jwarthen-3

A movie that induces jaw-drops and yawning within the same extended, unmoving shot, SONGS FROM THE SECOND FLOOR leaves you plenty of time to think about what you're watching. You'll think about Swedish carpenters building one nearly identical set after another; you'll think about Edward Hopper's green-tinted interiors (a lot), and maybe about the late hilarious films of Luis Bunuel. I know nothing about director Andersson, but this film had some aspects of personal exorcism-- witness an extraordinarily exact recreation of Nazis executing two young Russian resistance fighters. This is not a film I want to watch again, but anyone seeing it projected adequately will carry a few of its images in memory for the rest of his life: my inadvertant selection includes a late shot of a gaping airport concourse that looks like some new kind of bourgeous Hell for corrupt executives.

Cacoyannis began his career filming Greek tragedies five decades ago. Anyone seeing his production of Chekhov's wonderful play knows he adores this work: the discerning casting, the use of Tchaikovsky's little-known piano pieces. Best of all is the look of the production-- its costuming and lighting have the quality of delicate homage. Watch for scenes like the arrival of auction-bidders in a muddy street midway through the film-- a bit of period recreation on a par with Coppola and Scorsese. Chekhov's brilliant bits of stage-business are treasured here: Varya's clobbering her wished-for fiance with a door-slam, Epikhodov's goofs, Yasha's mother-problem, and especially the family's sitting gravely down together before their dispersal. These are lovingly done, and if citing them here is meaningless to those who haven't read the play, I'm afraid the film will mean as little to them, especially on videotape, where the exquisite visuals won't count for much. The acting can't sustain novices-- the cast, especially the males, show the effects of limited rehearsal time, sliding in and out of cohesion. The exceptions to that are Katrin Cartlidge (in a role that often stands-out in stage productions), Ian McNeice, and Michael Gough, delivering the finest performance I have seen from his 50+ years of movie-acting-- acting-teachers should march students to see CHERRY ORCHARD to hear how Gough reads a choice line like, "Now I can die." Cacoyannis nodded in spots: the weird accents affected by the lower-class characters add nothing, and the hammy Act II beggar-- one wants to thrash him. This is not a great film. But the play it serves may be the past century's greatest. At a time when American theaters cannot afford large-cast period plays, a Chekhov-fan feels special gratitude for this production.