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I went back and forth on this one, amici, and could have gone with Fellini's 8 1/2 (which we will screen anon), but finally decided on L'Avventura, which I've been brandishing over the series since it was first announced almost—gasp!—nine years ago. For those of you unfamiliar with the film, I won't load you up with expectations except for these broad ones.
1. The idle, beautiful, Italian rich are seen being good-looking, spending money, and putting forth little effort unrelated to the gratification of their whims and desires.
2. There is a mystery. This is not entirely tidied up by the end of the film.
3. It's long: Two hours and twenty-three minutes. This means we want to start it rolling by 7:30 so that, with the inevitable intermission for the benefit of the thimble-bladdered demographic, we can finish it by 10:30. Accordingly, if you want to get in the usual ration of noshing and witty banter, you'll want to time your arrival close to 6:00.
4. It has been said of this film that you could print an enlargement of any randomly chosen frame and hang it on your wall to the visible benefit of the room.
5. It has also been said of the film that it is excruciatingly boring.
5a. At its premiere at the Cannes Film Festival in 1960, several audience members were discovered afterward to have perished in their seats of ennui. Other, more robust viewers made loud demonstrations of disapprobation, including storming the projection booth, beating the projectionist, burning the first two reels and kicking director Michelangelo Antonioni's dog.
5b. OK, I made most of that up. Still, the initial response was really, really unfriendly. A number of influential critics and filmmakers subsequently circulated a petition expressing their warm admiration for both L'Avventura and its director.
The Società Italiana del cinematografo del punto di Adams (so rendered by an early online translation routine) meets at increasingly irregular intervals at 2662 Harrison Street in Oakland's someday to be fashionable Adams Point neighborhood. Public transit is reasonably convenient; parking availability is best described as "latent." Old hands will know that Rand assembles (if he says so himself) a lavish spread of hors d’oeuvres and finger foods equivalent in aggregate to a proper meal, and always makes at least token accommodation for them as don't devour our furred, feathered, finned or fluked friends. To this end he is always abjectly grateful when attendees tender their timely RSVPs (negative RSVPs may be omitted without violence to conscience, although they are equally appreciated), particularly when notice is given that a friend or S.O. will be coming along. This way lies intelligent portion control, and satisfaction for all.
The illustration has been appropriated from Edinburgh-based illustrator and designer Caroline Halliwell without prior permission, but with all due thanks and the hope that she will forgive its use for so narrow a social application.
Whew! We’ve accumulated a few cobwebs here. Let’s blow ’em off and resume, shall we?
Winter was prolonged and chilly and chockfull of distractions, including some high diplomacy attendant upon the relocation of an Aged P, so between those exertions and my own seasonal torpor—how I loathe those long nights!—we couldn’t summon up the energy to resume our programme until this month. After toying with Fellini’s 8 1/2, I elected instead to show Adua and Her Friends, directed by Antonio Pietrangeli, whose La Visita was so well-received last September. Only five of our regulars could make it, but first-timers Barton and Faye (who heroically stayed for the end notwithstanding a 4:00 a.m. shift at work) brought us up to nine in attendance, which made for mainly reasonable sightlines downstairs.
Adua, made in 1960, did not disappoint. The 1959 “Merlin” law closed the brothels across Italy, forcing the staff variously into other lines of work, into clandestine establishments, or onto the streets. The four principals of Adua e le compagne choose door #1, pooling their savings to open a restaurant on the outskirts of Rome. Regrettably, they fail the “moral standards” requirements established by the Benito Business Bureau, and their permit application is refused. A prosperous physician agrees to front for them in exchange for a million lira per month, to be paid by plying their former profession in the upstairs rooms. The arrangement concludes to no one’s satisfaction, and the plucky prostitutes having once spoken truth to power do not in the event prevail (truth and 350 lira will get you a cup of cappuccino, it turns out). A young Marcello Mastroianni, who rocketed to international stardom with La Dolce Vita, released the same year, figures in an ancillary part as a hustling auto broker who wins, and predictably betrays, Adua’s heart.
In all, very credibly written, acted, and of course photographed (see the frame grab above). What is it about European cinematography of this period, and why was so much of the American product so signally lacking in this crucial aspect?
Speaking of cinematography, I’m inclined to think I will go for 8 1/2 next up—opinions are divided as to whether it’s a work of genius or of flatulent self-indulgence, but everyone appears to agree that it’s gorgeous—and after that we’ll begin to scale Antonioni’s so-called “Trilogy of Alienation” this summer. It has been said of the Trilogy (L’Avventura, La Notte and L’Eclisse) that any given frame could be printed and hung on the wall. When the non-visual elements of these films are discussed, words like “numbing,” “desolation,” “ennui” and “emptiness” appear with disconcerting frequency. Indeed, when L’Avventura was first screened at the Cannes Film Festival in 1960, it was met with jeers and loathing, and the young Ruhollah Musavi Khomeini, until that time an influential editor and critic at Cahiers du Cinéma, was moved to quit France, reject La Nouvelle Vague and take up the study of Islamic theology, with results that are now well-known.
Just a heads-up: we’ll be watching some chewy stuff this summer. Dates and times to follow via the usual mailing list.
