A
film that helped to establish cinematic iconography and narrative.
Cross-cutting finds innovative use and Lubitsch moves his fleet-of-foot
narrative at a nice clip. When the eyes on a tomb open for the first time,
there is a palpable sense of imagination and sincerity, if primarily for its
material existence within the frame.
The Day of the
Locust (John
Schlesinger, 1975) – 1/5
Nathaniel
West’s fiercely prescient, satirical 1939 novel gets butchered by Schlesinger,
who takes the inherently “termite art” material and transforms it into smug,
“white elephant” perversity. Schlesinger’s film is, ironically, as vacuous and
empty-headed as the mid-30’s Hollywood it depicts (of course, the film is also
meant to draw parallels with contemporary social mores, as well). Waldo Salt’s
screenplay mimics West’s novel, rather than giving it an overhaul.
Characterization hinges upon risible psychological torment (Schlesinger is a
sucker for the meaningless zoom-in on eye-line). Moreover, William Atherton is
atrocious in the lead role – it’s no surprise he was relegated to supporting,
hysterical baddies shortly after. Worst of all, Schlesinger is again humorless,
substituting empty ridicule and incoherent idiosyncrasies for actual discourse.
Marathon Man (John
Schlesinger, 1976) – 3/5
Another
risible, bordering on incoherent outing from Schlesinger – but this time, the
lurid material (Nazi targets psychologically damaged Grad student? – sounds like
absurdist melodrama to me) finds resonance in its intimations of deeper, unrecoverable fractures in National identity, post-event
horror, post-catastrophic trauma. Still, these themes are found in a narrative
that’s sheer Hollywood exploitation (a scene where Roy Scheider fights an Asian
man in his hotel room or two old men dueling with their cars reveal Schlesinger’s
odd, but consistently empty sense of humor), and yet again, Schlesinger
encourages acting styles that place personality above setting, filmmaking.
Schlesinger will get you that Oscar nom – but he seldom makes an intelligible
film in the process.
The Falcon and
the Snowman (John
Schlesinger, 1985) – 2/5
Schlesinger’s
aesthetics have morphed into some sort of TV Movie of the Week/tense political
procedural hybrid. Moreover, he has retained the smug indifference that sullies
several of his other films. Steven Zallian’s script is predictably shoddy.
Finally, the lead performances from Timothy Hutton and Sean Penn are suitable,
if forced (especially Penn – his manic style often only works with a manic
director, see BDP’s Casualties of War and
Carlito’s Way). Schlesinger is a
rather boring filmmaker, at this point.
The Believers (John
Schlesinger, 1987) – 1/5
Aping
(poorly) William Friedkin’s entire tone and visual schemata for The Exorcist, Schlesinger descends into
absolute futility with this voodoo horror/drama, with Martin Sheen thanklessly
playing a father trying to protect his son from being sacrificed. Nothing works
here – the opening scene has Sheen’s wife shocked-to-death while standing in a
puddle of milk. He screams. Later, a voodoo woman tries to help his son. He
screams. His son runs out in front of some cabs – you get the picture.
Moreover, the films takes little consideration in its depiction of cult/religious
conviction. For a “socially” conscious filmmaker, Schlesinger treats voodoo as
simply a driving force of evil – there’s nothing remotely human about any
element of The Believers.
Russian Ark (Aleksandr
Sokurov, 2002) [rewatch] – 5/5
The
metaphysics of Aleksandr Sokurov’s unbroken museum trek through 300 years of
Russian history consistently layers itself on at least two levels – the marvel
of self-identity as related to cultural, national identity and the unblinking
cinematic eye that records and documents such inner-subjectivity. Sokurov constructs
his film as a waking dream, suggesting historical identity as essential to avoiding
existential crisis, though the film, done in one steadicam take, begs to be
taken as the ultimate culmination of cinematic crisis and artistic existence, that crisis
which cinema has been trying to resolve since the Lumiere brothers invented the
cinematograph: the paradoxical stoppage and persistence (of vision) of time and
space. André Bazin would be proud.
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