Savages

Director James Ivory's worst film, an absurd allegory which hopes to juxtapose the different (and yet oh-so-similar) worlds of a primitive culture of half-naked forest savages and a decadent group of sexually-ambiguous high society turnips of the 1920s. The screenplay by George Swift Trow and (of all people) Michael O'Donoghue, from Ivory's story, gives us stock characterizations without any personalities of interest, and the amateurish look of the film--part "Cold Comfort Farm", part D.W. Griffith--is confounding and ridiculous. Social satire needs more than just 'uncommon' common ground, it needs spirit and a dash of wit. Ivory clumps through this menagerie with very little grace or humor, however he is helped by Joe Raposo's (suitably) bizarre music. A curio, nothing more. * from ****

Was it de Tocqueville who wrote that America passed from barbarism to decadence with no civilization in between? If so, then he (or whoever else) deserves at least partial screen credit for Savages. A bizarre and blackly comic fable, this is Merchant-Ivory's most atypical film. It was also, probably, their biggest flop. Yet fans of the duo will find much recognise and admire. Non-fans may enjoy it even more!

Savages opens in dazzling sepia-toned black-and-white. A tribe of primitive forest-dwellers called the 'Mud People' find a mystical round orb that's fallen from an alien world. (In other words, a croquet ball.) They trace its path to an elegantly dilapidated Colonial-style mansion. As they explore the house, the prehistoric intruders start to play dress-up. Soon enough, the screen shifts into colour. The 'savages' transform into the denizens of a grandly decadent 1920s house party...

Chief among them are a formidable Auntie Mame-style hostess (Anne Francine), a toothy and spirited debutante (Susan Blakely), an elegantly faded 'fallen woman' (Salome Jens) and an exotic, eyelash-fluttering vamp (legendary Andy Warhol icon Ultra Violet). As usual in a Merchant-Ivory film, the women's roles are stronger than the men's. But a young Sam Waterston is on hand, rehearsing his 'detached and disenchanted observer' role for The Great Gatsby.

While that later film is little more than a parade of gorgeous costumes and opulent sets, Savages is considerably more. Ivory's eye for social nuance and period detail is as sharp here as in later masterworks like Quartet, Heat and Dust and A Room with a View. Yes, it may perhaps be possible to dismiss Ivory as a bland director - but only if you dismiss Jean Rhys, E.M. Forster or Henry James as bland authors. Or is it a crime to be a discreet and faithful adaptor of other people's work?

Savages is one of the rare films based on Ivory's own imagination. And what a perverse and mordant imagination it turns out to be! What little 'civilisation' the 'savages' acquire in the guise of Jazz Age socialites is, of course, a flimsy and feeble veneer. We can't be surprised when they revert to full-fledged barbarism. In fact, the honesty of that primal state comes as something of a relief.

Savages is impeccably acted, smoothly directed, wittily written, richly designed - and photographed with jaw-dropping splendor by Walter Lassally! It may be something of an aberration in the Merchant-Ivory canon. It is also, possibly, their best film.

The primitive tribal mud people are startled by a croquet ball that emerges from an unexplored region of their forest. The set out to find the origin of this alien sphere, and happen upon a lavish(and abandoned)estate. Bewildered by this strange place and all the things within it, they quickly "evolve", assuming the roles of bourgeois aristocrats. They do, however, retain many of their ritualistic customs and sexual behaviors, and, in one of the film's more inclement moments, respond to death with a discomposed, uneasy silence. These scenes might lead the viewer to query just how far removed people really are from their autochthon ancestry.

SAVAGES is about as surreal and strange as movies come, but not at all lacking in depth, substance, or humor(chiefly in a subtly saturnine, cynical vein). Certainly not suited to all tastes, but strongly recommended to those with a slant toward wry absurdist cinema.

7.5/10

Having read that this unusual James Ivory-Ismail Merchant production was a pseudo-Bunuelian concoction, I thought I’d acquire it for my long-planned Luis Bunuel tribute on the 25th anniversary of his death (which occurred on 29th July 1983). Now that I’ve watched it, apart from the obvious thematic allusions to ROBINSON CRUSOE (1952), I’d say that it’s also a half-baked inversion of THE EXTERMINATING ANGEL (1962) which, apart from the occasional amusing passage, fails to entertain or enlighten the viewer, much less do justice to its intriguing subject matter.

For being such a radical stylistic departure for them (even at that early a stage in their careers) and the film’s own satirical intent, it might not be as surprising to learn that Merchant-Ivory here engaged two young writers from the “National Lampoon” school – George Swift Trow and Michael O’Donoghue (later also of “Saturday Night Live”) – to pen the script, not to mention the title track! The latter plays over an animated dramatis personae which introduces us to an archetypal assortment of upper-class citizens complete with clichéd monikers typical of Silent cinema (a bully, a capitalist, a decadent, the limping man, etc.). After this lengthy prelude, a curiously-drawn intertitle “The Mud People” plunges us in a black-and-white world of a group of scavenging prehistoric people. We follow their rituals for the next ten minutes or so (including the yearly ‘death by stoning’ of their queen’s consort) until a flying croquet ball unaccountably lands in front of them. The repercussions of this mundane event are, for a little time at least, as life-altering as the monolith had been to the apes in Stanley Kubrick’s 2001: A SPACE ODYSSEY (1968) or the Coke bottle would be to Jamies Uys’ African bushmen in THE GODS MUST BE CRAZY (1980)…but again, the end result hardly proves itself as enthralling as the former or as funny as the latter.

Admittedly, the interesting ensemble casting of Susan Blakely, Thayer David, Salome Jens, Martin Kove, Sam Waterston and Kathleen Widdoes does work rather admirably where – as inexplicable as the central conceit of THE EXTERMINATING ANGEL itself – we see these brutes coming upon an abandoned mansion in the woods which they start exploring and, seemingly soon after, change into the socialite-types seen in that prologue with the requisite immaculate English diction! The screen also reverts back to color at this point setting the stage for a long society party segment with its typical show of the malaises of the civilized world in this ‘modern’ age (greed, lust, power, jealousy, etc.). Within the film’s context, I guess, the fact that one (or perhaps two) of the guests seem to be in drag for no good reason can be excused but I have to say I was startled to see included towards the end a steamy lesbian encounter in a car which, unsurprisingly, heralds the start of the savages’ regression to their original uninhibited state.

The plot summary provided does a good job of describing "Savages," a film I rented at a Kwikshop in the late 1980s. Co-written by Michael O'Donoghue (of early SNL writing fame), this movie ranks near the top of my "Weird Films" list. Explanatory narration was, I believe, in German, which of course limited the effectiveness of the explanations. The decadence of the Long Islanders was truly kinky, and shades of "The Gods Must Be Crazy" are evident in the croquet ball (nee soda bottle).

How stunning to see the cast list and recognize not only Sam Waterston but also Martin Kove ("Cagney & Lacey," "The Karate Kid") and Salome Jens ("Sisters," "Star Trek: Deep Space Nine") among the credits.

It's worth a view for the bizarrity alone. Add the delicious pleasure of seeing currently working (and in some cases successful) actors in this odd film, and you have the makings of a twisted conversation piece.

Nutshell: Watch it in a darkened room with off-the-wall company and come away with a somewhat surreal residual buzz.