The Voyeur and the Slacker

Cineastes have come to consider the Criterion Collection the benchmark for excellence in home video, with its careful restoration efforts and thoughtful assembling of bonus material. The most recent batch of Criterion releases is wildly eclectic, bringing together the bracing experimentalism of John Cassavetes and Richard Linklater with the gorgeous formalism of Marcel Carné and Jean Renoir, albeit in separate titles. Though most likely unintentional, there are loose themes that connect some of the releases, which helps when considering their disparate approaches to narrative and form.

On the face of things David Cronenberg’s media horror show, Videodrome (1982), has little in common with the trio of Jean Renoir films in the Stage and Spectacle box set. However, both releases address the nature of entertainment and the frame through which we view it (be it television screen or proscenium wall). Videodrome is perhaps the most disturbing work by the auteur of the unsettling. The film follows Max Renn (James Woods), a sleazy soft-porn cable producer who stumbles upon a pirate transmission of torture and murder that he thinks could be the next big thing. Naturally something more insidious is at work. Soon the separation between reality and very twisted fantasy is lost, with horrific results. Cronenberg’s heady mix of sensuality and horror should be enough to creep you out, but Rick Baker’s breakthrough special effects (winningly chronicled in the fun supplementary material) make the film particularly effective.

On the other side of the coin are the three colorful films that make up Renoir’s loving ode to the theater. In The Golden Coach (1953), Ana Magnani is a commedia player who steals the heart of a viceroy who gives her the titular coach as a gift of his devotion. The iconic Jean Gabin lends his singular gifts to French Cancan (1955) as the man who makes the scandalous dance all the rage at the new Moulin Rouge in 19th Century Paris. Then Ingrid Bergman is at her enchanting best as a down-on-her-luck Polish princess who enchants nearly every man she meets in Elena and Her Men (1956). With these films Renoir celebrates the joy of artistic artifice (while Cronenberg explores the dark side of voyeurism). As Renoir put it, “…it is possible to be improbable and still true, and truth itself is generally improbable.” While not as essential as Rules of the Game and The Grand Illusion, these are delightful films to watch, particularly with the lush Technicolor brought out in the high definition transfers offered here.

Another pair of releases are pure examples of independent filmmaking. Sadly, the term “independent film” has lost much of its meaning, but the work of John Cassavetes and Richard Linklater represents what can be achieved outside the system. With his first feature, Shadows (1959), Cassavetes essentially defined independent film. Using his own money and a bold improvisational ethic, he established a singular aesthetic that is showcased in the excellent John Cassavetes: Five Films. The box also includes Faces (1968), A Woman Under the Influence (1974), The Killing of a Chinese Bookie (1976) and Opening Night (1977), as well as Charles Kiselyak’s exhaustive 2000 documentary, A Constant Forge.

With Slacker (1991), Richard Linklater defied traditional narrative in his portrayal of the chance intersection of lives on the streets of Austin, Texas. Many writers and directors have used this convention before, but Linklater applies a fresh, short-attention-span approach that never develops an overarching narrative, yet somehow makes for a cohesive and brilliant film. The two-disc set also features an earlier Linklater feature and supplementary material outlining how he helped establish a film community in Austin.

Rounding out the latest offerings are two classic tales of restlessness. Federico Fellini’s I Vitelloni (1953) is a bittersweet and highly affecting tale of a group of young men languishing in their small seacoast hometown. While they dream of escape, they’re most successful in their flight from the responsibility of adult life. Marcel Carne’s Port of Shadows (1938) follows a deserting soldier (Jean Gabin) who wanders into a port town in an attempt to disappear, only to be thrown into the spotlight. While the introspective dialogue is a bit overwrought, the film is still a luminous joy to watch.