Last year at Three Gorges

The first M4 of 2008

Les Amants (The lovers)

IFC (1958)

I became a Mallemaniac when I saw Ascenseur pour l'échaffaud (Elevator to the gallows) on an earlier M#, then later rented Le Souffle au coeur (Murmur of the heart), so this was a starred slot on the itinerary. It's not as good as either of those films, but it does offer an unusual variation on the standard French love triangle: we have the usual marriage-cooled-by-neglect, but then instead of mad passion, we first get ennui masquerading as amour . . . until the real thing comes along (signaled by uncontrollable, orgasmic laughter).

As with Ascenseur, made the same year, the film features Jeanne Moreau, but unlike in that film, she shows some hint of actual acting talent. But good lord, her character (and people in general) is irresponsible: when her car breaks down, she leaves it at the side of the road, doors wide open; when she and her lover finish their drinks outdoors, they abandon their crystal tumblers, then later hop out of their rowboat and let it drift in the stream; oh, yeah, and (spoiler alert) she abandons her beloved daughter to run off with her lover, in a "now what?" ending that Mike Nichols certainly had in mind when he had Ben and Elaine get on that bus in The Graduate.

She's also the mirror-looking-innest character ever; then again, if I looked like Jeanne Moreau, circa '58, I'd be a lot more interested in mirrors than I am.

L'Année dernière à Marienbad (Last year at Marienbad )

FF (1961)

A good crowd for this, though far from a sellout, and I couldn't help thinking the audience fell into three camps: (1) those who consider the film a revolutionary classic and were thrilled for a chance to see it on the (fairly) big screen; (2) those who consider it a pretentious cavalcade of meaninglessness but, out of a sense of fairness, were giving it another chance; and (3) the rest of us, who, never having seen it before, wanted to find out which camp is right.

Not gonna keep you in suspense: I'm with the "classic" crowd, though I wouldn't say the "meaningless" side is altogether in the wrong. I'll admit that the dance-set-to-beat-poetry-as-much-visual-as-verbal was beginning to wear thin toward the end; as Dr. Johnson suggested of Paradise Lost, it seems unlikely that anyone wishes it longer than its 94m.

Sanxia haoren (Still life)

IFC

People searching for people they've lost as a town is razed building by building in anticipation of being obliterated altogether under the lake behind the Three Gorges Dam. Has a bit of a documentary feel, but with the occasional surreal sight gag that suggests some of the characters' fevered emotion, otherwise belied by the unhurried pacing.

Starting Out in the Evening

Paris

Funny thing happened on my way to this film: last time I did and M4, it was showing at the Landmark Sunshine, which is usually a sign that I can count on it to come to Greater New Haven, so I skipped it. But then it came to New Haven County, but not Greater New Haven--specifically to the Madison Art Theater, unreachable except by car. So on its second weekend there, I rented a car, in large part to see the film, which I planned to do on Sunday. But we were hit by such a sleet storm that 17 miles on I-95 was an invitation to disaster. So . . .

And then finally I got to go, and while Frank Langella's performance is thrilling and Lili Taylor is always worth spending time with, otherwise it's pretty unsurprising stuff. And having watched New Haven's own Lauren Ambrose grow up on Six Feet Under, I was disturbed to see her play such a grasping, amoral little cunt. Yeah, I know: it's acting; but it still hurt.

It all comes back to Hamlet moment: realizing that the love of Ariel's (Taylor) life is played by Adrian Lester, the star of Peter Brook's excellent minimalist version.

Post-M4 triumph

Exiting a theater on 58th west of Fifth after a 111m film that started at 7:00+trailers and catching the 9:17 train at 125th Street. Walked as fast as I could to 59th and Lexington only to discover that the express platforms are way the fuck belowground, with no escalator, but caught a lucky break when the 5 was pulling up just as I got there. Three point three miles (but just one stop) later (and with the tunnel much closer to the surface at 125th), I fixed immediately on the correct exit, whipped upstairs and out, hustled the one block west and up the stairs . . . and had caught my breath by the time the train actually arrived, a couple of minutes later. Ah, the little triumphs!