They're Dreaming of Oceans
A Safe Place (1971)
directed by Henry Jaglom
rating: 1 out of 5 cravats
on DVD from Carnegie Library
This is what I always imagine the "foreign films" that my sister knows I watch look like in her mind's eye. She would add that the movie is silent and in black-and-white, neither of which, in this case, is true. It forms a dim view of my interests, but sisters are like that.
On the surface, I'd say my sister was right. Close-ups of Tuesday Weld looking right at the camera, Orson Welles in Central Park practicing illusions, Jack Nicholson chomping through a hot dog on a rooftop with the city behind him: movie heaven! Nicholson has never been an actor whose performances suggest he'd rather be someplace else, but here his fidgety ticks make him a nervous hound before the hunt. "What else do you want me to say up here, Henry? Want me to kiss her again?"
But there's too much of that already, too much improvised dialogue, and too many icky themes from the early 1970s, like emotionally damaged women reciting rape fantasies and sexual partners nobly accepting the freedom of open relationships. Tuesday Weld is beautiful, sure, but she plays the sort of person who never lets the friend she's with be right about anything. Her conversations inevitably devolve into anecdotes about her past, and these, before long, lead to tears.
I suppose I stuck it out for Orson's sake, thinking of those USO stories, and Marlene Dietrich "cut to ribbons" at a magic show. Not the same. Five minutes, at most, onscreen. Comme ci, comme ça.
directed by Henry Jaglom
rating: 1 out of 5 cravats
on DVD from Carnegie Library
This is what I always imagine the "foreign films" that my sister knows I watch look like in her mind's eye. She would add that the movie is silent and in black-and-white, neither of which, in this case, is true. It forms a dim view of my interests, but sisters are like that.
On the surface, I'd say my sister was right. Close-ups of Tuesday Weld looking right at the camera, Orson Welles in Central Park practicing illusions, Jack Nicholson chomping through a hot dog on a rooftop with the city behind him: movie heaven! Nicholson has never been an actor whose performances suggest he'd rather be someplace else, but here his fidgety ticks make him a nervous hound before the hunt. "What else do you want me to say up here, Henry? Want me to kiss her again?"
But there's too much of that already, too much improvised dialogue, and too many icky themes from the early 1970s, like emotionally damaged women reciting rape fantasies and sexual partners nobly accepting the freedom of open relationships. Tuesday Weld is beautiful, sure, but she plays the sort of person who never lets the friend she's with be right about anything. Her conversations inevitably devolve into anecdotes about her past, and these, before long, lead to tears.
I suppose I stuck it out for Orson's sake, thinking of those USO stories, and Marlene Dietrich "cut to ribbons" at a magic show. Not the same. Five minutes, at most, onscreen. Comme ci, comme ça.
posted by NPK at 11:19 AM
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