Blowup (1966)
Aug. 16th, 2008 09:40 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
randy_byersI dunno. I saw this Michelangelo Antonioni film when I was in college and didn't think much of it. I watched it again on DVD last night with ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
holyoutlaw, and while I appreciate its visual artistry better now, I still don't think much of it. My guess is that what put me off when I was younger was the obnoxious prick of a protagonist, played by David Hemmings. I had a problem with obnoxious prick protagonists when I was younger, because I was so used to identifying with the heroic figures of the fantasy and science fiction that I read as an adolescent. But what put me off this time was the sense of intellectual alienation. I mean, I dunno. I love the sense of desperate existential alienation of post-war film noir, but in art films like Blowup it feels unearned now. It feels like middle class ennui, and what is more tiresome than middle class ennui? It reminds me of the alienation of my college years, which ended up mostly being a fear of growing up.
But there are aspects of the movie I do like. I love the modeling sessions, with their glimpse of high pop fashion in mid-'60s Europe. I love the scene where he wanders into the Yardbirds concert and the audience is standing around like zombies. The swank artist's party is interesting, and I laughed at the stoned line Luke still remembered from his own long ago first viewing: "I *am* in Paris." I love the way the buildings and streets and parks often feel like artificial sets. The film has a very cool look to go along with its emotional distance. The central sequence where he blows up the photographs trying to see whether he really sees anything in the details is fascinating. Conceptually, I like the fact that the murder is treated as a phenomenological rather than criminal problem.
But boy, I have no interest in the protagonist or his existential dilemma, and as far as phenomenological explorations go, give me King Hu's wuxia film, A Touch of Zen (1969), over this kind of thing. In short, give me a paradoxical taoist view over a smug European despair at meaninglessness.
Hm, have I gotten onto a high horse, or did you just sit down?
Well, the hand shaved noodles and pickled pepper fish at the Szechuan Bistro before the movie were terrific, as usual. Just the kind of anti-fungal food you need on a hot, muggy day.
holyoutlaw, and while I appreciate its visual artistry better now, I still don't think much of it. My guess is that what put me off when I was younger was the obnoxious prick of a protagonist, played by David Hemmings. I had a problem with obnoxious prick protagonists when I was younger, because I was so used to identifying with the heroic figures of the fantasy and science fiction that I read as an adolescent. But what put me off this time was the sense of intellectual alienation. I mean, I dunno. I love the sense of desperate existential alienation of post-war film noir, but in art films like Blowup it feels unearned now. It feels like middle class ennui, and what is more tiresome than middle class ennui? It reminds me of the alienation of my college years, which ended up mostly being a fear of growing up.But there are aspects of the movie I do like. I love the modeling sessions, with their glimpse of high pop fashion in mid-'60s Europe. I love the scene where he wanders into the Yardbirds concert and the audience is standing around like zombies. The swank artist's party is interesting, and I laughed at the stoned line Luke still remembered from his own long ago first viewing: "I *am* in Paris." I love the way the buildings and streets and parks often feel like artificial sets. The film has a very cool look to go along with its emotional distance. The central sequence where he blows up the photographs trying to see whether he really sees anything in the details is fascinating. Conceptually, I like the fact that the murder is treated as a phenomenological rather than criminal problem.
But boy, I have no interest in the protagonist or his existential dilemma, and as far as phenomenological explorations go, give me King Hu's wuxia film, A Touch of Zen (1969), over this kind of thing. In short, give me a paradoxical taoist view over a smug European despair at meaninglessness.
Hm, have I gotten onto a high horse, or did you just sit down?
Well, the hand shaved noodles and pickled pepper fish at the Szechuan Bistro before the movie were terrific, as usual. Just the kind of anti-fungal food you need on a hot, muggy day.
