Still Life: Venice Review

VENICE — Eddie Marsan applies his protean gifts to an odd-little-man role almost in the Charlie Chaplin vein in Still Life. There are inevitably going to be pleasures to savor whenever this fine British character actor occupies center-screen, and for a while that’s almost enough to sustain writer-director Uberto Pasolini’s minor-key drama about the ebb and flow of a solitary existence. But the fragile film’s bid for poignancy is so aggressive and its sensitivity so studied that it eventually drowns in syrupy banality.

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