A sometimes-restrained, sometimes-awfully-un-subtle egotistical subjectivity reigns Elegy, an interesting piece of tweaked phallocentrism from a woman director. Loose ends are generally tied up even though the characters barely keep their heads above a sea of self-proclaimed navel-gazing. For a ponderously serious piece, Elegy is very easy, in every sense of the word. It’s fascinating how characters have to be academics in films like this to give that intellectually aloof rapport apparently required by such subject matter, when in fact the subject matter is essentially, “I can make it on my own; no, wait, I can’t make it on my own.” At least the film doesn’t give any misdirection as to its concerns. When he’s lonely and the phone rings or he has a voicemail, it’s always the only important person at that moment who can offer some kind of solace. Cinematographically, the film seems to be more of an “elegy” to Penelope Cruz’s womanhood than to Ben Kingsely’s slow divorce to bachelorhood, but perhaps it’s simply an awkward and confused parallel theme going on. Eh.