By Chuck Wilson
By Alan Scherstuhl
By Alan Scherstuhl
By Amy Nicholson
By Carolina Del Busto
By Stephanie Zacharek
By Michael Atkinson
By Calum Marsh
Radical flamethrower to Arthouse Apollo to Oscar-winning mastodon-driver to decadent mezzobrow doodler, Bernardo Bertoluccis career has spanned over 40 years, a showy arc laid out at both Film Forum and MOMA this week, and one that may be a decade or so too long.
How sad that what started as fiery rad-Romanticismessentially from 1964s Before the Revolution to 1976s 1900eventually slid into issue chamber dramas and the relentless softcore dirty-old-man routine (from 1972s Last Tango in Paris to his last, 2003s The Dreamers). In the middle is The Conformist (1970), still a testimony to the erstwhile panache of international cinema. If youre a fledgling, Bertoluccis masterpiecemade when he was all of 29, and showing in a new print at both venueswill be the most revelatory experience youll have in a theater this year. Fleshing out novelist Alberto Moravias shadow-box between political compliance and personal shame, Bertolucci created the most arresting mise-en-scène ever concocted for any movie, set entirely in rainy city afternoons and indigo evenings. You can hardly help corresponding the film to seminal mood moments in your own life.
Told in timeline flea leaps, the story follows Marcello (Jean-Louis Trintignant), a would-be sophisticate lining up with Mussolinis Fascists in the 30s for his own, very private reasonsas the title makes clear, his is participatory politics as psychosocial dysfunction. Marcellos ambitions toward normalcy, sexual and otherwise, lock on marriage (to the fabulously obnoxious Stefania Sandrelli) and on insinuating himself into the Party by framing his old university mentor (Enzo Tarascio) and the profs sexy bi wife (Dominique Sanda).
Overt and covert narratives aside, The Conformist is also an orgasm of coolness, ravishing compositions, camera gymnastics (the frame virtually squirms around, like Marcello), and atmospheric resonance. The actors vogue, Vittorio Storaros lens makes every street and room baroque, the Roman streets burn with gaslight, the dancehall bursts, the unforgettable Alpine roads lead to death and catastrophe.
Any career would seem to wilt after that, and Bertoluccis did, if at first hitting a tantalizing stride with Last Tangos menopausal waa-waas and the maddened, classical crescendo of 1900. But then the minor misfires began (Luna, Tragedy of a Ridiculous Man), followed by the majorsmost prominently the dull prestige behemoth of The Last Emperor (1987), sanctified with a Best Picture Oscar and mostly forgotten since. The cascade continued with the Paul Bowlesbowdlerizing version of The Sheltering Sky (1990), the somewhat endearing fruitcake bakeoff of Little Buddha (1993), and the effort to get Liv Tylers panties finally off in Stealing Beauty (1996). Never did a Bertolucci movie feel deprived of passion and curiosity; even at his nadir, Bertolucci orchestrated to the rafters. But his relevance radiates from the end days of the New Wave era, when he was young and politically jacked in and still capable of transformative grace.
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