Tess (1979)

          Given director Roman Polanski’s tumultuous rise and fall during the late ’60s and early ’70s—securing an enviable reputation as a master of suspense films, reaching the A-list with Chinatown (1974), becoming an international pariah following a sex scandal—it was reasonable to expect that he would close out the decade with the kind of perverse cinematic statement for which he was known. Instead, Polanski made Tess, an old-fashioned romantic drama culled from classic literature. Whether inadvertently or strategically, Polanski (somewhat) neutralized his critics by delivering a movie almost completely devoid of any allusions to his lurid life. This maneuver also set the stage for the second act of the Polish-born filmmaker’s career: Exit the enfant terrible, enter the sophisticated classicist. Tess is filmed with the same clinical detachment as his previous pictures, but the movie represents a significant maturation since it is not predicated on shock value.

          Adapted from Thomas Hardy’s 1891 novel Tess of the d’Urbervilles, which is about a principled young woman who falls victim to callous men and unforgiving social structures, the movie is set in Victorian England. Tess Durbeyfield (Nastassja Kinski) is the daughter of a drunkard laborer, and she seems doomed to a life of back-breaking servitude. When Tess’ father discovers that his family is related to the noble d’Urberville line, Tess is sent to find a position in the household of a local branch of the D’Urberville clan. Thus she meets Alec Stokes-d’Urberville (Leigh Lawson), a cad who seduces and abandons her, unaware that she’s become pregnant. The unbowed Tess delivers the child, who dies soon after, and then Tess tries to restart her life as a fallen woman. Love comes when she meets wealthy Angel Clare (Peter Firth), who has not yet chosen his path in life, but Tess’ past returns to haunt her in unexpected ways.

          The narrative underlying Tess is sturdy, of course, though it’s curious that Polanski stretches the film over nearly three hours when the story could easily have been told in much less time. Tess is a film of painful pauses and saturated silences, as the texture of the movie stems as much from what is unsaid as from what is said. Paradoxically, the film is also rather blunt, featuring dialogue that explains the emotional states of characters more explicitly than is necessary. (“You’re so good and gentle,” Angel says to Tess at one point, “I was mad to fear your resentment.”) The nature of the dialogue is, of course, defensible because Polanski and co-screenwriters Gerard Brach and John Brownjohn were writing about a more formal time, but the wordiness can make for some slow going.

          Similarly, Polanski’s tendency to linger on moments rides a fine line between creating nuance and practicing directorial self-indulgence; although most of the film’s shots are indeed quite beautiful, it’s as if Polanski couldn’t bear to cut a frame. In the end, this more-is-more aesthetic works in the movie’s favor, because Tess casts a spell. Tess is such a showpiece for Polanski’s wizardry, in fact, that the film’s performances seem incidental.

          Firth and Lawson deliver their lines professionally, and both incarnate snobbish entitlement, but neither does work that merits any great excitement. As for leading lady Kinski, her beguiling looks are unquestionably the focus. Simultaneously delicate and feral, she’s a walking personification of innocence blended with sexuality. Her accent wobbles, however, so in some moments she sounds French and in others she sounds German. Furthermore, it seems Polanski guided her to present blank expressions so the context of his storytelling could impart meaning on the canvas of her face. Like the movie’s excessive length, this approach ultimately delivers effective results. Still, a more emotional performance would have generated real dramatic heat.

Tess: GROOVY

Equus (1977)

          British playwright Peter Shaffer has gone to many dark and deep places in his work—the crowning achievement of his career is arguably Amadeus, which premiered in 1979 and was adapted into the lauded 1984 film of the same name. Yet perhaps the most provocative of Shaffer’s works is Equus, which premiered onstage in 1973 and ran for years in London and New York before reaching the screen in this 1977 adaptation. (As with Amadeus, Shaffer handled the screenwriting chores.) Inspired by a gruesome incident from real life, Equus imagines the psychology of a young man who blinded six horses with a scythe. The picture is structured as a duel of sorts between the disturbed teenager, Alan Strang (Peter Firth), and his psychiatrist, Martin Dysart (Richard Burton). Equus begins when Alan is committed to Martin’s hospital following the incident, so Martin spends the rest of the movie interviewing Alan—as well as Alan’s parents and former employer—to discover what drove the boy to heinous violence.

          Shaffer and director Sidney Lumet embellish their storytelling with vivid flashbacks depicting past events in Alan’s life, eventually culminating in a dramatization of the horse-blinding rampage, which is exactly as hard to watch as you might imagine. The crux of Shaffer’s story is revealing the complex nature of Alan’s personal belief system. Blending the religious views of his parents, the confusing impulses of burgeoning sexuality, and the mystifying impact of an early childhood encounter with a horse, Alan constructs a bizarre psychosexual ideology in which “Equus,” the spirit of all horses, is a god overseeing Alan’s development. Martin learns that Alan has secretly enjoyed erotic experiences with horses, such as stripping off his clothes to ride horses bareback until he climaxes, and that Alan’s skewed vision of physicality triggered the bloodshed. Shaffer’s story, which the writer has said is wholly invented except for the blinding incident, represents an incredible leap of imagination.

          Furthermore, Shaffer is in some sense insulated from criticism because the most outlandish proposition of the story—the notion that a boy fascinated by horses would intentionally mutilate six of them—is extracted from reality. Given a world where such things happen, can anything Shaffer presents by way of possible explanation be dismissed as too bizarre? Plus, because Shaffer complements Alan’s tragic journey with a completely fictional construct—Martin’s tortured emotional life—it becomes apparent that Shaffer is after something more than simply “explaining” a monstrous act. Among other things, Equus is a story about transference, since Martin seeks to heal Alan by absorbing the boy’s demons into his own wounded soul. This is grim stuff, and Lumet presents the narrative unflinchingly.

          Burton is rendered naked emotionally during long monologues that demonstrate the actor’s remarkable facility for rendering both intricate language and bone-deep pain. Firth is rendered naked emotionally and physically, his frequent onscreen nudity a fitting way of representing Alan’s childlike vulnerability. (Supporting actress Jenny Agutter, always a brave trouper during revealing roles, adroitly counters Firth by showing an adult’s ownership of her nudity, which confuses Firth’s character terribly.) Some viewers will accept Shaffer’s narrative as a metaphor representing the mixed signals we receive in life about religion and sex, while others will discard the story as gruesome and pretentious. To say the least, this movie is not for everyone. Yet while Equus is bleak and excessive and grandiose and strange, its finest moments have searing power.

Equus: GROOVY

Aces High (1976)

Stuck somewhere between old-fashioned melodrama and modern realism, this adaptation of the R.C. Sherriff play Journey's End explores the horrors of war through the relationship between a cynical veteran officer and a naïve new recruit. Although Sherriff’s play concerns infantrymen, the reconfigured Aces High instead follows pilots in the Royal Flying Corps, the World War I predecessor to the RAF. (Screenwriter Howard Barker also integrated elements from an RFC flyer’s memoirs.) The story begins at the elite Eton school, where Major John Gresham (Malcolm McDowell) speaks to a graduating class that includes Stephen Croft (Peter Firth), whose sister is Gresham ’s girlfriend. Because of this connection, Croft requests assignment to Gresham ’s unit once he’s commissioned as an officer. Yet the wide-eyed Croft is disillusioned to discover that Gresham is actually an embittered alcoholic with little interest in building emotional bonds because of the high fatality rate among new pilots. The picture comprises scenes of Croft trying to ingratiate himself to his senior officers, interspersed with dogfights in which the Brits battle Germans in the skies over France. While the underlying material is basically sound, Aces High is lifeless. McDowell’s interest in his performance seems to wane periodically, and Firth lacks a leading man’s charisma. Most of their costars are equally indifferent and/or unimpressive, so only Christopher Plummer—as the genteel commanding officer of the flying unit—lends humanity to the proceedings. And while it’s true that some of the dogfights are dynamic, the aerial scenes in Aces High rely too heavily on cheap-looking special effects including stilted rear-projection shots. The post-production shortcuts are a shame, because other physical elements, such as costuming and set design, are persuasive.

Aces High: FUNKY