostly in long, static takes. It works beautifully in the film's opening tableau, as we slowly realize we are watching actors rehearse inside a converted performance space. But a second rehearsal -- simply three actors (no Monteiro), a table, and a script -- is deadly. Without the face of Monteiro, The Pelvis of J.W. is a long walk indeed.

-- Scott Heller