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Films

Michael Heath

Those Porn-Free Plantagenets

A Scene from Jan ("Diamonds of the Night", "Martyrs of Love ") Nemec's "A Report on the Party and the Guests", which will be shown with Jiri Menzel's "Capricious Summer" on September 15, the second day of the Auckland International Film Festival. Nemec's Kafkain parable was banned from export in 1967, and the Czechoslovakia government voted to withhold funds from Nemec so he would be powerless to realise his "vehicle of nihilism". Needless to say the film was released, and has appeared at all the major festivals over the last year. It shows the humiliations endured by guests in order to May at a party in the woods given by a paternalist host who insists upon petty rules, until, in the end, the one non-conformist brave enough to slip away is chased by buying hounds.

Will dispense, thematically I hope, with Anthony Harvey's Lion In Winter (Avco Embassy thru Fox) as it is splendidly confusing and at times a downright dawdling mess—familiarity, I mean. It is of the rare breed of flaring nostril movies, an athletically muscular film, jabbing at the senses with its pungent wit and wordy innuendo.

Because it has been greatly criticised, mainly for its self-conscious awareness of its often contemporary approach—thanks to James Goldmans screenplay From his play —a lot of people are in for a grande schocke. His script analyses the historical hierarchial situation in terms of contemporary language and psychology.

Also it is one of these films that we occasionally see that contend for one of the year's best. Lord knows a motely enough lot have been displayed, and I was pleased to be able to put Lion In Winter as a high-riding offering and add it to 1969's chefmoins d'ocuvres (needless to say the others are Hour of the Wolf. Petulia, Rachel Rachel, Bullitt, Boom. Secret Ceremony, and Head, hardly etc . . .)

Harvey's film is technically faultless, due firstly to Douglas Slocombe's unpraisable colour, dynamic use of the slow zoom and crane, and secondly his obviously careful placement of the tableau de scene, visually breathtaking in its rawest sense as was Welles' Chimes at Midnight, with which Lion compares at times.

I remember reading of Slocombe's rushing back and forth from Sardinia on Losey's Boom and back to Ireland for Lion, two incredibly rich uses of colour.

Witness Eleanor of Aquataine's arrival on the royal barge; greeting her long-time-no-see husband Henry II with maliciously hilarious callings, full of biting sad undertones—a combination of visual pomp, emotional attraction and revulsion.

As in much of the film it gathers US up in great lepery bundles, coddles and buzzes over us pokes and jabs, retreating with a softened lyricism that can only bring tears, and Katherine Hepburn's Eleanor is of such a performance: a burning ravished lovable speckled hen regal to the point of abstract insanity, she schemes and plots and loves relentlessly, never giving up in the eternal fight, the performance is so dynamic, I failed to believe it possible. Hers is the singularly greatest performance I have ever seen: comparing her with Long Day's Journey Into Night is unnecessary, in her mid-60's she is as sprightly and overpowering as in her earliest of comedies. An actress of such power and devotion to her art, I could finish this unsuitably banal review (!) here (Take 5 gor vidal's ache).

A soliloquy in front of a mirror, she gazes hair Frizzed, crown askew ridiculously into her reddened tear-filled eyes, freckled lace, gracious movements, "My what a lovely girl. How could her Kind has left her?" and in only the way this magnificent woman can speak such wonderment. "I wonder it I should hang this necklace from each nipple. No! The children wouldn't like it."

In this, the age of chivalry, a family gathers at Chinon castle one Christmas, in 1183. King Henry II (Peter O'Toole, continuing his Becket, is splendid, raw and a perfect partner to Katy), his Queen, Eleanor whom he has immured for 10 years in Salisbury tower, and the three sons, Richard (future Cocr-vert, Anthony Hopkins), Geoffrey (John Castle) and the family favourite, John (the snivelling, nocked Nigel Terry is fantastic), also assembled is Alais (lovely Jane Merrow) Henry's mistress, and her brother, King Philip of France, an effete exterminating angel (Tim Dalton) who has come among other lesser things to renew his relationship with Richard. The film cosily settles down to bickering and family squabbling, as they plunder intelligence and fight with fantasic words as to which of the sons will be rival to the crown; their lives being probed and jumbled into exultant (it seems) self-pity. Love, hate, and finally near extinction, saved by this finality of devotion only a family of this breeding has.

One remarkable sequence, complete with hidings behind the arras (a semi-fortuitous babes in armour marx-brothers episode!) has the entire male Family confiding in Philip, each in their own self-conceited ways. It is only until Richard and Philip declare their love.

I have been in hell for two years," lunga pausa. "I didn't see you there' Henry roars in and upsets the emotional dog-cart; a rave full of venomous sodomic fury, I hate to think what a cosily square Cinerama weekend audience will make of it!!!

Charles Higham writes this week of Lion (an A cert, here, no excisions) "I presume no unwise parent will take his child to Lion In Winter under the impression it is going to supply an innocuous if colourful history lesson: the language and perversions are not for tots!"

Anthony Harvey (aged 38) has had considerable dealings with the cinema industry, he has had editing experience with Kubrick, Forbes, etc., which has certainly enlivened his approach on this his second feature (Dutchman, with Shirley knight and Al Freeman Jr., desn't seem to nave found a worthy distributor).

Harvey writes on Goldman's script of Lion: "I found it extraordinary in its penetrating observations of loneliness and the failure of human beings to communicate at the most vital moments of their lives . . . these are people who love each other very much but keep missing each other in the darkness ... at the same time this is an extraordinary family of juvenile delinquents."

He has used to full phlegmy-throated advantage a fine play, and from Hepburn, the medieval monster of the times, and O'Toole, a virile, unstill and loving man, performances that are only too rare in todays grotesqueries of the cinema.

John Barn's score, performed by the Accademia Monteverdiana is too restrained; his Orff-ish Stravinskia rather appealing, and the brass-work especially, is free and unmelodie.

The film is an illuminating historical achievement, memorable and devotedly rivetting to the point of utter oblivious distraction.

Richard C. Sarafian's Run Wild, Run Free, a beautifully photographed, a teasing young kestrel-hawk v. the elements surrounding child retardation against the mysterious white-colt movie. It is as unprepossessing and sure of itself as was the rarer of its kinderlings—Namu, the Killer Whale; Misty, Island of the Blue Dolphins, etc., the charm and all-pervading wonder of a struggling childhood, For once, the Disney schmuck is dispensed with. It is forceably under-written and places great consideration on its lead played by the more-remarkable than-ever Mark Lester, of the most luminescent intelligence. He plays a non-speaking child of subtle and at times of a very moving demeanour. He has dreadful parents (Sylvia Syms and Gordon Jackson), befriends a retired army colonel (John Mills) and a girl (Fiona Fullerton).

The entre film was, shot on location on Dartmoor, and Wilkie Cooper's colours and sense of sky, moor and lighting are breathtaking.

The literal bog-down and recovery towards the finale are ludicrously hammed, but the kiddies were entranced (for a week, if they escaped from Noody, Poove Bear and other neurotic crap) and a little surprise for the Truffaut devotees who stay!

A sad tale too: in execution a miserere nobis lor one week, in reception (by those who thuft The Guru a noisy transcedental pop film with all the clatter of an Indian curry freak-out and so by thus dismissing it: I know yon did . . . .) and for me, a delight (naturally) over-riding the consciousness of Fox's probable reducing it to normal length for Western consumption. James Ivory inundating with his slight of sensory sadness, rich in colour costumes and custom. But it still was an experience of rare loveliness (camera of Subrata Mitra) that lingers on and on. True whimsy, and slight in all respects. I wouldn't classify it satire, for it was too simple, and events natural and humanistic to nth degrees of allowable consciousness! Michael York as Tom Pickle, and Rita Tushingham as the girl friend are slowly dipped in the petrified delights of India-today, experiencing the freedom of the New West, that seems hopelessly out of the times' taste; (the party and beauty parade are embarrassing) befriending for life a guru (Uptal Datt. a genial, sainted man) and on gradually receiving the sincerest of discretionary "love" of both, draws them into his world containing the venerable culture of his art (the sitar) and spiritual values of his heritage. A rare bird, as was Shakespeare Wallah. I would rather sit through the Guru countless times than see some of the muck I ended up at; a feeling again, thus returned to its sanest of origins—the Guru says the rest.

Cheap thrills: "It would be funny if it weren't so tragic," Inadmissable Evidence, a near pigpicce of social grun yanking, rank censoring and hysterical psychosexual-apathoeryphicallity; Osborne should stay at home inside with sepia goggles watching Misleading Cases. The Assassination Bureau, Dearden pray continues his upper lower middle navel classless travesties, this time an atrociously heavily extended period close-quotes point. Miss Rigg should stick to the box.

The Chairman is another (yeth, yeth, another . . . ) ripe old mess from the frenetically crudele J. Lee Thomson. Its cashing consciousness becomes crashing unconsciousness as a hapless grinning Gregory Peek. Red Guards, and Mao in unthoughtful predictability, get thrust around in sharp colour (John Wilcox ) to the noise of all Goldsmiths; the (!) thoughts of Mao Ping Pong Poo have never looked so yellow on Chinoise fish and chip paper.

Not yet confirmed by Paramount, but publicly visable upstairs at Walter Street, is the near-miraculous news (that I never thought would eventuate, somehow . . . .) of Lindsay Anderson's If . . .

The film was submitted in May (see Salient, June 17 or so) with Rlβ and excision(s). On August 4, the film was given an amended certificate R18 and NO Excisions written for the first time in years, in the censors register. Indeed, something must have happened, I thankee! The film was cut in Australia, in Britain (by Lcc Greater Authority) in America (according to John Simon it was cut even alter the full version shown!) There are no release dates for If . . . in New Zealand, as yet.

Stop Press (me fingers caught!) Though the Auckland International Film Festival offerings have been announced the list is not yet definitive and short features and last arrangements (hardly minute . . .) have not reached me yet At the moment it seems, all is as disappointing as could be arranged (ho! hum' Just typical!!)

Next week a resumay of all that is supposed to be new, the lies that attract, the depressing state of the puerilernts who are held responsible, plus if there is room, for a change reviews concerned with television programmes, Please pray for Polanski.