Detour: Inglourious Basterds

February 24, 2010

#N/A: Inglourious Basterds

2009, 153 minutes, Color, 2.40:1

Language: English, French, German

Directed by Quentin Tarantino

[A note on spoilers: Super-low grade]

I had to take a break from the Criterion Collection for a moment because of a pressing matter. One of my roommates moved out and took Inglourious Basterds with her. So, it was as good of a time as any to watch it again. And, even though it departs from the Criterion mission I don’t see any reason not to post about it. After all, in my first post I said I was going to make some detours, and this is just the first of what is sure to be many.

For me, movies are typically a fun experience. I can’t remember the last time I saw a movie I thought sucked. It’s not that I like every movie I see, really, but I do try to take something good from them. I mean, if I’m going to put in the time to watch something, I don’t want it to be for nothing. If there is one I’ve seen in the past few years that I absolutely did not like, I must have put it out of my mind. Or maybe it has just been that long since I’ve seen one that I truly have forgotten it. Sure, there are things I don’t like about some of the movies I’ve seen, but those are typically small things that don’t diminish an overall pleasurable experience. I suppose I have been pretty selective in my choices, and that may explain why it has been such a long time since I’ve seen something that didn’t float my boat.

Well, I began to think that there just has to be something I haven’t liked, so I took a few moments and looked in the corners and under the couch of my memory banks to find there are some bad ones, and near misses, that flicker to mind. Maybe I shouldn’t have looked too hard, but at least those not-so-great experiences are few and far between.

First, I have to go back over ten years to The Thin Red Line. I almost walked out of the theater on that one. But, more often than not, it’s just a frame of mind that determines if I enjoy a movie or not. From the trailers I had seen beforehand, I had envisioned something akin to Saving Private Ryan, and it was absolutely nothing like what I had expected. I have considered giving it another try, in a different frame of mind, just to see if I can more fully appreciate it. It wouldn’t be the first time a movie I despised grew on me. Even though I haven’t given it a chance for over a decade, and don’t have any active plans to do so any time soon, should the opportunity arise without having to put myself out to do so, like going to the store and renting a copy of it, I think I will give it that chance. That could be another ten years or more, but at least I’m open to it. It may just turnaround on me.

An example of a movie that did make good on a one-eighty was No Country for Old Men. My first experience with it was not pleasurable, to say the least. Well, at least not as far as the film is concerned. Though I thought the movie sucked, it was at least accompanied by some amusing circumstances. My mom and I share very similar tastes in movies, so we usually respect each other’s recommendations. She called me one day to tell me how awesome this movie was. I suppose I should have been a little suspicious that her recommendation was the only purpose of the call and not just something that came up during the course of conversation in a routine call just to shoot the shit; she called me specifically to tell me how great this movie was and that I should see it right away. Well, instead of suspicions being raised, I figured that for her to call just to tell me about it must because the movie really is that good. Besides, I am a fan of Tommy Lee Jones, Josh Brolin, and the Coen brothers, and she was only confirming the mountains of rave reviews this flick had already garnered. My guard was completely down. If there was any indication that she was leading me down a crooked path into a devious trap, it should have been when she told me that I should find a date and take her to this movie, it’s that good. Ah, but I was too gullible. I took her at her word.

There was someone I had been seeing for a short time and we were looking for something to do for the upcoming weekend. I told her of my mom’s suggestion and we went to the movie with high expectations. And the movie lived up to those expectations. Right up until the very last second before the screen went black and the credits started to roll. We sat there in the darkness with the rest of the audience. No one moved. The theater was thick with stunned silence. No one spoke, but all our thoughts screamed in unison, “What the fuck!” It was minutes before anyone moved. We were all waiting for some sort of closure, and finally realized it wasn’t coming once the screen went dark and the lights came up. The only noise is the theater was the electric whine of the motor drawing the curtains closed. It wasn’t until we had stumbled out of the lobby and into the darkness when the cold blast of winter air snapped us awake from our shock. I finally came to grips with the harsh reality that I had been duped. By my own mother. Her prank was good, though, and I fell for it hook, line, and sinker. I did have to give the old broad props, and oh how pleased she was with herself to learn her diabolic scheme had come to fruition so flawlessly!

It was a good flick that had lived up to the hype, except for that damned ending—or, more accurately, complete lack of ending. The old woman’s trickery aside, she would be soon forgiven, but the anti-climax of such grand proportions was unforgivable. I hated that fucking movie because of it. As well as all of the critics and talking heads and reviewers who heaped praise and accolades on this movie as if it were the best thing to happen to cinema since color.

Well, for a while anyway, until some things began to sink in a little bit. Maybe all those people weren’t so full of shit, I began to think once my anger subsided. I decided I should give it another chance. I did, but not until it started airing on the cable movie channels. I’d already dropped too much dough on it, doubly compounded because of taking a date, and wasn’t going to spend another dime on it just in case it still sucked on a repeat viewing. I was right to give it another shot, for knowing what to expect of the conclusion, it really is a great movie. After reading the novel, too, it became even more satisfying. It redeemed itself so much that I began to consider it one of my favorites. I had the hi-def-super-cineplex package of movie channels and No Country for Old Men became almost as ubiquitous as Shawshank Redepmtion ever had. Regardless, I never tired of it and any time I happened across it during a mindless surfing session I became transfixed and watched it until it ended or I had to pry myself away to do something silly like go to work.

One flick I recall that I just could not bear at all is Tenacious D in The Pick of Destiny, a letdown of near-epic proportions. I have no shame in saying I’m a big fan of the D. I had their eponymously titled CD and their DVD, The Complete Masterworks, both of which I played over and over, even when most inappropriate, such as screening the DVD after Thanksgiving dinner. The cousins and the crazy uncle appreciated it for the musical, profane, and gross-out comedic gold that it is. The rest of the aunts and uncles, not so much. I think the librarian aunt was deeply disturbed by it, and probably never will forgive me. But, since it was with a clan of former in-laws, I suppose any harm it may have caused is moot.

So, yeah, there was the CD and the DVD, oh, and all the swag I picked up when my nephew and I saw them live at the Masonic Temple in Detroit. The boy and I loved it, laughing until our faces hurt. Since they were touring for The Pick of Destiny and I had such a blast during the show, I couldn’t help but pick up the CD, though the tracks I had already heard were lackluster compared to their earlier stuff. Though that CD hasn’t seen the light of day in a very long time, I still wear the “Cleveland Steamers” hoodie I picked up at the show with pride. It was inevitable that I would see the movie. Even though I was still riding high from the live show, I was dubious enough about the movie to not part with any cash to see it at the theater and patiently waited until it made its appearance on one of the more obscure cable movie channels.

Boy, am I glad I waited. As I said, I believe the pleasure derived from a movie is very much dependent upon the frame of mind when going into it. After so much exposure to the Masterworks DVD, as well as attending a live show where the souvenir stand sold “The Official Tenacious D Cum Rag…everything else is just a cum rag” (with pictures of rainbows and unicorns), it shouldn’t be hard to think I would have an idea of the proper frame of mind this type of filmic fare would require. And considering I had actually bought “The Official Tenacious D Cum Rag…everything else is just a cum rag” (with pictures of rainbows and unicorns) of my own (for a conversation piece, of course, and it did indeed spark a few interesting conversations) I thought I could easily achieve and maintain the proper frame of mind—even without the help of mind altering substances. I was horribly mistaken. I don’t think any amount herbal assistance would have helped. I bailed out shortly after they embarked on their quest for the heavy metal equivalent of the Holy Grail, which was far too long into the movie. I don’t know if they ever succeeded in fulfilling their quest, nor do I care. But, I would like those twenty minutes back. This is one movie that will never be considered for a second chance. Not even if I was hitting the bong like it was welcome week for my first sophomore year of college (ah, lost memories!). Those first few dreadful minutes of that movie was pretty much when something in my relationship with Tenacious D changed. The romance was over, like when your girlfriend thinks you’ve reached a level of familiarity where it’s okay for her to come in and make a dooty while you’re taking a shower. You still love her, but it’s just never quite the same after that moment. You’ll always have fond memories of those happy and carefree days of a budding romance, but the magic is forever gone. That’s what Pick of Destiny did for Tenacious D.

Why do I feel compelled to prattle on about three movies I watched no recently than three years, and even more than a decade, ago? Good question. I only wish I had a good answer. I suppose, really, I was trying to make a point. Though I’ve only written about a handful of movies so far, I have gushed about all of them. And for the movies in my line of sight, stretching out to the horizon, it doesn’t appear that I will deviate too much from the established MO any time soon. The same goes for my diversion from the quixotic Criterion quest that spawned this bastard (pun intended) blog post. I guess I just wanted to establish that they don’t all ring my bell, and I figured if I was going to take the effort to drag a dead horse onto the path that I may as well beat the hell out of it, Bear Jew style.

And now, the feature presentation:

Inglourious Basterds is a flick I’ve looked forward to seeing ever since I saw its trailer played at the end of last year’s Oscar ceremony. I’ve enjoyed all of Quentin Tarantino’s movies until now, and by the looks of it this one wasn’t going to break tradition. Unfortunately, I missed the chance to see it in the theater, but did get my shot at it the day the DVD was released when the roommate mentioned above brought it home from Blockbuster—apparently on some bastardized (pun intended) version of rent-to-own. I don’t know how much the experience was diminished by not seeing it on the silver screen, but it certainly did well enough on the plasma screen to tickle my fancy.

Now, the thing about a Tarantino flick is that it’s a Tarantino flick. It’s nearly impossible to talk about his movies without talking about him. He’s pretty much a love ‘im or hate ‘im kind of guy. I don’t hesitate to say that I’m listed in the love ‘im column, though falling far short of the fanboy zealotry that some crazy bastards (pun intended) have for the guy. The man certainly has his detractors. I’ve read a few reviews of the film, and with those who give it high ratings, I do agree. And for those who dog it, well, I really can see where most of them are coming from. He ain’t everyone’s cup o’ tea. But, really, when you think about it, who is? Anyway, as I was saying, Inglourious Basterds is Tarantino through and through. And I like it.

Inglourious Basterds is a fun flick. It’s everything I expect in a Tarantino film. Set in France, during World War II, it tells the tale of a rogue group of Jewish-American GI’s on a mission of wreaking havoc and instilling fear in the Nazi forces and leaders, and of a young French-Jewish woman on a vengeful quest of her own. It does so with Tarantino flair, and penchant for mashing up multiple genres. He tears the pages from the history books, burns them, and re-writes the story to his own liking. If nothing else, you gotta admire the balls.

Whenever I come into a Tarantino film, it’s with the expectation of watching a Tarantino film, chock-full of homage, violence, and dialogue. The man loves film, and that love shows in those of his own. I can only imagine the glee with which he makes his movies.

I am a bit of a sucker for dialogue-driven movies. It usually does need to be with suitable frame of mind though. Richard Linklater’s Before Sunrise, as an example, is one that I can happen across and watch it, almost spellbound, or that I just cannot bear to sit through for more than a few minutes before turning it off. It depends on the mood I’m in. A Tarantino film wouldn’t be a Tarantino film if it weren’t heavily laden with dialogue. It is an aspect of his films that gains him much praise as well as much criticism. When it comes to his movies, even if I wasn’t in the mood for lots of dialogue, I quickly get in the mood. To pop in one of his films only to check out a particular scene typically means I will end up watching the entire thing.

Inglourious Basterds is not an exception of being fueled by lots of dialogue. It’s not quite as full of quotable repartee as Reservoir Dogs or Pulp Fiction, but dialogue is definitely a keystone of this film. Dialogue punched up with profanity, if done well, can be almost poetic. Brad Pitt’s Lt. Aldo Raine certainly exemplifies this characteristic (even if he pales in comparison to the true virtuoso of this fine art, Samuel L. Jackson). Though profanity-laced banter has its detractors, and respectfully so, it is something that I can get a kick out of. I do find it impressive that Inglourious Basterds can pull off Tarantino’s trademark dialogue in multiple languages, too. Though, it may be contrived, I also like the purposeful faults and inaccuracies within the subtitles, such as not translating some words or even using “immigrate” when “emigrate” would have been correct.

Another contentious aspect of Tarantino’s films is the violence. If there is any one thing that has been most consistent in his works, it would be the violence. I remember seeing a body count for this one somewhere, but can’t locate it again. Regardless, it’s high. I certainly can see where people would take issue with the violence. I am not a fan of violence—that is real-life violence—myself. I can be easily sickened when reading in the news of an actual event of violence. I almost used the adjective “senseless,” but I believe that goes without saying for most violence is innately senseless. Movie violence, however, does not carry the same impact with me. That may sound contradictory, and it is hard to defend, but seeing movie violence, even that as over the top as depicted in Inglourious Basterds, other Tarantino flicks, as well non-Tarantino movies such as Goodfellas and the like, just doesn’t carry the same impact of what makes the news. Movie violence has its favorable qualities.

The violence in Inglourious Basterds is extreme, to be sure. I have come across some online discussions and can’t help but smile when some of the QT zealots try to mitigate the amount of violence, using phrases like, “but there’s only…,” or “you don’t see…,” “it was just a few…,” in their arguments. Nah, I can’t really see the validity in such arguments. It doesn’t matter if there was a pillow covering the gore, a man was being repeatedly stabbed in the face with a very long and very sharp blade. I don’t try to condemn or justify the violence in this film; it is a staple of Tarantino’s filmography, take it or leave it. I do wince (more than once), however, every time I see the infamous baseball bat scene, but is part of what makes Inglourious Basterds the movie it is. Now, whether movie violence de-sensitizes people to a point that facilitates, promotes, or glorifies real-life violence is a discussion for other venues. The same goes for the morality of the Basterds in comparison to that of the Nazis. I just take this film as fictional fare and entertaining in that purpose despite any discussions of violence or morality it may prompt. Hell, I don’t know why I went through all the bother of trying to put it in some sort of social context. In this movie, the shit is fuckin’ fun! Give ‘em hell, boys. Light ‘em up! In such a grandiose re-writing of history, there is no reason not to go balls out.

Concerning homage versus plagiarism arguments, I also appeal to blissful ignorance. Ripped off or not, I see Tarantino taking something already established and making it his own. He makes no secrets where his ideas come from and to what or whom he is paying tribute, or imitating, or copying, or whatever terminology may apply. It would be something completely different if he did try to hide those facts, but he is at least open about it. And for someone with a limited attention span and affection (or affliction) for instant gratification as I am, a pastiche gives more bang for the buck than culling through the original objects of the homage. Western, World War II, exploitation, documentary, seventies schlock, etc.—like the old Prego spaghetti sauce ads said, “it’s in there.” And it is all mixed together very well.

This movie’s biggest strength is the opening scene. Pulled right from the screen of spaghetti westerns, it has all the feel of a dusty Mexican village with the bad guys fast approaching. It opens with a great cinematic feel, even on the home screen. It’s no poor south of the border village, though, but a gorgeous and lush European autumnal vista complete with French dairy cows. The whole scene of the conversation between the SS officer and the dairy farmer is both absorbing and tense. It’s a scene I can watch over and over—and have.

If there is any fault I find with the movie, it would be with the Basterds themselves. They just don’t have enough screen time. It is a shortcoming that hasn’t been lost on some of the reviewers whose posts and articles I’ve read. It is an intriguing band of characters, but there isn’t much of a chance to really get to know them, and only about half of them, at all.

Brad Pitt makes the role of Lt. Aldo Raine fun to watch and listen to and it is his scenes that I like to go back to almost as often as the first scene. As far as the rest of the Basterds that have any significant role, I most like those of Cpl. Wilhelm Wicki, played by Gedeon Burkhard, and Sgt. Hugo Stiglitz, played by Til Schweiger. They both carry off an unconcerned aloofness that delivers the “don’t give a fuck” cool that they’re supposed to. It was the scene where a German prisoner is being coerced into giving away the position of another German patrol that is my favorite of Wicki’s. He translates, sparsely and unemotionally, between Raine and the prisoner. I like how the camera makes quick moves from character to character as they each speak in turn, but only doing so for a short enough time that it doesn’t become annoying. The seventies-style intro for Stiglitz brings me a chuckle every time I see it. The two of them together in the basement bar scene also gives them both a chance to make some significant contribution to the film. I could have done with more from all three of these characters.

Eli Roth’s Sgt. Donnie Donowitz makes little more than a cameo appearance. He does okay as the “Bear Jew” with the death-wielding baseball bat. His post-cranial bashing rant is his high-point, though he does have a part to play in the grand finale. Any more of Donowitz would have been an overdose, though, so that was well done.

B.J. Novak as Pfc. Utivich gets a few lines, but only comes off as “that kid from ‘The Office’ in a Tarantino movie.” Two others only get a line or two, and there are a couple who I don’t think speak a single word. In spite of their titular (I love saying “titular,” it’s just so, well, titillating) role, the Basterds provide little more than comic relief, as gory and bloody as it may be. I have heard some talk of Tarantino maybe making a prequel, which I assume would develop the Basterds more, and that would be something I would look forward to seeing some day.

Inglourious Basterds most certainly draws deep from the testosterone well as there are only two women of any significance. Diane Kruger is the gorgeous double agent and famous German actress Bridget von Hammersmark. I’ve only seen her before in Wicker Park and find her captivating. The true heroine of the movie, Shosanna Dreyfuss, is played by a lovely Mélanie Laurent. Shosanna has the biggest and most personal axe to grind that any of the characters may have, sees a golden opportunity to scheme revenge herself, and seizes it. Though she’s a diminutive figure, she is a domineering force. And, in keeping with Tarantino’s fetish, both these women’s bare feet get a fair share of screen time (more so than a couple of the Basterds, even).

From the roster of bad guys it is SS Col. Hans Landa who stands out above all others. Christoph Waltz does a hell of a job of stealing the show. Landa’s villainy knows no depths, and it’s a rare thing when an actor can portray such a despicable character while still making him likable in some manner. With the Oscars just around the corner, Waltz is the talk of the town. Even without seeing any of his competitors, the hype around Waltz is so great that I believe him to be a shoo-in to win. Or, as Landa would say, “That’s a bingo!”

Tarantino mashes up a lot of things in his movies, and the music gets thrown into the mixing bowl too. Ennio Morricone is used liberally, to bring out the spirit of the spaghetti western. There are also some seventies blaxploitation riffs, David Bowie, and some orchestral music to round things out. Despite the differences, they all go together rather well.

The movie has its weaknesses, to be sure, but hell with it, they are far outnumbered and overpowered by the film’s strengths and cinematic fun. I will gladly watch it again. It doesn’t surpass Reservoir Dogs or Pulp Fiction in my list of favorites. I don’t see myself buying a copy of it on DVD, but if given the chance to watch it again, I won’t pass it up.

#140: 8 1/2

February 16 - March 4, 2010

#140: 8½

1963, 138 minutes, Black and White, 1.85:1

Language: Italian

Directed by Federico Fellini

[A note on spoilers: Chock-full of ‘em.]

Oh, to go back in time. How nice it would be to re-capture the feelings and emotions of doing something for the first time.

When I first started this Criterion adventure, I had no set agenda of order in which to watch the films; I would just let it reel out in a somewhat organic fashion. I began with “Roberto Rossellini’s War Trilogy” because it had just been released and was something I was hell-bent on watching right away. It coincided with my desire to start the blog—that is if it wasn’t the impetus setting the notion in motion. Snowy weather then led me to The Ice Storm. Criterion’s announcement of a new and improved version of Walkabout then sent me to the Australian Outback.

Walkabout was certainly a fascinating movie. It still lingers with me. Because it is so powerful, I just didn’t know where to go next. I pondered maybe a dozen titles, each of them catching my fancy for one reason or other, but then rejecting them because there was something that didn’t fit quite right after such an emotional excursion as Walkabout was. I felt like Goldilocks. There was just something too about each of them; too deep, too superficial, too visual, too long, too harsh, too too.

Then I thought, hell, why don’t I just start at the beginning? I don’t have a record of the order I bought my Criterion Collection DVDs, but I never will forget the first. It’s not light film fare, 8½, but at least I found a reason to choose something and stick with it. So, now I go back to the beginning.

I first stumbled across 8½, and the Criterion Collection as a result, seven years ago. Little did I know what I had discovered. I was learning Italian and took to heart a suggestion to immerse myself in the language through film. I found myself in the bookstore browsing the “Foreign DVDs” section for something, anything, Italian. The selection of Italian titles was quite sparse, and 8½ stuck out if only because it had one single element of familiarity: the director’s name, Federico Fellini. I had heard the name before, to be sure, but knew little of him other than was extraordinarily famous. It was quite pricey, but it was the only title that broke through my ignorance. I decided to drop the cash and take my chances, and thus began a fulfilling excursion into, and appreciation of, a whole world of film new to me.

What would be nice about going back in time would be to re-capture what I thought about the movie, and the director, coming into it fresh with no pre-conceived notions or ideas. I just popped it in and watched it. Unfortunately, that was long before I started keeping a journal of the movies I watched, so I have no record it. Even though I can’t go back, there are some things that certainly stuck with me from the first time I saw 8½, that still delight me every time I watch it: Sgulp! Marcello Mastroianni, and, of course, la Saraghina.

Sgulp!

What a fun word. I smiled the first time I heard it and can’t help but utter it myself from time to time, usually to bemused reactions. It is such a playful word. As far as onomatopoetic words to, this one really tickles me. Not only how it sounds, but it feels fun to say it. It reminds me of the sound made when something is quickly submerged, like dropping a pebble into a pool. The word is repeated several times through the course of the film, as some expression that the hero is in over his head. In fact, there is a scene where he is doing some introspective pondering. He says, “A crisis of inspiration? And what if it weren’t a passing one, my dear? What if it’s the final collapse of a filthy liar with no flair or talent?” and punctuates his thoughts with, “Sgulp!” as if he has gone under.

Fellini’s 8½ was my first experience with Marcello Mastroianni. I’ve seen him in several movies since, but his performance in 8½ is my favorite. His Guido is a fascinating character, whether you’re well versed enough in film lore to recognize him as a projection of Federico Fellini or not. Even though Guido was swamped with anxieties, frustrations, and self-doubt, Mastroianni managed to hold him together in a way that was not only bearable to witness, but also possible to empathize with him. His face was a mask of resignation that allowed me to feel for him. I enjoyed his antics, such as when he would try to make an escape from people he didn’t want to confront, miming a walk down stairs, or lowering himself in increments as if collapsing with each ring of the telephone. I get the biggest grin when he is alone in the hallway, returning to his room, humming a few bars of The Barber of Seville, and making a sliding whistle as he kicks his foot out.

And, of course, la Saraghina!

Who could ever forget her? She emerges from her hut, a concrete bunker on the beach, like some sort of behemoth rising from the depths of the sea. What a hulking mass of flesh that, though frightening, still exudes a sensual aura. No wonder young Guido and his friends were fascinated by her. Her rumba will certainly leave an impression on anyone who sees her dance it for the first time. The way she would open her eyes as wide as she could on certain beats of the music is what really makes the dance memorable for me. In the audio commentary it was said that Fellini described the real-life Saraghina as smelling of a “combination of seaweed, fish, tobacco, rotten wood, and gasoline,” and that odor almost wafts off of the screen. I will always like this scene, but sadly something has happened since I first saw this movie that does taint my pleasure of it a bit. I was a latecomer to the Harry Potter franchise and didn’t see any of those movies until after seeing 8½. Now, whenever I see la Saraghina, I can’t help but notice a possible family resemblance between her and Hagrid. Damn you, Robbie Coltrane!

It’s the simple things like that that I recall so fondly, but the movie as a whole is a marvelous cinematic experience. I don’t know if I could have done any better than to make this my first Criterion selection, serendipitous as it was.

The opening scene is entrancing. The silence immediately grabs me and pulls me in. The claustrophobic sensation—the fear, the anxiety, the desire to escape—is almost palpable. The level of apprehension increases as the gridlocked car begins to fill with smoke. There is a sense of relief when the unidentified man escapes and floats away, free of all fetters. But his freedom is all too brief as he finds himself tethered and yanked back to the harsh reality of his life.

It is a powerful opening, setting the scene for the entire movie, the story of a man drowning in an overwhelming state of affairs, with an intense desire to escape, but unable to do so. The man is revealed to be a renowned director, Guido Anselmi (Mastroianni), in the midst of making his next great movie. Those around him believe in him, but they are unaware that he has no idea what he is doing. He is at a profound loss, seemingly for the first time in his career, as his ability to create has fled him. To make things worse, he is also suffering crises of a personal nature with his wife—and his mistress—both of whom he has invited to the movie location. Though it’s not difficult to empathize with him, it’s not all that easy to pity him completely, for he has brought some of his problems upon himself. Regardless, it does make for an intriguing story.

Some people may be put off by the slow pace of the movie, but I enjoy very much. It may be slow, but it is not plodding, and it plays out evenly, almost serenely, from one scene to the next. With each viewing, I am surprised at how quickly the time seems to pass. Each scene has something that I look forward to seeing again, and once complete I am already looking forward to the next. Before I realize it, the band marches in and the circus-like finale takes the screen with full force.

The movie has been described as one of the greatest films about filmmaking. I must admit that aspect was lost on me initially. What I saw was a man who lost his mojo, and that story alone was enough to keep me hooked. I’ve been there before, experiencing that dreadful feeling of not being able to translate the thoughts and ideas in my head into the thing I envisioned, personally and professionally, whether it was a story I wanted to write, a drawing I wanted to make, or a project I wanted to realize. It’s most frustrating when it is similar to something I’ve been able to do with relative ease before. Then there is that moment, when I’m at my lowest and my self-doubt is the greatest, something clicks and everything just flows, the words seem to write themselves, the pencil strokes flourish, and the pieces just fall into place. What was dreadful has become thrilling again.

Yes, it is a film about filmmaking. All the elements are there: director, producers, actors, agents, scriptwriters, set designers, a critic (who talks incessantly, and who, humorously, is imagined to be done away with at one point), extras, musicians, and the like—even journalists asking inane questions. It has the feel of making a film, but it is not about how to make one. It is about the creative forces, logistical issues, personal dilemmas, and financial concerns that swirl around the entire production. The mechanics of it aren’t shown. The camera is not a character to be seen, but rather, it is a participant, at times making me feel I am present in the activity on the screen and not merely a witness to it. A camera is never shown on the screen.

Yes, it is a film about making a film, but specifically about the film being watched, 8½. It’s a fun concept, really, and is most evident near the end of the film when Guido is being pressured to make his selection of actors from a host of screen tests. Since the film Guido is making is essentially the one being watched, the actors in the screen tests are unmistakably playing the roles of people we’ve already met: Guido’s wife Luisa (a striking Anouk Aimée), his mistress Carla (a darling Sandra Milo), la Saraghina (a formidable Edra Gale), just to name those with the biggest roles in Guido’s life. The swirling clouds of Guido’s problems really begin to coalesce into a menacing thunderhead in this scene as his wife feels humiliated watching herself portrayed on screen, hitting far too close to reality for her comfort, and storms from the theater.

The film’s primary setting is a bit surreal. One place I would never consider for a film to be made would be a resort specializing in mineral water treatments and steam baths. Guido’s anxieties had taken a physical toll on him and the rehabilitative spa was prescribed for his health. But, the show must go on, and the production activities follow him to the springs and cavernous steam rooms (where it’s interesting to see him smoking a cigarette as he descends into them). It is odd, yet somehow seems natural, at least in the context of this film, for the action to unfold in this setting. His personal and professional lives don’t seem to have any definitive boundaries, all of it melding into one life.

Guido’s only avenue of escape is a retreat into his memories and fantasies. I would think it’s something most people can identify with. I know I certainly can. When life is most stressful and anxieties are running high, it’s not all too difficult to let the mind wander, to slip into a daydream recalling fond memories or imagining pleasanter conditions. They aren’t a permanent escape, but a momentary respite, and reality recalls the mind back to consciousness and to the issues of the corporeal world. His dreams and musings don’t seem to be only a means to escape his reality, however. They also allow him to ponder, reflect, and search for an answer to his predicament.

It is these scenes of surrealism that give the film its greatest life. I most enjoy how they are presented. They possess a temperate mellowness that is neither too fantastical nor too somber, but placidly balanced between the two.

His dreams roam far and wide. His muse, a lovely Claudia Cardinale, airily walking on her toes, almost floating, visits him on occasion as he tries to find the inspiration to bring his movie to life. He speaks with his mother and father, and though they don’t give him the answers he seeks, they may provide him a moral compass to help him navigate his troubles. He sees a bulbous woman who sparks the memories la Saraghina, where, though she dances the spirited rumba she also sings a tranquil melody with the sea.

An encounter with a magician and a psychic takes Guido back to his childhood. Even in his youth he is treated like a prince and surrounded by women. He acquiesces when the psychic asks to determine what he is thinking. She says she can’t say and instead writes “ASA NISI MASA” on a chalkboard, asking if that is correct. He smiles and nods. His mind then returns him to his childhood where he is doted upon, given a wine bath, swaddled in rich linens, and placed in a warmed bed of his own. A young girl calls out to him in a whisper to remind him that it is the night the portrait in the room is to come to life. She asks if he remembers the spell and recites it for him, “Asa Nisi Masa.” He sits up, a sliver of light glows around his silhouette and catches in his tousled hair like a halo, and he stares at the portrait, waiting for it to come to life.

My curiosity about “Asa Nisi Masa” was satisfied by the audio commentary where it is explained that is most likely the word anima with extra syllables added to it. Anima is Italian for soul. It’s easy to see that it is the basis of the word to animate; to give motion to, to bring to life. I see this moment as the conception of Guido’s life as a director. It was that seed, planted in the fertile mind of a child, that gave him the desire to bring images to life by making films. And, coupled with the earlier chants of the children, “Guido is sacred. Guido is sacred,” he believes he has the power to do so. When the psychic asks him what he is thinking, it is “Asa Nisi Masa” because he is searching for that spark, and it takes him back to this particular point in his life to try and draw from the genesis of his creativity in order to recapture the inspiration he needs for his film. It is his “abracadabra” to make the magic happen again.

I just love the entire scene. A dulcet string melody quietly accompanies all the activity of the bathing and the quietude after the children are put to bed. It’s a warm and sweet scene. It ends with a shot of a fire, as if Guido can sense embers of creativity still burning within him.

The other more notable scene also takes Guido back again to the home of his childhood, but this time as an adult. This dream sequence is initiated by a confrontation with his wife over his mistress. He begins by imagining the two of them, Luisa and Carla, getting along merrily and then drifting to the childhood home filled with all the women of his life, where they all are getting along very together, still doting on him. He is again bathed in a large, steaming bubble-bath and swaddled in linens. The anxieties and stress of his real life are echoed in the dream when the women stage a rebellion, curiously initiated by la Saraghina. He quells the mutiny (replete with a woman swinging from the ceiling like a pirate, and Wagner’s “Ride of the Valkyries” sounding the charge) with the memorable image of Marcello Mastroianni wielding a whip, wearing his glasses and director’s hat, the linens draped over him like a toga. Order is restored and all the women cheer as if it were one of Guido’s grand productions. He makes a speech, saying, “Darlings, happiness is being able to tell the truth without ever making anybody suffer.” This scene represents to me his recognition that he is culpable for the circumstances of his life, personally and professionally, being as they are, and his desire to set things right. If he can make his film, everyone can be happy. And his film will be the truth.

The ending is a scene unto itself. Guido’s hand is finally forced. The producers call a press conference, and it is here that Guido will either have to divulge the essence of his film or to admit that he has nothing. He resists, but if physically dragged to the escapade. The press conference is a bit of an enigmatic moment, I think, open to interpretation.

My take on it, at least for the time being, is that he did cave to the pressure and admitted defeat. I think his suicide is figurative. It is in that admission that he can’t go on that he finally reaches a catharsis. He thinks to himself, but directing his thoughts to his wife, “Luisa, I feel I’ve been freed,” and “I’m not afraid anymore of telling the truth.” By quitting he has been freed of the pressures that were muddling his ability to create. The story was all around him, if only he were able to see the truth as a story and to tell it as such. With that clarity, he’s got “it” back. He’s found his mojo again.

Another thing that I suppose is open to interpretation is whether Guido actually succeeded in making his masterpiece. In 8½, Fellini definitely made a great film, if not his greatest. Though he succeeded, there may be some question as to whether Guido really did or not. For me, he did. When he dons his hat, picks up his megaphone and starts directing with vim, it is real and not his imagination or something he is dreaming.

It certainly is a grand finale. A small marching ensemble, headed by a young Guido and including a tuba player with a little dog under his arm, leads the procession. The entire cast descends upon the scene, a circus-like atmosphere filled with Nino Rota’s infectious music, and parade around the now-festive setting.

I love how the movie ends, with a young Guido dressed in white, alone on the stage, playing a solo on the flute, and then marching off the screen. To me, it says that Guido has once again found the spark of his youth that set him on the journey to his success, and that there is more to follow.

I can’t think of a better way to have been introduced to Federico Fellini than through 8½. I’ve seen several others of his since, but they’ve been a little hit and miss with me. Of the ones I’ve seen thus far, there’s none that I would say I really don’t like. It’s just that some resonate more than others, and 8½ is the one that has resonated with me the most.

I liked it the first time, and have watched it a few times over the years and liked it each time. There have also been many times when I thought I might like to watch it and haven’t, or have started to and quit. That is because I do allow myself to get caught up in the myth and mystique of the man and his work. I can be daunted by it. I have to prep myself for it. I am about to embark on Fellini’s 8½, I will think to myself in awe, as if I am approaching the Dalai Lama of cinema.

I even felt that way this time, almost abandoning the idea of watching it altogether. If it weren’t for the fact that it was my first Criterion film as the justification for watching it now, I probably would have put it back on the shelf. But I told myself to just forget about all of that and just watch it as if I had never seen or heard of it before. That’s what I did, and I enjoyed the movie very much.

Now, the thing with writing for this blog is that it does take me deeper into the movies and derive more appreciation for them as a result. It is fun, but I found it very difficult to write an essay on 8½ after watching it this time. It’s been over two weeks since I first popped it in the player. The difficulty was that I was struggling to formulate my words in a way that would do justice to such a marvelous film. Though I enjoy the film a great deal and love to watch it, I suppose I am a bit intimidated by it still because of its reputation. Trying to write about it made me feel like Guido in a way. I knew what I wanted to say, but I didn’t know how to say it. I’ve had many false starts on this essay. I went away from it, watched some other movies for fun, and kept coming back to it. Like Guido, I even took to wearing a goofy hat, in hopes that it would help me break the barriers I set for myself. Frankly, I don’t think my words do the film justice, but I wasn’t going to give up on it, and what I had produced was too much to simply scrap. If I haven’t succeeded in writing something that I feel meets the standard I set for it, at least I finished it.

Though it’s been difficult, it has been fun. I do appreciate this movie much more than I did before, and that’s saying a lot. I do look forward to watching it again, and even more so with the knowledge that I don’t have to write about it, but can just absorb it. I started this essay by saying it would be nice to see this movie again for the first time, to enjoy the experience of realizing I have discovered something enriching and fulfilling that opens the doors to a whole new world of cinema, and that is true. I envy anyone who can experience something such as this for the first time. But, then again, I have watched this movie several times now and I may enjoy it just a little more every time I do.

Supplemental Features:

Written Supplements:

The booklet contains two essays, “When ‘He’ Became ‘I’” by Tullio Kezich and “A Film with Itself as Its Subject” by Alexander Sesonske, and two short excerpts from I, Fellini by Charlotte Chandler. The essays center on the conception of the film rather than the content and are very interesting. The excerpts of I, Fellini tell some of the story of how 8½ came about in Fellini’s own words, and of the four pieces in the booklet it is these two I find most interesting. I especially like the portion in the first excerpt telling of how Fellini had written a letter that would have ended production of the film, but, essentially because of a chance event, realized that too many people were dependent upon him and his film, and from that realization was able to fill in the missing pieces of the puzzle that were keeping him his creative juices bottled up.

Disc One:

Introduction by Terry Gilliam:

Terry Gilliam seems to be about the most appropriate director to make an introduction for 8½. I find Gilliam fascinating for a number of reasons. There’s his work with Monty Python, his own bizarre filmic creations, and then the zest he exudes when he speaks.

In this seven minute introduction, interspersed with clips and stills from the movies, as well as archival photos of Fellini and taken on-set during the making of 8½, Gilliam provides his personal insight and speculations into the creative force within Fellini as well as Fellini’s influence on him and his own work.

Gilliam speaks about the opening sequence as the most important in his life because he has been trying to re-create it ever since seeing it. Watching this intro did make me think of Gilliam’s Brazil, for which the title 1984 ½ was considered as a title in homage to 8½, to the point where I’m considering watching again it very soon. The influences of 8½ on Brazil are clear, and Gilliam reaffirms that, but one thing I find very interesting is that early in 8½ a woman’s face appears on the screen, briefly though predominantly, who very much resembles, at least to me, Katherine Helmond’s character in Brazil. I would bet this to be pure coincidence for I doubt Gilliam wouldn have made the effort to liken the appearance of a main character of one his films to that of an anonymous face appearing so fleetingly in another movie, regardless of how much the whole film may have influenced his own work. Then again, I may be wrong, because from what I can tell of Gilliam, he could be capable enough to work up to obsession to do something so obscure.

Gilliam feels he and Fellini both are part of the same school of thought when it comes to creation, pointing out both are cartoonists in addition to being directors, and have an interest in the grotesque and the odd. It was interesting to learn the influence la Saraghina had on Gilliam’s own artwork, which is more obvious to me now after learning that.

The introduction is a nice touch to the film. I also think it would do well to revisit it before watching one of Gilliam’s films.

Commentary:

The commentary audio track contains an audio essay read by actress Tanya Zaicon and commentary by Gideon Bachmann, a documentarian and friend of Fellini’s, and Antonio Monda, NYU Film Professor.

The audio commentary is densely packed with information, insights, film history, and trivia. With a film of the stature of 8½, I wouldn’t expect anything less.

Though it is evident that 8½ is largely autobiographical, it is pointed out early on that the film is not simple autobiography, that it is full of truths, lies and fantasies. It may provide some insight into Fellini’s life, but it certainly doesn’t mean anyone who watches this film gets to know Fellini. It is probably safe to say that, as it was with Guido and his film, 8½ was the machinery of film that kept reeling Fellini back in; he couldn’t escape it even if he wanted to.

I would have thought that someone of Fellini’s renown would be above reproach, but 8½ was marked as Fellini’s break from his neo-realist roots, and he was vilified by some for his “betrayal.” So, for me it was interesting to learn he wasn’t immune to criticism, and to realize that my knowledge of him is in retrospect, that there was a time when he was forging a new path for cinema and would therefore be subject to criticism because of it. What he was doing was something new and unconventional at the time, and was an assault on the sensibilities of those not prepared for, or accepting of, it.

I enjoyed the greater exposition of “Asi Nisi Masa”, delving into the feminine aspects of the mind and some philosophical context, which also led to discussion about women’s role in Fellini’s life and pictures. One thought to ponder was something Mastroianni was attributed with saying, “Love, sex, friendship, and marriage are four things that have no connection to each other.”

I also found interesting the relationship Fellini had with his actors and how he had a habit of using them for only one or two films, with Mastroianni being the most notable exception. Also interesting, how in this movie he took two stars known for their dashing looks and portrayed them in a less flattering appearance, aging Marcello Mastroianni and making Anouk Aimée out to be quite plain.

I had wondered before, especially after watching Rossellini’s “War Trilogy” why post-synching dialogue was so prevalent in Italian filmmaking, and was pleased to have this explained. In Fellini’s case, there were two primary reasons, the first being the same as it was for other filmmakers, that the studios weren’t suited to recording during production, and secondly because it gave Fellini the opportunity to add or change dialogue after filming was complete.

References to Pinocchio were pointed out. I have yet read the original (though I already have a copy of it, in both Italian and English, and hope to some day), and therefore not aware that in the original Pinocchio is a more diabolical character than portrayed by Disney. Guido is mired in a web of lies, at one point wears a false, elongated nose and at other times, such as when lying to his wife Luisa about his relationship with Carla, he subconsciously taps his nose. Luisa’s friend, Rosella, is also a confidante of Guido’s and, like the cricket in the Pinocchio story, serves a bit as Guido’s conscience.

I liked learning some more of the use of the critic in the film. Doing so allowed Fellini to, in a way, “pre-critique” his film, and disarm critics of it, both negative and positive.

I very much enjoy the scenes where an adult Guido returns to his childhood place, amusingly called la fattoria delle donne, or, “woman farm,” and there is quite a bit of discussion around this scene. Aside from the more scholarly analysis of it, I was more intrigued by the visual aspect of it. It is a pleasure to watch, and found it enlightening to learn what it was that made it so visually appealing on a subconscious level. Fellini felt something was missing in the scene and came up with the idea of flitting ribbons in front of the camera that gave the scene its fluidity. It is something that could be distracting, but, when done well, gave the scene its flair and was noticeable only for its effect and not the method.

The screen test scene was also pondered in the audio commentary. One of the questions I had, considering the reality of Fellini’s life that was very much a part of the movie, was what his wife, Guilietta Masina, would have thought of that scene in the movie, if she experienced discomfort similar to what Luisa exhibited in the film. Unfortunately, the commentary only posed this question as well, and was unable to provide an answer.

A couple tidbits of trivia I found to be fun were also tossed out. One was a bit of an inside joke. Early in the film Guido meets his producer who gives him a watch that Guido makes a point of announcing to the others in the room. This references a previous film Fellini made in which a producer profited greatly and demonstrated his gratitude by presenting Fellini with a watch, a rather insulting gesture that was paid back by mocking it in 8½. The other tidbit is that the movie set where the monstrous launch pad was built is the same site where Pier Paolo Pasolini was murdered years later.

A quote I noted, but don’t recall who it is attributed to, is “disgusting piece of self-exhibitionism,” referring to the self-reflective nature of the film. I was taken aback by such a cynical opinion of the movie. I can see where someone may hold that opinion about 8½, but I think it can also well be said that it was quite brave of Fellini to expose so much of himself in his work, unflattering truths and all.

There were also a couple of other reflections that I found to be at odds with each other. It was noted how 8½ can be an example of how one can turn hesitations, both personal and professional, into a work of art. On the flip side it was also posited, “it is better to destroy than to leave something imperfect.” In another of the special features included in the DVDs, Fellini – A Director’s Notebook, I learned of one of Fellini’s abandoned projects, The Voyage of G. Mastorna. In the documentary, monumental sets (in the senses that they are on a grand scale and also that they have become monuments to an aborted opus) are shown, demonstrating that much had already gone into the effort before it was capitulated. It’s hard to imagine what the world of film would have missed out on had Fellini gone with the latter philosophy and thrown in the towel on 8½, and also to wonder what might have come had he applied the former to G. Mastorna, maybe another cinematic masterpiece. Then again, maybe G. Mastorna was so imperfect that it was proper to destroy it. I suppose that his instincts about 8½ were accurate enough to forge ahead with it that it would be fair to assume his instincts were just as accurate for G. Mastorna. Still, I can’t help but wonder, what if.

Of all that I mentioned about the enriching knowledge I gleaned from the audio commentary, I’ve only scratched the surface. There is so much more to it that I can only recommend that anyone who has the opportunity to take it in do so.

Trailier:

The trailer manages to take a two-and-a-quarter hour film that is already densely packed with powerfully memorable scenes and condense it into a three minute barrage of images set to Nino Rota’s music. After watching the film several times, it is quite an assault on the senses. I can’t imagine what it would be like to see the trailer without having seen the film. I would guess that it would either scare someone away for all time or pique the curiosity so much that one would simply have to watch it just to see what it really is all about. If I watch it once, I have to watch it twice.

Disc Two:

Fellini – A Director’s Notebook:

This fifty-one minute program is no ordinary documentary. Calling it a notebook is most appropriate because it plays out like a visual notebook of projects that never came to fruition and those that are being planned.

I didn’t notice on the first viewing that in the menu there is a letter written by Fellini to producer Peter Goldfarb in which he lays out his ideas for the program and the reasons underpinning it. The letter is very well written and informative, and does much to put the show in context. I think it best to read it before watching the show.

Fellini, in making a film, experiences a lot of interesting things, and it is these people and places he wanted to present in the show. It is a crazy and bizarre piece, and when I first watched it, expecting a traditional documentary, I was quite taken aback.

The show is a journey, traveling to the set of the abandoned project The Voyage of G. Mastrona where hippies have taken up residence, tours the Roman Coliseum at night in an effort to find a connection between past and present in preparation for Satyricon, shows some outtakes of Nights of Cabiria, a subway ride through Ancient Rome, Marcello Mastroianni’s home, a slaughterhouse, the Appian Way, and screen tests that are quite comical. It is a very intimate behind-the-scenes look at the making of a film, but with enactments and scripted scenes with ancient gladiators, senators, and the like, it transcends a documentary in a way that probably gives a truer picture of not only observations of what goes on during the filmmaking creative process, but also what is going on in Fellini’s mind.

Nino Rota – Between Cinema and Concert:

This forty-seven minute documentary tries to paint a portrait of the man behind the music of many of Fellini’s movies, as well as many, many others. Because Rota is known for his music, but not much of a public figure, this documentary is kind of an “In Search Of” for the composer.

Interviews:

Sandra Milo: An intimate twenty-six minutes spent with Sandra Milo, who played Guido’s mistress Carla in 8½. Milo affectionately tells of her life with Federico Fellini. Of the three interviews on the DVD, this was, for me, the most enjoyable.

Lina Wertmuller: A seventeen minute interview with famed director Lina Wertmuller, who began her career on 8½. She spoke of Fellini’s ability to bring out the best in people, how he was searching for his movie while he made it, and how she took from Fellini the basic concept of filmmaking would be to remember you are telling a story as if to a good friend.

Vittorio Storaro: The cinematogropher spent seventeen minutes discussing his trade. Of the three, I found it the least engaging, but still a worthwhile piece.

Photographs by Gideon Bachmann:

A small scrapbook of photos taken during the making of 8½.

Stills Gallery:

A series of stills from the movie, with some on-the-set photographs, interspersed with some occasional notes and bits of trivia. It captures some of the fun and magic that went on during the making of the movie.

Blu-ray:

The Blu-ray version contains a documentary on the alternate ending for 8½ that was scrapped after Fellini decided to change it when a better idea struck him while making the trailer for the film. Unfortunately, this feature is not included in the DVD package, because I think it would indeed be very interesting and informative.

I looked at some of the screen caps on DVDBeaver.com comparing the DVD and Blu-ray versions. I think the DVD does a wonderful job of presenting this film, but the Blu-ray version offers an even sharper and more wonderful image. If it were at all possible to snap up the Blu-ray version, even if just for the added special feature, that would be the way to go.

In conclusion, I think 8½ is a truly great movie. I really soaked up the experience of the movie and the supplemental features over a two-week period and found it to be very fulfilling, if not a bit exhausting. It is certainly a film I will happily come back to, though maybe not quite as in depth as I did this time. My experience with Federico Fellini is limited only to his movies released by Criterion Collection and La dolce vita, issued by Koch Lorber (which also has a good selection of Italian films). They are all good films in their own right, but it is 8½ that gives me the most pleasure. I do, however, look forward to watching the others again as I continue on my quixotic Criterion quest (probably throwing in a few words on La dolce vita because I am sure to check that one out again too).

#10: Walkabout

February 14, 2010

#10: Walkabout

1971, 100 minutes, Color, 1.78:1

Language: English

Directed by Nicolas Roeg

[A note on spoilers: I tried not to, but as this tome seemed to write itself, I ended up throwing in any and every conceivable spoiler possible. My bad.]

Oh, those bastards at Criterion Collection!

It’s always a bittersweet feeling when they re-issue a movie I already own. I do think it’s great when Criterion re-releases an existing title with enhanced visual quality and additional features, especially if it’s a title I don’t yet own but plan to eventually, such as was the case with Seven Samurai, Yojimbo, and Sanjuro. I am very glad I never shelled out a wad of c-notes for an original version of Salò before it was re-released (though I did let loose of a couple Hamiltons for a boot-leg copy). It is a little tougher to take when it’s one I already own, but I will bite the bullet if I can, and that’s why I have two copies of Amarcord and Brazil. I bought my copy of Walkabout two years ago and fell in love with it. I knew it was ripe for an upgrade and had heard the whispers on the wind that one was on the way. Now it’s here. But, as with The Seventh Seal, it will be a long while before I’m able to make the upgrade myself.

After The Ice Storm, I wasn’t quite sure what was next. When I saw Criterion’s announcement of their upcoming May releases, with the new and improved Walkabout listed amongst them, I figured that was good reason to watch it now. Regardless, I need to watch it before May, otherwise I will be hard-pressed to watch my old version knowing an improved one exists, and must watch it before it is obsolete. Also, after the way I got myself a little too enmeshed in my write-up for The Ice Storm, I thought it wise to not delve into a DVD with two discs full of content.

It was January 2008 when I was first exposed to Nicolas Roeg. I watched Bad Timing and was so impressed with it that I wanted to experience more of Roeg’s work. If that hadn’t have been the case, I probably never would have even considered Walkabout. Whatever the reason for it, I’m very glad to have found this little gem.

None of the characters in the movie have names. For the sake of simplicity, I will use the actors’ names when referring to the three main characters. “Girl” is played by Jenny Agutter. I recall the first time I ever saw her was in An American Werewolf in London and was enamored with her immediately. “Boy” is played by Nicolas Roeg’s son, Lucien (Luc) John, and “Aborigine” by David Gulpilil. Their performances are remarkable. Jenny is charming, Luc is a quintessential young boy, and David is endearing.

Even watching it again, two years after the first time, it is still an entrancing film, a visual wonder. As beautiful as it is on the original Criterion issue, I can only imagine how gorgeous it will be with the new release or, even more so, Blu-ray, but that curiosity will have to wait to be satisfied. In the meantime, I am still quite impressed with the beauty portrayed as it is.

Poetry. That’s what comes to mind when I think of Walkabout. Roeg’s skills as a cinematographer and photographer are on marvelous display in this film and, coupled with interesting editing, creates a visual poem, a montage of dazzling images. He shows majestic, sweeping panoramic vistas and cityscapes, and delves into super close-ups of bugs and creatures and people eating in documentarian fashion. He even displays extraterrestrial views of the moon and the sun. Electric and electronic sounds in some shots almost mimic birdcalls in others. Cross-cuts juxtapose interesting contrasts and comparisons. There are also frozen images and images played backward that all enhance the visual spectacle that makes the film more than just a story. There is one scene I especially like where the three walk along a beautiful path through rivers and greenery. Luc is telling a story and a page from a book being turned is used as the wipe that transitions between scenes.

The film opens with an intertitle briefly explaining what a walkabout is, ending with the simple phrase, “This is the story of a ‘WALKABOUT’.” At first I thought that was inappropriate because it almost leaves only the idea that it is something like a documentary about the coming of age rite for a young Aboriginal man. I thought that it is so much more than that with the plight of the two young white children taken into account too. I thought about it, and it is quite a life journey for all three of them, even if it was unintentional for the white children to be in this situation and setting that will undoubtedly be defining moments in their lives. It is a walkabout, but on a more profound level.

The opening scenes use close-ups of manmade walls of brick and natural walls of rock to cut back and forth between images of the city and the Australian Outback. An Aboriginal didgeridoo (what a cool word, didgeridoo!) and city sounds are musical accompaniment for both settings.

Instinct might be to see the juxtaposed images as contrasting two vastly different worlds, but starting here, and as the movie progresses, I see more similarities than differences. Buildings and mountains bear a resemblance. Urban expanses of concrete and glass are as infertile as desert expanses of rock and sand. Parks and oases offer verdant respite from the harshness and glare of the city and desert. Both settings teem with life and their inhabitants struggle for survival, a survival of the fittest. I think probably most conspicuous is a future scene where David is hunting, killing, and butchering wild game, intercut with a city butcher performing similar motions. The difference is the tools used and the setting it is in, primitive versus modern, but the function and purpose is the same. Both settings can be seen as wildernesses, yet both also have their own rites and rituals, which may be seen as barbaric or civilized depending on the point of view.

Even though there are many things that bear, or even bare, similarities, there are differences, but they are mostly cultural. The most striking image of the cultural differences is that of the children swimming in a manmade pool beside the ocean. Jenny steadfastly holds to her cultural ways, wanting to keep up appearances even though in the desert (“we don’t want to look like tramps”), and almost determined effort to not use any form of communication other than her language. When asking David for water, she makes no effort to gesture or sign in any way, which to me would seem almost instinctive to do. Luc, as young as he is, has yet to become so conditioned and is quickly able to bridge cultural and language differences.

But the cultural differences also aren’t all that great, either. When the white children are playing in a tree, a group of Aboriginal people plays on the burnt-out wreckage of the car; each culture is curious about things foreign to them and plays in similar fashion, with similar delight.

It is the scene where the Aboriginal families are playing on the car that has one of the most gruesome elements in the film; that of the dead father splayed out in the branches of the tree. It appears as if it is some savage indifference to the dead, but, as with so many things in this movie, it is not what it appears to be. In the audio commentary, near the end of the film when David dies, Agutter tells of an Aboriginal custom of putting the dead up off the ground so that, to my understanding, the spirit can be allowed freedom in death that would be prohibited if the body were kept on the ground. So, if I do take the meaning properly, the Aborigines found the man’s body and performed the same action as they would for one of their own culture in order to allow its spirit freedom. So, in that context, it is not such a gruesome scene.

But, I get ahead of myself by getting lost in seeing similarities where it might be expected to see difference. This is a story of a walkabout.

Jenny and Luc embark on their unexpected walkabout as the result of the bizarre actions of their father. He takes the two children, drives them into the Outback under the false pretense of having a picnic, does some work, pulls out a gun, takes a few potshots at the children, sets the car on fire, and then offs himself with the gun. It’s not explicitly clear as to what led him to this conclusion, but his discontent with life was dire enough that he apparently needed to escape it.

I don’t know why he wanted to take the children with him though, or why he went where he did. When it comes to suicide, I guess logic and reason are not things that run in parallel with the strong emotions that lead one to it. Maybe he thought that since the world was such a horrible place he must save his children from suffering in it by taking their lives too.

As for going to the Outback to kill himself and his children, maybe that was his way of getting “back to nature” and saw it as remote enough from the city that killed his spirit that it was the perfect place to kill his body. Even if he didn’t have a specific destination, going as far as the gas in the car would take him was close enough. I’m sure I’m reading way too much into it and it’s quite irrelevant as to “why” they were there. What matters most is it was a pretext for the children to be in that situation. What was most bizarre to me, however, was that the switch seemed to flip as quickly as it did. It looked like he was trying to get some work done. I mean, reading a preface makes it appear as if he has lots to do yet, and there was no indication what was to come, but I suppose that was the point. Regardless, it’s a good thing for the kids that Dad is such a shitty shot.

What gets me in the scene is the way the father talks when he is calling for the children to return to him while he is plugging away at them. “Come on. And bring him with you.” He speaks with an almost derisive emphasis when he refers to the boy. Then he says, “We have got to now. I… have got to go now. Can’t waste time.” I know it’s kind of morbid, but I find some humor in the way he says that. Yeah, he’s thinking, we have to go now, go to meet our maker. Well, at least I have to go, and now is the time. That’s when he gives up on the kids. I guess he supposes he is low on bullets, so he’ll just torch the car to leave them to die of exposure, and will use the last bullet on himself. He really is a shitty and selfish dad. I suppose that’s why Jenny was never really all that remorseful afterwards–even without considering some of the sexual tension and innuendo some people sense between her and her father. I agree there is something valid to that notion, but with all there is to consider in this film, it is one that flies beneath my radar, at least on this viewing.

So, Dad’s conniption is over and Jenny takes charge, doing the best she can to protect Luc from the reality of what just happened and lead them to safety. As they make their way through the desert, there are many spectacular images of the creatures that inhabit that space. Though they share the terrain with lizards, reptiles, arachnids, and mammals, some of which surely are life threatening, the children always seem safe.

There is a scene where snakes glide through the tree branches above the sleeping children. They first appear to the sounds of some haunting and foreboding music, but the camera pulls out to show the children sleeping peacefully and the snakes’ indifference to them, the music stops, and the children don’t seem to be threatened in any way. In the morning a wombat (also such cool word!) sniffs the boy’s head and wanders away. I don’t know how parallels with the Garden of Eden can’t be drawn here. It does seem to be a type of genesis for the children, starting afresh in a new world. In the morning their sources of food and water have dried up and disappeared. It is like Adam and Even being cast from the Garden. I see the Old Testament analogy, but it is not absolute, for I don’t see any reason for their fall from grace, unless it is for the sins of their father…

Ah, hell! I must have been over-exposed to religious symbolism in art in literature during my formal education, because I’ve started and just can’t stop. My instinct now is to mention David (David!) appearing as their savior and leading them from the desert (first Genesis, now Exodus). After that there is the infamous scene of Jenny swimming in the natural pool, which will surely evoke the word “baptism.” Then, when I get to the scene with David hanging in the tree, surely some derivation of the word “crucify” will emerge. Really, I think it must just be me because I’ve seen little mention of Biblical allusions in this movie in any of the sources I’ve been exposed to so far. I’m sure there is some sort of religious analysis of the film out there, if I were to look for it, but there’s nothing in the content on the disc or in the essays or reviews I’ve read so far. Anyway…

David comes to their rescue, providing them with sources of water, bountiful food, and eventually leads them to civilization, of which he seems to have a keen sense of what is really civilized, in spite of appearances. At one point a woman mysteriously enters the picture and speaks with David. He ignores her and takes the children in another direction. Jenny and Luc never know that there was a homestead just over the ridge. It turns out to be a horrible place, led by a greedy white man working Aborigines in slave fashion to make racist and stereotypical artifacts that demean the very people who are producing them. Though the children may have found help there by getting a ride or making a phone call, it was a corrupt place and David knew to steer the children away from it. It was a dangerous place, and not only was David protecting them from the elements and dangers of the desert, he was also protecting them from the evils produced by their own culture.

At the end of the long version of the movie trailer there is a quote shown on the screen by Judith Ripp of Parents’ Magazine: “A rare magical experience as meaningful to adults as to their youngsters, we are recommending it without reservation, despite the short scenes of violence and nudity treated as they should be; as facts of life.”

Whoever Judith Ripp may be, she is absolutely correct. This film sadly was censored because of the nudity and the violence. The scene of greatest contention is one of Jenny swimming nude in a clear pool in a rocky niche. Agutter herself, in the commentary says, “it’s not about exploitation, but with expressing a certain kind of freedom.” She also says Roeg intended it to be the most innocent and beautiful sequence of the film. “It’s about their living, and if they don’t have that, then there’s no regret.” She mentions a painter, who I take to be Sir Sidney Nolan, and compares this scene to some of his paintings. The scene is an artistic expression. I read somewhere, and I can’t recall it exactly or locate it right now, but it was someone who said that the film simply wouldn’t work without this sequence. I agree. This scene is almost essential to the film. There is a sense of the evolving sexuality of Jenny and David, this scene exhibits and touches on it, but without eroticism.

Much of the violence referred to is also in this same sequence, cross-cutting scenes of David hunting and butchering beasts for their sustenance. It is violent, yes, but not in a disturbing way, for it is a necessity. The nudity and violence at this point in the film are not done to shock or excite. They are, as stated in the quote, merely facts of life.

Roeg does show suggestive images of tree limbs and crotches. These are probably the most erotic scenes in the movie, and the parallels to humans are made even clearer with an image of Jenny’s white-stockinged leg stretching over a similarly white tree limb. Yet, there is not much sexual tension in the movie even though there are two teenagers, developing into adults while in close proximity to each other. It is evident that David does grow fond of Jenny, certainly, thought it seems to be in more of a loving and protecting way, and not overtly sexual. He really doesn’t try to express his love for her, however, until he sees a heartbreaking scene where white hunters wantonly kill buffalo. It is after that incident when he shows his love for Jenny by “giving” her his dance. It’s as if he further sees the evils of her culture and wishes to protect her from it. The sexual suggestiveness and violence here, though more overtly demonstrated, are also facts of life.

David performs his dance for Jenny, but is rejected by her. The first time I watched the film I was left wondering if David had indeed died. After this viewing, I am certain of it, if only because it is made clear that he is dead in the audio commentary. The chapter is titled “Suicide,” and David is dead, but I don’t think it was suicide in the traditional sense. He was rejected by Jenny and willed himself to death as a result. Or, if he didn’t will himself to death, life just fled his body because there was no reason to live. What I’m saying is that he died, but not by his own hand, not by a gun or a knife or hanging or any thing like that. He simply died by ceasing to live.

Before David dies, he had taken Jenny and Luc to an abandoned homestead near a road. He shows Luc the road, but neither of them mention it right away to Jenny. I don’t know if they are consciously keeping the information from her, but they aren’t in any hurry to show it to her. I think maybe David is unsure he wants Jenny and Luc to leave him. Maybe he thinks that the homestead would be the best of both worlds, reminiscent of the world she comes from and close to the world he is from. Here, in this environment straddling both worlds, maybe they can live together. His dance for her is his only attempt to demonstrate his feelings to her. Either it will show his true feelings and win her to him, or it won’t and it will be his swan song.

Jenny rejects David, if mainly out of ignorance rather than indifference and, finally, Jenny and Luc do return to civilization. Throughout the entire saga, Jenny has held on to her cultural traditions, never giving them up, practicing her voice lessons, listening to cooking and educational programs on the radio, and keeping up the civilized appearances of her own and her brother by ensuring they were properly dressed. Yet, when they come to the road she pauses before stepping onto the pavement, as if she is stepping through a portal from one world to another and is unsure if that’s what she really wants to do.

Ultimately, her return to her society has her following in the exact same footsteps of her parents; living in the same house, listening to the same radio programs, cooking the same meals, and married to a man very much like her father. Yet, her experience in the desert made an indelible impression on her. When she is cutting the meat, she appears to think of the meals David cooked in the wild. When her husband talks to her, she envisions a scene where she, Luc, and David swim and play together in an idyllic setting as an idyllic family. Maybe that is the Eden she left behind by choosing to return to the society she was born into and she regrets it after having experienced both.

I do, still, wonder about the ending. Roger Ebert says, in the essay included with the DVD, that Aboriginal culture has a less linear sense of time, and questions if things in the movie happened in the sequence shown, or even happen at all. Maybe the whole event was something Jenny imagined or dreamed. Maybe there are two alternate time-lines and it’s up to me as the viewer to make the choice whether the true ending is of her in living in the seaside flat with her husband or her living in the Outback with David and her brother. If I can make the choice, I know which one it would be.

There is a point in the film where a voice comes through a clutter of sound, as if from a radio broadcast (as well as repeated on the DVD title screen), that says, “nothing can ever be created or destroyed.” That really may be the case. Neither love nor life nor society was created or destroyed in the journey, but just took on different forms.

The Trailers:

The long version runs about four minutes. I don’t know if I particularly like it because it does seem to present civilization and wilderness at odds with each other and implies that it is a love story, a melodramatic voice over saying, “The Aborigine and the girl. Thirty thousand years apart. Together,” ending with, “Just about the most different film you will ever see.” The last part of the trailer is dedicated to scrolling quotations that are flattering—and deservedly so—of the film, using phrases such as “inexpressibly beautiful,” “richest and most provocative,” and “the sights are rare and so is the film.”

The short version of the trailer is just the last thirty seconds of the long one, before the quotes appear, but it shows probably the loveliest and most poetic images in the movie; that of Jenny swimming in the natural pool superimposed over the beautiful image of David standing on one leg, silhouetted in front of the sunset.

The Audio Commentary:

Nicolas Roeg and Jenny Agutter provide the audio commentary to Walkabout. It was a little bit difficult to endure. It did provide quite a few insights to the movie that I really appreciated, but it left me wanting in many cases.

Roeg and Agutter didn’t do the commentary together. The track alternates between them. Agutter’s was the pleasanter of the two. She spoke clearly and well and offered enlightening facts about the movie, the book, the production, the acting, the conditions, etc. Her portions were nice. Roeg’s contribution, on the other hand, is what made the commentary a bit of a chore to get through. He did offer some enlightening points, but his delivery reminded me a bit of Ozzy Osbourne. His speech pattern was broken and slow and often hard to follow, and he seemed to be lost on some digression when there was something happening on the screen that I would rather he be addressing directly.

Overall, I suppose the commentary is worthwhile, but not something I would toil through again. Unfortunately, from what I can gather from the Criterion website, the audio commentary on the re-issue will be the same as this one.

Essay:

The booklet includes an essay by Roger Ebert. It is the one he wrote in 1997 for his “Great Movies” collection. It is wonderfully written, insightful, and well worth the read.

Ebert also reviewed the movie in 1971 and, though it’s not included with the DVD, I found it to be a worthwhile read. There is definitely a difference between the two, and the evolution of his thoughts on the movie are interesting to see.

For the re-issue, the Criterion website says there is a booklet featuring an essay by Paul Ryan. I don’t know if this will be in addition to Ebert’s or replacing it. Ryan’s essay isn’t up on the site yet, but I do look forward to reading it once it does appear, which I assume it will do some time in the near future.

That does it for the special features on this DVD issue of Criterion’s Walkabout. The new re-issue will include video interviews with Agutter and Roeg, and a documentary about David Gulpilil. I do hope I am able to see these additions some time shortly after they are released. As wonderful as the current issue is, the new one will be just that much better, I do believe.

A Digression on Edward Abbey and Coincidences:

Seeing those juxtaposed images of wilderness and civilization in the movie made me think of one of my favorite authors, Edward Abbey. I first discovered him during my college days, browsing through the bookstore one chilly but sunny afternoon. I was struck by the title of a book I had happened across, The Fool's Progress: An Honest Novel. I don’t often go by title alone, but this one was too intriguing. I read a few sentences and was captivated. I bought it immediately and consumed it in just two days. I was in love. Though I had first discovered him just weeks after his death, Abbey became one of the most influential authors during my college years and I snapped up any published work of his I could get my hands on and read it over and over.

The Fool’s Progress was one of his works of fiction, but Abbey is arguably more notable for his non-fiction work, the most defining of the man and the myth being Desert Solitaire. Abbey is a man of paradoxes and contradictions that somehow make sense. A lover and defender of the wilderness, he could justify tossing empty beer cans out of his truck window as he sped down the highway. There is much below the surface of saying something like, “Ah, wilderness.” “Where’s the TV?” While in the employ of the U.S. Forest Service he would pull up surveying stakes to undermine the paving of roads through the park, but would also have no qualms about rolling an old tire into the Grand Canyon.

Those images of Roeg’s portrayed on the screen of urban and wild settings playing off of each other made me think of a specific quote of Abbey’s regarding the co-existence of wilderness and civilization. I wasn’t exactly sure where to find it and figured I would start close at hand. That’s when I noticed some amusing coincidences.

Though I hadn’t opened it in a year or more, my paperback copy of Desert Solitaire was on my nightstand. I knew it was a long shot, but thought I would try my luck at discovering the quote with a quick browse. As chance would have it, the very page containing the quote was already marked, also coincidentally, with a postcard announcing an “Anti-Valentine Party” I had picked up a couple of years ago; today is Valentine’s Day.

Easy though it may be to note the contrast between city and wilderness, there are also compelling similarities that can be noted. The Abbey quote I was looking for is, “Mountains complement desert as desert complements cities, as wilderness complements and completes civilization.” I see in that as one is the extension of the other, that there can’t be one without the other, that there is a symbiotic coexistence between the two extremes, which really aren’t all that extremely different. With Roeg’s Walkabout I really don’t get the sense that there is a statement being made about the differences between the two, nor that one may be superior to the other, but that they are quite similar, complementary, and necessary.

A thought on why I write so much about the movies:

So far, in this quixotic quest, I have taken in some great movies. There are many wonderful movies in the Collection, so it is a certainty that I will gush as much in future entries as I have thus far. What I tend to do is have the movie play while I’m writing about it. Doing so reminds me of things I may have glossed over otherwise, and I write more and more. I don’t really think that is such a bad thing, especially if the movie is a great one and worthwhile to absorb as fully as possible.

Walkabout is a mesmerizing film. I’m glad to have been able to get so much pleasure out of it. While I was writing this, it must have played an additional four or five times. Though my focus was on the writing, I did get a little more out of it with each playing. I did, of course, jump around to scenes I was writing about so I could get my thoughts on that particular part of the movie more well-formed, but still let it go from beginning to end several times.

It is a movie truly worthy of viewing more than once. As I said in the beginning, I am very glad to have ever been exposed to it, and I certainly hope to enjoy it again many times.

Though the movie is based on a book, I don’t have any compulsion to read the book. This movie is such a marvelous visual wonder that I don’t know if the book can do it justice. So often it is the other way around, but this is an instance I believe a likely an exception to the rule. That is only speculation, of course, as I have not read the book. I am not averse to reading the book, but do not have an overwhelming desire to read it now. If I ever have the opportunity, however, I won’t dismiss it. For now, I will be satisfied with the images I have seen. I am pleased that this movie has re-introduced me to Edward Abbey and, if there is reading I will do as a result of watching the movie, it will be to refresh myself with Abbey’s Desert Solitaire.

As far as where I will go next in the Criterion Collection, that remains to be seen. There are so many great choices, but after being so thoroughly satiated with Walkabout, I’m not quite sure what I’m ready to jump to next, or if I’m even ready yet. This movie is one that does linger, in a satisfying and peaceful way.