Barbarian angst

Just back from seeing the Barbarian Invasions (at last screening in Alice) -- I enjoyed this film at the level of entertainment but felt a sense of discomfort throughout. Enjoyed curmudgeonly old academic being rude and irascible. Enjoyed salutations of his visiting friends ('how are you, you randy old snake'?), etc. Enjoyed abject hospital scenes. Enjoyed beautiful lakeside scenery. Enjoyed attractive young French Canadians. Kinda enjoyed 'what is a life' type reflections.

But this film desparately wanted to be about big picture themes (demise of left-liberalism; families/fathers & sons; death) which perhaps didn't quite become its avowed sensual socialist main character. It would probably have been a better film had the collapse of left-liberalism stuff (so heavily signposted, perhaps for the barbarians of my generation in the audience) been completely omitted, and it had just concentrated on families & death. Like, Lost in Translation is a much more successful film because it's a lot more sleek in conception.

Also felt some discomfort re: the rather loosely defined 'barbarians' (anyone & everyone except left-liberal BBers? That'd be right) and the occasional racist undertones (surely a little out of sync with Fanon's first fans, but we're all complex, I guess). A part of me felt like saying 'your son's actually had to do some work because hardly anyone can spend their life waffling round, wondering if they should read Marcuse or Sollers today or which dewy-eyed ingenue they might fuck this week and be paid for it these days.' (At least not without some publications). Then there was the rather angsty angel of death, the junkie who got dragged into it all, not without some financial advantage to herself (like everyone who came in contact with the global capitalist pig son) but who seemed somewhat manipulated by both father and son in the pain-allaying and then euthanasia scheme. And who's somehow supposed to be redeemed by all of this, the barbarian being bequeathed left-liberal bounty as she ends up staying in the father's old left-liberal tome-lined study (or whatever it is). (Tho I did like the moments when she seemed supremely bored by the left-liberal friends giving their painting-by-numbers lessons to the audience about left-liberal paradigm shifts.)

Anyway, I know you were probably meant to feel initially ambivalent towards all these characters, but ultimately loving and accepting towards all of them. Other thing I found annoying about this film was the amount of time it took for the father to cark it. He kept on closing his eyes and falling back on the pillow, and I'd think, 'Good, he's dead now,' but no, we had to have a communal, meaningful death involving a lot of syringes. And why did the heroin girl have to administer the overdose through the drip? Couldn't they all have taken a syringe, to share round some of the liability?

I think (from vague memory), Barbarians got something of a drubbing from one or more of Margaret and David. But if it was made in Australia, or penned by an ABC scriptwriter for a meaningful mini-series, it would probably be seen as a work of genius alongside Lantana.

Reflections on revisiting Lost in Translation: none really to speak of, at this point in time. I could keep on re-watching it for years for same reasons that I could keep on watching Brief Encounter. Repression's inevitably so much more fascinating than expression. Scarlett J is very beautiful but I wonder if she might look even more so when she loses that puffy, cushion-skinned pre-25 look and her facial structure becomes more defined.

Lenny fitfully watched Lost in Translation with me, which was unusual for him, as he doesn't watch much film & TV. (The last thing he watched was a doco on the introduction of the feral cat into Australia.) He was most interested in the scenes where Bill Murray practised his golf swing and most perturbed by the scenes involving trains (he's never been much of a Freudian). Otty is far more into TV, especially sports; the Olympics and the opening ceremony in particular were big with him.

Heather's written me some dryly amusing comments from Barcelona re: my new mountain-range facing eyrie: 'you'll be able to write a more dehydrated version of Judith Wright type poetry'. (Cd never write poetry to save my life!)

Must join Otty on the couch. He's watching a doco on Beagle Bay mission (where I was only a couple of weeks ago, just out of Broome).

Comments

[Angus]

Au contraire, Margaret and David both adored it, David especially. But I agree with all of your comments. You did miss out on some of the meta-experience, though, by not seeing it at the Nova in left-liberal boomer heartland!

[elsewhere]

Margaret and David? I rest my case!

Freakish thing about the film was that main character looked awfully like Prof Stove, one of my lecturers from the Sydney Uni trad/mod philosophy dept, who got tongue cancer and hung himself.