Film

The Red Dwarf

by

The leering bastard child
of La Dolce Vita and Freaks,
The Red Dwarf is a Belgian melodrama that never transcends its air of sentimentalized sideshow curiosity. Lucien (Jean-Yves Thual) is a dwarf and law-office drone who one day makes a house call to his firm’s premier client, a faded opera diva played by Anita
Ekberg; the actress has,
alas, finally grown into her
gargantuan breasts, while her girlish chirp has coarsened
into a nicotined grunt worthy
of Patty and Selma Bouvier.
His loins girded by one glimpse of Ekberg’s Countess Paola lounging walrus-like poolside—and his confidence boosted by the appearance of a freakier freak in his tightly circumscribed world—Lucien plunges into the fountain at her estate for a bath no doubt meant to evoke Ekberg’s false baptismal in La Dolce Vita and then
seduces the countess, who
responds with fabulously
ludicrous sweet talk like “Come and eat my tiramisu.”


The murky black-and-white cinematography and cheerily vulgar angles—for the singular image of Lucien and Paola fucking, the camera advances from under the bed and ends up peering over them, as if tracking the movements of some zealous R.A.—lend the film some seedy midnight-movie charm, but this tone
collides with the cloying parallel story involving Lucien’s friendship with a little girl, Isis, a trapeze artist in the local
carnival. Once Paola dumps him and Lucien locates his
inner murderous rage
(against the Big People, in
case you were wondering),
our hero flees into the anonymity of circus life, yet
still can’t find footing as One
of Us. Only Isis really understands him, as we’re informed with a brief color interlude in which the red-rubber-nosed Lucien gazes at his muse with a soppy smile, dredging noxious memories of Patch Adams; at this point, all the film has left to say is, I’m okay, you’re okay.

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