Olde Review: The Fire Within

This was part of a series of reviews of the ASUW Film series back in the '70's. Except for some punctuation, I haven't changed anything from the way it was presented, giving the kid I was back in the '70's a break. Any stray thoughts and updates I've included with the inevitable asterisked post-scripts.

This Saturday's ASUW films in 130 Kane are billed under the theme "The Tragedy of the Spirit" and the two films are Louis Malle's The Fire Within and Ingmar Bergman's Persona.*

The Fire Within aka Le Feu Follet (Louis Malle, 1963) The Fire Within was advertised as "a psychological thriller," which is a totally mis-leading label. It is not a thriller at all, but a study. A study of a man cured of alcoholism and, of his past life. I tell you this only because if you go to The Fire Within expecting something along the lines of a Marnie, you are going to be sorely disappointed, and such a reaction does not allow a fast shift of the emotional gears in order to appreciate what is there. Just a warning to put you in a proper frame of mind.

Anyway, through a long stay at a rest clinic the man has dried out, sheltered from the environment that had led him to the irresponsibility of his previous life, but clinging to that shelter, fearing to leave it for fear of what he would find outside. After some bolstering he does go out in search of friends, of companionship, of the past he has lost. Life is moving too slowly for him, with too much mediocrity and too little love, and as he goes from friend to friend, his spirit slips away from him, beyond his control.

Louis Malle who directed The Fire Within, also directed the documentary Phantom India which was shown a couple weeks back, and he shoots this film in much the same way--no real sets are used, but the odd little details of life around us are focused upon, giving the film a sense of reality, of it actually happening. 

Broadcast on KCMU-FM on October 29th, 1975

Okay. Confession time. What I'm not saying in this review--trying very hard not to say--is that I hate sitting through Louis Malle films. I just despise it. I haven't seen one in 20 years (the man died in 1995), but each of his films was a bit of a drag--Lacombe, Lucien, Phantom India, Pretty Baby. I just finished watching Night Moves in which detective Harry Moseby begs off going to see the new "Roehmer film" because he says "it's like watching paint dry." That's how I feel about Malle. I remember at this time (1975), I went around joking that "the perfect Louis Malle film would be two guys sitting in a room talking, one camera." And in 1981, Malle made essentially that (though with more than one camera) with My Dinner with Andre (which I actually liked, come to think of it).

One day, I need to be sat down in front of the TV with a strong drink, strapped down and made to watch Atlantic City or The Lovers, or Crackers, Vanya on 42nd Street--I'd like to see that, actually, or Damage or Au revoir, les enfants. Maybe the years will have mellowed me, or given me life-experience or patience enough to appreciate his work. But with so many films I haven't seen, and my past experience, Malle always gets pushed to the bottom of the pile.

C'est la vie.

* Persona tomorrow...

Atlantic City (1980)

Atlantic City (Louis Malle, 1980) I've made no secret of my prejudices against the directorial style of Louis Malle: He's one of the handful of directors I know who can make salacious subject matter dull. In college, after seeing Lacombe Lucien  and Pretty Baby in a period of three weeks, I started repeating the same joke whenever any person dared mention his name. I'd sneer that the perfect Louid Malle film would be two guys in a room talking and Malle using three cameras to film it.

And what happens? He makes My Dinner with Andre.

And...I like that movie!

So, I don't seek out Louis Malle films, though I've endured a handful of them. And he's the exception that proves the rule. I approach his films with caution rather than openness. "Alright, prove me wrong!" is in my head before I watch a Malle film. Or, in Hitchcock's words: "Enchant me."*

Not fair, I suppose, but I went through that same ritual when I popped Atlantic City into the DVD player. But that's how it is with me.

And hey, Atlantic City is a pleasant surprise. An English language film (written by playwright John Guare) with an eye toward the sordid side of American life, set in a transitional Atlantic City before it was "Trumped" up into "Vegas-East." The crumbling facades make an apt back-drop for the toothless lions and hapless turks trying to score The Good Life.

Burt Lancaster and Kate Reid turn in terrific performances: he, a retiree living a fantasy life as a former High Roller that never was; and she, a bed-ridden glamuor queen in crumpled disarray, entombed in her boudoir.

Then, there's the gal he anonymously peeps at night as she ritualistically cuts lemons and squeezes the juice on her skin. To him, it's a stolen moment of sensuality. For her, she's trying to remove the stink from working at a Casino fish-fry. She's Sally Matthews (Susan Sarandon) and she's just recently been hit up by her ex, who shows up in town with a wad of stolen heroin in the shape of a nest-egg, and Sally's kid sister--who just happens to be carrying ex's kid. Messy. Complications ensue.

What's marvelous about the movie is the perfect setting for the parade of wannabe's and never-was's in a tourist city whose seedy veneer is being stripped away to the crusty re-bar underneath. Of course, it's to be replaced by just another false-facade. but, like the city, everybody's in transition: to a better life, to a better understanding of life: to a shallow grave.

It's pleasant and seamy, but then Malle's always been attracted to the under-belly of civilization and the psyche; here, the psyche's are good impressions deep, and there's just the faintest whiff of good intentions in the air, that despite the squalor gives the movie an almost sunny disposition.

There are things that made me wince—a too-long stutter of a reaction shot in an unexpected farewell scene, and a too-cute End Crawl with Michel Legrand's poppy chansons being demolished out of existence by a wrecking ball. But, a nicely done, excellent film from one of my least-favorite directors.


* Said to Anthony Perkins on the set of Psycho when the actor told Hitchcock he had an idea for walking up the Bates staircase, but he had to show it to him: Perkins walked up the stairs with a feminine gait to his hips, Hitchcock roared with laughter, and that's how it appears in the film.