Two hotheads in a room

Bernardo Bertolucci returns after eight years with the invigorating "Me and You".

Bernardo Bertolucci’s latest film, Me and You, may not rank among his greatest. But a serious back injury had put the director out of action for the best part of eight years; he has even said he feared he would never work again. Now, confined to a wheelchair but in all other respects back to his old self, he has returned with his first film since 2003’s The Dreamers. Me and You is a minor work in the director’s unofficial and sporadic two-hotheads-in-a-room series. This has so far included pictures such as Last Tango in Paris and the tender, underrated Besieged. (The Dreamers, adapted from the late Gilbert Adair’s novel about May 1968, The Holy Innocents, is disqualified from inclusion by virtue of being about three hotheads in a room.)

In the new film, 14-year-old Lorenzo (played by Jacopo Olmo Antinori, who resembles a young Denis Lavant and has a fascinating face like an acne-studded trowel) hides out in the basement of his family’s home while his mother thinks he is on a skiing trip. Joining him is his half-sister, 25-year-old Olivia (Tea Falco), a heroin addict who is going cold turkey, albeit in a rather pretty fashion.

The scenario calls to mind the superior Mexican drama I’m Gonna Explode, in which two young lovers on the run turned out not to be on the run at all, but hiding out rather closer to home. Like that film, Me and You is indebted to the French New Wave—it even ends on a 400 Blows-style freeze frame of its impish hero—and hopelessly in love with its restless, aimlessly rebellious protagonists. After some playful early scenes, in which Lorenzo taunts his mother with fantasies of incest (recalling Bertolucci’s 1979 La Luna, which envisaged just such a taboo relationship), the film becomes bogged down in the basement. Lorenzo and Olivia need to be tested and challenged by the world around them, and left to their own devices they descend into solipsism.

However, Bertolucci’s fascination with them sees the film through. He finds their youthful potential palpably inspiring, as he did with Liv Tyler in the excellent late work Stealing Beauty (this is one director who never really experienced a sharp falling-off in quality). And his use of music (including The Cure and David Bowie) to express Lorenzo’s vitality is especially accomplished, as is his habit of modulating the sound to control our relationship with Lorenzo, so that sometimes we are inside the songs he is listening to on his headphones, while at other times we are excluded from them. Bertolucci’s investment in his characters, the way you can feel him rooting for them, can be invigorating in itself, even when there’s not much happening on screen. In common with Jonathan Demme or the late Eric Rohmer, his compassion is an inseparable part of his cinematic voice. Thank goodness he’s back.

Me and You is on release.

Tea Falco and Jacopo Olmo Antinori in "Me and You". Image: Fiction Films.

Ryan Gilbey is the New Statesman's film critic. He is also the author of It Don't Worry Me (Faber), about 1970s US cinema, and a study of Groundhog Day in the "Modern Classics" series (BFI Publishing). He was named reviewer of the year in the 2007 Press Gazette awards.

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“I see the world in rectangles”: Life as a Lego Master Builder

Nathan Sawaya stunned colleagues when he quit his job as a lawyer to play with Lego full-time. Now everyone from Lady Gaga to Barack Obama’s a fan.

Nathan Sawaya is describing his favourite Lego brick, shiny-eyed and grinning at the thought of it. But he’s not a child proudly displaying a beloved toy. He’s a 43-year-old former corporate lawyer, and well over six foot tall. The brick he is evangelising about is a small 1x2 socket plate with a stud in the centre of its top. He calls this a “Jumper”.

“You know your Lego lingo?” he asks, looking crestfallen when I shake my head. “It has only one stud instead of two, and it allows you to do even more detail because you can offset the brick a little bit. But in general, I focus on the rectangular pieces.”


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Sawaya is one of the world’s eight Lego Master Builders, having left his job at a New York law firm when he was 32 to dedicate his life to building Lego constructions full-time. His most striking works include a torso of a man ripping his chest open with bricks spilling out, called Yellow, a lifesize T-Rex skeleton, a two-metre long model of Brooklyn Bridge, and replicas of famous paintings, including the Mona Lisa, and Edvard Munch’s Scream.

I meet him in a dark exhibition space in a tent on London’s Southbank, where his works are lit up around us. His latest constructions consist of a series of DC Comics superheroes, so we are surrounded by expressionless Supermen flying around us, capes realistically rippling, and a full-size Batmobile with glistening batwings. His boyish eagerness aside, Sawaya himself looks like a comic book villain – a hulking figure dressed in black from top to toe, with a long black overcoat, piercing eyes and thick dark hair.


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Back in his early thirties when he was a lawyer, he would come home after a punishing day at work and do something creative – drawing, painting, sculpting with clay and wire. He soon began to experiment with Lego, constructing models out of sets he had lying around the house. His son, now 17, was never particularly interested in playing with it himself.

“Eventually I made the choice to leave the law firm behind and become a full-time artist who plays with toys,” he beams.

His family was supportive, his colleagues jealous, and his bosses confused – but it wasn’t long until Sawaya found success as a Lego artist. He has had exhibitions of his work on every continent but Antarctica, and gained some high-profile fans. When he was US President, Barack Obama posed with one of his installations – monochrome life-size men sitting on park benches in Washington – and Bill Clinton has a sculpture in his office, as does Lady Gaga in a music video.

“That is the magic of Lego,” he says of his popularity. “It has become a universal language in a way.”


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Sawaya’s Master Builder status means he can buy all his bricks directly from Lego in bulk – not possible for us Lego civilians. He used to buy sets in toy shops and on eBay when starting out; now he can email asking for 500,000 red 2x4 bricks, say, and Lego ships them to him on wooden pallets. He has six million bricks on hand at his studio in Los Angeles. “Millions of each colour and shape and size,” he says. “And they’re all organised by shape and colour.”

He works away for hours at a time in his studio, with his dogs obediently at his feet, in what he describes as a “trance”. He plans designs on special “brick paper” like graph paper, but sometimes he free-builds from his imagination. “I do often see the world in rectangles,” he says, and sometimes he even dreams in bricks.

Just like children do with Lego sets, he simply snaps the bricks together – though he does dab glue between each brick, which triples the time it takes. He describes it as “therapeutic”, but says making a mistake can be “heartbreaking” – he can lose days and weeks of work at a time. “There may be times where I start questioning my choices in life,” he smiles.


Photos: Copyright Jane Hobson

Sawaya faced snobbery from the art world when he first began approaching galleries as a Lego artist. “Oh, is that cars and trucks and little castles?” was the response. He feels it’s now a more acceptable medium. “It makes art accessible,” he says. “And in doing that, it democratises the art world a bit. It allows people to relate to the art. Everyone has snapped a brick together at one point, every child has played a little bit with Lego.

“As an artist, my role is to inspire. And what better way to do it than through a medium everyone is familiar with? If someone sees a marble statue, they can appreciate it, but very few people have marble at home they can chip away at.”

The first Lego creation Sawaya can remember making was a little house, when he was first given the toy at the age of five. He then made a city that grew to 36 square feet. When he was ten, he was desperate for a dog. His parents refused, so he tore all his creations down and built a lifesize one. “It was blocky and very multi-coloured, of course,” he says. “But it was that ‘Aha!’ moment – when I realised it doesn’t have to be on the front of the box. It can be whatever I want.”

The Art of the Brick: DC Super Heroes is on at Upper Ground, Southbank, London, until 3 September 2017.

Anoosh Chakelian is senior writer at the New Statesman.

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