Films of the 60s, Part 2: For All the Desperate Things You Made Me Do

Desperation. Whether for love or money, or even the desperation of clinging to life itself, it is a palpable emotion. We see it in people’s faces, hear it in their voices, and sense it from their actions. The following three films from the 60s have captured desperation quite poetically.



Cléo from 5 to 7 (1961, Agnés Varda)

There are several films that deal with the after effects of having been diagnosed with cancer. Akira Kurosawa’s Ikiru, James L. Brooks’ Terms of Endearment, and the recent devastating tour de force, Alejandro González Iñárritu’s Biutiful are three great examples. What Agnés Varda did in the early 60s was to create a film, captured in relative real time, which depicts a woman waiting for her test results. As such, Cléo, a popular singer, goes through an existential crisis in the process. In more ways than one, this film truly captures one moment in time. This small window, from 5 p.m. to 6:30, which doesn’t sound nearly as poetic as the actual title, offers us a glimpse into desperation and the madness of not knowing if one’s life is going to be cut short.

We are introduced to our heroine at a Tarot card reading. Varda shoots the cards overhead and in color, only to switch to black and white to see the characters. We immediately sense that something is wrong as every card that is interpretable as “bad” solicits a strong reaction from Cléo. The card reader confirms that she read “cancer” in the cards after Cléo leaves distraught. We are then sent on a real time journey, following her around Paris as she waits for test results from her doctor. Along the way, certain images trigger her fear and anxiety such as protesting students, African tribal masks, news reports of the war in Algeria and the Cold War, and street performers who seemingly mutilate themselves or devour small animals. There is no wonder why she is feeling such desperation. Mentions of taboos, superstitions, and luck abound as well, with Cléo reading too much into each one, from an unlucky numbered taxi to a broken mirror, in addition to the Tarot reader at the outset.

Other mirrors abound throughout the film, representing the somewhat glamorous, yet unfulfilled life she has lived so far. We get a short glimpse into that life when her songwriting partners show up at her kitten-filled apartment to rehearse and work out new tunes. These two men, like most men in the film, are as equally admiring of her as they are dismissive. She is something to be desired, yet not to be taken seriously. Between their interactions, her anxiety, and the song they eventually land on, called “Cry of Love,” she breaks down. Watching Corrine Marchand, who plays Cléo, sing this tune, turn toward the camera and visibly weep as she sings is truly powerful. Cléo eventually does get her test results, after finding her spirits buoyed by an Algerian soldier in the park, and we get the sense that her life will be forever changed.



They Shoot Horses, Don’t They? (1969, Sydney Pollack)

There is possibly no better setting for a movie about desperation than the Great Depression. By placing a set of characters in this context, there is almost an innate consciousness that comes with it, already priming us for the despair we are surely to feel. They Shoot Horses, Don’t They? was originally a crime novel written in 1935 that stood alongside some of the best noir fiction of its time. Even so, the film version not only captures the spirit of that book, but was also semi-prescient in its depiction of spectacle as entertainment, though one could argue that spectacle has been around since bread and circuses.

Michael Sarrazin plays Robert, our main character and narrator, relaying to the audience a story of his childhood, when he saw a horse break its leg, resulting in its having to be shot to put it out of its misery. He finds himself as an adult at a dance marathon in Santa Monica and is unwittingly chosen to be the partner to Gloria, played by Jane Fonda, whose original partner is eliminated due to a cough. What transpires from this point is pure, grueling desperation. Not only do the characters, of which we get to know quite a few, have to keep dancing, but they are also subjected to periodic side elimination contests such as races in which the partner are tied together.

In a way, the events of They Shoot Horses seem like a precursor to today’s reality shows, except that these characters weren’t necessarily looking for their Warholian fifteen minutes or a stepping stone to fame. They were merely trying to find a way to survive in a time when everyone was struggling. There is even a pregnant couple hoping to win the money to help provide for their upcoming family. As time progresses, people switch partners, others duck out as they get job offers they had been waiting for, and there are shady deals and affairs. The organizers of the contest are, of course, revealed as swindlers who deduct so much money to pay for the event from the prize money that the winner gets practically nothing, showing that capitalism has always been this way, that it is not just a symptom of the present. I won’t reveal the ending of this film as most crime novels of this ilk, such as Charles Willeford’s Pick-Up, rely on a stark and revelatory twist.



The Virgin Spring (1960, Ingmar Bergman)

The Virgin Spring is based on a medieval folktale, easily translated into a film that could take place during any time period. Bergman remains as faithful as possible to the tale, however, and as such portrays desperation in its barest essence, that of loss and revenge. We are introduced to a pair of sisters, one a foster sister, Ingeri: pregnant, spiteful, and somewhat flawed, shown to believe in Odin, and the true daughter, Karin: pious, chaste, and wholesome, a young, blonde Christian girl. In the midst of an errand, taking candles to the church, Karin is raped and murdered by herdsmen. The scene is disturbing and horrific. There is nothing overtly “cinematic” about it, meaning that there is no device or trickery in this to let us know this is not real. With Sven Nykvist’s camera, we are merely like Ingeri, stealthily placed witnesses to the horror that transpires.

In a twist of fate, the girl’s father, Töre, played masterfully by Max von Sydow, plays host to the herdsmen, only to find out later what they have done. In a desperate rage, he kills the brigands. We are left to wonder about the values of human lives, about morality, and about whether retribution is equal or justified, especially in terms of one’s religious beliefs. Upon recovering Karin’s daughter, a natural spring forms beneath her body and Ingeri, in penance, begins to wash herself in its waters. Töre vows to build a church on the land where her body was found, as the form of his own penance. But, this is what desperation leads to, something that Bergman, Pollack, and Varda captured so well.

Films of the 50's: Three Horrors, a Dance with Death, and if it's Not Love then It's the Bomb that Will Keep Us Together

Les Diaboliques (1955, Henri-Georges Clouzot)

Henri-Georges Clouzot, who had already impressed (though not without controversy) with Le Corbeau and The Wages of Fear, returned with a movie whose script was stolen right out from under the nose of Alfred Hitchcock, both literally and figuratively. Les Diaboliques is one of those films, like many of Hitchcock’s, that is hard to pigeonhole into either horror or thriller, but is an arguable hybrid of both. That being said, Les Diaboliques houses one of the scariest scenes in modern cinema.

I don’t really want to get into the plot, as this is one of those ‘spoiler alert’ types of film. What I can say is that the film involves a couple and a teacher who works for them. The couple includes Michel, who is the headmaster of a boarding school, and his wife, Christina, who owns the school. Nicole, played by the exquisite Simone Signoret, is the teacher, trying to help the abused Christina get out from under the heavy thumb of her abusive husband.

What transpires from there is pure Hitchcockian suspense. People are murdered, bodies disappear, people are suspected and living in fear, and some insist they see ghosts. The truth is slightly unbelievable, but neatly wrapped up, making it yet another fantastic film from Clouzot. The Wages of Fear might be my favorite, but Les Diaboliques is not far behind.



The Blob (1958, Irvin Yeaworth)

I once saw The Blob as a kid on a local television station as a Saturday movie of the week. Now, I’ve never been a big viewer of horror films, probably after deciding to watch films such as The Exorcist or The Shining after midnight, alone in the house. Yeah, I was S-M-R-T. But, back then I didn’t get what the big deal was about The Blob. Being overtaken by a giant rolling slab of watermelon Jell-O was not, in my mind, a bad way to go. In fact, it might be just ahead of freezing to death. Upon reviewing the film, however, I found it much more entertaining than I did when I was in grade school.

The story has been told a million times, yet never quite this simply and elegantly. An alien form falls to earth, becoming a hostile entity that threatens the population. The biggest difference is in the movie’s central figure, played here enthrallingly by a young Steve McQueen. McQueen’s performance manages to make up for a host of horror movie clichés, stereotypical horror character mistakes (i.e. “Don’t go in there alone,” “Don’t turn your back to the unknown thing,” etc.), and fairly simplistic dialogue of a squeaky-clean teen movie variety. The Blob is a movie that practically defined America’s image of the drive-in movie. What makes it even more memorable is the incredibly goofy theme song, written by Burt Bacharach, called “Beware of the Blob.” For its limited budget, the movie is well made, am impressive use of restraint of imagery and off camera horrors.



House on Haunted Hill (1959, William Castle)

William Castle was the P.T. Barnum of cinema. For Castle, whose budgets were always constrained, it was more about marketing and gimmicks than putting together the best quality film. Some of the gimmicks included joy buzzers in seats for a heightened scare, breaks in the film to let ‘chickens’ leave before the scary parts, only to be ridiculed by 'planted' theater patrons, and skeletons dropping into the audience from the ceiling. The latter was one of the stunts used for the release of House on Haunted Hill. The story seems to have some holes, or at least needed some tightening. There’s an owner of the house, and a host, yet not the same person. The owner is played by Elisha Cook, Jr., giving a performance that unbelievably goes farther over the top than that of the host, played by Vincent Price.

Despite Castle’s notoriety for b-movie quality, House has some definite scares and startling imagery. Then again, it also has some incredibly cheesy effects, but Castle manages to slip out of some of the criticism by providing some interesting explanations. More than anything, the film is a great party movie, as is evidenced by the fact that the former MST3K crew, now working as RiffTrax, have provided a humorous voiceover. The premise is simple, and is not any newer than the premise for the Blob. A group of people is invited by a creepy host to spend the night in a haunted house (in this case the famous Ennis House in Los Angeles, used as the location for Angel’s ‘castle’ in Buffy the Vampire Slayer) and if they can last the night, they win some cash. There are a few twists and turns along the way, which make it worth continuing, but overall you have to come in expecting the worst to make it surpass those expectations.



The Seventh Seal (1957, Ingmar Bergman)

I doubt there’s anything new or revealing I could say about Bergman’s The Seventh Seal. I suppose I could just wrap it up there, but that would be somewhat of a cheat. Bergman’s medieval play, with the backdrop of the Black Death, has spurred parody and homage for years. I suppose you know your film is iconic when the parodies are as varied as Woody Allen and Bill & Ted. Max von Sydow plays Antonius Block, a knight returning wearied from a battle of the Crusades. He finds his home country of Sweden crippled by the Black Death, and he is quickly approached by Death himself, leaving Block to both contemplate the meaning of life, and to try and outwit Death by challenging him to a game of chess. As might be expected from an art film as opposed to a Hollywood movie, Death is witty, patient, and a bit of a trickster.

Along his journey, Block and his squire meet several villagers and travelers, additional dramatis personae who seemingly influence Block’s views of the world, life and death. Again, I can’t say anything that hasn’t been said already. The Seventh Seal is considered one of the finest art films in history. Personally, I think the art tag is unnecessary. The film is a masterpiece, measured in existential philosophy, humor and pathos. In 1957, I don’t think many people could envision the man playing the deeply thoughtful role of Antonius Block playing Brewmeister Smith in Strange Brew, or Ming the Merciless in Flash Gordon, but I suppose that merely proves the actor’s range.

The heart of the film lies in the characters of Jof and Mia, the actor and his wife, and their baby, representing the surviving future of mankind, in my incredibly obtuse interpretation. Jof’s vision and humorous antics remind me of one of his antecedents, Roberto Benigni, while the mere representation of the family’s character as a whole has a moving effect on the other characters, specifically Antonius. If there is any other image in The Seventh Seal that rivals the chess game with Death, it is the Dance with Death, the vision of silhouettes in a daisy chain on the top of a hill. For me, that scene is up there with Kane’s snow globe, Rick and Renault in the fog on the tarmac, and Jimmy Stewart looking down the ‘smash-zooming’ staircase.




Hiroshima Mon Amour (1959, Alain Resnais)

For the last week, I’ve been studying modern wars and, specifically, the decision to use the atomic bomb. Aside from the assigned textbook, I’ve read John Hersey’s Hiroshima and portions of David McCullough’s Truman. So, it was kismet that Alain Resnais’ Hiroshima Mon Amour recently arrived from Netflix. The film, like most of Rensais’ work, other than Night and Fog, is difficult to summarize. At its core, it revolves around a love affair between a French woman and a Japanese man, both haunted by the events of World War II. What must be said, before getting too deep, is that Hiroshima Mon Amour is a film that equally belongs to two creative minds, one belonging to Resnais, and the other, writer Marguerite Duras.

Duras’ words contribute as much to the atmosphere as Resnais’ incredibly chosen images. The first twenty minutes set up the symbolism and metaphor throughout the rest of this memorable film, and I use memorable intentionally. Memory is a keystone for Resnais, probably never used as effectively as in his later film, The Last Year at Marienbad. The collective memories of the victims of war are encapsulated in these two unlikely lovers, an affair that brings together two distant spheres of post-war pain. The mini-documentary at the forefront, mixing horrific images of the effects of the A-bomb with Emmanuelle Riva’s ethereal dialogue, only sets the stage for future hallmark imagery that recalls the horror of Hiroshima. We see the shadow of two lovers on the walls of buildings, repeated touches of hair and skin, those things most easily lost by the fallout of the bomb, and we see mirroring of France and Japan in its rivers and the Paris garden cupola that resembles the Atomic Bomb Dome, one of the few standing buildings after the attack.

As I’ve studied, the question has come up as to Truman’s choice to use the bomb. Riva repeats in the intro, “You’re destroying me. You’re good for me.” Although she may be talking about her affair, it’s not a far stretch to attribute any of these lines to a number of different interpretations. Duras’ words are simple in form, yet lead to varied avenues of translation. 'His' story is told quickly, and is the story of many others caught up by the destruction of the bomb, but 'hers' is one of German occupation, nationalism, and forbidden love. In the end, it is a film that cannot be internalized easily. But, like all great films, it sets different parts of the brain and heart in motion. It’s no mistake that toward the end of the film, Resnais has his unnamed characters rendezvous in a club called the Casablanca. Nearly two decades later, Hiroshima Mon Amour is a more complex, jagged, and yet beautiful retelling of Casablanca, a classic story of impossible love affected by the memories of war.