Zabriskie Point (1970) :(((

This film was obviously aimed at 1960s LSD addicts, as they are the only ones who could understand what the hell director Michelangelo Antonioni was trying to say with Zabriskie Point (1970).  Lets look at some of the bands whose music is played in it: Pink Floyd, the Kaleidoscope, and the Grateful Dead.  Need I say more? The movie bombed at the box office, but has become a cult classic over the years. This is yet another sign that this is a movie aimed at deadheads. Oh, yes, I know Antonioni is making a statement about the 1960s counterculture movement and American consumerism, so please don’t go ballistic on that point.  It’s just bad on so many levels—not even the spectacular work of cinematographer Alfio Contini can save it. 

For those of you who don’t know, Zabriskie Point is an actual place in Death Valley National Park.  Just as Dennis Hopper desecrated St. Louis Cemetery in Easy Rider (1969) with lewd sexual acts, Antonioni delivers a psychedelic and graphic sex scene that involves group sex and goes on for what seems like half the movie.  I get that people like to go to Zabriskie Point and drop acid and/or take peyote, but who’d really want to have sex there? It’s hotter than hell and is composed of various sediments—namely borax.  And, they didn’t even have a blanket!

Okay, I’ve gone off on a tangent and forgotten to tell you who is actually having sex.  Mark (Mark Frechette) is a college dropout and carpenter who is involved in the counterculture movement on an unnamed college campus in Los Angeles.  Daria (Daria Halprin) is the secretary and girlfriend of a man (Rod Taylor) building a subdivision somewhere near Phoenix.  They meet after Mark steals a single-engine plane and takes it for a joyride over the desert.  It is never explained how Mark knows how to fly or why Daria would think it’s a good idea to give a ride to a complete stranger whom she meets in the desert. Approximately an hour after meeting they are having sex at Zabriskie Point. Not too much longer after this Mark flies the plane back to LA and is shot to death by the police, and Daria imagines that her boyfriend’s awesome house in the desert explodes.  Really, that’s what happens.

There’s a reason you’ve never heard of Frechette or Halprin: they were horrible actors.  Frechette was a hippie who gave all his money to a commune and then ended up in jail after he robbed a bank (he died in jail in a bizarre weightlifting accident). For her part, Halprin made one more film after Zabriskie Point and then married Dennis Hopper (perhaps they shared a sense of depravity?).  Why would Antonioni cast them, you ask? They were attractive—sort of the American versions of Monica Vitti and Gabriele Ferzetti, but with a lot less talent. 

The only thing this film has going for it is its cinematography.  I can only imagine what Contini thought when he saw all of his fantastic widescreen shots set to horrible American music and ruined by the wooden acting of the leads.  Even the apocalyptic ending sequence, which sees multiple views of the exploding house, is somehow corrupted by whatever anti-consumerism/capitalism statement that Antonioni is trying to make. Plus, the house he blew up was awesome—what a complete waste, especially for a film like Zabriskie Point. 

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Gimme Shelter (1970) **

“Gimme Shelter” is my all-time favorite Rolling Stones’ song, so I had exceptionally high hopes for this 1970 Maysles Brothers’ documentary—I was sorely disappointed.  Now, I’m not saying Gimme Shelter is a bad film—because it’s not—but is it really one of the 1001 (1089 as of last count) movies I must see before I die?  I think not.

Direct Cinema was all the rage in documentary filmmaking at the time the Maysles made Gimme Shelter, and so that’s what they turned out here.  There are no interviews with the band or their fans.  What we get is a random series of events (mostly song performances heavily reliant on a gyrating Mick Jagger) captured of the Stones’ 1969 U.S. Tour.  The one thing that ties the entire film together is the murder of a black man by a member of the Hell’s Angels at the December 6 Altamont Speedway Free Concert in San Francisco.  And then…nothing. If you’re looking for answers to what the band thought of the incident then you’ve come to the wrong film, because you won’t get anything more than some uncomfortable looks on their faces as they watch footage of the murder.  Somehow this just doesn’t seem right.

Ah, but the live performances are entertaining to watch, so I suppose that takes away a little of the sting of disappointment.  We get a little “Brown Sugar” and are asked to have “Sympathy for the Devil”, among other classic songs, but what the hell—they don’t perform “Gimme Shelter” live? I find this especially disturbing because Grace Slick and Jefferson Airplane were at the Altamont Concert and she could have performed the song with them.  Instead the Maysles decided they wanted to play this track over the closing credits, where we get to see a bunch of drugged-out zombies stumble around (and they weren’t even in the band!).  This definitely doesn’t seem kosher.

In her analysis of this film Karen Krizanovich writes that “Altamont was the Anti-Woodstock” and provided “negative closure to the 1960s.  It suggested that the counterculture was really a lot of drugged fools who thought murder was a ‘bummer’ and that the 60s dream was truly over.” I can see that.  When you juxtapose the two events (and the films that were made about them) you can definitely perceive a cultural dichotomy between them.  Everything seems peaceful and positive with Woodstock (1969), an event of brotherhood and community.  Whereas what happens at the Altamont is presented as violent and baseless.  In this one area I think the Maysles Brothers succeed—they show the true nature of the crowd mentality. Plus, was the 60s really so much about peace, love and understanding? Not really.

It is interesting to note that George Lucas was a cameraman at the Altamont, but none of his footage made it into the final cut.  It seems that during the concert his camera jammed—if only this would have happened to the cameras filming Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull (2008). 

 

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The Ear (Ucho) 1970 **

Imagine making a film in 1970 and then having to wait 29-years before anyone could watch it. That’s what happened to director Karel Kachyňa when he wrote, directed, and produced a film that audaciously questioned the methods of the Czechoslovakian Communist Party. Suppressed by the same left-wing leaders that Kachyňa was shining a very bright light on, Ucho (The Ear) is a grim look at what it is like to live in a totalitarian state. 

The story takes place over one brief paranoid evening in the life of Ludvík (Radoslav Brzobohatý) and Anna (Jiřina Bohdalová), a caustic married couple. Ludvík is a senior ministry official who finds himself under suspicion when his superior and others in his office are arrested and held for questioning.  Upon returning home from a Party function, he and Anna encounter a house where both the power and phone lines have been turned off.  In addition, there are cars parked outside and men milling about in the garden.  Internal and external panic ensues inside their dark and untidy home, where they fear the “ear” is listening to everything they say and do. 

Shot in stark black and white and employing unflinching extreme close-ups and deep focus, Ucho purposefully makes you uncomfortable—because that is how the characters feel.  The first half of the movie is shot primarily in the dark, with only candlelight and a small flashlight to shed light on the happenings inside the house.  If Ludvík and Anna can’t see what’s happening to them why should the audience?  Later in the film, when there is a shift in tone and the lights come on, we see a piercing examination of the relationship between husband and wife. Someone should have flicked them off, because this is a couple obviously in need of a good marriage counselor.  She’s a drunk with a nasty disposition; he is a man consumed with getting ahead at all costs. Still, when they are faced with the prospect of Ludvík being taken away, the couple becomes extremely protective and shows a previously unseen tenderness toward one another. 

The relationship between Ludvík and Anna has been compared to that of George and Martha in Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? (1966).  While there are obvious similarities (alcoholism and verbal barbarism) between the two couples, to diminish the political element would be a mistake.  The fractured martial relationship is nothing compared to the repressive political state in which they live, where psychological terror is the weapon of choice.  It is telling that they last line of the film has Anna saying to Ludvík that she’s sacred—that’s the point. 

While Ucho isn’t the greatest film I’ve ever seen, it is one of the most politically daring ones I’ve encountered.  As an American it is difficult to imagine a world where political expression is so easily suppressed, but it ran rampant throughout Eastern Europe during the Soviet Era.  It is because of films like this that I am reminded of how lucky I am to live in a country where free expression is both protected and valued. Karel Kachyňa should be heralded as a hero in the Czech Republic today for having the courage to make a film that stood up to authoritarianism—even if he knew it wouldn’t be seen by anyone for 29-years.

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The Bird with the Crystal Plumage (L’ucello Dalle Piume Di Cristallo) 1970 **

(This article is from guest contributor Sarkoffagus and first appeared at the Classic Film & TV Cafe.  The rating in the title is my own.)

Sam Dalmas is an American writer looking for inspiration in Italy. After two years of writing very little, he is nearly broke and planning a return to the U.S. Passing by an art gallery one night, he sees a woman struggling with a man in black. The woman is stabbed, and the man runs away. Sam is inadvertently locked between giant glass doors and is unable to help the wounded woman. The police arrive, and Sam is questioned all night, but he cannot recall much about the man in black. In spite of this, the police consider the writer an important witness, and his passport is taken from him. Apparently, someone else believes Sam knows more, as an unknown assailant swings a cleaver aimed at his head while on his way home. When other young women start being murdered, and realizing that the killer may very well be the one who wants him dead, Sam begins investigating the killings on his own. This leads to a mysterious painting and a close examination of a recorded phone call from the killer, with a strange sound in the background (and an explanation of the title).

Director Dario Argento was a screenwriter for some years (including co-writing Sergio Leone's classic, Once Upon a Time in the West (1969), and Don Taylor's 1970 Western, Five Man Army). The Bird with the Crystal Plumage (1969) was his directorial debut and marked the beginning of what would become his trademarks. These include: a killer who threatens people with a creepy, whispering voice; focusing on the killer's weapon(s) of choice with extreme close-ups; and frequent point-of-view shots of the killer donning black leather gloves (Argento has stated that, in his films, the killer's hands always belong to the director himself, who believes that no one else can move the hands the way that he wants). One of the more significant and original trademarks that Argento first employed in his debut is a character who believes that he/she has seen something that may be important, but cannot be recalled at the present time. Sam says just that in The Bird with the Crystal Plumage, that there was something about the attack that was a little "off." Argento did this again in films such as 1975's Deep Red (aka The Hatchet Murders), 1982's Tenebrae (aka Unsane), and Trauma (1992). In each film, the character invariably remembers what exactly he/she was seeing, and it eventually leads to the killer's unmasking.

With this movie, Argento proved adept at combining scenes of suspense with humorous sequences. There are many instances of the killer stalking potential victims, and one attack in particular is truly terrifying, as the murderer tries to force a way into Sam's loft, while Sam's girlfriend, Julia, is alone. But comic relief abounds, as Sam visits a man in prison who tackles a speech impediment by saying "So long" (initially making Sam believe the interview has prematurely ended), as well as tracking down the artist of the aforementioned painting, a burly man surrounded by cats who lives on the second floor of a remote cottage, accessible only by a rickety stepladder.

The unveiling of the murderer is shocking and quite clever, and it's important to note that Argento never cheats in hiding the killer's identity. He is fair in his presentation to the audience. Much like the protagonist, Sam, the viewers see what they need to see and are allowed to form their own conclusions. Although many Italian horror films are mocked for weak and illogical stories (as well as shoddy English dubbing), The Bird with the Crystal Plumage has a solid plot with strong, likable characters. Tony Musante is very good as Sam, but he is outshined by Suzy Kendall portraying Julia. The real star, however, is Argento's camera, which simply refuses to sit still, creating beautifully fluid shots.

The Bird with the Crystal Plumage is reportedly an unaccredited adaptation of Frederic Brown's novel, The Screaming Mimi (officially adapted in 1958 in the U.S. as Screaming Mimi). This movie is the start of a reputed "Animal Trilogy," as the director followed this with The Cat o' Nine Tails (1970) and Four Flies on Grey Velvet (1971). Many Italian directors, hoping to achieve similar success, began including animals in the titles, such as Sergio Martino's The Case of the Scorpion's Tail (1971), Paolo Cavara's Black Belly of the Tarantula (1971), and Lucio Fulci's A Lizard in a Woman's Skin (1971) and Don't Torture a Duckling (1972).

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