I've seen some pretty dreadful movies about illegal immigration lately—the eternally wooden Raoul Bova in the sanctimonious and superficial "Io, l'Altro" (I, the Other), for example, or Philippe Lioret's depressing and pedantic "Welcome"—but Verso L'Eden/Eden à l'Ouest is pure and unadulterated rubbish. Here's my thing: Riccardo Scamarcio is a terrible actor. No, I mean, some actors are bad in a way that makes you embarrassed to watch them. Others are bad in the way that makes you feel embarrassed for the other people in the theater. And then there's Scamarcio, who belongs to that category of actors who make you feel embarrassed to be alive. Scamarcio launched his career, if we want to use that word, playing romantic leads in dimwitted teen comedies. Now and then, for reasons known only to the directors whose children Scamarcio's agent evidently kidnapped and threatened to murder, Scamarcio was then also chosen for roles in serious movies. Let me correct that: he got roles in movies that weren't "if you're IQ is above 40 you're too smart to enter this theater" comedies or "compared to this, a Hallmark card is freakin' Wuthering Heights" romances. Whether the movies were serious is up for discussion. But Scamarcio is sort of like beige—he goes with anything. It doesn't matter to him what kind of movie you put him in; he's happy to trot out his repertory of three facial expressions (ooh! and did you notice? He has green eyes!) in any known genre. From a movie-goer's point of view, the more Scamarcio has to "act," though, the uglier things tend to get. In Verso L'Eden/Eden à l'Ouest, he's supposed to be an illegal immigrant of indeterminate origin who arrives in Greece from an unnamed country, hoping to travel to Paris and find work. So there are like, *layers*, you get me? And Scamarcio doesn't do layers. Guy chasing a girl who doesn't love him? Got it covered. Guy who betrays the girl he loves, but is forgiven in the end? No problem. Guy who agrees to help his best gal-pal win the guy of her dreams, but ends up sweeping her off her feet instead? In his sleep. But don't ask him to something complicated like pretend to be of a different nationality, get washed up on a beach in Greece, and spend the ensuing weeks outrunning illegal-immigrant posses, police dogs, and con-men in pursuit of some private (never articulated) dream. Director Costa-Gavras, meanwhile, either forgot whether he was making a comedy, a sex farce, or a drama—or else he simply decided he'd pushed Scamarcio about as far as he could. He certainly threw continuity to the wind: one minute Scamarcio is in Greece, the next minute he's in Italy, then he's in Germany—don't blink or you'll miss all those borders. The result is a series of side-splitting scenes in which Scamarcio gets caught in a nudist colony, is mistaken for a bellboy, beds a babe or three, fends off the advances of gay truckers, and engages in at least a couple of foot chases through the city streets with the Keystone Cops. This is absolutely the most superficial, unserious, insultingly naive film about immigration ever made, and Scamarcio (did I mention he has green eyes?) lights it up with every single one of his 15 watts of charisma. Costa-Gavras ought to be writhing in shame. As for Scamarcio, he's pretty much made it clear that he's beyond all that.
Review of Eden Is West
