Calum Marsh: As you know, Jordan, the films we tend to gravitate toward in this column are mostly obscure or neglected, like forgotten late-career coups by otherwise canonical directors or great films considered “minor” by the high guard. Zabriskie Point, an English-language drama by legendary Italian director Michelangelo Antonioni, represents a different sort of case altogether: widely available as an inexpensive, reasonably high-quality Region 1 DVD and unforgotten by anyone who’s seen it, Zabriskie Point‘s major problem isn’t that it’s lost or unseen—it’s that it’s hated. Other than perhaps Kubrick’s Eyes Wide Shut and some of the most difficult Godard projects, no film we’ve written about in these pages is as intensely reviled or rejected as this one, which has been considered a definitive, irredeemable failure since its release in 1970.

Coming just a few short years after his commercial and international breakout Blowup, and only the second of a three-film deal with producer Carlo Ponti, Zabriskie Point had more hype and hope resting on it than that Lana Del Ray album. And it was received about as angrily: American critics tore the poor film to pieces, launching one scathing tirade after another until every last bit of Antonioni’s critical credibility was depleted. The movie was a box-office dud, which is especially disappointing considering the profitibility of his previous effort, which pretty much derailed his career (the last installment of the Ponti arrangement, 1975’s outstanding The Passenger, would be Antonioni’s last major work).

Still reeling from the sad news about Don Cornelius, it’s painful to acknowledge the loss of another irreplaceable master, Ben Gazarra. Some good tributes out there.

What can you say about Gazzara? He was relevant in every decade going back to the ‘50s. And it wasn’t just his longevity or his unique, idiosyncratic style(s); he was old school in the sense that he radiated that aura: above all, he was a man.That might not sound like much, or it may even sound silly (What does aura have to do with anything? These are actors playing roles and they can be transformed into heroes or villains depending on the script and the director), but back in the days when special effects did not do as much to determine what an actor could—and could not—do, it mattered when a man could bring that certain gravitas to a role. As such, he was never typecast (because he was too talented) but he did inexorably bring that aura to each role. These were days when directors counted on that aura, because it conveyed legitimacy that was understood before a single line was spoken.

From declarations of undeniable greatness to questions of legitimacy, the literary world continues to be fascinated by one William Shakespeare. The famed playwright remains a historical enigma, a question almost everyone can answer outright, but can’t fully understand completely. While the postmodern age has spent inordinate amounts of time trying to figure out if a failed actor in England really did create some of the most amazing theater pieces ever written, the various medias surrounding the stage have been more than happy to capitalize on their lasting success. There have been more adaptations of Shakespeare work than that of any other writer, living or dead, and while all have not been true to the famous Bard, almost all have been infused (directly or spiritually) by his signature style.

Still, the mythos continues. Just this past year, Roland Emmerich attempted to enter the awards season fray with his disaster-epic free look at the authorship argument, Anonymous. Even John Madden’s jovial, jokey Shakespeare in Love (out now on a brilliant Blu-ray) suggested a different source of inspiration. It even rode its likeable lark status all the way to seven Academy Awards, including one for Best Picture. Yet for many, the story behind these plays is far less important than what is actually happening on the page itself. This has lead to dozens of direct adaptations and perhaps hundreds of influenced approaches. Indeed, we wouldn’t have West Side Story, My Own Private Idaho, or Strange Brew without the ongoing sway of Stratford-upon Avon’s most famous son.

Night Watch is a British thriller from Elizabeth Taylor’s most interesting period, not necessarily the same as her best period. Her best period was her stunning debutante youth, when she seems a radically different actress from what I’m calling her interesting period: her post-Virginia Woolf attempts of the late 60s and early 70s to choose odd, unusual, ambitious projects that flopped and earned increasing critical scorn. This is the period marked by her idiosyncratic hyperventilated delivery, which somehow goes hand in hand with the outré nature of the projects.

These films are highly watchable (at least the ones I’ve tracked down) and include Joseph Losey’s Secret Ceremony and Boom, John Huston’s Reflections in a Golden Eye about being married to a repressed homosexual husband (ahem), an all-star version of Graham Greene’s The Comedians about political unrest in Haiti (with another fine late performance from Lillian Gish), the neglected existential oddity The Driver’s Seat, the crazy Hammersmith Is Out, George Stevens’ swansong The Only Game in Town with Warren Beatty, George Cukor’s disastrous floperoo Soviet co-production of The Blue Bird, and the lovely Under Milk Wood (though she has only an eyeblink cameo). Several of these star then-husband Richard Burton.

“I feel this was made by a ghost, mine perhaps. I don’t see it as a film but as a piece of space that formed…that’s the best I can describe it, “a piece of space that formed.”
—Giuseppe Andrews

In the early part of 2009, avant-artist and auteur of the trailer park, Giuseppe Andrews, decided to retire from making movies. With The Fast, an eclectic look at one man’s surreal journey into self-help, he seemed to be suggesting a new approach to life. There were plans to focus solely on music, a newfound spirituality, an unusual mention of vegetarianism and an accompanying “raw” diet. And then recently, the man mostly known for his sunny SoCal explorations of the fringe, married and moved to Austin, Texas. Now, as part of his West Coast swansong, we get Diary, a 90 minute focus on how humans fetishize technology and our need to feel like part of each other’s media. Revolving around a family that becomes way too familiar with their daily camcorder journal, we get a more mature, more reactionary Andrews, and the results are amazing.