Climbing Mount Criterion XXIX
There are great gaping holes in my knowledge of Bunuel--Diary of a Chambermaid and That Obscure Object of Desire, most prominently--but not out of disinterest. In fact, he's one of the few examples I can think of who can give surrealism a human, resonant effect--not just the early stuff but comic essays like Simon of the Desert. I saw The Discreet Charm of the Bourgeoisie (#102) a few years back at Copia, a museum in Northern California dedicated to foodies, and it struck me as disappointingly flat satire; its comic whacks at elites were full of familiar ironies and character pile-ons that felt like a Marx Brothers film projected at the wrong speed, in a different language. I'm willing to concede that a day's worth of exposure to Copia, a place I found very Northern California-absurd, might've contributed to my impatience. But I'd rather pursue other Bunuels before revisiting this one.
I've seen The Lady Eve (#103) at least three times--usual for me, since I don't tend to do a lot of repeat viewings of movies. I caught it first as a college freshman, and it definitely sparked my love for Preston Sturges and Henry Fonda--and film, to some extent. But it didn't turn me on to Barbara Stanwyck--there's an icy quality to so many female stars of that era that's off-putting, though that's not to say that Fonda's milquetoast snake researcher pratfalling and taking abuse isn't wonderfully entertaining. Hell, Stanwyck's smirking is entertaining too.
Masahiro Shinoda's Double Suicide (#104), a tale of hopeless love between a paper merchant and a courtesan, was based on a puppet play, and if it's fair to equate that with stiffness, then, well, it's easy to understand why I was bored. Claustrophobia's a problem here, too--the film doesn't pick up much energy until the very end, when the title suicides actually happen, climaxing with a beautifully presented shot of the two lovers lying dead next to one another, dovetailed. But you can see that shot on the DVD box.
Did I forget about Spartacus (#105)? I forgot about Spartacus. There are a few hints of Stanley Kubrick's influence here, despite his well-documented disinterest in (and eventual disengagement with) the film: the smash cuts preceding the battle scene, the chilly obviousness of the conversations. But it's also on the good end of the stage-managed warmth that defines the Hollywood epic, and Kirk Douglas is unimpeachably excellent in his stoic performance--thanks in part because the overacting all around him makes his restraint look even more like heroism than the script intended.
Coup de Torchon (#106) will have to wait for another day, since Netflix insists its unavailable. Neil Jordan's Mona Lisa (#107) is a reminder that I need to see more of Bob Hoskins. In The Long Good Friday, he turned his shortcomings--pudgy, moody--into assets, and he does much the same thing here, as a dim but brutal fellow so disconnected from his ability to feel and understand that helping a call-girl locate her old lover seems as good an option as any. The plot is lousy crime-drama boilerplate that doesn't have the requisite depth or darkness for noir, though some critics have called it that. Few good movies have endings this bad, but it's power is in the performances--Michael Caine in a small but sharp turn as Hoskins' old mentor, Cathy Tyson as the indomitable call girl, but mostly Hoskins himself--whenever he's presented with an emotional or intellectual concern he looks like he wishes he could just beat the crap out of it. Which is why I'd love to see the made-for-TV movie in which he played Mussolini, even if it's horrible. No other actor turned lack of nuance into depth the way he has. He's a big flinching muscle.
I've seen The Lady Eve (#103) at least three times--usual for me, since I don't tend to do a lot of repeat viewings of movies. I caught it first as a college freshman, and it definitely sparked my love for Preston Sturges and Henry Fonda--and film, to some extent. But it didn't turn me on to Barbara Stanwyck--there's an icy quality to so many female stars of that era that's off-putting, though that's not to say that Fonda's milquetoast snake researcher pratfalling and taking abuse isn't wonderfully entertaining. Hell, Stanwyck's smirking is entertaining too.
Masahiro Shinoda's Double Suicide (#104), a tale of hopeless love between a paper merchant and a courtesan, was based on a puppet play, and if it's fair to equate that with stiffness, then, well, it's easy to understand why I was bored. Claustrophobia's a problem here, too--the film doesn't pick up much energy until the very end, when the title suicides actually happen, climaxing with a beautifully presented shot of the two lovers lying dead next to one another, dovetailed. But you can see that shot on the DVD box.
Did I forget about Spartacus (#105)? I forgot about Spartacus. There are a few hints of Stanley Kubrick's influence here, despite his well-documented disinterest in (and eventual disengagement with) the film: the smash cuts preceding the battle scene, the chilly obviousness of the conversations. But it's also on the good end of the stage-managed warmth that defines the Hollywood epic, and Kirk Douglas is unimpeachably excellent in his stoic performance--thanks in part because the overacting all around him makes his restraint look even more like heroism than the script intended.
Coup de Torchon (#106) will have to wait for another day, since Netflix insists its unavailable. Neil Jordan's Mona Lisa (#107) is a reminder that I need to see more of Bob Hoskins. In The Long Good Friday, he turned his shortcomings--pudgy, moody--into assets, and he does much the same thing here, as a dim but brutal fellow so disconnected from his ability to feel and understand that helping a call-girl locate her old lover seems as good an option as any. The plot is lousy crime-drama boilerplate that doesn't have the requisite depth or darkness for noir, though some critics have called it that. Few good movies have endings this bad, but it's power is in the performances--Michael Caine in a small but sharp turn as Hoskins' old mentor, Cathy Tyson as the indomitable call girl, but mostly Hoskins himself--whenever he's presented with an emotional or intellectual concern he looks like he wishes he could just beat the crap out of it. Which is why I'd love to see the made-for-TV movie in which he played Mussolini, even if it's horrible. No other actor turned lack of nuance into depth the way he has. He's a big flinching muscle.
1 Comments:
I like The Discreet Charm of the Bourgeoisie for how it looks more than what it says, but I also see it as the best summary of Bunuel's passions. Obviously, Belle du Jour is a far, far, far superior film and early stuff like Le Chien Andalou/ L'Age d'Or set the table for something like this. But I see all of those films fitting together incredibly well as the half of Bunuel's work that's tied to magical realism. Which is where Bunuel is most intriguing as a man of ideas. Diary of a Chambermaid and That Obscure Object of Desire are fairly dull in comparison: the former because the cruelty isn't stylish, the latter because it's all about the conceit of two actresses playing the same role. But I suppose you'll get there sooner rather than later.
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