The Canterbury Tales (I racconti di Canterbury)

THE CANTERBURY TALES (I racconti di Canterbury)            C+          
Italy  France  (112 mi)  1972    Berlin premiere (140 mi)  d:  Pier Paolo Pasolini

Between a jest and a joke, many a truth can be told. 

—Geoffrey Chaucer, The Canterbury Tales, first published in 1475

Pasolini was born and educated in Bologna in central Italy, one of the most left-leaning cities in the country, where his father, an army lieutenant with Fascist leanings, actually saved Benito Mussolini’s life in an assassination attempt by Anteo Zamboni, but during the war he and his mother lived in Casarsa, in the Italian countryside of Friuli at the extreme northeast of Italy, within sight of the Alps, where besides Italian, it was commonplace to speak the local Friulian language.  Pasolini fell in love with the language and is partially responsible for reviving and preserving it, as his initial books of poetry were written in Friulian.  For Pasolini, he began to idealize the peasantry of the region as uncorrupted by the stain of modernity, remaining pure and innocent, even obtaining a mythical status, as it was connected to a way of life in the past that was destined to disappear.  During the war, Pasolini became an ardent anti-Fascist, the strains of which remained with him throughout his lifetime, writing a sympathetic, pro-communist declaration for the front page of the newspaper Libertà, even though he was not a member of the Party.  In the early 50’s, he was forced to flee Friuli for Rome, as he was accused of sexually molesting a young boy as well as being a Communist, as the Party disavowed him as well, where his exile felt like an expulsion from the Garden of Eden, suddenly finding himself living in the shanty towns of the Roman slums, where he was immediately part of the marginalized society of the reviled, including whores, thieves, pimps, and criminals who had all been rejected by society.  As part of Pasolini’s refusal to conform, he romanticized this rejection, elevating their perception in his eyes to exalted status, becoming fascinated with the subculture of criminality that surrounded him, where he began to write about it in essays and novels.  “My view of the world is always at bottom of an epical-religious nature:  therefore even, in fact above all, in misery-ridden characters, characters who live outside of a historical consciousness, these epical-religious elements play a very important part.”  His graphic depiction of the Roman underworld brought offers of scriptwriting from renowned Italian directors, which included Fellini’s NIGHTS OF CABIRIA (1957) and Mauro Bolognini’s MARISA (1957), directing his first film ACCATTONE (1961), based on his own novel, where its violent depiction of the life of a pimp in the slums of Rome caused a sensation.  Pasolini’s film career was both scandalously erotic and distinctly personal, expressing his own controversial views on Marxism, atheism, Fascism, and homosexuality, culminating with the relentlessly grim SALÓ, OR THE 120 DAYS OF SODOM (1975), a blend of Mussolini’s Fascist Italy with French sadist Marquis de Sade that was immediately charged with violating obscenity laws,  where the court challenges actually produced the opposite effect, as future films actually had far less censorship.  Shortly after completing the film, Pasolini was murdered by a 17-year old male prostitute who drove over him several times in his own car, though he later retracted his confession, where the murder remains clouded under mysterious circumstances.  

While this is not likely one of Pasolini’s best films, it is however something of a playful romp through the Middle Ages, where the director appears to be having a lot of fun entertaining himself, having a bit of a blast placing himself in the middle of the set as legendary author Geoffrey Chaucer.  Taking the unusual steps of making the film in England, Pasolini recreates the day-to-day feel of actually living in the Middle Ages, using wonderfully ornate and partly-preserved buildings still standing from the period, including the Canterbury Cathedral, where the elaborate costumes and exquisite details of the crowd scenes are quite simply amazing.  More than anything, however, what stands out is the bawdy humor and nonstop display of naked bodies, where copulating like rabbits was apparently the mindset of the times.  Only using about eight of Chaucer’s collection of more than twenty stories from his 14th century classic novel, they do reflect a kind of exaggerated grandiosity conjured up from the minds of the era, as each highlighted tale is presented as part of a storytelling contest by a group of pilgrims gathering at an inn in the 1380’s before they embark on a pilgrimage to Canterbury, enhanced by drink, the pleasure of women, and plenty of songs.  The second film of Pasolini’s “Trilogy of Life, which began with THE DECAMERON (1970) and was completed by ARABIAN NIGHTS (1973), what they all have in common is an excess of sexual fantasy, seen by the director as a sign of liberation and freedom, an affront to bourgeois tastes and concerns where male genitalia is equally on display as women’s bare breasts and bottoms, but the quasi discerning public saw this as little more than Pasolini’s entry into sexploitation films, which were increasingly popular during the 70’s.  Initially shown at the Berlin Film Festival in 1972, winning the Golden Bear First Prize, the film was jeered by the audience and subject to scathing reviews that ridiculed its amateurish editing and acting, along with its obsession with sexual intercourse, creating often confusing and clumsily mixed together extracts from Chaucer’s story, emphasizing the prurient over the grander notions of the novel.  Pasolini was so disappointed that it led to his final film, SALÓ, OR THE 120 DAYS OF SODOM (1975), where his initial optimism towards the liberating effects of sex has been reduced to utter despair.    

While this was a costly production, with moments of supreme inspiration, unfortunately much of the initial criticism is warranted, as there is an amateurish quality to much of the acting, made even worse by the post-production technical flaws in being unable to match the lip-synching to the dubbed dialogue, which is particularly irritating in this film.  Pasolini’s use of non-professional actors, which in other films heightens a sense of realism, does him no favors in this exaggerated and comically absurd version, where the film’s deficiencies, not the least of which includes a rambling, disconnected style, diminish whatever critical points are being made.  Part of the problem may be the rather infantile and adolescent view of many of the lead characters, who are mere boys, and not really adults, so much of this has the prankish atmosphere of youth to it, where they’re constantly plotting and devising strategies to divert attention from the object of their real desires, such as removing the presence of the hovering husbands so they have free access to their wives or daughters.  One striking aspect of the film is how often women are portrayed as the exclusive property of the husbands, where the wives continue to lay in bed all day, supposedly at the beck and call of the men, which make them easy targets for the younger sexually charged adolescents who want a chance to have sex with them, as they’re otherwise sitting around doing nothing.  While the loosely-connected episodes are not separated, but instead blend into one another, using a different set of actors, the only indication the audience has of a break in between stories is a recurring shot of Pasolini himself as Chaucer sitting at his desk lost in thought, randomly flipping through various books in his library, taking an amusing interest in The Decameron, seen as an intellectual curiously removed from the constant chatter of the streets below, where offscreen we may hear the voice of his wife berating him.  Part of the interest in the film is the director’s own take on a well known literary work, as he’s also a renowned poet, novelist, and literary theorist, where his unconventional approach may illuminate a feeling of mutual respect between the film and the literary work.  The revolving characters, with their vastly different points of view, do produce a cumulative portrait of the era, but more pronounced than anything else is Pasolini’s visual design, veering from his extraordinary outdoor street scenes teeming with an overpopulated humanity spilling over onto one another, always vividly animated with music, livestock, and movement, to his graphic interior depictions of bedroom fornication. 

If Pasolini stood for anything, it was anti-conformism, where his graphic depiction of nudity, sex, piss, and vomit, not to mention sheer stupidity, was intended to be a kick in the ass to conventional theater by showing viewers what was not generally allowed in bourgeois cinema.  By allowing the film to evolve like a three-ring circus of neverending entertainment, the director has created a kind of absurd theater of the burlesque, using a series of sight gags involving characters dressed up in bizarre costumes often at odds with one another, using song, dance, farce, and slapstick as a means of provoking the audience, where the behavior witnessed is often ridiculous and juvenile, with people behaving like conniving idiots, where it’s more a mockery of the human condition.  By the time he gets around to making SALÓ, however, the outrageous comic spectacle has turned to torture, sexual abuse, sadism, rape, and finally murder, expressing the origins of his own disillusionment.  In equal measure with literature, painting, and sculpture, Pasolini’s film aesthetic frequently moves from one medium to another, but also one language to another, as Chaucer’s Middle English went through a series of transformations and was eventually modernized into everyday English, then retranslated into common Italian speech and slang, while providing an accompanying English dubbed version.  Pasolini disliked the make believe worlds of American films, especially Hitchcock and Hawks, and seldom referred to other films for inspiration, instead relying upon the world of painters.  Near the end of the film, Pasolini’s vision moves from the cluttered realms of the city to the rural expanse of the region with its small farmhouses and lush, green pastures enveloping a pastoral landscape, evoking paintings of Brueghel and Bosch which are not afraid to embrace the ugly aspects of a peasant’s life, where Pasolini has a tendency to elevate the status of lowlife whores, pimps, criminals, and murderers, who are viewed like saints, where the sacred and the profane trade places, where the ancient had more value than the modern, and the despised was more sacred than the Sacred, as the high priests themselves are despised and defiled.  In the final sequence, which borders on the surreal, Pasolini’s continued depiction of debauchery and church corruption leads to the Catholic church’s vision of Hell and damnation, perhaps the ultimate epilogue, becoming a caricature of The Last Judgment, where a long procession of sinners is forced to endure whippings and rape, while Satan himself is envisioned as the ass of a donkey, painted bright red, where Satan farts and shits out corrupt deacons and friars into a grotesque world of unending copulation, where people are continually seen having sex with priests.  Though it lacks the wit and savage humor of Buñuel’s VIRIDIANA (1961), the film is a grotesque and comic satire of the church and its hypocrisy. 

Wuthering Heights (Arnold)

WUTHERING HEIGHTS                    B-                   

Great Britain  (129 mi)  2011  d:  Andrea Arnold

While revisionist works are always controversial, this one is a flawed misstep, reverential in tone as a visual essay of a literary work, where the words are lost in an incomprehensible mix of bad acting and mumbled sound recording.  Throughout this mostly wordless film, very few words can actually be understood, instead relegated to background noise, which seems to be by design as the director’s intent.  Arnold is known for using non-professional actors, but that appears to go awry in this version, as the actors are simply incapable of generating any interest towards any of the characters, all of whom are mere sketches of mostly unpleasant people.  The same criticism was levied against the original novel, that the story was unlikeable and the 18th century characters unpleasant.  While the 1847 novel by Emily Brontë was published in the mid-19th century, this film version feels more like the Middle Ages of Chaucer, especially since language is all but obscured, which heightens the graphic brutality on display, including continual mistreatment of animals, where people are seen as little more than wretched and contemptible people.  Within this setting, where nature abounds, they are literally surrounded by a near idyllic pastoral landscape of verdant rolling hills in the Yorkshire moors, a place where human evolution lags behind, as despite the pristine, Edenesque beauty, humans are little more than grotesque animals on the loose, matched by the constant presence of continually barking dogs.  The opening hour of this film is largely an abstract visual essay, a mosaic of constantly shifting patterns of darkness and light, where the stunning compositional beauty of the cinematography by Robbie Ryan is painterly, much like a Joseph Mallord William Turner (1775 – 1851) landscape, like “Landscape with a River and a Bay in the Background” (1,016 × 768 pixels), an English landscape style that pre-dates the Impressionists.  Shot in a boxed 1:33 aspect ratio literally saturated in a claustrophobic, arthouse style, everything layered in a sensuous glaze, the experimental style initially feels highly inventive, but after awhile the style itself grows repetitive, especially when the mind’s eye of a child grows into an adult and the surrounding world looks exactly the same, unchanging and still uncompromising.    

While there are at least 15 different versions of this story on film, making it one of the most popular movie adaptations of a novel, the most famous is the William Wyler version with Laurence Olivier from 1939, an overly stiff costume drama suffocating in Gothic period atmosphere, where reality is nowhere to be seen in that production.  Given Andrea Arnold’s penchant for social realism, she literally turns the genre form upside down and reshapes this into an experimental film, using handheld cameras and a pervasive use of the natural countryside, almost always engulfed in low-lying fog, not to mention endless wind and rain, becoming not just melancholy but overwhelmingly dreary.  Arnold makes a few significant alterations, changing class differences to racial inequity, casting Solomon Glave, a young black actor as Heathcliff, who is an abandoned boy, perhaps a runaway slave found roaming the streets of Liverpool, taken in by the Earnshaw family as part of their Christian duty and raised as one of their own, much to the utter contempt of eldest son Hindley (Lee Shaw), who continually makes abusive and disparaging racial taunts (“He ain’t my brother, he’s a nigger”), but is loved openly by the only daughter Catherine (Shannon Beer).  The two are seen forever roaming the hillsides together where their playfulness leads to budding sexual feelings.  When her father dies unexpectedly and Hindley takes over the farm, Heathcliff is immediately treated as a servant, banished to sleeping in the barn, unable to eat or socialize with the family.  The film is seen completely through the eyes of Heathcliff, often peering around the corners of buildings, behind a hedge, looking into a window, all in search for Catherine, where he becomes obsessed by her every move.  Hindley’s temper often gets the better of him, where he can be seen punching and kicking Heathcliffe, all for minor infractions, becoming more explicitly racial, calling him a “nigger” and a thief, giving him a brutal whipping, continually showing him his place, where he’s not one of the accepted family members.  Still, Heathcliff seems to hang around for a chance to see Catherine, though when he actually utters something, it feels crude, horribly insulting, and completely out of place.  When Catherine decides to marry a local boy, Edgar (Jonny Powell), a rich neighbor, Heathcliff quietly disappears in the pouring rain. 

A significant period of time passes, as Heathcliff (James Howson) has elevated his class status and returns a wealthy man, but Catherine is still married.  This doesn’t prevent continual visits, where they return to the open wild of the hilly countryside, also mixed in with flashback sequences of when they were younger.  For all practical purposes, Catherine (Kaya Scodelario) is the lady of the house now, complete with servants waiting on her, where her rendezvous visits out on the moors with Heathcliff have scandal written all over it.  Older actors assume their roles, but they fail to convey any of the sense of exuberance or naturalness of the younger actors, lacking deep affection or the brooding gravitas needed, where Heathcliff is more of a stalker than a lover, and despite his elevated class status, there is little that can be done, as she has married into wealth and a life of comfort and ease.  Danger, however, surrounds their every move, as no good can come of it.  The more Heathcliff insists on staying, the more their lives are doomed, destroying everyone around them.  Initially in his return, Heathcliff was driven purely by revenge to get back at Hindley, whose life has spiraled into drunken chaos and debt, a shell of his former self, hardly worth thinking about.  Purists will scoff at Heathcliffe’s use of profane gutter language, though mostly he says nothing, where at some point Catherine actually realizes, “You never have anything to say,” to which he responds, “That never bothered you before.”  Brontë followers will likely be offended by Arnold’s choice to make a near wordless film of a literary masterpiece, and if the spontaneity of young actors had succeeded, perhaps this might have been a boldly exciting, quasi punk experiment in power and passion.  But instead the audience feels cheated by the lackluster performances, feeling emotionally empty, where despite the overwhelming brilliance of the style, this is an overly bleak and completely unengaging adaptation, a missed opportunity, an unrelenting trek into abject misery and pain.  Often adding visual metaphors of birds stuck in cages, moth’s fluttering at a closed windowsill, or insects caught in a spider’s web, animals are as plentiful onscreen as humans, but with each species, we are unable to decipher interior ideas or emotions, where the complexity of the novel has been completely transformed into what becomes by the end an exhausting visual abstraction, a descent into human degradation.