I found this film extremely enchanting, 46 years after its release. We should all age so well. If you are looking for a stylish splash of existentialism, then this gets a major Ye-Ye from me.
SPOILERS FOLLOW...
Agnes Varda has been a recent revelation for me. This is merely my second film of hers, "Sans Toit, Ni Loi" being the first. Interesting that in each film the female protagonist is so very alone, the one a drifter and in "Cleo" a celebrated chanteuse. Although Mona the vagabond scrapes by, Cleo oozes opulence. The scene where she stretches before a stretch, affectionately attended to by her assistant, was remarkable.
Cleo's minx quality is boosted by these tiny kittens following her around her apartment (one almost assumes they are given away once they reach six months and their neotenic effect evaporates!) Cleo is not someone we the audience are intended to like, but the camera loves her. As does the wardrobe department for this film.
I've seen some variety of posts on this film here and elsewhere, honestly after watching the film my initial thoughts were that the Doctor was tossing Cleo a polite lie, and that indeed the situation was as grave for her as it was for those in Algeria at the time. But then I see other responses and comments including a cogent one on the boards here from a doctor citing all of the things that Cleo, now Flora, has shed...as if she has come out of her luxury cartoon cocoon as a real woman.
For me the film rather was about Cleo's vague sensitivity to something being wrong in her solipsistic state, but not understanding it. Caught up in decaying mirrors, and feeling her powers of celebrity fading like the pop of a paparazzi flashbulb...she is reviled by the flesh, and its ultimate decay. For this we have the frog swallower, the drive-by shooting (providing another cracked mirror). And of course her nagging, gnawing pain inside, which in my opinion we are led to believe is nothing. A manufactured malady. Wasn't that the point of the film within the film, the wrong colored glasses effect the wrong results in life?
Cleo's flesh is crawling, as a response to the idea that unseen swirling supernatural forces are calling her life. There is the oft-cited tarot opening (in color as it is the decree of the creator/filmmaker, and the mere film is just in black and white). Additionally the superstition about new clothes/hats on Tuesdays (a French thing??), her matchbook plucking loves-me loves-me-not. Perhaps worse than being unseen, the forces and her fate are unknown.
So the nearly eerie "happy" ending is Cleo embracing her mortality, and not just a quick peck on each cheek for death...but a more measured response. Life is short...even two hours is really 90 minutes, but the garden is open for now?
Well that was something like my take-away. The film is elusive to me, but so memorable in many ways. Even side scenes like the girlfriend telling off her pushy boyfriend in the cafe, while Angele consoles Cleo in her histrionics, they stick with me still. The female cabbie, had me wondering even today how many female cab drivers there are...I wanted to call a cab company and ask to speak to some of them. Dorothee Blank...her name alone should spin out a film of death and desire, she was a nice contrast to Cleo in this, piloting her own car and her own destiny.
My ramblings fail miserably here, as do essays and treaties typically, this is why we need art. Vive le difference, between theory and art...between real and reel...between man and woman!
Lastly, there seems to be a dearth Varda, I hope someone will use the force and re-release more of her canon on DVD!
8/10 Thurston Hunger
SPOILERS FOLLOW...
Agnes Varda has been a recent revelation for me. This is merely my second film of hers, "Sans Toit, Ni Loi" being the first. Interesting that in each film the female protagonist is so very alone, the one a drifter and in "Cleo" a celebrated chanteuse. Although Mona the vagabond scrapes by, Cleo oozes opulence. The scene where she stretches before a stretch, affectionately attended to by her assistant, was remarkable.
Cleo's minx quality is boosted by these tiny kittens following her around her apartment (one almost assumes they are given away once they reach six months and their neotenic effect evaporates!) Cleo is not someone we the audience are intended to like, but the camera loves her. As does the wardrobe department for this film.
I've seen some variety of posts on this film here and elsewhere, honestly after watching the film my initial thoughts were that the Doctor was tossing Cleo a polite lie, and that indeed the situation was as grave for her as it was for those in Algeria at the time. But then I see other responses and comments including a cogent one on the boards here from a doctor citing all of the things that Cleo, now Flora, has shed...as if she has come out of her luxury cartoon cocoon as a real woman.
For me the film rather was about Cleo's vague sensitivity to something being wrong in her solipsistic state, but not understanding it. Caught up in decaying mirrors, and feeling her powers of celebrity fading like the pop of a paparazzi flashbulb...she is reviled by the flesh, and its ultimate decay. For this we have the frog swallower, the drive-by shooting (providing another cracked mirror). And of course her nagging, gnawing pain inside, which in my opinion we are led to believe is nothing. A manufactured malady. Wasn't that the point of the film within the film, the wrong colored glasses effect the wrong results in life?
Cleo's flesh is crawling, as a response to the idea that unseen swirling supernatural forces are calling her life. There is the oft-cited tarot opening (in color as it is the decree of the creator/filmmaker, and the mere film is just in black and white). Additionally the superstition about new clothes/hats on Tuesdays (a French thing??), her matchbook plucking loves-me loves-me-not. Perhaps worse than being unseen, the forces and her fate are unknown.
So the nearly eerie "happy" ending is Cleo embracing her mortality, and not just a quick peck on each cheek for death...but a more measured response. Life is short...even two hours is really 90 minutes, but the garden is open for now?
Well that was something like my take-away. The film is elusive to me, but so memorable in many ways. Even side scenes like the girlfriend telling off her pushy boyfriend in the cafe, while Angele consoles Cleo in her histrionics, they stick with me still. The female cabbie, had me wondering even today how many female cab drivers there are...I wanted to call a cab company and ask to speak to some of them. Dorothee Blank...her name alone should spin out a film of death and desire, she was a nice contrast to Cleo in this, piloting her own car and her own destiny.
My ramblings fail miserably here, as do essays and treaties typically, this is why we need art. Vive le difference, between theory and art...between real and reel...between man and woman!
Lastly, there seems to be a dearth Varda, I hope someone will use the force and re-release more of her canon on DVD!
8/10 Thurston Hunger