The Errant Cinephile and her Vocal Hostage

Good day all,

I did not like this movie. If that has you overcome with the vapors for my slapping an artist then leave now. I can acknowledge that the film looks really sharp, and that the editing and music and such that Ilsa the Shewolf of the SS on the other page puts a lot of stock in are done well, but the wrapping don’t mean much if the box is empty. I shouldn’t say empty, there was some class stuff that I saw, but nothing ever really happens that gets to a point. If you just said “that’s the point” you’re probably a prick and most people don’t really like you; you should go to the nearest bathroom in your home and slap yourself as you look in the mirror. The actors all give solid performances but Marcello, the smooth pimp reporter of our ordeal, takes the cake. This guy cruises the high life with wanton abandon, and every, single function he shows up at has another fine, European lady that knows him and wants to bang him. I know you’re thinking “Dude, Heaven”, and I agree it sounds awesome, but we don’t get to see any of it. This film is like a three and a half hour version of my grade eight prom date with Jenny Mickleson; a whole bunch of flaunting and lead in with a frustratingly solid stone wall of denial. Jenny came around a few years later, but this film never does.

This begs my next question: do you like talking? Talking about parties, or drinks or, well, the vapid pursuits of the fabulously wealthy? If so, then you will want to take this movie out behind the middle school and get it pregnant (whoop, whoop Mr. Jordan). There is all kinds of hot women running around and the closest we get to payoff are the hairy-pitted women in bikinis four minutes in. There is another scene where some woman is rolling around the floor at a public party, and you can almost smell the group sex debauchery on the horizon, and we cut to some, you guessed it, talking the next morning. Even the “let’s find a hooker in the middle of our date so we can get down at her house” is G-rated. I’m not saying a movie needs nudity, but if you’re going to run me up to a buffet it’s cruel, I said it cruel, to not let me have a taste. I finally understand why Ophelia had to eat one of the thin man’s grapes; thanks Felinni! There’s a seven second car chase that almost bumped my pulse over fifty-eight, but it immediately cuts to people in the car TALKING ABOUT NOTHING (apologies, ptsd from all of the bloody talking). No blood, smatterings of individual violence that never boil down to a real showdown, no obscenity but the difference in life for haves and have nots; powerful stuff but it’s not Bruce dropping Hans Gruber off a building or anything. The snobs out there are rolling eyes derisively, I can hear you, but even you must admit nothing happens that shows you the point. Get as artsy as you want with the point, in fact dress it up and give it the greatest makeover in history, but get to a bloody point!

To conclude, I get it. It’s art. It’s The Wire instead of CSI Miami. It’s Deadwood instead of Little House on the Prairie. But all of those great shows had shit going on around the talking, and that shit made the point pretty bloody clear (except Deadwood, the lady did a lot of explaining there, but Al was worth it). I recognize the quality of this film and understand its place in the pantheon of greats, I just did not enjoy it. I can watch Lady Gaga go classical on SNL and say “man, she’s got a great voice and plays well”, but it doesn’t mean I have to enjoy the crazy garbage that she usually does. Unless you are a film school student, a stuck up jagoff (you know because you slapped yourself earlier) or a guy looking to impress a lady you’d like to gear down with (check!), spend your time elsewhere; the equivalent would be spending an afternoon with your face pressed against the sneeze guard at your local Country Kitchen Buffet and never getting to eat the fried chicken behind it.

Until I work the chain off the radiator again,

The Vocal Hostage

P.S. If any of you out there are lawyers, or partners whose wives subjected you to this film, I’m starting a class action suit against Fellini’s estate for the PTSD I mentioned earlier. If you’re interested, or if I’m living a pipe dream, comment and let me know.

~ by stew37 on November 22, 2010.

Posted in Classic, Foreign