zogz54

Christ, oh Christ... One watches stunned, incredulous, and possibly deranged, as this tawdry exercise in mirthless smut unfolds with all the wit and dexterity of a palsied Galapagos tortoise. Can such things be? Does this movie actually exist, or was I the unwitting guinea pig of some shadowy international drugs company, sipping my coffee unaware that it had been spiked with a dangerous hallucinogen? I've seen a lot of films, and a lot of bad films, but nothing prepared me for this; by the end of it I was a gibbering, snivelling wreck, tearing at the carpet with my teeth like a dog, clawing at the walls, howling till my lungs were sore. I pleaded desperately, frenziedly for mercy (to whom this appeal was made, I don't know), and longed with burning desire for the soothing balm of Ozu Yasujiro. Sweet Weeping Jesus, the memories... sometimes they come back to me. When I'm at my most vulnerable, when I'm least able to handle them. I shudder, I break down in tears, I bite my fingernails till my hands are slathered with blood, but I can't quite banish the awful flashbacks from my mind. I'm haunted. I'm damaged. I'm a shell of a man.

The other user comments here suggest that I am not alone in having undergone this terrifying experience, which can only mean one of two things: a) the film does, in fact, exist, or b) I am but one victim among legions of an international conspiracy of truly sinister proportions. What is quite mind-boggling is that some people seem to have enjoyed their ordeal, or at least have not been left traumatised by it. Perhaps they're part of the operation. God damn them, the maniacs! God damn them all to Hell!!!!!!

It must first be stated that if Ettore Scola were to remake this movie today, it would probably be very different in one regard: it would be careful to feature more fully developed African characters. As it is, the film is only really interested in its (pre-dominantly male) European characters, and can be accused of the same fault that Chinua Achebe laid at the door of Conrad's 'Heart of Darkness' (of which this film is a kind of comic variation), that of using Africa as a mere backdrop to an investigation of European problems. Nevertheless, though the film is undeniably Eurocentric in its outlook, it neither demeans nor patronises Africans; there are no bloodthirsty cannibals, noble savages or grinning simpletons here. Alberto Sordi's protagonist has his preconceptions about the continent undercut in several amusing scenes, most neatly when he first arrives, and proceeds to film the 'exotic' locals, only to be disconcerted when he realises that he himself is being filmed by an African armed with a bigger, more expensive camera; Sordi's outlandish safari gear renders him as much of an object of amazed curiosity to members of the indigenous population as they are to him.

The action takes a while to get going, with some over-extended wildlife sequences taxing one's patience a little, but once things are truly underway, a gently humorous odyssey unfolds, with false starts, mishaps, and odd little diversions impeding our two heroes' search for the enigmatic Titino. The contrast in the acting styles of Sordi and Blier is highly effective: the former is appropriately blustery and pompous, teetering at times on the edge of self-parody, whilst Blier underplays for all he's worth, and all but steals the show. They make for a genuinely engaging duo, and Manuel Zarzo and Nino Manfredi are memorable in supporting roles. The excellence of the actors is matched by that of the script, which is admirably relaxed and expansive, never overdoing its comic set-pieces (a stand-out example is some very funny business involving a confusion over cigarettes and a tape-recorder).

The accusations of escapism that were levelled at the film when it first appeared (1968, after all) seem misplaced today: what Scola presents is not an indulgent, soft-headed retreat from the maladies of European capitalism, but a final image of uncertainty, circularity and psychological conflict. The film seems more relevant today than many of the more dated simplifications, pipe dreams and inanities that abounded in its year of release, and surely deserves a DVD run here in Britain. With its faults, thoroughly recommended.

Much of the flak that this film has received has been directed at its alleged paedophilic inclinations; I think this criticism has some truth to it, but is often overplayed. What really bothers me about 'Leon' is another form of child abuse: the 'grooming' of a minor as a would-be professional assassin. Hollywood revenge flicks are a dime-a-dozen of course, and they usually end up endorsing vigilante violence in one way or another. But what makes this film so awful is the application of this trope to the realm of childhood, and, further, its blank refusal to consider the moral implications of this stance. Sure, the little girl's family has been wiped out, and she wants payback, but is the most humane response to the situation really to help satisfy her desires, and get her even more entangled in the world of brutal criminality? The criminals are simply regulation scum who deserve what they get, and a little girl is deemed as suitable an agent of vengeance as an experienced hit-man. Leon is just as much a criminal and a murderer as the bad guys, but he is strong, taciturn and endowed with a sentimental streak, so he's 'noble'. No deeper reflection is required. Dress it all up in the odious trappings of fey Gallic whimsy (ye Gods, it's worse than 'Amelie'!), and the movie's nasty little heart beats on unnoticed. Seldom has a soundtrack got on my nerves quite as much as this one did. Yuck, yuck, yuck.