Wellington Film Festival

by Jeremy Littlejohn

Under the distinguished patronage of His Excellency the Governor General, Sir Denis Blundell, GCMG, GCVO, LBE, the Wellington Film Society, Inc presents the Third Wellington Film Festival, Paramount Cinema, June 28—July 7 1974.' With this salutation you may pass into the pale and pealing Courtenay Place flop house, and at competitive prices, purchase a cultural gem richer than a tribe of other essays in film. Art is only two days and a dollar away — vive Part, vive le cinema.

There can be little doubt that many who do attend these annual festivals come away with such thoughts — and it is depressing that they do for, if they but knew it, there is more verite and more art next door at the TAB and this reduces the inspired cultural commotion that afflicts the bohemians of Miramar for a week into relative, if not total, insignificance. So much serious thought and so many profound responses are provoked by what are films and nothing else.

But this in itself does not case me into gloom. It is the standing in which these films are held. From being innocent enterprises in self expression of self aggrondizement they are draped in the mantles of masterpieces and transformed into commodities for the 'sensitive set' or whatever else you care to call them. Such things they were never meant to be and only the merest handful can withstand this process of metamorphasis. A pictorial record of the urban landscape is asked to pass as a major contribution to our understanding of everything from atomic physics to anchovy markets: a clever thriller is created as a courageous condemnation of the materialistic opporunism epitomising the capitalist society, or somesuch shit. And in my opinion this gives the honest, entertaining movies, which are considered beneath festival standard, a bad name — which depresses me. But enough of being maudlin in the face of unfulfilled promises — what does one see at this festival?

Obviously, some good and some bad. Few films are all that they are cracked up to be and festival films are no exception. Having seen two of them already, I can report, at least, that one of them, 'Mon Oncle Antoire' is worth the trouble of queuing for, and that 'Nathalie Granger', with which 'Mon Oncle Antoine' was shown, is not. The first is a sensitive and generally reasonable puberty flick (at which the French are quite good as a rule) with a wealth of homely divertisements that amount to what might be called a living image of rural French Canadian existence. One may or may not worry about the superfluity of death symbolism, and other aspects of the film's social meaning, but even without this it merits watching as a strong tale well told. About 'Natalie Granger' the less said, the better — a studied and pretentious exercise in boredom, its only redeeming feature it is very obvious money-saving frugality. A truly miserable and missable non-event.

On the subject of frugality, a last word must be said about the viewing conditions to be experienced at the Paramount over the forthcoming week. The Paramount has never been Wellington's warmest theatre, but as of now it must be one of the coldest spots in the southern hemisphere. So, for god's sake, go warmly clad. At least physical survival will be accounted for by doing so

If, perchance, the regular movies hold more away over you then I can recommend George Lucas' American Graffiti which is now showing at the Regent. This is not all that it might appear to be, i.e. an evocation of adolscence '62 vintage, but as a self-conscious and mannered study of that period it works nicely within a pleasantly contrived framework. It has its fair share of laughs and a bumper batch of golden oldies amounting to a lot of fun provided one does not ask for too much. Not a classic, but a good afternoon's viewing.

'O Lucky man'

reviewed by Redmer Yska

I read about 'O Lucky Man' sometime last year and the actor/director relationship of Lindsay Anderson (This Sporting Life etc) and his discovery Malcolm McDowell established some years ago in the revolutionary call-to-arms "If..."; pointed to a new collaboration which could be for the seventies (after 'Clockwork Orange') what "If...", "Blow-up" and even Morgan were for the sixties.

Thus "O Lucky Man" bore impeccable references. McDowell's roles from "If..." to Loseys "Figures in a Landscape" and "Clockwork Orange" had represented a hazy yet tangible progression. "O Lucky Man" is quite obviously the 'current fantasy' for Anderson in his portrayal of the picurcsque, Dick Whittington-like coffee salesman has mixed all the ingredients of the contemporary scene: the pygmailions of the sisters stumbling through drugged years to arrive at reality through such 'de trop' concepts as ambition and even ego. McDowell's character has the sapphire eyes of David Bowie, he affects a glitter suit while he flaunts truth and exposes his basic innocence (ignorance?)

Alan Price who wrote all the music appears throughout the film almost literally as a musical (greek) chorus sings "smile while yo're takin it, even though you're fakin' it no bod'ys gonna know" and this fragment of the song coupled with the optimistic title of the film portrays the benign direction of the protagonists fortunes.

Much is explored: the police, the military, the politicians all are satirised as Travis (McDowell) wanders through misadventure after misadventure. Travis is no longer the school-boy of "If...." and he appears to feel he is older. Yet he struggles and pulls through despite the "realities" of adult-hood which the film makes synonymous with corruption and utter loss of innocence.

Throughout the film we are made aware of McDowell's earlier films. The firm manager who gives Travis the job of firm representative in the North West is the headmaster out of "If...." The soaked and battered protagonist shielding under a rock after his car has exploded recalls the young prisoner hiding from the dreaded helicopter in "Figures in a Landscape". The old men who chase and nearly kill McDowell are the toothless, old creatures of a "Clockwork Orange". The list could go on as the director moves to regain more and more time in an almost mythic way.

The last scene is particularly striking in terms of this idea. Out on his luck Travis takes a chance and attends a talent quest where prospective "stars" are assembled on pews to be photographed and considered for the big-time.

Lindsay Anderson the director appears in the film here as the head scout and he soon singles out McDowell to pose. In a sequence that must be rarely possible in cinema he has his "star" pose holdings sheaf of school books and then, of course a bren-gun. The revolutionary star of "If...." is born. Born again? He has certainly attained full circle. Anderson says "smile". McDowell tries but claims he cannot as he has nothing to smile about. Anderson then strikes him echoing every blow from every movie McDowell has borne. A cheesy grin breaks through The cycle is complete. Christ, where can McDowell go now?