I thought of Saroyan's
The Time of Your Life, the comedian Harry delivering his monologue about being behind the eight-ball, buying a newspaper, reading about Hitler—and squalling, "Everybody's behind the eight-ball!" McCarthy the longshoreman tells him it's the funniest thing he's ever heard—except he doesn't laugh, and considers maybe it's a new kind of comedy, and people will need to catch up.
That was
L'avventura for me: over two hours I kept watching—although occasionally attention wandered, I looked at the background, thought about the framing, the look of the sea or sky—or considered the people, their cleverness, small cruelties, wandering minds—like my own, leaving the picture every once in a while.
But funny thing: When I'd wander back, there it still was, waiting for me, passing along a strange closeup or offhand comment, passionate kisses and cutting remarks given equal footing. It was beautiful to look at—but I didn't have to keep looking—even though I did, until the end, the moment of hope punctuated by a noiseless crescendo of some kind, a dark curtain falling, the frame cut in two—broad sea on one side, blank wall on the other—possibilities and dead-ends together.
A new kind of tragedy, or maybe just the end of the movies—or dammit maybe the start—with the camera still rolling, catching little indiscretions and surprising tears, bullies needling the women and women grinning at the men, all of it incidental to—what? I'm there with McCarthy, watching something I'm not sure I've seen before: a movie I can take or leave—and either way it doesn't care, because it follows me anyway.
I thought of Saroyan's The Time of Your Life, the comedian Harry delivering his monologue about being behind the eight-ball, buying a newspaper, reading about Hitler—and squalling, "Everybody's behind the eight-ball!" McCarthy the longshoreman tells him it's the funniest thing he's ever heard—except he doesn't laugh, and considers maybe it's a new kind of comedy, and people will need to catch up.
That was L'avventura for me: over two hours I kept watching—although occasionally attention wandered, I looked at the background, thought about the framing, the look of the sea or sky—or considered the people, their cleverness, small cruelties, wandering minds—like my own, leaving the picture every once in a while.
But funny thing: When I'd wander back, there it still was, waiting for me, passing along a strange closeup or offhand comment, passionate kisses and cutting remarks given equal footing. It was beautiful to look at—but I didn't have to keep looking—even though I did, until the end, the moment of hope punctuated by a noiseless crescendo of some kind, a dark curtain falling, the frame cut in two—broad sea on one side, blank wall on the other—possibilities and dead-ends together.
A new kind of tragedy, or maybe just the end of the movies—or dammit maybe the start—with the camera still rolling, catching little indiscretions and surprising tears, bullies needling the women and women grinning at the men, all of it incidental to—what? I'm there with McCarthy, watching something I'm not sure I've seen before: a movie I can take or leave—and either way it doesn't care, because it follows me anyway.
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