#passolini

Pasolini, el poeta, cineasta e intelectual italiano, escribió que la modernidad había arrasado con la pureza de la cultura popular preindustrial. A este proceso lo llamó «la scomparsa delle lucciole» (‘la desaparición de las luciérnagas’) 1. Esta frase se hizo famosa y se utiliza para describir la pérdida de la inocencia y la belleza en el mundo moderno.

La película «Accattone» (1961) fue dirigida por Pasolini y es considerada una obra maestra del cine italiano. La película cuenta la historia de un proxeneta en los suburbios de Roma y es un retrato crudo y realista de la vida en los márgenes de la sociedad italiana.

I thought I’d start a new little thing in which I talk about movies that I think are overrated. We’ll call it Overrated AF, “AF” as in “as fuck,” for emphasis of course.

Our first entry will be David Fincher’s 1995 breakthrough hit, Seven.

SPOILER WARNING. Like, seriously, I’m gonna spoil the entire movie.

Seven follows two detectives, Mills (Brad Pitt) and Lt. Somerset (Morgan Freeman) as they investigate a gruesome set of murders, each death representing one of the seven deadly sins. Mills, having just moved into the city with his pregnant wife, Tracy (Gwyneth Paltrow), is new to the scene and eager to get to work. Together, the stubborn Mills and the shrewd (albeit pedantic) Somerset stumble across the deceased body of a morbidly obese man, his stomach ruptured, drowned in a bowl of his own spaghetti. Suspicious of foul play, the two determine it must be a homicide. This would be the first victim: the glutton. Following would be greed: a lawyer with a pound of his insides hollowed out, sloth: a drug dealer strapped to his bed, zombified but somehow breathing, lust: a prostitute, literally knife fucked to death, and pride: a model, with her face disfigured, given the option to live on or commit suicide by way of drug overdose. 

Before Mills and Somerset uncover the last two murders, the culprit reveals himself to them and, woooah, it’s Kevin Spacey, er, John Doe. He agrees to lead them to the last two murders in which his supposed masterpiece would reach its fateful end. They stop in a rural no man’s land, wherein a package is dropped off. Somerset goes to investigate the package, John goes on to talk about how he was envious of Mills’ relationship with his wife... and plot twist: What’s in the box, you say? Mills’ wife’s head is in a box! She represents envy... and plot twist: Mills shoots John in response, invoking his wrath, fulfilling the serial killer’s master plan. And with that, Doe’s sadistic avante-garde art installation is fully realized. The bad guy wins. Mind blown.

From this synopsis, it’s clear that this is a grisly, ugly film. The direction is murky and sepia-toned. The sets are gritty. The death scenes are appalling and detailed. This is some eerie stuff, and despite all its self aggrandizing art house provocation, the film is so incredibly dull. Mills’ and Somerset’s relationship beckons to the typical good-cop, bad-cop narrative. Mills huffs and puffs like a yappy dog with ADHD and anger issues while Somerset preaches his often-times pompous wisdom about satan and man or whatever. The no-name city itself feels closed off, like a bubble doused in kerosene. Exchanges feel obtuse and vacant. In one particular conversation between Tracy and Somerset, she reveals that she is pregnant and hasn’t told Mills because she doesn’t want to raise a kid in this grimy city. Somerset reveals that he had a similar experience with his wife, but he recalls it so obscurely that it feels as if he had no such experience at all. The whole movie feels like this: vague and emotionally detached. Mills jumps in with zany one-liners while Somerset responds with a drowsiness that lulls one to sleep. Neither has a background nor history. It’s as if the characters had only ever lived within the film’s 2-hour time frame.

The writing at times is so incredibly nihilistic just for the sake of it. In the midst of the sloth’s waning moments, the doctor states “He still has hell to look forward to.” John Doe himself is the neo-noir equivalent of an edgelord. In the car ride he speaks of humanity’s downfall: “What sick ridiculous puppets we are and what gross little stage we dance on. What fun we have dancing and fucking. Not a care in the world. Not knowing that we are nothing. We are not what was intended.”

Perhaps most offensive is the film’s blatant misogyny wherein every single female character is a tool of which to be murdered. Tracy is seen about 3 times and only to let us as viewers know that she exists. Doe ruminates on his jealousy over Mills’ relationship with Tracy of which was never developed other than the necessary cuddle/spoon “I love you” scene. Then she dies, her head chopped off. Because Doe was jealous of Mills. In the lust scene, a man of whom hired a prostitute is forced to wear a serrated strap-on and penetrate this innocent woman. She dies a horrid death. His life remains intact. A model is dehumanized and mutilated. She dies for being pretty.

This film is the perfect grab bag for the faux-provocateur. It dangles abominable images in front of the viewer while lacking the emotional or political heft of, say a movie like Passolini’s Salò or Haneke’s Funny Games. It’s all smoke and mirrors. It’s twisted and gross, yet so incessantly monotonous.