Maximilian Schell's documentary portrait of, and tribute to, his older sibling, Maria Schell, her acting career long in eclipse, and her health and financial status in dire straits. The coy camerawork in the first half-hour of the film -- no more than pieces of the titular figure from the neck down, a TV remote control in a gnarled hand, the face hidden behind a television set in the foreground at the foot of her bed -- is reminiscent of the filmmaker's documentary on Marlene Dietrich: audio interviews only, no on-camera appearance. But then suddenly, uncoyly, unselfconsciously, there's our subject on screen -- old and overweight, for sure, but unmistakably still herself, at home now in the hills of southern Austria, living on the same property where she and her brother were born and raised (we see the actual bed in which they were delivered), attended by faithful servants and, at least for the duration of the film, by her brother and his younger Russian wife and their daughters. She is plainly unwell, needing to be prodded to take a daily walk in the snow to ward off ossification; but the film is discreet, even euphemistic, in its diagnosis of her physical and mental deterioration -- she is in a "twilight zone," rather than clinically "demented," to the point apparently of her delusion, while watching her brother Max on TV in Deep Impact, that the world was actually about to come to an end -- as well as discreet in its depiction of the cause and effect of an accidental fire. There can be no question of exploitation: on the one hand, the brother's care for his sister is self-evident, and on the other hand he's not going to make much hay in the present-day world off a documentary on Maria Schell. She herself proves to be still in possession of sufficient faculties to be asked, for the record, some probing questions: "How was the moment when you knew Mama was dying?" "What do you consider the most important times of your life?" "Do you think you were a good mother?" For viewers retaining fond memories of her, the film comes as an unexpected, an unimagined bonus, tantamount to an opportunity to spend a little quality time with a loved one before the curtain falls for good, a chance to have a last farewell. (2003) — Duncan Shepherd
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