It’s not hard to discern who served as the directorial model for

Othello, the first feature by actor Oliver Parker. Even when his Iago is not on screen, which is not too often, Kenneth Branagh’s fingerprints are all over the film. Parker’s stripped-down, pumped-up Othello takes on Shakespearean tragedy with the same knowing breathlessness that characterized Branagh’s treatment of the big man’s comedy in his sitcom version of Much Ado About Nothing. Perhaps because the fizz is tempered this time by calamity, the recipe works better for Parker than it did for his mentor.

Much has been made of the fact that Othello, a Moorish general in the employ of the Venetians, is here played by an African-American actor, Laurence Fishburne, after having been famously portrayed on screen by Laurence Olivier (in a very stagey Othello) and Orson Welles (in an inventively cinematic one). Parker leaves no racial comment unemphasized, and further underscores the tension with a few closeups of black and white chess pieces. Yet for most of the film Fishburne manages only to be coolly imperious, while his deceiver captures the camera. Indeed, given the liberties that Parker’s adaptation takes with the text—he mostly keeps the lines that can be found in Bartlett’s—he might have changed the title as well: This Othello could be called Iago.

Parker sets up the tale in such a picturesque blur that he must assume that the audience already knows the plot. Of course, we do, but here’s a brief refresher: Othello, valued in Venice as a warrior but not accepted as a man, causes a furor when he secretly marries Desdemona (Irène Jacob), the daughter of a noble. After Desdemona testifies that she married for love, not because she was in some way bewitched, the nobles accept the wedding—especially since they need to send Othello immediately to Cyprus to battle Turkish invaders. Meanwhile, veteran officer Iago is angered that the general has appointed Cassio (Nathaniel Parker, the director’s brother) rather than himself as his lieutenant. He decides to revenge himself on both men, through an elaborate plot to convince Othello that Cassio is having an affair with Desdemona.

In the final scenes, Parker shifts the focus to Othello’s suffering, and the general’s character reveals added dimensions. Still, his relationship with Desdemona remains sketchy and awkward, in part because the Swiss-born Jacob has difficulty delivering her lines in fluent English. (The exquisite Jacob is best-known for her roles in Krzysztof Kieslowski’s cryptic and hardly chatty The Double Life of Veronique and Red, where she wasn’t required to speak much, even in French.) Both she and Fishburne are compelling screen presences, but in Shakespeare, actors need to deliver lines as well as be iconic.

That’s why Branagh’s Iago runs away with this Othello. According to his press-kit comments, Parker wanted to downplay Iago and restore Othello to “the center of the film.” If so, he failed spectacularly. Iago is at the center, and all around the edges as well. Delivering his treacherous lines to Othello, Cassio, Desdemona, and other dupes, and his genuine ones directly to the camera, this Iago is as winningly chilling as any British-accented movie villain seen in 1995. (Roll over, Jeremy Irons.) Branagh’s performance is far from naturalistic, but neither is it too hammy for the medium. Indeed, he and cinematographer David Johnson are the only major members of the Othello crew who seem to know exactly what they’re doing.

Not exactly subtle and certainly not for purists, Parker’s Othello nonetheless works as cinematic spectacle—more Artaudian than Shakespearean. After a string of directorial flops, Branagh seems to be having a great time overpowering someone else’s movie, and most of the smaller roles are equally well (if less flamboyantly) played. If Parker has utterly missed the point he intended, what he’s accomplished by accident is nonetheless quite entertaining.

French whimsy is a delicate thing, and seldom more so than in Augustin, the 61-minute tale of an aspiring Parisian actor. The title character, played by writer/director Anne Fontaine’s brother, Jean-Chretien Sibertin-Blanc, works part-time in an insurance company, but has also done the occasional TV commercial and walk-on part. When we meet him, he’s earnestly selling himself to a casting agent, explaining that he wants to appear in action and war films, and is uninterested in “kooky parts.”

The ectomorphic Sibertin-Blanc makes such Euro-nerds as Roberto Benigni, Michel Blanc, and Nanni Moretti look Schwarzeneggerian by comparison, so the stuttering, unfocused Augustin Dos Santos’ ambitions seem unlikely. Yet Augustin is granted a test with French star Thierry Lhermitte (playing himself) and the possibility of a role in Lhermitte’s next film, as a man who takes a job as a room-service waiter so he can keep track of his wife’s infidelities.

Rather than prepare himself by exploring the emotional turmoil of his character, Augustin decides to learn about room service. Eventually finding a luxury hotel that will let him pose as an employee, Augustin takes breakfast to an American guest, who tips him generously despite his intrusive nattering about the weather. Then he meets a Chinese-born maid, Caroline (Stephanie Zhang), who demonstrates how to clean a room; smitten, Augustin is thrilled by the encounter, even though Caroline declines his romantic offer that they ride part-way home together on the Métro. Satisfied that he’s mastered the room-service routine, Augustin is prepared to take the part—provided, of course, that it doesn’t conflict with his schedule.

That’s about the extent of Augustin, although there is a final gag I won’t reveal. As with Michel Blanc’s recent show-biz farce, Gross Fatigue, it probably helps to be French: The exchange with the mystified Lhermitte would likely be funnier to those who live in a country where Lhermitte is well-known, and the bemusement of those

who encounter Augustin no doubt loses some of its zest when rendered in subtitles.

Bemusement would seem to be Fontaine’s aim. Augustin uses mostly amateur actors—Zhang, for example, is actually a hotel chambermaid—and even the professionals weren’t given a peek at each others’ dialogue before the camera started rolling. Like her protagonist, the director values immersion in mundane details; she had Sibertin-Blanc work for three months at an insurance company, which she then used as a location.

Alas, Fontaine has conjured the commonplace all too well. Though it offers a few giddy moments, the film is frequently as unremarkable as the life of a real chambermaid or insurance-company employee. Even those who are comfortable laughing at Augustin’s stuttering may tire of the solemnly ridiculous little man in less than an hour; Augustin puts its entire audience in the position of the American hotel guest, waiting for its hero to finally pipe down, take his tip, and leave.

Since Augustin is so short, it’s being shown with Omnibus, an Oscar-winning (in 1992) eight-minute one-liner about a hapless small-town commuter held captive by one of the French National Railways, one of the country’s many notorious bureaucracies. This film is slight too, but at least its punch line is more precisely located than Augustin’s. CP