Julius Caesar (1970)

 "This was the noblest Romam of them all."

Obviously, I know this play. I also know the 1953 film with Marlon Brando, and with John Gielgud in a less exalted, but more electrifying part. I mean, is the superlative Sir John Gielgud... phoning it in? I do believe he is.

Not that this film is crap. It's just not the 1953 film, probably. I mean, I saw it probably twenty-five years ago, long before this blog. Memory is an imperfect intrument. But it- and Brando, especially- made a deep impression on me. Any subsequent Mark Antony has big boots to fill. And those big soliloquys must be approached with trepidation. An actor lives or dies by them.

So how does this compare? Well, the standard British characters actors are very RSC. Robert Vaughn impresses with Casca, giving a daring yet pleaasingly arch performance. Diana Rigg shines during her one big scene.

But what of Charlton Heston? Well, this was brave of him. He's no Brando, not even close, but he's good enough. His "Pardon me, thou bleeding piece of Earth" is so so, but his funerary speech for Caesar is fascinating. Not as passionate as many, but great facial acting and restraint, which really, really works.

The entire production is fascinating. We begin with a bird of prey, circling. The battle is visceral, as is the bloody murder. There is no honour in war here, only bloodshed. Shades of Vietnam, and Oh, What a Lovely War?, the 1970 zeitgeist. This is not the best version, being quite flat. But hey, it's Shakespeare.

Johnny Got His Gun (1971)

 "I'll pray for him for the rest of my days. But I will not risk testing his faith against your stupidity."

Two things first. One: this film is one of the finest works of cinematic art to which I've been exposed, and I've blogged many hundreds of films. I'm very grateful to the lovely individual who introduced me to it. Two: yes, I've seen the video to Metallica's "One" probably hundreds of times. That means, firstly, that there were spoilers, although I don't think that matters and, secondly, that finding clips I recognised provided some relief from the beautiful yet cathartic horror of what this film is about.

It's an anti-war fim, yes, completely and absolutely; the end caption drives that home. But there is so much subtext here. The poetry of both the dialogue and the direction is painfully exquisite. The sheer horror of imagining oneself without eyes, nose, limbs, mouth, movement, yet forced to live one's natural span with nothing but interior life and what touch and feeling one is permitted. The ambiguity between dream and reality, with sedatives further blurring the lines. The importance of kindness, a kiss on the forehead. The joy of sunlight. 

The longing for extinction. For this cannot be life.

Joe's dreams of the past- in colour, for the monochrome of the present has an obvioius symbolism- mix memory and surrealism. The sweet yet only time that he and Corrine, people of their time, in 1917, enjoy the union of their bodies. His innocence. The cynical evil of a world that, having communicated with him and registered his wish to die, keep him alone, secret, to live and suffer. The frustrated kindness of the nurse and his love for her. 

It's hard to process, shortly after a first viewing, how much meaning there is in this film.But it is magnificent, cathartic, beautiful.

All the President’s Men (1976)

 “Follow the money!"

This is the second time I've seen this film- my first viewing was many years before this blog was even imagined. Nevertheless, I'm as blown away by this magnificent film now as I was back then.

This is, despite the desperately important subject matter- back in 1976 we all thought Nixon's sins were the worst imaginable, and had no concept of the sheer evil of Trump- a film about the process and the excitement of investigative jurnalism. Oh, it's beautifully and thoughtfully shot; Robert Redford and Dustin Hoffman are sublime, with a nod to the superb Jason Robards; the script is witty, philosophical and natural all at once; and yet it all boils down to the thrill of the chase.

Nixon appears only in stock footage; only functionaries appear in the film. Action is punctuated throughout by radio footage of the 1972 campaign, and the implosion of the Democrats through Republican ratf**king. We see literally everything from the perspective of Woodward and Bernstein, knowing what they know, being utterly unaware that Deep Throat is Mark Felt, and feeling the tension when they have to present their conclusions to Ben Bradlee, properly sourced. It's a thrilling advertisment to journalism as a career in a pre-digital age, and the many scenes of witnesses being cleverly interviewed are fascinating. This is a very strange and very brave sort of film to be so unequivocally sublime. It's up there with the very greatest.

Still, the Republicans in 1972 may have been corrupt bastards- but they weren't fascists who hated freedom, as is every Republican today who fails to recognise Biden as president or fails to condemn Majorie Taylor Green and all of her ilk. May the party either die or suddenly accept democracy.