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.