Incidentally, the movie has one of my favourite scenes of the year. The guy is eating dinner with his wife and daughter at their big dinning room table in their expensive upper-middle class house. The wife is obsessed with selling real estate and is having regular sex with a top-selling real estate agent, and no sex with her husband. The precocious daughter is saving money to have a boob job, making her breasts smaller. Still, she made good use of her mammaries by standing in front of her bedroom window facing the neighbours’. She attracted the precocious, pot-dealing guy next door, they seem made for each other, and they are planning to get out. She is ashamed of her father because he oogled her best friend. As dinner conversation routinely ignores again and again the father’s contributions, he stands up and throws a plate of asparagus against the white wall.
Although we see in no uncertain terms what Georges decides to do, the final shot of the movie is wonderfully ambiguous. Georges’ son descends the steps of his school and who should he meet but the Algerian’s son. They talk. We hear nothing. Then they go their separate ways. As the director claims, it is more interesting and mature to leave the interpretation to the viewer than to wrap everything up in a nice, neat package. Regardless of what the two said, Georges’ actions—and by implications France’s actions to Algerian immigrants—has passed in some way to a new generation.
I noticed how simple the accompaniment was: a few bass notes from a self-taught bassist, a basic rhythm from a drummer who could play much more, so little piano that you barely notice it. Only the lap steel player takes front and centre occasionally, but then he plays in a restrained manner, getting every note just right. Neil and his backup singers generate most of the energy. In addition I noticed Neil forcing himself to take some risks. While I have always been a little bothered by his singing out of tune, he only misses notes badly when he drops down for low notes, usually at the end of a line. But you have to admire the guy for putting such vocal range in some of his songs when his own vocal range is so limited. It’s as if he hears this great vocal in his head and won’t concede—or doesn’t care—that he cannot sing it in what is traditionally considered a good voice.
Elizabeth (1998), upon second viewing, is every bit as good as it was several years ago when I first saw it. The story of Elizabeth I of England depends on wonderful acting. While we know the outcome (so there is really no suspense) and we see little of the country or the commoners (so there is little lush scenery or interesting social history), we see acting so good that we can easily believe we are there. Cate Blanchett is complex as the queen who is growing up; her love affair with Lord Robert Dudley (Joseph Fiennes) is intense and believable. Right from these stars down to two ladies in waiting (Emily Mortimer and Kelly MacDonald), the acting is first rate, with ne’er a false step to shatter the spell of being transported to the political intrigue of the 1500s.
This is a classic, and it holds up very well.
The quiz show corruption shocked and disillusioned the American people. Redford says it was a turning point in the public’s view of television. Many people would now claim that after Watergate, Viet Nam reporting, and so on, citizens are much more sophisticated consumers of television. But I wonder. When you sit back to relax and be entertained, how can you relax or get into the shows if you are constantly suspicious of what is going on behind them?