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Films

Mots Mots & Mistress Absurdity

Michael Heath

The spiralling pre-cadenzial intros on this page usually in a manner (less hammy than outspoken tomfoolery) of speaking, spout proud abouse or misuse of the cinema; well, the pictures that some go to, or end up at; or try to scrutinise (that word!) this page in order to decide whether they should!

Of course, I wish to promote some, discard most, for basically, they are of a singularly played-down importance to me, and of consequence to no-one, due to their ephemeral existence.

So far the year has been plained down. Somniferous, almost; nothing that so shattered "us" into thinking we are powerless to comprehend such tilings. As the festivals overseas suck in all that is effulgent and "now", and priority is given to that cinema, we are left here in a gaping wake, that is beginning to show, not on our faces (or irritability, no! not any more) but on The Screen. I feel it is in no way impossible that it could be a wayward streak of disillusionment and pretty revolting prettyness never to let us ever see a thing. This is why the few miracles of the TV (the Monday night plays are superb—two from Peter Luke, and most recently the unbelievable Giles Cooper adapation of The Way of All Flesh) are an easy and groggy compensation.

The first international film festival in Auckland, from September 14-25 (not so far away as to imbue excitement) seems to be this holy grail of restoration, though a first-offering release of what may be offered is (at the moment) belli rather irritating. These things are never finalised until right up to the last moment and then something won't arrive, and something dreadful or marvellous will be shown; or an extra; or a guilty showdown of censorship (not very likely!). If these films are to be seen by a minority (yourselves then, the minority) once only, once in New Zealand—it is rather frightening to wonder if any film will be rejected because it is not suitable for New Zealand audiences. A film festival is a personal happening, it must have a controller, a man who knows what he's doing, knows what he's showing, and for once, has nothing to do with the public, or the commercial conscience.

At the moment (prepare for unleashing of countless names, names, names!) there is to go on: Carlsen's Hunger with Per Osscarson (shown 2 years ago Melb/Syd Festivals, and commercial! release at latter). Jiri Menzel's Capricious Summer (quite marvellous, though his Closely Watched Trains is still awaiting release) Andrzej Wajda's Everything For Sale (his latest, par Gates of Paradise, dedicated to the memoir of Zbiegnew Cybulski), Robert Bresson's Au Hasard Balthazar (three years old, though Mouchette was shown overseas last year; still there is hope for that; and will be an unforgettable experience by one of the cinemas saints), Miklos Janeso's The Red and White (from Hungary, this is one of the greatest directors working today, atribute to the Russian Revolution; his latest Silence and Cry may also be shown, hopefully) and The Engagement (I don't know if this is by Italy's Olmi, or not, still . . ?).

As you see, this is only a miniseule bunch, and worth getting excited over, but there are so many others to be announced. 1 have compiled here a list of possibles, and I am sure that a goodly percentage will be included, so bear (bare) up to this engulfing spew!

At least one of the new Pasolinis (Oedipus Rex, Theorem), Cassavette's Faces, Neighbours; Truffaut's Baisers Voles; Berg-man's Shame; Bertolucci's Partner; Kluge's Artistes At the Top of the Big Top, Disorientated; Jan Nemec's Report on the Party and the Guests, or Martyrs of Love; For-man's Fireman's Ball; Jean-Marie Straub's Chronicle of Anna Magdaleno Bach; Cor-man's Wild Angels or The Trip, (hope they don't show Don Levy's Herostratus!); Orson 'Welles' Immortal Story; Antonioni's Zabriskie Point (if finished); Codard's well bloody nearly everything! (not a film) but especially Deux ou trois choses etc . . ., Weekend, One plus One, or One American Movie; Bunuel's La Voie Lactee; Lindsay Anderson's The White Bus (and the film on that) and possibly If . . . , or even Bog-danoviches Targets (the film will never be shown here; the company found it unsuitable for New Zealand, and to have no commercial bearing on a single-feature policy!!!!). That list is by no means a definitive one; ust a few that featured in prominent festivals within the last year or so, and only a? per cent that I want to see; I hope out of that list a goodly bunch will be shown over the 12 clays of concentrated film going plus all the short-features and and and! Til after the holidays, adieu to something as/inspiring.

Comparisons make hot-somethings betwixt a city empty and a metroplichocker— if, by some fluke of circumstances you would have found yourself in Sydney over the last fortnight or so, you could have seen all these films, at least commercially, this is no festival (count the films that will ever, ever be seen here!!) this is that extensive cultural-front the Aussies have managed—it is then beyond many to think that a paradise is so short a'lep away:

Brogdanoviche's Targets; Demy's' The Model Shop; Linnet's Bye Bye Broverman, Subject was Roses, Parts 1 and 2 of War and Peace (soon to arrive in New Zealand, and be shown in its 6½ hour magnificence on the gigantic Lido screen?); Peerce's Goodbye Columbus; Kluge's Yesterday Girl; Vic Morrow's Deathwatch (from Genet); Jancso's The Round-up, Wildeberg's Elvira Madigan; Godard's Masculin Feminin; Cornell's Hugs and Kisses; Teshigara's Woman of the Dunes; Resnais' La Guerre est finie; Reisz's Isadora; Delvaux' The Man Who Had His Hair Cut Short (to be seen Wellington Film Society, November); Truffaut (all of them!) and last by no means Troell's Here is Your Life (in Danish Ole Dole Doff!!).

One can be so discouraged by such a temptation, and it is with reluctance I turn to some of the fortnight's releases here, urn ....

I will record that the compilatory The Witches (UA) was as bad as the rest, though how such a delightful jewel as the Pasolini episode the earth as seen from the moon, could be included amongst the other stuff, is beyond me. Visconti seems to be the social outcast to end all, though I hold no grudge against him, especially after those descrapancies Sandra, anil The Stranger (I look forward to his new period work The Damned, with Dirk Bogarde and Ingrid Thulin).

His episode is quite silly (certainly not representative of his style—"how do you know his style, clot?") with a rare comic performance by that sullen of solemns Annie Giradot. The witch herself is played in each episode by the enigmatically beautiful Silvana Mangano—I pant to see this wonderful creature flowering in the two Pasolinis. There is an episode by Bolognini (Sordi as an accident victim taken on a wild goosepimply chase), Rossi (very strange—don't know what it was about) and De Sica (tho each abysmal thing he does lives up to his name, this is the best he has made since the bye-coned neo-sobbery; Clint Eastwood loots far too precious in his pearly sterile suburblings of sub-mitty a la Minnelli.

I await the chance to give Pier Paolo Pasolini his full due Accatone and the Gospel according to St. Matthew have been shown here and there is no reason why Oepidus Rex, Theorem and Medea will not come. In this episode, the colour (Giuseppe di Rotunm taking over from di Vennazo, at last) is far superior and beautiful than the others.

It is like a whimsical pop-art Beckett tale with a surfeit of religious, dotty innuendos (the miaoww! wedding ceremony, the Doris Day magic house, the sons carrotty-rinsed Elvis hairstyle, blue USA sweater) and a Chaplinesque sad mime/gabble by Toto, the clown.

Filmed among a vacant grassy lot with shacks and old castle-looking remnants, and a sky full of the most evocatively bruised-blue cloud formations, which just infuriates one to think that it is only a small exercise in self-deceit conceit and lonliness. It is a little masterpiece that should be shown on its own, rather than be tucked away in the other drivel.

Robert Mulligan's The Stalking Moon (NCP) is another picture by Robert Mulligan, who makes a picture wot gets shown about this time every year at the Majestic (Inside Daisy Clover, Up the Down Staircase) and goes a week or two and is adored (my word, always with Mr M, a soft spot for his charm) and in this case is advertised as a Western (tho it is more of a horror pic, a faceless hairy apache, and lots of jumpy violence), but it has a slow-pull like a settler trail story, and Eva Marie Saint and Gregory Peck look as though they are mouthing in dust, and the old faces of the indians and the men of the regiment, and the skv, and the plateaus and the log cabin, and the foresty hills (all wonderfully photographed by tha cranogenarian Charles Lang) are the best, just the best in the world: and the excitement and suspense just about kills and shoots one up in th air, and its a lovely picture, which I thoroughly enjoyed and I hope you who saw it did too. (honest Memo: sorry about the still, 2 weeks back—they moved!)

David Green's (reconstructed from banality—the prefect movie to watch TV by) The Strange Affair is.

His Sebastian was miles cleverer). This police enforcement tale is representative of the purity and debauchery of a bobby. Every beautifully exposed shot (Alex Thompson) adds up to the unusual expectant failure feeling, and the whole nasty business is boringly obscure, and eventually quite stewpid due to the most outrageous censoring in years. I lost count, and patience (another real rate—me—patience one) after 6 huge cuts. The torture scene, where the young thugs power-drill Michael York's facial cheeks is completely missing, and reverently followed by a few seconds of black film! The innocent enough bathing etc., scenes are sort of hiccupped through into post-coital stupidity. Jeremy Kemp does an Eddie Constantine from Seedyville. George Benson (Mr Dick of TV's superb David Copperfield) as a co-partner of the porno/blackmail-ilk, and dreary dumb coppers, and stupid dirty druggy hippies (they are the best thing, I think). Quite the trappiest film in months. If, by any chance you should be travelling around, please take note of some special pies that always manage to lose audiences through the holidays. A lot of great stuff always appears while you are away.

The Lido has John Osborne's Inadmissable Evidence with that new hellfire Nicol Williamson, directed by Antony Page (who did it on the stage) and also stars Mrs Osborne—Jill Bennett. The screenplay, mercifully, is also by Osborne, and despite an R18 has been tampered by the censorial When will they leave things alone. It should be followed by Pietro Germi's The Birds, the Bees and the Italians ("All heavy breathing and writing on the bottom!" Grand Prix at Cannes '67, somehow!, and under title of Signora e Signore, or something) is, if you enjoyed Divorce Italian Style, and stayed awake during his Seduced and Abandoned; and, if by some frugal kindness Noddy in Toyland and And So to Bed, or the thick thighs of Moderna Cramps, doesn't allure the jumpy young buggers in ("What'll keep our pervy kids on toe / a groovy Warhol or a Franken-furter …" etc.) please look out for James Ivory's The Guru, with Rita Tushingham and Michael York. If you were so lucky to sec Ivory's The Householder and the beautiful Shakespeare Wallah don't for heaven's ache overlook this it is apparently as charming and ravishing (in colour) as the others.

The Plaza will be showing assorted Disney things, but may by some fluke get a chance to slip in Peter Collinson's The Long Day's Dying, This is something of a rarity already, an anti-war film to end all, and script by the pneumatic Charles Wood. It is uncut, and of such special conception and presentation, it will spark controversy if willed.

Stanley Donen's Staircase (script, hurrah! from Charles by Charles Dyer's play) with Harrison and Mr Elizabeth Taylor, is promised so soon, so watch out; and if you are up the island (depending on origin) grab The Killing of Sister George for what it is worth.

That misplaced Tony Richardson film The Sailor from Gibraltar, from Marguerite Duras' novel, script by Christopher Isher-wood, photography by Raoul Coutard with Jeanne Moreau, Orson Welles, Vanessa Redgrave, Ian Bannen etc., is on at the St. James, though probably bloody, will be worm seeing.

Finally, John Frankenheimer's The Fixer will be shown in Wellington in October. Amen.