Last year in Marienbad (au L'année dernière à Marienbad is a surrealist piece from 1961, lauded as a cinematic masterpiece; it's obscure and non-linear narrative inspires much debate in regards to any extractable plot.Last Year In Mariendbad's praise has won it a Golden Lion at the Venice film festival and an Academy award for original screenplay, as well as commendations as essential cinema schooling. Having said that, there's the fracas to its enigma of being rated as one of The Fifty Worst Films in a book by The Medveds (originators of the Hollywood 'Walk of Shame' and Golden Turkey awards)
The plot, through repetition ciphers of dialogue, and sweeping long shots with no chronological imperative establishes a first man attempting to convince a woman he meets at a grand Château social gathering that not only did they meet the year before; but they very well fell in love and that she has been waiting for him. A second man (probably the woman's husband) assumes his dominance by 'never losing' supremely orchestrated Nim matches to the first man.
The combination of sweeping shots; never-ending corridors and spiral staircases; repeated dialogue; flashbacks; flash-forwards and detached performances from all the leads exude a dream-like, transcendental quality. The score is usually simple crescendos or organs, with the overall effect a somewhat jarring timelessness loop. The viewer is abandoned from any plot resolution as how is it possible to make concrete judgement with no means to discern reality from imagination or dream? And that's the point.
This is french Dada-ist. Check the movement. Sure, it makes for fascinating and at times witty viewing. But the 'perfection' of the environment; the depletion of humanistic traits; the ornamental garden (where trees cast no shadows mind you) and once again I utter; the oft-repeated dialogue draws bee-lines to the theatre of the absurd..
Reclined in my BFI seat at Southbank, I couldn't help but feel like I was in on Alain Resnais and Alain Robbe-Grillet's joke... the sterile and polished exterior; the decay of decadence; renders all meaning defunct, leaving one protagonist on a mission (Persuasive? Unreasonable? Mesmerising? Abusive?)to connect some links between hearts.
Do go watch it. For what it's worth, view it as a meta-film, or an epic poem with visual stimulus. Feel free to love it or hate it. Next year you may not even know.
By Perry Dominoes
What's on at BFI Southbank
This is french Dada-ist. Check the movement. Sure, it makes for fascinating and at times witty viewing. But the 'perfection' of the environment; the depletion of humanistic traits; the ornamental garden (where trees cast no shadows mind you) and once again I utter; the oft-repeated dialogue draws bee-lines to the theatre of the absurd..
Reclined in my BFI seat at Southbank, I couldn't help but feel like I was in on Alain Resnais and Alain Robbe-Grillet's joke... the sterile and polished exterior; the decay of decadence; renders all meaning defunct, leaving one protagonist on a mission (Persuasive? Unreasonable? Mesmerising? Abusive?)to connect some links between hearts.
Do go watch it. For what it's worth, view it as a meta-film, or an epic poem with visual stimulus. Feel free to love it or hate it. Next year you may not even know.
By Perry Dominoes
What's on at BFI Southbank
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