La Chinoise. If Godard's current films--reportedly staged cinema-verite, interview-oriented, documentary political essays--represent a completely new development in his work, then we can consider Made in USA, Deux ou Trois Choses que Je Sais D'Elle, La Chinoise, and Weekend transition pieces between the narrative power of Pierrot le Fou and the films to come. The first two are easily dismissable as films which fail to solve problems finally turned into assets in La Chinoise: audience alienation through revelations of the camera itself and of actors as actors; a growing feeling that truth must extend into the working method through improvisation; and most important, the conviction that revelant art must be political in nature.
La Chinoise reduces style to static set-ups and simple tracks ("The tracking snot is a political act," says Jean-Luc mystically); color is stripped largely to the primary range. Both decisions complement the didacticism of the young Parisian Maoists by omitting all but the starkest and most basic cinematic devices, also by reminding us constantly that we're watching a movie. Perversely, the lean movements and bright colors give La Chinoise charm and humor (not, I suspect, two of Godard's favorite critical adjectives) and make its polemicism entertaining.
The political content is lightweight (contrary to American popular opinion, Godard is anything but the idol of the French student revolutionaries) but it contrasts well with the other-facets of the film. For example, having established a motif of red paint on white walls, the multi-shaded greens of the train and apartment-house assassination sequences make the real world a complex support of Francis Jeanson's assertion that the students are drasticalliy oversimplifying. But the ending replaces conclusive directorial statement with irony, and signifies that Godard didn't know what kind of statement he wanted to make. I saw La Chinoise in Paris when it opened, and report regrettably that the color of the American prints (I've seen three) doesn't come remotely close to the sharp clear tones of the original.
Petulia, a sad and moving film by Richard Lester, shows its director capable of insight into his characters and instinct toward his actors. Lester's cinema is generally defined by tricky and overcontrived camera gymnastics (Petulia has its share of this, and none of it is good)--but here we have him leaving his camera rolling when his actors begin to groove, plainly sacrificing editorial cleanliness for dramatic punch. Petulia's occasional messiness is much to Lester's credit: the film ends at least six times in its attempt to chronicle a relationship realistically, but just before its strange construction becomes irritating, the real last shot appears--a chilling icon justifying most previous excess. George C. Scott, never my favorite actor, turns in a magnificent performance, as does Shirley Knight as his estranged wife.
*****
Critics this year have added alternates to then Ten Best, thus conceding (although no one has overtly stated) that it's been a good year for movies. I was hard put to dig up another ten without resorting to shameless esoterica, but here are six:
Les Demoisellss de Rochefort. Jacques Demy's fourth feature is a joyous daylight-drenched musical well served by Michel Legrand's music, Gene Kelly's presence, and les soeurs Dorleac (Francoise, and Catherine Deneuve).
Coogan's Bluff, Donald Siegel's second film of 1968 falls just short of Madigan by virtue of less serviceable writing and blunter editing. Nonetheless, anyone willing to bypass an unfortunate reliance on convention gets caught up in a compelling and consequential morality play, honestly acted and extraordinarily well filmed.
Hour of the Wolf. Ingmar Bergman's best film in a long time poses some weighty questions and has the sense to treat them violently in stark and terrifying images reminiscent of Hitchcock (Bergman's favorite director). If you are interested in current discussions of artistic impotence, the dementia of Bergman's protagonist (Max von Sydow) becomes the film's focal point. I found myself more involved by his wife (Liv Ullman) who, in loving him, tries to share his madness but cannot ultimately follow.
The Bride Wore Black is Truffaut's most calculated film, yet for all its style and detail, I'm not sure it amounts to very much, and prefer the romantic perception of Soft Skin, Truffaut's best film to date. But you have to give him points: the scenes between Julie (Jeanne Moreau) and the artist (Charles Denner) blend exposition and characterization as cinematically as anything this side of Chabrol. Also Truffaut's obsession with Hitchcock has finally left the realm of shot-copying, resulting in some interesting notions about audience identification, point-of-view cutting, and flashback structure.
Danger: Diabolik. So you've never heard of Danger: Diabolik, or for that matter anything else by Mario Bava, Italy's greatest hack (Black Friday, Planet of the Vampires, Kill Baby Kill). In the tradition of Edgar G. Ulmer and the more outlandishly-scripted Charbol melodramas, Bava films wretched nonsense with great style, color, and originality. Don't attempt to inject meaning into this tale of a Super-thief and his sexy girlfriend who inhabit a sumptuous underwater playground which makes Dr. No's look like Rindge Tech. It doesn't matter: film-making as slick and out-landish as Bava's is quite infectious, and Danger: Diabolik proved one of the few pure pleasures of 1968.
Romeo and Juliet, Franco Zeffirelli's second film, is an honorable job of audience, grabbing romanticism, a fascinating and valid reading of the text (particularly those parts which concern Juliet), and a hell of a lot of fun.
That's it. All readers are thanked for their indulgence and urged to keep those cards and flowers coming.