laurawalker.org

Barbarella exists.

It exists deliberately.

In fact, a team of writers and producers and actors and perhaps even a director sat down and together - through multiple revisions and incarnations - created (if I may be so bold as to use that term) this space-age tale of chomping dolls and hairy ice men and special agent love babes.

Yes, indeed. There can be no question that Barbarella was a purposeful effort. And having accepted that almost inconceivable fact, we can move on . . .

If the horribleness of Jane Fonda wasn't enough to cause one to sink into cataclysmic despair, the presence of David Hemmings (of Blowup infamy) is enough to push this movie over the edge. Was this man incapable of reading a script? Or simply devoid of professional judgment? One ponders . . . and then comes to the most frightening realization that he was one of the highlights of this truly horrendous, tasteless snippet of celluloid.

A comprehensive summary: Rolling around in harvest gold shag carpeting inspires Jane Fonda to don plastic girdles and shag every guy in the galaxy. In the meantime, she discovers Duran Duran, fries a pleasure machine, helps an aerially-challenged angel discover his libido and saves the Great Tyrant in the face of liquid evil with her "bubble of innocence."

I have spoiled nothing. Honestly. The watchability of this movie is not in the plot. Nor the script. Nor the acting. Nor even the naked women and wanton depravity. Instead, the watchability of this film is based in the old adage that one must see it to believe it. In order for civilization to continue as we know it, we must be aware that cinematic train wrecks like Barbarella are possible. Only when we have identified the root of the problem may we work together for a cure.

Conclusion: See Barbarella once, if only to appreciate why Jane Fonda's career has been appropriately reduced to "One. Two. Just one more." Do not see it twice - even in private with the doors and windows barred - lest you lose the respect of eavesdropping dust mites.

I had the distinct pleasure of catching the second half of Guys and Dolls during my channel flips last weekend. I had forgotten how delightfully singable and thoroughly romantic that movie is.

A bold choice was made in the casting of this film, namely choosing two non-singers (Jean Simmons and Marlon Brando) as the singing leads. The risk paid off in spades! Jean Simmons is captivating as the beautiful, well-intentioned missionary thrust into the gritty New York underworld of colorfully dressed gamblers. Marlon Brando is perfect as the rough-hewn gambler with whom she falls in love. The cast is aptly completed by the energetic performances of Frank Sinatra as the commitment-phobic Nathan Detroit and Vivian Blaine as the long-suffering Miss Adelaide, and by a bevy of cameos from character actors like Sheldon Leonard - always a sentimental favorite due to his resurrection of the "Dick Van Dyke" show.

The Lerner and Loewe music of Guys and Dolls is some of their best, including the title song, the snappy "Fugue for Tinhorns" and the heartfelt "Luck Be a Lady." In its adaptation to the screen, the songs "Adelaide" and "A Woman in Love" were added, respectively, to showcase Frank Sinatra and to compensate for the minimized vocal range of the two leads. Both are excellent and are perfectly complemented by Michael Kidd's dazzling, yet daring, choreography which used the assets of the Goldwyn Girls to their fullest capacity.

The one weakness of the movie (and, indeed, of the play itself) is that the audience is not permitted to see the moment when Sarah reunites with Sky after the "mission doll's cabaret." But perhaps it is better to leave such things to the imagination...

Conclusion: See this movie - if only to experience the sexiest on-screen kiss of all time.

I find the presence of Blowup on my movie page to be a degradation to all that is right and good in the cinematic industry, but my sense of civic duty has managed to overcome my painful gag reflex. Much in the same way that the world should be exposed to the truth about John Malkovich, it must come to understand the sheer horrible-ness of this cinematic travesty that dares to label itself "a classic."

I will preface my rant with this information: I very much wanted to see this movie. I was desperate to see this movie. The accidental photography of a murder - with the photographs as the only evidence - was a brilliant plot concept, in my estimation. Further, director Michelangelo Antonioni's vision had received such critical and artistic acclaim that my sisters and I actively sought out and rented this movie, on the premise that our cinematic studies were sorely lacking in exposure to this Gem of the Silver Screen.

After slightly less than 111 minutes (we sped through the vastly over-hyped menage-a-trois scene) of naked breasts, polyester pants and - I'm not making this up - tennis mimes, the film had devoted all of 13 minutes to developing a storyline purported to be the central plot. While I do not intend to be plebian in my viewpoint and while I understand that the director was attempting to convey some sort of 1960s message about the ephemeral qualities of reality, I feel compelled to point out to Mr. Antonioni that he could have spent far less time on actors playing with a nonexistent ball and having sex with barely pubescent girls without betraying the core of his artistic expression. Certainly, a more substantive storyline would have helped to increase the longevity of the film, and assisted in entertaining an audience far less intrigued with the inner workings of a mind, which is (quite frankly) rather dull.

Having incurred the wrath of the faded flower children, I am further compelled to suggest that the film would have been vastly improved by the addition of a little music to the (essentially) silent proceedings. The fact that there is a purchasable soundtrack for Blowup is utterly incomprehensible to me - I recall approximately 30 seconds of beating brums 2/3 of the way through the film, but nothing more! The sound was certainly not enough to rouse an already snoring audience.

Conclusion: If given the choice to rent Blowup or watch your own fingernails grow, choose the latter. Don't waste your time.