‘It would require a great philosopher and historian to explain the causes of the famous Seven Years’ War, in which Europe was engaged, and in which Barry’s regiment was now on its way to take part. Let it suffice to say that England and Prussia were allies … and at war against the French, the Swedes, the Russians, and the Austrians.’
^Saved you half an hour on Wikipedia.
Brutalist and utopia are never two words to be used in the same sentence without negative connotations, but it’s a recurring theme with these building projects. We did, however, experience the “aesthetically pleasing” luxuries of A Clockwork Orange (1971) because of these architectural faux pas.
Once again: “As we walked along the flatblock marina, I was calm on the outside but thinking all the time. So now it was to be Georgie the General, saying what we should do, and what not to do, and Dim as his mindless, grinning bulldog. But, suddenly, I viddied that thinking was for the gloopy ones, and that the oomny ones used like inspiration and what Bog sends. For now it was lovely music that came to my aid. There was a window open, with a stereo on, and I viddied right at once what to do.”
It’s still relevant because the story is universal and it’s by far the best directed and scripted of the historical epics, most of which are hackneyed affairs and wholly painful to watch. Aside from the Anthony Mann opening sequence, you can see the emergence of Kubrick’s style all over the picture despite the official record that he was constantly bickering with Kirk Douglas and screenwriter Dalton Trumbo. It also features perhaps the best ensemble of British acting talent from that era, Olivier, Ustinov, and Laughton showing the Americans how it’s done. Indeed, it’s almost a bit embarrassing viewing Douglas and Tony Curtis try and hold their own with the peerless Laurence Olivier; they appear awed by his presence.
His Crassus is a nasty fucker, but as always with Olivier he injects the ‘bad guy’ with layers and you can see where he’s coming from in what he does. His rivalry with Charles Laughton’s Senator Gracchus perfectly parallels the rebellion, and there’s a simple but historical truth to the outcome: order and dictatorship over anarchy every time. Special mention to Peter Ustinov who provides a chuckle in every scene, an obsequious slave-trader character usually bemused by proceedings.
Not bad battle stuff, either.
I like to frequent this little Anthony Burgess habitat at least once a year to remind me of one of the greatest movies ever put on celluloid. When I depart I say to myself, “I was cured alright.”
Sadly, I’ve seen this movie more times than I have Barry Lyndon (1975), and this impressive calamity (accidental oxymoron) is what is universally posited as the reason Kubrick never made his Napoleon biopic.
It’s a hell of a logistical achievement, grand scale Abel Gance-like cinema utilising an entire Soviet infantry division; the sheer fact it got made is stupefying. At the same time it’s utterly dreadful, the director wielding his camera with carefree abandon, going from one style to the next like an ADHD child with a Tyco Xmas pressie. And the performances are dire, Rod Steiger’s Napoleon especially. He is constantly bulging his eyeballs, histrionics reaching Nicolas Cage levels. Even more fingernails-down-the-blackboard cringe are his inner monologues, the wee Corsican revealing his every banal thought to the audience.
Yet it was always on TV, strangely on Sunday afternoons. It remains ‘just one of those things’. I’ll probably see it again (I voluntarily watched it the other day), my own guilty pleasure. As Pauline Kael said, ‘You talk less about good movies than about what you love in bad movies.’
Full horror show here:
Visions of A Clockwork Orange (1971) every time I run the Balgreen gauntlet for the tram to York Place, Alex DeLarge and his droogies bashing in a poor drunken hobo for kicks. Such ultra-violence has probably happened half a dozen times in this foreboding underpass, but without the costumes and long eyelashes.
Wanderings and ... wonderings. 