m-sendey Reviews

The Working Class Goes to Heaven (1971)

This is a politically-tinged, existential drama par excellence

[9/10 · 5 September 2013]

A diligent blue-collar worker Lulù Massa (Gian Maria Volonté) is averse to rebellious fractions within his working place and students who express their resentment of overwhelming physical labour which Lulù and co-workers are constrained to do in factories. Notwithstanding, one day, once he loses his finger in his factory and discerns the first symptoms of madness in his behaviour, he becomes involved in protestations which the scathing board of directors frowns upon…

This is a politically-tinged, existential drama par excellence which succeeds in being both insightful and poignant in its exploration of human condition in the Italian working class whose members are destined for solely biological existence. The stark portrayal of the pointlessness of life reminiscent of Woman in the Dunes (1964) by Hiroshi Teshigahara. Mr Petri, whose political propensities are fully evident here, passionately crafts this material and engrossingly displays the everyday dilemmas of physical labourers whose actions come to eating, drinking and doing their work which is humiliatingly and moronically simple. The frequent juxtaposition of a man and a factory infuses into this film gloom and dreariness which is difficult to bear with. The indication that one might sweep away the meaningless of an individual only through sexual consolation is very disquieting and the depiction of the sombreness and the repetitiveness of each day of life solidifies the sepulchral tone. Just like Petri's earlier I giorni contati (1962), The Working Class Goes to Heaven is a blend of existentialism and neorealism polished to perfection in Petri's hands whose meticulous stylization renders the concept as sulky and austere as the sterile, industrialized decor of Il deserto rosso (1964) by Michelangelo Antonioni. Lulù Massa – the main character of this flick –is the outcome of the mechanization of the unit whose productivity is the only value for his employer. Lulù is the most assiduous worker which arouses abhorrence in his colleagues. He does not attach any great importance to his mental and physical health and he thinks that there is no big difference between dying in his factory and somewhere else. Initially, he cannot comprehend why everybody is against him, but once he accidentally loses his finger and notices that he embarks on following the lane of insanity through his obsessive demeanour towards order, he regains his sight and perceives the world differently.

Even though The Working Class Goes to Heaven is not as Kafkaesque as The Assassin (1961) and Investigation of a Citizen Above Suspicion (1970), it appears to refer to Kafka's short story A Report to an Academy which is about an ape which learns to behave like a human. During his visit in a mental institution where he meets a veteran ex-blue collar Militina, Lulù is shown an article from a newspaper which recounts a story of a chimpanzee which believes in its humanity. Petri seems to liken the Kafka's ape and Lulù, notwithstanding, whilst the monkey from Kafka's tale obtains a new identity by approving of milieu repressing it and adjusting to its new entourage, Lulù Massa restores his personality on account of a calamity and the stifling milieu of his factory, hence, just like in case of Investigation of a Citizen Above Suspicion, Mr Petri once again turns the world of Franz Kafka upside down.

Besides dilating upon the harsh fate of the working class, the director likewise hints at the exploitation of labourers from the poverty-pervaded southern Italy. Other Italian intelectualists such as Pier Paolo Pasolini also alluded to this phenomenon. Mise-en-scene by Elio Petri is exquisite and thoroughly unfaltering in its exposing the major concept. The resonance of his last acclaimed opus is indubitably enormous. Apart from delving in the issue of alienation and helplessness, the highly flamboyant subplots reinforce the main theme and endow it with abundant background and owing to relatively deliberate pace, the content is never lunged too hastily.

The acting is simply excellent throughout the entire motion picture. Gian Maria Volonté conveys to his role such a great portion of galvanizing rampage that he ravishes with his commitment to his part which might be one the most powerful in his utter career. There are other phenomenal performers in the cast, such as facially distinctive Mariangela Melato, Flavio Bucci, and last but not least enthrallingly convincing Salvo Randone.

The subsidiary cinematography by Luigi Kuveiller is obviously a determinant of quality, but what emerges from his beauteous takes of impoverished flats of physical workers is the mutual sway between Bertolucci and Petri. Bernardo Bertolucci conceded his fascination with merging existentialism and neorealism in I giorni contati by Petri, and Petri seemed to be enchanted by the lighting and visual aspect in The Conformist (1970) which was visible in the case of The Working Class Goes to Heaven. The shots of indigent flats framed with gleams of blue radiance constitute a chilly, bitter aftertaste which exerts a beneficial impact on the other ingredients. The symbiotic soundtrack by Ennio Morricone is one of the most idiosyncratic elements and the flick would feel totally different with a distinct piece of music from another composer. Mr Morricone provides us with one of his most unusual and characteristic creations which is rapid, aggressive, contextualises with the ensemble absolutely perfectly and reverberates like a genuine machine.

Though the movie overzealously strives to inculcate Marxist doctrines in its viewers and Petri's appeal to social alignment is displayed here, it does not modify the fact that it is an exceedingly significant film which has to be analysed, discussed and considered to be a major motion picture which auspiciously encases the atmosphere of those days filled with protestations, but also exhibits a timeless struggle of a man attempting to retain dignity, despite difficult living conditions and tough work.

Tabu (I) (2012)

It succeeds in overcoming its foibles by its sheer eccentricity and stunning cinematography

[6/10 · 5 September 2013]

A retired, religious woman Pilar (Teresa Madruga) endeavours to assist her sensitive, enigmatic and fidgety neighbour Aurora (Laura Soveral) whose both psychological and physical health is growing gradually worse and worse. Once Aurora dies, Pilar and Aurora's maid set off in search for a certain man named Ventura (Henrique Espírito Santo) who appears to be a bond between the presence and Aurora's shady past…

This unorthodox tribute to silent cinema and F. W. Murnau's Tabu from 1931 is atypical even by art-house standards and despite being relatively flawed, it succeeds in overcoming its foibles by its sheer eccentricity and stunning cinematography. The movie is initiated with an outlandish prologue recounting a separate story about a suicide of an explorer devoid of hope for a better future which is entailed by his wife's demise. This prelude constitutes the introduction to this black-and-white motion picture whose general theme is about incapability of leading life without love. The flick proceeds to the first part called Paradise Lost which is about superstitious Aurora's struggles with her paranoid temperament and loneliness on account of being stranded by her ungrateful daughter. At this point, mise-en-scène by Gomes is invariably baffling. This is the weakest part of the film which is extortionately digressive and, apart from the main subject tackled in the ensemble, inauspiciously attempts to encompass such issues as metaphysic, depression of senile citizens in the modern society, passion for cinema as well as faith. As a consequence, it is not much of anything and by briefly alluding to these matters, the atypical drama leaves us with a sense of insufficiency, superficiality and instead of plunging into the major topic, it virtually mummifies the entire concept. Nevertheless, the scatter-brained aspect does not perplex that much and the instant the plot drags, the auxiliary visuals come in handy and prevent the material from becoming lifeless.

Once Tabu transmutes into a strand of flashbacks derived from Ventura's memory (a part called Paradise), it embarks on being uncannily engrossing and bounteously asserts its aesthetic beauteousness by exposing landscapes of Portugal colonies with its eye-pleasing black-and-white photography. Narrated with an assistance of Ventura's voice-over, the pic acquires an exceptionally poetic and contemplative relish and genuinely resembles a piece of silent cinema. This is likewise the moment in which one might discern the evident sway of aforementioned Murnau's opus and the parallels between both works are decidedly far from coincidental. It is not that Gomes endeavours to counterfeit Murnau's classic, but the afterthought conveyed from the perspective of colonisers and not a native collective is analogous by commenting on the inability to fulfil one's love owing to social convenances. The creation of Gomes reverberates some relations from Portuguese Colonial War, but Gomes seems to be uninterested in delving in this phenomenon and prefers to frame waterfalls and majestically picturesque plantations. Notwithstanding, the glossy, sumptuous appearance does not conceal the fact that Tabu is rather a pure stylistic exercise than a very prosperous psychological or political depiction of occurrences transpiring on the screen and the narrator just roughly indicates a development regarding his relationship with Aurora in his psyche. It is the extravagant stylisation and the offbeat, non-linear composition which renders the décor appealing and the entire movie jolly palatable.

The acting is very dexterous throughout the utter film. Teresa Madruga is plausible as a middle-aged prude who craves to console Aurora who is also well played by Laura Soveral. The remainder of the cast is highly enjoyable as well, but there were instants in which some performers felt slightly stiff and somewhat somnolent. Cinematography by Rui Poças is exceedingly ravishing and its tranquil nature captivates the audience from the onset to the very end and its sweetness and subtle charm works symbiotically with some delicate piano riffs which embellish and endow Tabu with several exultations.

Whilst the flick is acclaimed and highly rated by majority of film critics, I am inclined to believe that this abundant, structurally unusual motion picture serves its purpose and delivers a great deal of fabulous shots, but I am far from stating that it is a flawless, timeless and sublime trove. Indubitably, there are some ingenious aesthetic touches, but what Tabu lacked for me was the textural integrity, insightfulness as well as some concretism.

The Petrified Forest (1973)

A psychologically and visually stunning piece of psychological drama

[8/10 · 5 September 2013]

One day, a young medicine student Hauro Himoto (Ken'ichi Hagiwara) runs into his attractive ex-schoolmate Eiko Izawa (Sayoko Ninomiya) and they fall in love with each other in no time at all. The only obstacle which intrudes the couple is the owner of a barbershop who simultaneously is her lover and her employer and pesters Eiko out of his jealousy. Hauro and Eiko resolve to get rid of the insufferable male so that they can remain together without further complications…

The Petrified Forest is one of the least known films by the great Japanese director Masahiro Shinoda whose interests encompass soullessness of post-war Japan as well as clashes of Western and Eastern cultures. Whilst he scrutinises the latter topic in his enchanting Silence from 1971, in case of The Petrified Forest, the former issue constitutes the main theme of the psychologically and visually stunning piece of psychological drama which enthralls with its brilliance. The movie is initiated with a large shot framing a snowy landscape filmed by a superb cinematographer Kôzô Okazaki who imbues the celluloid with Shinodesquely chilly tints and one is likely to sense the coldness of the panorama. Picturesquely promising as it may seem, it is only a prelude to this very austere and morally disquieting material which successively proceeds to a more urban milieu in which the action takes place. Shinoda exposes through this flick his storytelling flair which renders The Petrified Forest so insightful and succeeds in combining many subplots without becoming exorbitantly intricate or superficial. The main character – Hauro – is a young medicine student who leads an abstruse relationship with his mother who previously left his father for her beloved one. Hauro appears to be resentful and does not want to have anything in common with her anymore. Once Hauro infatuates with Eiko, he grows involved in a sinister labyrinth of emotions which he ultimately fails to harness. The climax of The Petrified Forest is uncannily bleak and it is genuinely captivating how aptly Shinoda unfolds the tale as well as the cruelty and lurid impulses dwelling the hearts of the protagonists who cannot cope with family nuisances. Likewise, Shinoda indicates that the true love can only be constructed on compassion and reconciliation, not on violence and hatred which entails solely annihilation and destruction. Last but not least, one of the motifs constrains a viewer to ponder on perchance consequences of depending just on science, purely a creation of humans, and totally discarding religion and ethics, thus, it is something which may be also disclosed in a cinematic discourse of Akira Kurosawa.

The acting in The Petrified Forest is neat, but it is not one of the biggest benefits of the film which is generally elevated by its story. Ken'ichi Hagiwara is good as Hauro, but a word "competent" seems to be more adequate as far as his performing is concerned. The same case is with Sayoko Ninomiya who is pretty, never memorable though. It is propitious to behold Haruko Sugimura's dose of subtlety as Hauro's mother. Sugimura is known for her roles in Yasujirô Ozu's Tokyo Story and Late Spring.

The cinematography of Kôzô Okazaki, who worked on Kobayashi's Inn of Evil and Shinoda's Buraikan, is compelling, but far from flamboyant, rather grey which is quite distinctive for Shinoda's opuses. Despite extreme actions transpiring on the screen, the camera remains impassive, nonchalant and remotely observes this sterile décor inhabited by inconsolable spirits. The further the movie creeps, the more portentous it becomes owing to progressively darker and darker palette of colours which endow the effort with perturbingly sinister appearance. The soundtrack by the phenomenal Tôru Takemitsu belongs to his very best compositions and consists of some delightful jazzy scores as well as those less conventional ones which reverberate with dripping water and traditional, ghoulishly sounding flutes which contextualise with the ensemble very agilely.

It is eerie that such an engaging work of this genteel Japanese director remains so obscure and virtually forgotten. It cannot be denied that The Petrified Forest does not implicate any drawbacks, nevertheless, it is very close to cinematic magnificence of Shinoda's more distinguished motion pictures. One of the foibles stems from the fact that the characters are written in a better manner than they are acted. Apart from that, the second half is deprived of the force of the first hour and the material ultimately feels a little too languorous, yet I am certain that patient viewers shall not mind the slow pacing of this otherwise poignantly crafted pic which in spite of being little-known, prosperously conveys an astoundingly mature and ripe tale shrouded in a veil of human despair.

Dillinger Is Dead (1969)

Mesmerizingly original

[9/10 · 25 July 2013]

A well-off industrial designer, Glauco, comes back home and sees his wife who allegedly has a headache and rests in bed. She leaves him a cold dinner, lest Glauco should feel hungry. Nevertheless, Glauco chooses to prepare the meal on his own. While cooking, he discloses a gun wrapped in a newspaper which recounts events regarding a famous mobster Dillinger's demise…

Whilst reading this paragraph, one is likely to scratch his head and reassure this is what the movie is genuinely about. This is no mistake – Dillinger is Dead is precisely a product of its time. A bold, weird and mesmerizingly original film which has more in common with existentialism and fantasy than Dillinger himself. The concept of merging reality with surrealism and transmuting it into an artistic manifestation is indubitably exquisite. Straightforwardly speaking, the story by Ferreri is an infant of sheer uniqueness and it stimulates one's senses. Despite the fact that the whole motion picture is virtually filmed solely in Glauco's apartment, Ferreri aptly lunges the plot and it consequently never drags or feels rushed. The characters existent in the flick sporadically encounter one another and the action generally revolves around Glauco. Neither does one get to know his past, nor his views on the outer world. Yet, his mental state is absolutely precise and visible inasmuch his soul is diaphanous owing to Ferreri's fantastic mise-en-scène which visualises Glauco's existential ennui by exposing his disparate acts in his home which serve totally nothing. The protagonist seems nearly a phantom creeping through ensuing chambers of his apartment. He desperately endeavours to do something, satisfy himself anyhow, still he is at a loss for options. His behaviour perpetuated on the celluloid consists of most probably his everyday activities. This enchantingly articulates the meaninglessness and pointlessness of his life. What is new in his life is the weapon wrapped in the mysterious newspaper which inscrutably appears in his apartment. Once he finds the gun, he gradually embarks on altering his life and this is the onset of his transformation which leads to the abrupt and outré denouement.

Mario Vulpiani's cinematography captures the infertility of Glauco's actions in an eye-pleasing manner and it's occasionally ravishing and co-operates with the soundtrack by Teo Usuelli duly. The performance by Michel Piccoli is very good, resembling his appearances in Bunuel movies in which he plays analogous roles. His minimalistic attitude is very appropriate and renders the character plausible.

While portraying existential ennui wasn't something ground-breaking and refreshing in 1969, what strikes in case of Dillinger is Dead is Ferreri's atypical execution of the material. Apart from being structurally quite precisely delineated and recounted, it's far from being a film reminiscent of Edward Munch's painting The Scream or Antonioni flicks. What one might behold here is a huge irony, enormous portions of dark humour and hilarious wickedness. Given that Ferreri was a leftist, it may be analysed as criticism of bourgeois class – filled with money, yet incapable of spending it on laudable aims or developing their interests since there are not such for them. Hence, the movie works well as a wicked depiction of pointlessness of human in modern society as well as a political and satirical manifesto. No matter how sophisticatedly one approaches Dillinger is Dead, it is a highly riveting piece of cinematographic extravaganza which ought to appeal to those seeking for something else and lovers of the sixties or art-house cinema, whereas all others should make allowances for the possibility that this slow-paced, somewhat plot less quirk might be emotionally insufficient and boring as well as possibly exasperating for some.

1900 (1976)

Occasionally enchanting, unremittingly ambitious, frequently perplexing

[6/10 · 22 June 2013]

Two friends – Alfredo Berlinghieri (Robert De Niro) and Olmo Dalcò (Gérard Depardieu) – come from two different social classes. The former is an aristocrat who is relatively good to his subordinates, while the latter is a bastard peasant's son believing in communism. Their social stances entail clashes between them in the first half of the 20th century during which numerous disturbances occur…

This glossy, contentious epic directed by Bernardo Bertolucci and stunningly shot by the great Vittorio Storaro is occasionally enchanting, unremittingly ambitious, frequently perplexing as well as overflowed with concepts and self-indulgent monologues. Viewing this imposing film is like peering at a dilapidated ancient temple – the further a visitor steps in, the more constructional damages he beholds. As usual in case of Bertolucci's efforts, the ensemble is displayed in a non-linear manner, beginning on the day of the liberation of Italy in 1945 and successively recurring to the moment of two protagonists' birth – they are born on the same day. This time the composition is not to blame forasmuch the entire action unfolds in a relatively straight-forward way, evading any unnecessary intervals and being one huge flashback itself. Upon being regaled with an enviable artistic freedom, Mr Bertolucci executes his tale about political maelstrom in fascist Italy with indubitable meticulousness and surgical precision. The first act is particularly ravishing and owing to the length of the movie, Bertolucci is able to render characters sufficiently profound and their intentions and needs plausible. There is a fine role of Alfredo Berlinghieri the Elder (an uncle of the protagonist played by De Niro) acted by Burt Lancaster which conveys psychological depth to the motion picture and resembles Prince Don Fabrizio Salina from Il Gattopardo (1963) by Luchino Visconti, likewise performed by Lancaster. Alfredo Berlinghieri The Elder cannot disclose any consolation in his old age and feels desolated by his family which is generally preoccupied with their inheritance. But for this poignant character, it would have appeared a mere communist propaganda. In the second half, the realistic tone is upended by a virtually caricatural couple of fascists played by Donald Sutherland and Laura Betti. Their relationship which is prefaced by an excessively pompous monologue proclaimed by Sutherland seems unrealistic and the nature of their first sexual experience involves a young boy who supposedly is raped by them (nothing is exposed explicitly). The entire sequence transpires in one of the rooms of the Berlinghieri's mansion as though it was a perfect place to perform forbidden acts such as paedophilia. It's likewise far-fetched that the publicly-recognised fascist dares to debauch a small boy as if he wasn't apprehensive of possible consequences. The entire event which is supposed to be disturbing is very contrived, forced and improbable – the entire situation's purpose is concealed by a backdrop of incomprehensibility. Possibly it is intended to be a reference to Salò (1975) by Bertolucci's mentor – Pier Paolo Pasolini. If it is so then this is an extremely awkward connection.

Still, insipid instants are few and far between, despite being rather leisurely paced. Mise en scène is quite strong, despite some foibles regarding flick's climax. The auxiliary cinematography by Vittorio Storaro is delightfully flamboyant as well as one of the biggest advantages of Novecento, even though it is not one of Storaro's finest efforts. Storaro succeeds in dousing every scene in an adequate portion and colour of the lighting, imbuing the celluloid with disparate hues, ranging from cold (grey and blue) to warm ones (yellow and red) to the extension that at one point, flowing water in a river reminiscent of orange juice. The cast is simply remarkable and Mr Bertolucci must have been ecstatic about possessing such actors as Burt Lancaster, Robert De Niro, Gérard Depardieu, Dominique Sanda, Romolo Valli, Donald Sutherland, Stefania Sandrelli and Laura Betti at his disposal.

Novecento undoubtedly implicates a marvellous appearance and impressive décor, nevertheless in the middle, it embarks on being at a loss for a specific direction and Mr Bertolucci ultimately steers the material onto cinematic shallows. The main topic of mutual relationship between Alfredo and Olmo nearly becomes a background to the events occurring on the screen and after some time, one is likely to forget what it was all about. Mr Bertolucci unabashedly relishes with film's grandiloquence and themes, not making allowances for the possibility that it is all too greasy and there is too much of this opulence and monumentality. Personally, I think it was occasionally engaging, even delightful, but towards the denouement it gets too pulpy, too obviously communistic as well as virtually devoid of main heroes. It almost feels as if one was teleported to a gathering of left-wing revolutionaries wielding Kalashnikovs and willing to assassinate you in any minute inasmuch you are not holding a red flag, not to mention the confounded resolution which leaves its viewer confused.

Year of the Dragon (1985)

It bombards its viewer with outstanding visuals and spellbindingly edited action sequences

[8/10 · 19 May 2013]

Once the most decorated cop in New York – bold and smug Pole Stanley White (Mickey Rourke) – becomes responsible for Chinatown, he resolves to cease a wave of unbridled violence entailed by the head of Chinese mafia Joey Tai (John Lone). Notwithstanding, this task is not that easy to fulfil…

After an artistic five-year marasmus, Michael Cimino returned with this wonderfully executed piece of gangster cinema which is so beautifully shot and riveting that Razzie Award nominations seem to be some sort of absurd and satire (It was nominated only inasmuch it was directed by oath-laden Mr Cimino). It bombards its viewer with outstanding visuals and spellbindingly edited action sequences and in addition to this, it is scored by the great composer David Mansfield whose ecstatic and aggressive soundtrack already infuses a portion of adrenaline into one's veins. The rendition by Cimino is indubitably exquisite and there is a tangible touch of aesthetical imagination of Cimino virtually in every scene. Cimino, a director who does comprehend how to conjure up an evocative climax, slowly boils the whole plot and simmers the scolding substance till the explosive and exciting denouement arrives – so suggestive as if it was doused in some nitro-glycerine. The ensemble is meticulously delineated with red, azure hues as well as some contrasted ones such as white and black slightly reminiscent of a palette of film noir which was likewise possibly Mr Cimino's intention. The colourful décor is enchanting and unlike some visually unsuccessful motion pictures, the tints appear to be flowing out of the screen which is something emotionally sensational.

Yet, Cimino's movie is everything but perfect. Despite this laudable visualisation, which is pleasant to eulogise over, it has some structural foibles and invariably problematic script. The story revolves around Stanley White – a cop who is a racist owing to the fact that he used to serve in US Army in Vietnam. Thus, he dislikes Chinese and the violence occurring in the district serves him as one of the arguments of his antipathy. Other characters, including Tracy Tzu and Joey Tai, are initiated quite daftly. However, after a period of time, once White and Tai face each other, there is a conversation between them and the nature of this discourse is rather confidential – White addresses Tai by name as if they had known each other for ages, hence, their relationship is pretty shallow, without adequate foreshadowing and furthermore interactions between them lack chemistry. The plot is divided into two quasi-entirely-separate motifs: White's and Tai's. Whereas White has some nuisances with his wife and there are a lot of quarrels transpiring between them, Tai is generally concerned about expanding his power as the head of Chinese mafia and endeavours to expose his ruthlessness and omnipotence. The dichotomous tale is quite engaging, still, there are flawed parts and the texture is permeated by dissonance forasmuch the action intertwines with minor episodes and rarely focuses on those major ones. The material undoubtedly indicates Cimino's tendency to longer flicks, yet it is devoid of textural integrity. There are likewise some redundant scenes e.g. one random-like shot before the assault on a Chinese restaurant – it displays a car with some thugs nearby the building, providing the instant with no depth whatsoever, creating not too much tension and looking more distracting than gripping.

Nevertheless, the film works well on account of solid mise en scène and the stunning soundtrack by Mansfield who utilizes apparently Chinese instruments with a view to introducing a viewer into sinister world of Chinatown. Cimino concretises the concept very neatly, exploiting swift montage, chic action sequences as well as drama-driven ones, particularly between White and his consort. Mickey Rourke stands out as Stanley White, conveying lots of charm to his role and he genuinely comes up to one's expectations as the audacious cop. Ariane never succeeds in being sufficiently convincing, notwithstanding, she is likable as the reporter and she isn't this sort of actress which could ruin the whole movie. John Lone, known for his part in Bertolucci's The Last Emperor, is very good as the boss of Chinese mafia, but fades away in comparison to Rourke who simply is the best performer all around.

Obviously, it isn't anything that explored something unexposed before, yet, it's a phenomenal piece of action nosh that ought to please both Cimino fans and those searching for some thrills. Apart from this, those seeking for some interesting overtones, there seem to be some parallels between Cimino himself and the character of Stanley White who endeavours to remain an unscrupulous policeman defending justice, but he disregards his faithful wife and the helpful reporter. Arrogant as Cimino was, he possibly attempted to explain and apologise for the financial catastrophe of his predecessor i.e. Heaven's Gate on which he had spent a huge sum of money due to his hubris and overambitious artistic aspirations. Of course, it is only a domain of presumptions, but anyway it is always worth a look what this director chose to film after aforementioned flick and upon being labelled as "the one who sold his soul to the devil" and butchered by a crowd of blood-thirsty critics.

The Man Without a Map (1968)

Flawed as it may appear, it is still ravishingly beautiful and refreshing

[7/10 · 13 May 2013]

A detective (Shintarô Katsu) is assigned to find a missing man by a beautiful female (Etsuko Ichihara) who is a wife of the lost person. The more the detective attempts to unravel the mystery, the deeper he is dragged into the world of delinquency and pornography where he begins to question his own identity. Numerous facts, frequently contradictory with one another render the whole riddle more impenetrable and the investigation becomes overflowed with pointlessness…

The last collaboration of Kobo Abe and Hiroshi Teshigahara is an exquisitely scripted piece of profound cinema which inquires about one's personality in the hostile modern civilisation. This dreary existential film noir was based on the novel by Abe, published under the same title, which dealt with a problem of perishing people in Japan in the sixties, not unlike a far more experimental cinematic work by Shôhei Imamura i.e. A Man Vanishes from 1967. In the case of Teshigahara's flick, Abe, who was the scripter, is perfectly aware how to adjust the plot to this medium. Thus, the story, upon being modified in some details, cooperates with the aesthetic talent of Teshigahara perfectly. Nevertheless, Teshigahara's movie isn't always as penetrating as the prose and it turns out to be underdeveloped in some moments. Instead of delving into protagonist's psyche and compounding the climax of urban soullessness by including more psychedelic sequences accompanied by portentous soundtrack of the great Toru Takemitsu, Abe and Teshigahara are more concerned about clarifying the whole tale and eventually the outcome isn't entirely satisfying. Sadly, this isn't the sole problematic aspect of The Man Without the Map. The ensemble invariably seems sparse and distant owing to a gently awkward editing. The action skips from one location to another in an inelegant , somehow harsh manner and hence provides a viewer with a sense as though it was heavily cut.

Notwithstanding, the director succeeds in creating a very well-crafted effort despite being slightly superficial in comparison to the more rewarding book by Abe. It's all marked by a touch of genius which is pleasant to glimpse at and take delight in. Teshigaharesque aesthetics are omnipresent and although The Man Without the Map isn't as illusory as its predecessors, Teshigahara stunningly captures the atmosphere of the austere world, devoid of compassion and filled with forlorn spirits, which is filmed through a prism of an inscrutable maze of Tokyo streets. The framing reminiscent of a blend of an American crime flick, a psychological drama as well as a samurai story, in which bamboos and horses are replaced by streetlamps, neons and cars. The stylisation is remarkably opulent and though it does not retain the profoundness of the prose, for more patient cinephiles it will still remain a riveting and fascinating experience.

Shintarô Katsu, known for starring in multiple Zatoichi samurai movies, gives a very good performance and seems the best choice to play the role of a bit gruff, thick-skinned private detective who is troubled by existential angst which more and more is taking him aback. Etsuko Ichihara, who also appeared in The Face of Another from 1966 by Teshigahara, is charming and nice-looking, but she hasn't got enough time to utterly display her acting talent. There are plenty of other gifted, little-known performers such as Osamu Ôkawa and Kiyoshi Atsumi, who push the story further in a graceful way.

Cinematography by Akira Uehara is miraculous and it is obvious that Teshigahara endeavoured to take full advantage of colourful photography in his first coloured motion picture, alike Kurosawa with his Dodes'ka-den from 1970. The outbursts of yellow and red hues are truly bewildering and it is difficult not to appreciate this elaborate visualisation. There is likewise a brilliant utilisation of mirror as well as glass reflexions which might indicate the airiness of human existence in the modern world where an unit is overwhelmed by indifference encircling him. The soundtrack by Toru Takemitsu is genuinely gorgeous. Apart from some non-musical, uneasy, dissonant sounds, the score is adorned by other, more straight-forward and conventional tunes which are soothing and relaxing.

Possibly transforming such a psychologically-tinged book into the movie wasn't a masterstroke, nonetheless the upshot is truly admirable. The subject is scrutinised from a slightly different perspective owing to which the film exists as a separate work of art. Though disparate elements are uneven in terms of quality and the flick never achieves what it aspires to, the advantages of The Man Without The Map are too delightful to be ignored. Its style, murky atmosphere and highly enjoyable execution render the drawbacks virtually invisible to the naked eye and thus a viewer is going to find the material absorbing and refreshing.

With Beauty and Sorrow (1965)

An exquisite tale of emaciating for both sides vengeance

[7/10 · 11 May 2013]

A middle-aged writer Toshio Ôki (Sô Yamamura) has an affair with a 16-year-old Otoko Ueno (Kaoru Yachigusa) who eventually gets pregnant. When the female learns about the fact that the man is going to leave her and return to his wife, she loses her child, after which she ceases to contact with him. Many years later, Toshio becomes a well-known writer and Otoko a famous painter. Notwithstanding, Otoko cannot forget about Toshio and their tragic romance alters her sexual orientation hence she begins to be interested in women ever since. She endeavours to obtain some consolation by falling in love with her beautiful young pupil Keiko (Mariko Kaga). The moment Toshio visits Otoko in Kyoto, Otoko gets dejected and the wounds of the past turn out to be unhealed. Keiko comes to the conclusion that there had to be something between Otoko and Toshio in the past. The instant she is sure of it, she vows revenge. She resolves to demolish Toshio's private life by seducing him and his beloved son Taichiro (Kei Yamamoto)…

To start with, With Beauty and Sadness is indubitably a very strong movie. Based on the novel of Yasunari Kawabata, the flick is a profound psychological drama which eschews being scandalous for the sake of being such and generally concentrates on exploring darker sides of human soul in a subtle manner. Masahiro Shinoda, mostly known for his excellent Kawaita hana (1964) aka Pale Flower, does comprehend what a good direction is. His aesthetic fetish for symmetry is ubiquitous and displayed in many a sequence throughout the entire ensemble which provides With Beauty and Sadness with a sterile setting, lacking love, happiness and solace. The director utilizes cold hues such as blue, dim green, grey as well as plenty of austere spaces which results in conjuring up a tangible texture consisting of bamboos, snowflakes, dark walls and barren landscapes which contextualizes with the cruel story very well and creates an inhuman, chilly and bleak climax. This autumnal scenery of Japan, nearly totally devoid of brighter colours, probably also depicts mental states of the protagonists and perfectly punctuates the inner demons of Keiko who is ruthlessly willing to destroy other man's life for her beloved female. The relationships between disparate characters are exposed very well, particularly the lesbian affair of Keiko and Otoko is extraordinarily well depicted. Emotions are incessantly existent and expressed with such a great power that it virtually feels as though hatred, anger and sorrow were flowing through the screen. The storytelling is supplied with some retrospections which recount the affair of Toshio and Otoko. The film is leisurely paced which give an opportunity to construct the tale in detail, deepen the script and render the whole concept far more abstruse and ambiguous.

Sô Yamamura is simply tremendous in his role. He plays Toshio Ôki – a cynical, cold-blooded writer who doesn't care much about his former lover and isn't consumed by remorse due to his merciless behaviour. Kaoru Yachigusa as Otoko Ueno is very convincing as a forlorn, inconsolable and traumatized female with the tragic past. She never pleads with Keiko to avenge her and the moment Keiko says about her plans, Otoko reacts with reluctance. Thus, her persona is far more complex than an average abandoned lover in search for revenge. It appears she is still in love with Toshio, even though he unabashedly took advantage of her, which enrages envious Keiko. Keiko is no less interesting forasmuch her opulent personality embellishes the murky atmosphere with her youthful vitality, sensuality and unbridled thirst of sacrificing herself with a view to punishing Toshio and provide her lover with consolation. Only the motif of Toshio's son – Taichiro – is insufficiently developed and poorly crafted, but it isn't something which could diminish the magnitude of the remainder of the flick. On account of potent cinematography by Masao Kosugi and a ghostly soundtrack by Toru Takemitsu, the film obtains horror-like, sinister relish. There likewise might be some feministic nuances included, nevertheless they are not that visible or excessively implied as none of the characters is glorified, possibly except for quasi-angelic Otoko who is destructed by her fatal memories.

Despite not implicating any spectacularly spellbinding or divine scenes, the movie remains a remarkably effective psychological drama which succeeds almost on every level. Its flaws are scarcely noticeable and the moral ambiguity as well as the cruelty surrounding the whole story adds to the zest. It's a highly rewarding cinematic experience filled with great beauty and overwhelming sadness that makes us ponder on darker impulses of human nature.

Violent Rome (1975)

A great portion of delicious and nutritious grindhouse salad with loads of bloodily-red tomato sauce

[6/10 · 4 May 2013]

Commissioner Betti (Maurizio Merli), upon beholding a motivelessly slaughtered boy on a bus robbed by some thugs, vows to find the murderers, punish them for what they did, but also appease his desire of vengeance entailed by the demise of his brother who was killed in familiar circumstances. The violence begins to expand in the whole Rome…

It is virtually inescapable to succumb to this wonderfully pulpy film which is filled with ruggedly crafted action sequences and swift pace. No wonder why it was a huge commercial success on the day of its premiere and Maurizio Merli became a star. Notwithstanding, but for the neat direction by Girolami, it would not have been so effective since the script itself is not anything specific, invariably appears disjointed and towards the end the ensemble is not even concerned about clarifying why another outburst of violence embarks on. Likewise, the material lacks a strong antagonist who could emerge out of the shady streets of Rome and eventually face Betti. Another element which might not be utterly engaging is a socio-political commentary on the situation in the Italy which feels a sort of out of place and somehow contrasts with the mindlessly action-packed remainder of the flick. Instead of pushing the boundaries of pastime into the same directions as unabashedly entertaining Live Like a Cop, Die Like a Man (1975) by Ruggero Deodato, it aspires higher, but it's impossible to render something serious, if it's basically this kind of actionier. Thus, making allowances for those aspects, Girolami allows it all to flow and generally focuses on shootouts and fistfights, on account of which obtains an imposingly electrifying atmosphere reminiscent of a collage consisting of gliding bullets, enormous squibs and outstanding Merli ceaselessly ready to utilize his gun in the midst. The simplicity of rendition is one of the biggest benefits of this motion picture that makes it all so compelling. The best moment of Violent Rome might be the car chase when commissioner Betti pursues one of the villains played by John Steiner. The climax is so stimulating that one is capable of smelling exhaust fumes as well as the reek of burnt tyres. The execution is superb – the editing is sharp, but it never distracts and one is likely to agree that it's an extraordinarily riveting scene which stays in one's mind.

Maurizio Merli is very strong as commissioner Betti. He conveys a lot of charisma to his character as well as succeeds in creating a respectable and tough cop, the one who a delinquent wouldn't like to deal with. Ray Lovelock plays an undercover policeman who invariably comes in handy and provides Betti with multiple indispensable pieces of information. He is quite likable and believable in his role as a young, smug blonde. There are also numerous faces which all film buffs keen on Euro-cult cinema are familiar with. The soundtrack by Guido & Maurizio de Angelis is absolutely terrific and it's difficult to conceive another composer who could be able to replace this duo. Brothers de Angelis, grasping the point of the movie and their task as musicians, compose a fast, aggressive and catchy soundtrack which contextualises with this action flick phenomenally.

While certainly imperfect, Violent Rome is well-paced, ruggedly crafted and stunningly scored. It serves its purpose perfectly and it's genuinely hard to remain indifferent to its charm. Though it structurally isn't the most impressive work of all time, it's a great portion of delicious and nutritious grindhouse salad with loads of bloodily-red tomato sauce which is bound to leave its viewers satisfied.

Zabriskie Point (1970)

An uneven mixture of staggering visuals and disastrously paltry script

[5/10 · 2 April 2013]

A young former college student Mark (Mark Frechette), jaded with lack of any revolutionary actions, wanders with his friend from one gun shop to another, deceiving a seller that they need weapons for self-defence, with a view to initiating his own revolution. During the disturbances in which students partake, Mark is said to have slaughtered a policeman (one never sees clearly if it's true – the protagonist argues it isn't). So as to evade consequences, Mark steals a small aeroplane and escapes from Los Angeles. While he is looking at the deserted landscape from the plane, he notices a car, which is driven by Daria (Daria Halprin), an attractive hippie who is a secretary and lover of Lee Allen (Rod Taylor). Mark and Daria's relationship begins and starts to flourish…

Zabriskie Point (1970) was Michelangelo Antonioni's first and sole American motion picture. One may assume that the astonishing success of Blow-Up released 4 years earlier derived from the fact that the movie, on account of an apparent thriller premise, was understandable for less orientated viewers who were deeming the plot and its afterthoughts in a superficial manner. Zabriskie Point was a financial disaster, devoid of such aspect and thus incomprehensible to an ordinary film-goer. Even more risky was spending 7 million dollars on this art-house, adjusted to American industry, with an anti-Establishment and anti-consumerism message. Additionally, Zabriskie Point was dismissed by the critics for being anti-American as well as insufficiently profound to analyse both the problems of youth and those pervading America tackled in the film. Notwithstanding, these aren't the only reasons why Zabriskie Point was one of the greatest flops of 1970s as this Antonioni's flick is heavily flawed. Apart from having sparse, scatter-brained texture, the movie has a juncture which looks like a resolution and only when one sees that the action continues, does one make out it isn't the end. Unfortunately, this isn't all. The characters played by Frechette and Halprin virtually aren't given any kind of depth, their acts aren't driven by any desires, aims or needs, thus their emotional background is very shallow. The feeling of pointlessness is ubiquitous which also might be entailed and compounded by the unconvincing acting (both actors had very little experience) which doesn't render the things better. The moments of better performances are few and far between.

Mise en scène leaves mixed impressions. There is no doubt one deals with Michelangelo Antonioni, but outbursts of cinematic beauty are quite rare and the direction seems very distant, tepid and unsatisfying. While efforts such as Blow-Up (1966), The Passenger (1975) have quasi-documentary ensembles and illusory, bizarre finales which indicate more complex exegeses and contrast with earlier exploited style, Zabriskie Point starts to be solipsistic and hallucinogenic already from the half. The action takes place in the late 60s. The beginning reminds of a documentary recounting a turmoil occurring in LA in that period of time. Utilizing fast zooms, swift movements, shaky camera-work and sharp editing, Antonioni gives it a documentary appearance. The instant a viewer beholds open and isolated spaces of Zabriskie Point, the flick gets more surrealistic and the best illustration of it is the love scene, owing to which Zabriskie Point was originally rated X at its premiere in 1970. It is a hallucinogenic vision which probably depicts the mental state of both characters and comments on sex which was considered to be a taboo subject. Antonioni deems this act as a normal deed and in this way he scoffs at all arguments against acknowledging its role in life of every human being. Antonioni exploited actors from The Open Theatre, an experimental theatre group, active from 1963 to 1973, to shoot the sequence which is absolutely ravishing as well as intense and remains one of the best moments in the film. It displays other couples kissing and making love in the desert which transforms from an isolated into a crowded place. Whereas the first part isn't that engaging, in the second one, particularly towards the end, one receives a genuinely graceful Antonioni style. Once Daria is forlorn, one obtains a great deal of beautifully crafted scenes regarding isolation and solitude which are typical for earlier Michelangelo Antonioni's movies. The finale sequence is simply phenomenal, although the music accompanying it changes too abruptly.

The cinematography by Alfio Contini is spellbinding. It miraculously captures the beauty of warm sun-baking dunes of Zabriskie Point. The lighting is terrific and it is truly bewildering in how many ways one can depict the same desolated and lifeless space. The soundtrack composed by Pink Floyd, Jerry Garcia and other musicians is tremendous and might be one of the best ones ever recorded. Every single score is simply exquisite.

Zabriskie Point has obviously an anti-Establishment message, but Antonioni portrays America of 60s in a so demonized manner (i.e. protesters are good, the police are hostile and bad etc.) that his vision of the USA looks utterly unreal. Certainly, the reflection that the world should be altered by the force of mind as well as our behaviour, not violence isn't anything ludicrous, but the framing which Antonioni utilizes to state it is too harsh and thus excessively subjective. In addition, in case of Zabriskie Point Antonioni appears to be too confident and incapable of refraining from some self-indulgences. Antonioni is positive what he wants to utter in Zabriskie Point, but the movie does not contain sufficient substance to discuss. The subject, which is superficially analysed, outweighs the plot, the script and the characters, which ruins the entire concept. Structurally, Zabriskie Point is a spectacular catastrophe, with more and less riveting moments, but it's still a catastrophe which lacks consistent storytelling. The visually imposing framing cannot diminish its numerous flaws and the omnipresent feeling of pointlessness sweeps away plentiful benefits. Notwithstanding, Zabriskie Point is worth a look forasmuch despite implicating all those errors, it flabbergasts with its artistic opulence and ravishing visuals.

Barry Lyndon (1975)

"A monumental masterpiece by Stanley Kubrick"

[9/10 · 16 March 2013]

The story takes place in 18th Century. A young Irish called Barry falls in love with his cousin and upon disclosing the rival in captain John Quin and his affection towards his beloved woman he resolves to regain her, even if it is indispensable to kill Quin. The instant everything appears to be ended up between him and his cousin, he insults Quin by casting a glass right at his face and demands having a duel with him which he eventually wins. Being positive that he killed his opponent, he leaves his parts so as to evade consequences of his act and discover a better place to start a new life.

This is frequently a disregarded effort in Kubrick's carrier which is quite astonishing since Kubrick achieves an utterly ravishing level of cinematic beauty and it remains one of his greatest feats. Whereas any other director could transform the script into an uneven work – a hodgepodge of stronger and weaker scenes, every aspect of Kubrick's masterpiece seems to be polished to an absolute perfection and shows that we are dealing with a great, self-disciplined master. The story is based on the novel by William Makepeace Thackeray. Barry Lyndon which often feels like a relation of the book forasmuch some events occurring on the screen are simply recounted by the narrator. Notwithstanding, it never becomes anyhow discordant or contradictory with the general concept, actually it is difficult to envision the movie without this element which gives it a distant perspective and thus render the flick more historical and epic. It has a great deal of subplots which slightly reminds of Full Metal Jacket. In that film, it does not diminish the excellence of Kubrick's rendition, however, owing to an exploited episodic structure, the ensemble invariably appears to be a little clutter, skipping from one location to another and it is incapable of creating an appropriate atmosphere, particularly in the second half, when a viewer is taken aback by an unexpected transition from a traverse, where a dehumanizing training of soldiers occurs, into a Vietnam chapter. One never recaptures the mood and the second part does not conjure up a suggestive climax of isolation in the jungle which would be adequate. Fortunately, Kubrick is always aware of his aim in Barry Lyndon, he does not delve into digressions that much. In spite of implicating a lot of minor episodes which sometimes slightly reminiscent of the above-mentioned film released 12 years later, the subject does not feel diluted with unnecessary subplots nor is it self-indulgent – the action always revolves around the protagonist. The pace is always right, neither rushed, nor excessively languorous. The story flows steadily. The narrative structure is simple and fortunately not oversophisticated, the linear storytelling makes it all comprehensive and the plot is easy to follow.

Whereas one is accompanying Barry becoming a soldier and struggling through the atrocities of war, Kubrick shows an indubitable brilliance in combat scenes which despite being few and far between are ravishingly portentous and electrifying. Successively, while the main hero slowly withdraws from the war and regains the status of a gentleman, a viewer is able to observe Kubrick's apt eye for visuals. Every frame is fascinating, not only owing to the opulence of scenography, but also on account of a sublime cinematography of John Alcott, who utilizes various colours ranging variations of grey, blue and finally warmer colours like red as well as yellow with talent of a prominent painter. The palette of hues is far from lollypop framing of A Clockwork Orange. Exploiting his talent for catching imposing images, Kubrick creates one of the best portrayals of 18th century and through the role of Barry who eventually comes to power, perfectly exposes the situation of those times. Notwithstanding, he never forgets about the major point of the story – the exploration of the power's impact on Barry's character who is more and more becoming a vain male. He disregards love of his wife, he prefers organizing orgies and having affairs to leading a traditional life, hence he becomes someone totally different from what he was at the beginning.

Ryan O'Neal is superb as Barry Lyndon. He shows an undisputable creativity with this undoubtedly complex role which gives him a great opportunity to expose his acting skills. He eschews being classified as a righteous persona or a straight-forward villain. He succeeds in being arrogant and charming at the same time. The moment one is likely to cease to sympathise with him, he seemingly becomes an elegant and nice man. Marisa Berenson is quite good as Lady Honoria Lyndon, although she is not remarkable anyhow and rather stays in the background. Marie Kean gives the best performance in the supporting cast as Barry's mother whose possessiveness is revealed near the end. This is something really fascinating and her character's development is atypically delightful. Towards the finale she is rather unlikable and the only matter she cares about is her son's fate.

The soundtrack consisting of music composed by John Sebastian Bach, Leonard Rosenman and The Chieftains is a great addition to the ensemble and the movie's classical feeling is even more articulate. The breath-taking cinematography and the ravishing palette of colours, the opulent scenography, the top-notch acting, the tremendous script – they all cooperate with each other excellently.

Saying that Barry London is no cinematic achievement is like arguing that sawdust is an exquisite dish. Kubrick did everything to render this a masterpiece and the execution is undeniably remarkable. Long as it is, this is also one of the most beautiful flicks ever created. The magnificence and its monumental nature overwhelms a viewer. The fabulousness of Kubrick's vision is simply eye-popping and jaw-dropping. It is one of the biggest treasures of worldwide cinema and a real tour-de-force that deserves more recognition that it actually received.

Blind Beast (1969)

Shocking, but also compelling

[8/10 · 1 March 2013]

A blind sculptor Michio is fascinated by a beautiful body of a young model. On feeling a sculpture depicting her, he resolves to kidnap her with the assistance of his mother and imprison her in order to create a new type of sculpting relying only on touch. He succeeds in fulfilling his desire. Initially, the model is terrified and does not want to cooperate with the blind man. Notwithstanding, upon seeing his desperation, she agrees to stay, become his inspiration and even a lover so as to be capable of manipulating him and arranging her getaway.

Blind Beast (1969) is frequently ranked among the most disturbing flicks ever made which should not be astonishing. This is not only one of the most twisted films ever produced, but also one of the most bizarre works. The story tackles such issues as unbridled human sexuality and obsessive love which leads to sadomasochism, thus to self-destruction. The script could be spoilt in hands of an untalented filmmaker, but not in Masumura's, the director of masterful Red Angel (1966), it is polished to perfection. Masumura, despite his tendency of compounding violence in his movies in order to render tackled problems even more visible, is aware of the screenplay's perversity and is generally interested in exploring the subject instead of shocking. While some scenes might be made in a repugnant way, Masumura executes them totally bloodlessly and evades gore. Hence mise-en-scène is quite subtle and the ensuing waves of cruelty just implied, not explicitly exposed. However, this is not the only reason why the direction is so brilliant. With this flick Masumura proves that he is an extraordinarily imaginative artist. The scenography of the Michio's studio is ravishingly bewildering and mesmeric. To the walls are attached sculptures of various parts of female body – ears, breasts, eyes, noses, mouths, legs and arms which seem to be omnipresent. In addition to this, there are two huge, artificial figures of a naked man and woman. All this gives this location, in which practically the whole story takes place, an extremely outlandish, ghoulish appearance and an unpleasantly claustrophobic climax. Another aspect that makes the content more oneiric is the narration of the model who recounts those events from the perspective of time. It is also remarkable how Masumura's picture keeps one's attention to the very end, despite such an ascetic, staid action and only three characters at director's disposal.

The cast is quite decent, although it lacks any famous names to boast about. Eiji Funakoshi is pretty good as the sculptor, even though he seems to overact at times which isn't very disturbing though and these moments are few and far between. Mako Midori is very good as the charming model and probably gives the most impressive performance. Noriko Sengoku as the mother rather stays in the background, since her character is not that significant and feels more like a directional device to fill some plot holes and push the story further. Hikaru Hayashi's soundtrack mostly consists of some non-musical sounds in order to render the atmosphere more wicked and sleazy, while the minimalistic main theme is certainly pretty.

It is difficult to recommend it to anyone. This is rather a movie to watch alone. It will certainly leave more sensitive viewers exhausted and possibly disgusted. Nonetheless everyone is likely to agree with the statement that it is a one-of-a-kind flick, regardless of the fact whether one has enjoyed it or not. With regard to open-minded cinephiles, this will be an unforgettable ride. As far as I am concerned, it is an audacious work of art that successfully reveals all darker aspects of human sexuality and should be hailed for its eminent uniqueness.

Property Is No Longer a Theft (1973)

Petri's surrealism

[7/10 · 17 February 2013]

A young bank worker Total (Flavio Bucci) witnesses a robbery, in which one of the thieves gets caught and beaten by an avaricious, rich butcher (Ugo Tognazzi). He can't come to terms with the fact that in spite of being always a righteous man, he has never managed to gather as much money as all other people including the above-mentioned man. He vows to prosecute him and drive him insane by stealing everything that belongs to him, along with his lover Anita (Daria Nicolodi).

In this third part of "the neurosis' trilogy", Petri tackles inequality in society, the issue of property and last but not least money itself. None of Petri's movies is straightforward and this one is no exception. While among Petri's works are more and less demanding ones, this one must be together with A Quiet Place In The Country (1968) and Todo Modo (1976) his weirdest creation. Therefore, there is nothing strange about the fact that the film wasn't acclaimed in its premiere. It's a bold, remarkably modern satire which is bound to leave you confused and make you think about it long after it's over. Apart from his usual collaboration with A-grade cinematographer Luigi Kuveiller (Argento's Deep Red, 1975), the director utilizes a really grotesque plot and a perfect illustration of this is our protagonist who is allergic to… money. In addition to this, there is a frequent use of stagey scenes, therefore the ensemble looks everything but ordinary. A soundtrack is composed by Ennio Morricone. It is very "avant-garde" and owing to some creepy whispers included (Io ho – I have, tu hai - you have, egli ha – he has, essi hanno – they have) already comments the events that are occurring on the screen.

The cast isn't too bad, unfortunately Flavio Bucci, who is surely a good actor, appears to be a bit inexperienced in comparison to Volonte for example, thus the film lacks a strong leading actor. Daria Nicolodi and Ugo Tognazzi give strong performances. One can spot Salvo Randone as well, who as always plays his role very well.

With this flick, Petri shows that human takes part in the rat race in order to become more powerful, socially accepted and approved, irrespective of all hidden necessary, immoral ways. The character of the butcher represents the rich and Petri points out that all those people who want to dominate, are unscrupulous and pitiless, as the poor who often are honest ones will never achieve better life conditions, since either they are limited by religious as well as state laws or on breaching overtly all those moral boundaries they are banished from the society. The only way to render their life acceptable is to obey the rules and submit to opulent people, who are protected on account of their wealth and power. Another interesting aspect of the movie is comparing a bank, which is heart of consumerism, to the church. To make this allusion even more visible, the bank is full of images depicting the Holy Trinity. Also, just like in the "Holy Church", in the rat race, which is called here a "religion of property", there is a certain hierarchy and blasphemies (when the clerk Total sets a banknote on fire, the director is disgusted and almost throws a tantrum).

However, it's more fascinating to analyze it than to behold it, as the plot seems to flow quite slowly, there isn't enough black humor to keep the climax amusing. The script with its full resonance overwhelms the viewer to the extension that one feels a bit tired and the twisted Marxism - Madrakism message appears to be slightly too radical. Nonetheless it does have plenty of splendid ideas, electrifying score of Morricone, erotically-tinged atmosphere, strong direction, and hence this is a good piece of political cinema. Although it isn't as marvelous as his previous films, it certainly encapsulates the political situation of those times in Italy perfectly.

The Possessed (1965)

A fantastic mix of a giallo and a psychological drama

[8/10 · 16 February 2013]

A young writer Bernardo (Peter Baldwin) decides to come back to a small town, set nearby a lake, where he had previously stayed and met a attractive maid and waitress – Tilde (Virna Lisi). The place is desolate then, as the action takes place in winter and the tourist are not particularly interested in this place at this part of the year. Bernardo is in search for peace and quiet and this is why he has an intention of having a rest there and working on his new book. However, after some time it dawns on him that, actually subconsciously, he wants to meet the beautiful waitress. He plans to rediscover her and starts searching, after which he is informed by the owner of the hotel about her mysterious death… This is often considered to be one of the earliest examples of giallo genre, along with Blood And Black Lace (1964). In spite of this fact, this cannot be considered, just like later effort by Bazzoni, masterful Footprints On The Moon (1975), to be a typical mystery that made a pattern for all films of this genre, as it differs drastically. In addition to this, the flick is more likely to remind Blow Up (1966) by Antonioni than The Bird With Cristal Plumage (1969) or Deep Red (1975) by Argento. The main character appears to be lost in the world of his own illusions and enquires himself what is real and what is just his imagination, just like David Hemmings in Antonioni's masterpiece. While Michelangelo Antonioni is more interested in general subject of perception and human identity in the world, in which being a witness is a very relative phenomenon, Bazzoni avoids such topics and focuses on delving into Bernardo's mind. Our protagonist himself is not a witness, he's just implicated in a twisted affair surrounding this town. To render psychological aspect even more visible and more articulate, the director utilizes a very slow pace and we can hear our character's thoughts. Owing to this, the viewer is able to follow all the vacillations of the main character and follow all possible ways of Tinde's demise accompanying this mystery envisioned by Bernardo. What is more, Bazzoni exploits black-and-white cinematography which makes things even more fascinating. To sum up, all these elements give it a very distinctive look and it is far from a simplistic murder mystery and the film becomes a sort of a psychological drama. At the end, nothing seems to be concluded and unraveled in detail. In spite of the fact that Bernardo's explanation is the most probable, there are plenty of additional subplots which suggest that many things remain obscure and inexplicable. Thanks to an exceptional editing, chilling sequences of dreams and flashbacks merged together, the ensemble looks terrific.

Therefore, nothing is certain in this flick. The whole plot is shown from the Bernardo's point of view, along with his visions and dreams. This render everything not only a murder mystery, but also a great psychoanalysis of the Bernardo's mentality, exposing all his fears, desires and his vague relationship with Tilde whose personality we get to know through his memory. Thus, this subjective nature and unusual perspective make it so extraordinary and riveting. The script itself isn't the biggest advantage of this picture. If it was made by somebody else, it would possibly be a flop. Fortunately, on account of tremendous direction by Bazzoni, his visual style, exquisite taste for creating adequate atmosphere of anticipation and ambiguity, The Possessed (1965) (La donna del lago) is a true gem.

The cast is nothing special, but all of the actors manage to achieve a satisfying level of acting artistry. Peter Baldwin, a little known television actor, gives a quite decent performance. There are a couple of familiar faces: such as Phillipe Leroy, known for his roles in Yankee (1966) by Tinto Brass, and Salvo Randone from Investigation of a Citizen Above Suspicion (1970) by Elio Petri. Their roles are rather a minor ones, as Peter Baldwin is the most important character and the action revolves around him.

Overall, La donna del lago (1965) might not be as visually striking as gorgeous Footprints On The Moon (1975), nonetheless it's a very impressive little movie that should be more known than actually it is. The story itself is nothing really new, but the way it is executed makes this one refreshing and worth a look. Luigi Bazzoni attaches a great importance to a psychological aspect of characters in the film and owing to this outshines many other flicks in its genre. Now, it remains only a hidden gem and sadly it seems there is no possibility to popularize it in the nearest future. Pity. This deserves to be more prevalent.