Two obscurities I somehow found on Netflix Instant!
Leo the Last (Boorman)
"Hey guys! Remember Zardoz? I found a film just like it!"
I have. Leo the Last must be Zardoz's older brother: a disorienting blending of Antonioni, Beckett, Polanski, and just a smidgen of Fellini to wrap it all up. The difference is that Leo the Last makes some kind of sense out of its weird content and conventions, though even that might be a stretch.
Take, for instance, the opening minutes of it. The movie opens to a wonderful song from the eclectic Fred Myrow (an associate of Jim Morrison) and Ram John Holder, the latter syncopating a funky tune about how Leo's seeing faces in the windows. I almost feel like Boorman set precedents for films like Fritz the Cat to follow by using this Kenneth Anger device not only to sell the movie, but also to provide opening exposition. Very quickly, however, the musicians themselves—Ram and the backing vocalists included—start narrating Leo's train of thought after the opening car ride. Every one of Leo's assistant happens to have unique quirks that define them as caricatures more so than characters. By the time Leo, prince of a struggling monarchy, gets into bed, I'm about as confused as he is!
Confusion works in this film as a device to sell a particular world-view known only to Leo, played perfectly by Marcello Mastroianni himself. One of the most interesting elements in the film is Peter Suschitsky's inventive iris-lens cinematography, used during sequences involving Leo using his little refractive telescope to bird-watch from his bedroom. It's not just a reference to Rear Window, but an excellent way to evoke both claustrophobia and a sense of wonder whenever prince Leo whips the device out. On the other hand: the way Boorman structures each long-take iris shot within the movie's structure is also the biggest flaw of the whole product. He drags many of the sequences on far too long, utilizing needless pan transitions to obscure plot information for as long as possible. I think Leo the Last absolutely relishes in great ideas, but the fact that this key element, fully developed by the last third of the film, feels poorly executed when all's said and done.
I'll say the same for a few other sequences in the movie that feel off and ruin the whole experience. First up: why include a royal orgy at all? The gist behind that sequence—for all of those who might now be wondering—is that Laszlo, the secret commander of Leo's estate, wants to bond each courtesan and attendant together in ultra-conservative fascist love. He does so by having them go through a particular brand of calisthenics—take a look at the film poster to see what I mean. But bobbing up and down and running one's fingers across the humerus in a large public bath is definitely different from outright sex. I think that, to sell the movie's theme of inarticulate communication when attacked by both the privileged and the non-privileged, Boorman should have cut out that orgy sequence and trimmed down the pool stuff. The latter fits best when kept brief and the former feels like a poor attempt to evoke Fellini without the subtlety of Buñuel.
In general, though, comparing Leo the Last's content and treatment of its characters to what's in Buñuel's and Fellini's films is like pitting apples against oranges. Boorman's sometimes-bore of a story focuses on Leo's second upbringing in a dream-like version of London (shot in Soho), where black-and-white caricatures of people live and fight each other inside black-and-white houses. By channeling visual elements from Rear Window, Red Desert, and Eisenstein's old films, Boorman clearly wants to show how a certain state of mind can drive a man to do incredible things.
Leo feels out of his realm even within his own mansion: he's considered a naïve, dog-whimpering fool by his nationalistic associates, and the confused African-English locals living in the surrounding ghetto don't trust his authority either. It's only once he realizes Laszlo and the rest are using him to keep the outsiders enthralled—primarily by endorsing the local pimps terrorizing the public and keeping Leo's estate afloat—that he, the ungainly prince of a foreign power, begins to emphasize with the people living out there. What ensues out of all this is an absurd comedy-drama that evokes post-war theater of the absurd and acts as European proto-blaxploitation.
There's a lot to like in Leo the Last, really. Boorman's daring adaptation of George Tabori's play takes the usual set-up of "lone man trying to reclaim reality by defeating id and super-ego" and transposes it into a hermetic world where the director sets up his own unique rules. Monochrome pigeons represent the kind of freedom Leo strives for, especially when they're unleashed in the midst of a convenience store. Powerless prostitutes become symbols of innocence and a kind of motivation for Mastroianni's character to, at the very least, replace his insane court with a more stable life on the streets. And, all throughout this surreal examination of how a weak instinct adapts to post-modern life, plenty of subversive humor, social commentary, and a story-selling performance by Mastroianni buttresses the whole shebang. Even the supporting cast, ridden with roles as black-and-white as the environment they live, provides great performances, especially the Peter Lorre-like Vladek Sheybal and excluding the ill-fitting Billie Whitelaw.
All that said: I wish Boorman edited this movie more succinctly. Hilarity and brilliant photography don't do too well when the film could use half an hour less! If he truly wanted the audience to empathize Leo through the film's exhaustive style, then he should have worked on his basic film-making first.
Joe Bob sez check it out!?
***
•
The Cow (Mehrjui)
Sometimes the simplest stories deserve the most straightforward renditions, and The Cow receives the talents of a great film-maker like Darius Mehrjui in equal doses all over.
I wanted a well-balanced introduction to Iranian cinema; The Cow, as it turns out, may very well have courted enough favor with the Ayatollah Khomeini to effectively save the eruptive Iranian New Wave from early destruction. This film effectively tells a story of one's loss of innocence that, perhaps, may have alerted the new theocratic government of potential anti-establishment symbolism. What I see in The Cow's tale of spiraling disaster isn't so much a political jab at the Ayatollah by a plucky young director and the story's original writer, but a tale of general disappointment in how the average Iranian lives his or her life lying and betraying their inner emotions. All-throughout The Cow, seemingly innocuous villagers hide their nightly activities from one another, and only a deeply-affected old man like Hassan shows his hand to everyone in a blunt manner. Inevitably, the village elders can do nothing but bear with his inexplicable loss and how he tries to stay sane because of it.
Much of the beauty of The Cow is how it circumvents a less-than-subtle dub track to showcase realistic performances by everyone involved. Entezami embodies Hassan not through perfunctory dialogue, but through increasingly expressive body language and a decline in facial expression. Because he has to act as the only normal man left in the village, an individual torn to pieces more by accidental village husbandry than by fate, the importance placed on his role requires having an excellent performance. Every other actors does a reasonable job themselves, from the man playing the village idiot to Eslam's actor, saddled with both the villagers' complaints and a need to protect Hassan. Unfortunately, and not without reason, I feel like the women actors didn't live up to the level presented by the primary cast; granted, they don't get much screen time and The Cow is definitely a story about how men destroy themselves over a man. There's only so much I can ask for in a lower-budget film like this!
In other respects, The Cow does suffer from more immediate issues, mostly related to cinematography. Director Mehrjui alternates between deeper staging in daytime and shallow spaces at night-time and, though much of the art direction and visuals succeed in depicting Hassan's environment, the camera movements and spare contrasts don't always work. Whenever used with more daring compositions and intense sequences like the theives' escape, I think the night cinematography doesn't just accentuate the most important parts of the village, but also stylizes a realistic story to the point that both believability and an unsettling mood pop out from the woodwork. Daytime feels a lot less ambitious, outside of some subtle, clever framing of shots involving a two-panel divide between the elders and lone individuals in the frame.
There's a clear inconsistency in the efficacy of some shots versus others; when it comes to the more free-camera moments, some sequences last longer than others, and usually not for the best. When Hassan's playing with his pregnant cow, for example, the length of those sequences feels appropriate in emphasizing his love for her. When he's doing crazy stuff like running scared at night, the editing becomes an issue again and the screen gets cluttered with repetitive imagery. The Cow's a movie where every image counts as a means of conveying a lot of information about a little story, and it suffers from the most easily-fixed editing struggles. One thing they didn't skimp on, at least, is the impressive musical score, with flute in the day and unsettling string arrangements at night. The sound accompaniment aids the film's editing most of all, and I think the soundtrack deserves an album release of some kind.
Ultimately, The Cow doesn't strive for the kind of ambition I most prefer in cinema. It's like a pearl that feels great and doesn't shine—but it's certainly not a waste of one's time. From the start, The Cow exudes both relaxed character interactions and tension in the plot itself. What seems carefree in the day, when everyone's chatting and village politics flow freely, soon turns angular and threatening when someone's making a run for the other village's chickens, or perhaps keeping watch on certain members of the group. This film opens with a memorable sequence: the kids and Saffar's son, equipped with torches, torture the village idiot for fun, not realizing their immoral behavior until the elders halt them. As a play on the eroding honesty of individuals and the frank horrors of living on the desolate plains, The Cow had me hooked from start to finish with a stripped-down story that constantly supplies speculation. While I could go into further detail on why this film so thoroughly works as a cornerstone in Iranian cinema, I'm sure this brief review tells enough already, just like the actual movie.
Joe Bob sez eat more chikin.
****
