Is Antnioni's breakthrough English language film, 1966's BLOW-UP, a masterpiece, or a dull meditation on artifice? A sober intellectual's wrongheaded attempt to duplicate the confusion of a drug experience, a Marxist intellectuals critique of the high end fashion industry or the most fucked up brilliant film in the world? Correct. Wrong. Pow.
1966 was a fabulous time to be young and pretty in London. All you needed was for some pop-eyed freak to toss you a capsule of LSD or mescaline or pass you the joint and BAM! You were one of the cool kids. The crazy scene reached out to meet you. The whole happening thing was... happening...
Words didn't work on it. Only art.
Nowadays when I go to an art gallery--even in Soho--I'm kind of amazed at all the tourists, even the Europeans, struggling to seem 'overwhelmed' by the bland conceptual installations. When I worked at the Cohen Gallery dealing with Chagalls original oils, Sam Francis gouaches and Dubuffet mixed media oils for hundreds of thousands of dollars, hung-over, I always wondered what in the hell could people see in them that I didn't. What a lot of rot, I thought. Then one Tuesday I came back from a very long psychedelic weekend in Vermont and staggered into work where a whole collection of Chagalls were on display, suddenly I got it. Or at any rate, the tiny little lines that made up Chagall's endless drawings of floating chickens and fiddlers on roofs finally seemed interesting, alive and swirling like a bunch of little spiders weaving wedding gowns. The Dubuffets seemed to drip mud and anger and primal gravitas. My eyes, in short, were open.
Antonioni seems to have been born with such open eyes, and so in the newly turned-on 'scene' of 1966 swinging London he found an audience that had at last caught up with him and his obsessive delight in the signifier-dissonance of industrial age object-making. It became what Duchamp's "Fountain" had been fifty years earlier.
I love Antonioni but, like with those Chagall, only when I'm strung out on deep art (and drugs), man. But in the wrong mood--the "I'm an American, entertain me" mood-- I find him pompous, didactic and dull. You're either on board or you're not, and like Kubrick's 2001, what might be a deep spiritual experience one night is a snooze the next. I'm also really attuned to the engagement level of those I'm watching a film with, and BLOW-UP, more than anything, is the film to make a lot of guests shift in their seats, sigh, and check their Blackberry, and then I too am over it. So I watch it alone, late at night, when the Chagalls are squiggling and the air breathes around me.
But hey - it abides. Deep Red fans will love it as much as that film's director does for David Hemmings alone, who really sinks his teeth and body into the part of a fashion photographer. Strutting and cocky and brutal with his unstained white pants and ruthless artist's open eye, he shags a lot of mod birds, or at least takes pics of them, and drives a snazzy pint-sized convertible, the kind you step down to get into, which is clearly the inspiration for the one driven decades later by Austin Powers. It's his happening and it freaks him out, in theory.
But it's not all eye-con-ography and groovy clothes; a snail's paced mid-section finds Hemmings in his dark room "blowing up" part of a shot he took in Hyde Park which he thinks might be a body until the pixels are shilling-size. There's no music all through this section and it's enough to drive a snail insane with impatience. With her 'working-class Garbo' hair and 'bantamweight Bankhead' shoulders, Vanessa Redgrave as the desperate bird (trying to get the Hyde negative) seems to have wandered in from a different movie. For a hot minute the film seems poised to follow her movie instead -the signifier chains all shudder with the weary weight of a tourist changing dictionaries at some Blockbuster aisle border--but Hemmings won't have it. To his stunned chagrin, no one in his stoner circle will either. He's conscripted to the hipsters, and by the end, even mime tennis seems like the most leaden of federal prison chore wheel wedges compared to the murder mystery that's sailed on without him.
Paranoid alien hunters who spend their lunch hours as I do, looking for alien artifacts on topographical NASA photos of the moon, will surely relate both to Hemming's obsession with jumping matrixes, and my frustration with Antonioni's oeuvre. Either way, the bird flies off, but Antonioni's still in the dark room... now the pixels are the size of grapefruits and yeah, there's a body there, all right. Maybe... isn't there? If there is, he'd be a fool to get involved and we begin to feel like the only one who wants to keep watching this colossal waste of cinematic time-space is Franci Coppola, so he can then go make The Conversation and De Palma so he can make Blow-Out and Argento so he can make Four Flies on Grey Velvet and Petri, so he can make A Quiet Place in the Country, The rest of us just want to get on out of that goddamned studio and soak up the sultry London air.... where da hot bitches is, and all those valuable guitar necks just laying in the streets like found objets d'art-detritus.
What I 'mean' isn't: At a packed club, the Yardbirds are engaging in a cutting contest between Jimi Page and Jeff Beck, qwhich causes the latter to smash his guitar and hurl the neck into the crowd (this was a year before Monterey Pop, mate, and two before Zeppelin). The crowd flies into a mosh pit feeding frenzy to get that guitar neck an Antonioni film should never be explained or described beforehand. If you haven't seen it just grit your teeth and get it over with. If you don't know what the hell is going on you are far closer to 'getting it' than someone who does. In other words, don't pay any attention to them Donnie, they're nihilists.
Clicking with the artsy counterculture youth would never come this easy again for old Antonioni, though it wouldn't for Dennis Hopper either (i.e. Zabriskie Point is better than The Last Movie), but Blow-up is a deliriously perfect meeting of the minds, the sardonic post-structural humanist of L'Aventura, La Notte, and L'Eclisse in and swingin' London, like two saxophonists in a subway car, not knowing each other in the beginning, but by the end jamming together in a perfect psychic union.
But lightning never tastes as good the second time. Antonioni moved from London to Southern California for Zabriskie Point (1970) but there he seems always either a step behind or ahead of the stoned desert youths. Are the zonked flower children of America too much for him? Is he collaborating with these kids or just filming them and wondering where his translator wandered off to? Even a kinky nudist theater group rolling about in the dust can't kick up any resonance. We want to believe it's their fault --how many of us have gone west expecting kismet, kinsmen and kingdoms but wound up dispirited, disheartened and discombobulated? Me! Me!
Worse, Antonioni seemed to be losing his sense of humor by Zabriskie and that's something similarly disillusioned intellectual auteurs like Godard and Fellini never seemed to do. One should get funnier as one gets older irregardless of how little you connect with the stoned youths! There's a fork in the road for every creative artist once they reach a certain amount of success, for age comes with every lap (or mile, if you like your bible stories): do you begin to believe your own bullshit or continue to believe only in your own absurdity? It's all up to you, man. Depression vs. enlightenment; freedom vs. ego prison, truth or illusion, George. If you're sure you know which is which, you're wrong. In 1966, people were just beginning to realize there no precedent for what they were doing. It wasn't cliche 'til they realized they'd really cracked some new bottles or opened ground. Optimism was actually visible in the air, something we can hardly imagine today, and yet, Antonioni was already giving up. In that, as with everything else, he was ahead of the curve, but what a curve! A curve from which no artist returneth unhackneyed.
But we're talking Blow-Up, so that first hit of LSD scored by the pretty young Londoner is still pulsing in 1966 electric pink and Antonioni still has his deadpan jubilance and sick sense of humor. Here is a man who creates and critiques art at the same time and yet somehow keeps it alive, and if your mind is swirling like a spider riot of Chagalian ink and Dubuffet mud you just might disappear, into the dot matrix next time. Abstract from close-up, but from far-away.... dead --but that's also you, partner. RIP really means 'rewind if possible.'