This is one of the most encompassing films I have seen in a while. Not because we have a chance to savor at once three masters at work, no. Opinions of their mastery will differ after all.
It matters because we have three master fiddlers on the same stage, liberated from the pressure of exerting control over the logistics of an entire project, so each one can singularly shape his present moment from his corner of the stage, a small rhythm, trusting the others to compliment and intone. So even though each segment is structured within itself and harmonical, the whole echoes with the assymetry of spontaneous creation. Wonderful.
So three shorts about eros; albeit not erotic in the sense perhaps inferred by the title, not strictly sensual, rather about the desire to see in that space where the senses come into being. All three are highly architectural essays about that space. All three are about some ineffable palpitation of the heart growing fonder, beating faster. All three improvise transcendence.
The structure of the thing we can attribute to our conventional film culture that always waxes vaguely about the abstract (Antonioni), treats narrative engineering as a subject of dry, academic discourse (Soderbergh), and is generally more comfortable to evaluate memories of beauty and touch (Wong Kar Wai).
I am going to write about these last to first, which is also how they resonated with me.
- The last segment is typical Kar Wai/Doyle fashion, unfolding down the corner from In the Mood for Love; so flowery, arrested breathing, quietly exasperated romance with the musky scents of intimacy in close quarters. Of course Mood only blossomed in hindsight of 2046, and there is no chance for that here. So we get a simple beauty about a simple yearning; a young tailor falls for an elegant woman, both strangers. He measures love for her as the silky fabrics he creates to encase her. She constantly eludes him. All that is finally left is a moment suspended in time. It's okay but the least here for my taste, a matter of some poetry.
- Soderbergh for the middle part. Free from the eyes of Hollywood money-men, he creates what he does best and has repeatedly nested in his more famous stuff; New Wave from the gaps of multiple planes of seeing. A man is recounting to his psychiatrist a recurring dream about a woman, who unseen by his patient all this time keeps looking out the window with a pair of binoculars. The whole thing is set in the 50's and aptly recalls film noir as a shorthand, there are venetian blinds, hats, shadows. Most importantly noirish, a double perspective looking to apprehend the controls of nightmare (or dream as in our case).
The update, a French touch: a third layer at the last moment, the base layer of reality last. Piled on that we have the dream about the woman, purely sensual blues, and the mind inbetween, the Rear Window vignette with the psychiatrist, seeking the mechanisms that control these images. He finds inspiration in the dream to apply in real life, a new motto for an alarm clock, and comes to realize who is the elusive woman. Wonderful, structured stuff.
- Finally going backwards we have Antonioni on his last work, the one master two or three notches above the rest and again wildly misunderstood. Several viewers have commented that his segment is little more than the sexual fantasies of a dirty old man. What narrow-minded bunk. What poor reading skills. To even think that Antonioni would have to grow to be 90 to peek at pert nipples. Oh, there is a shot of a woman standing up on a bed fondling her privates, and more nudity; but it's a fantasy only if you completely miss the shot immediately after that posits the whole structure of the house as this woman of mysterious architecture.
No, what we have here is another contemplation on the cessation of self from Antonioni's large contemplative tradition.
You may have noticed that he all but disappeared after The Passenger. There was the stroke and all that. But beyond that, there was nowhere left to go. He had achieved the utmost that film can aspire to be to my mind; sensing in the present purely with the eye, a full awareness of the world as it comes into being and vanishes again. There is nothing more.
So for his part, he films one last time for old time's sake. He takes us on a reminiscing tour of earlier films as though saying goodbye to the whole thing soon to vanish; a couple wandering the ruins of an affair breaking down (L'Avventura, La Notte), youth bathing naked between rocks (Zabriskie Point), the towering old house (a monastery in L'Avventura, where bells were rung), the sense of a concave reality (Blowup).
So the man takes off to explore this other woman, new sex with her that could rejuvenate a life of exasperation. Of course simply pursuing blind new desire is not the answer, so he disappears from the film. The two women meet on an empty stretch of beach.
Antonioni being the wisest of the three, is the only one who leaves us with something tangible to attain. Film doesn't have to be highly complex to be insightful. It can be a simple passage, no more than a woman dancing naked on a beach. The parting shot sums an entire life in movies, a sage's life. The two women standing next to each other, a little apart, not touching, but aware in each other's presence and their shadows connect. It's the most sublime last shot any filmmaker graced us with.
-Kar Wai, segment The Hand: 5/10. -Soderbergh, segment Equilibrium: 8/10. -Antonioni, segment The Dangerous Thread of Things: 10/10
