In the first 30 minutes of Le Quattro Volte, a septuagenarian goatherd struggles up and down a Calabrian mountain with his goats, hacking away with a worsening old man cough. Up and down go the goats. Cough, cough goes the old man.
Then, suddenly (and I mean suddenly), a baby goat is born. It is licked by its mother. It hangs out with other young goats. It walks off with the herd.
Then, a tall tree on the mountain is cut down by the villagers and erected in the village for a festival. After the festival, it is taken down and cut up.
The logs are added to a woodpile that we see constructed in the traditional way, and charcoal is made. Then the movie ends.
I understand that Le Quattro Volte is supposed to be a lyrical contemplation on the Circle of Life. Indeed, I really tried to give myself to this movie, to settle in and absorb its rhythm. But the stories are not compelling enough. When I saw the movie at an afternoon show, audience members were falling asleep. My mind was wandering.
Le Quattro Volte has received very high praise from some of the most respected movie critics, who found it mesmerizing. It also won the Best European Film award at Cannes, causing another theater patron at my screening to ask “Who voted?”. It’s an art movie with the art, but no movie.
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