INJUDICIOUSLY LARGE numbers of educated citizens have been seen in the past year at theaters showing the films The Russians are Coming, The Russians are Coming; John F. Kennedy: Years of Lightning, Day of Drums; and The Shop on Main Street. (That comes to three movies, incidentally, not six.) The temptation is strong to call these people liberal dupes, for they would not have queued to see these ultimately meretricious movies had not the liberal press, led by the New York Times, praised and promoted them. These misguided souls, known as “informed America,” have so often been cozened into accepting such cultural swindles as Anthony Newley’s musicals, Marshall McLuhan’s manifestoes, Phil Ochs’ protest songs, Barbra Streisand’s TV shows and James Brown’s soul, that they now take the Times’ pronouncements on new films as seriously as they do the – paper’s editorials. They read _ the books, listen to the records, and attend the shows only out of a sense of duty. One might almost assume that since films given this hyperbolic treatment are such huge disappointments, all other movies are even worse. False assumption. There are, in fact, many films, excellently made by established directors, writers and performers, that for various reasons are neglected by both general and specialized distributors. Attention must be paid to these films, and so with the aim of provoking the curiosity of discriminating moviegoers three of these unsung and unseen films are herewith described. Les Bonnes Femmes was made by Claude Chabrol in 1960 and released this year at a New York repertory cinema, where it played for two weeks. It may never be seen here again. Ironically, the film might have been profitable if its subject matter had been realized more blatantly. This fable of four Parisian demoiselles who ask only one thing of life— love—and get somewhat less in return might be salable as light comedy (which some of the film is), black comedy (which some of the critics took it to be), or exploitation material (which some of the scenes could have been). But Les Bonnes Femmes | is far too funny, charming, tragic and graceful to be peddled in these ways. It is comparable only to Fellini’s I Vitelloni, his best lyric statement. The four main roles are not so much acted as danced. Bernadette Lafont is constantly ashimmer as a loose and vivacious girl, whose casual pickups turn boring, then boorish: Stephane Audren and Lucile Saint-Simon move casually and nervously in turn, the first as a mediocre part-time singer certain that her life is richer than her friends’, the second as a girl engaged to a butcher’s son who is, he thinks, a cut above her. The prima ballerina is Clothilde Joano, the most graceful of the group, serenely sure that the young man watching and following her will eventually come and declare his love. Her hope is the highest, her fall the deepest. The man does declare his love, but not his intentions; it is a mark of the film’s delicacy, and that of the ~ pathetically happy girl, that her bucolic murder is not a grotesque dance of death but a wistful waltz. In the epilogue we meet a lovely young girl, sitting alone in a second-rate dance hall, whose face tells us – that she has the same aspirations as did the other bonnes femmes. A man asks her to dance and slowly, gracefully she joins him. We look into her face for thirty seconds (a _ slight smile), a minute (a brighter one), two (she is transcendently happy with the anticipation of love), and we pray that the film will end at that moment. Miraculously, it does. Director Chabrol has, we feel, saved this girl’s life by petrifying it, and in doing so given us a heartening, heartbreaking experience. I Was Happy Here, a San Sebastian Festival grand prize winner (retitled Time Lost and Time Remembered) opened in New York City and closed precipitately. Its rapid demise was surely due, in no small part, to a New York Times rejection slip that urged the reader, “Look the other way.” But this review could not have influenced opening-day audiences, and yet at least one performance ended with a surprising, if limited, chorus of boos. Apparently a segment of the audience was ready, even eager, to dismiss the picture completely. Since I Was Happy Here is a very well-executed picture, this reaction might result from the psychological nature of today’s society. That is, the work deals seriously and sympathetically with human emotions, an approach rejected by our cold, cynical young swingers. In attempting this kind of picture, director Desmond Davis must maintain a finely-balanced tone. At times he, or the script which he wrote with Edna O’Brien, falters slightly and a fragment of dialogue or characterization verges on obvious simplification; usually, he adroitly avoids the clichés waiting to spring out and devour the film. This virtuoso work is technically noteworthy because it selects the style that best fits each particular scene. Confident of its material, the camera remains still and records a face, a reaction or a certain mood; elsewhere, it creates its own exhilaration through the visceral, but superficial, techniques inherent in the film medium. In this sense, I Was Happy Here skillfully blends the brilliant flamboyance of Arabesque with some of Carl Dreyer’s perceptive observa- . tion. Contrasts are drawn between seashore and city, youth and maturity, romance and marriage. The intercutting of these conditions with the young wife’s present attempt to return to the scene, sense and relationships of her youth creates a complex narrative, yet the time manipulation is always clear and pertinent. While the acting, visuals and dialogue are all quite natural, they are also complerhented by more than a touch of poetry. This combination is never photographically jarring, and it is traditional for Irish dialogue to “sing” now and then. The film’s major theme (you can’t go home again) has been encountered before, yet its people, feelings and sights are so well presented that complete novelty is not required.
Falstaff, Orson Welles’ ninth film, and only the third to be released in the form he intended (the others: Citizen Kane and The Trial), was completed in 1965, but the film’s producers. were unable to secure a satisfying arrangement for American release until March of this year because Bosley Crowther didn’t like it. Mr. Crowther’s power, as movie critic for the New York Times, is unintentionally and unfortunately comparable to that of a Senate subcommittee chairman: if he approves of a film, it has ‘a good chance of making money; if he doesn’t, it may very well waste > away unseen in the distributor’s vault. Mr. Crowther saw Falstaff at Cannes in May a year ago and wrote home about it. Nearly a year later a minor. distributor opened the film at a minor New York house, and the few viewers not intimidated by Mr. Crowther’s blasts saw Welles’ best film since the astounding Citizen Kane, and the first | film of his that becomes a human experience. It is readily conceded that his earlier adaptations of Shakespeare (Macbeth and Othello) were unsuccessful;. and it must be admitted that Falstaff suffers from what may be called aleatory dubbing—the film does require substantial aural facility. On the other hand, Welles’ famous ceiling shots are suddenly relevant and revealing in the mile-high castle interiors; his infamous weakness for untalented young actors is conquered in the choice of Keith Baxter (Hal), Norman Rodway (Hotspur) and Tony Beckley (Poins), for all give masterly performances: and the photography and editing are as strong, rough, grainy and adroitly assembled as the brick walls of those Spanish castles in which Falstaff was made. : John Gielgud (Henry IV) and Welles (Falstaff, naturally) are perfect rivals who never meet: Gielgud elo-~ quently advocating the grown-up game of war, Welles championing sack and bawdry with gross vivacity. The film’s high point is a stunning battle scene: at the charge, in long shot, we see the soldiers forming beautiful geometric patterns. But as the fight wears on and the camera closes in, the action becomes less heroic; the patterns are revealed as men, clumsy, breathing heavily, clubbing whatever is near, be it man, horse or corpse. Falstaff wanders about looking pathetically irrelevant. The fight is a portent of the time when Falstaff, the spirit of playful good-will, will be cast off and ignored. It could be said that that worthy man’s plight is similar to that of too many good films which, ignored, suffer Falstaff’s fate.
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