Reviews

A lot has been praise has been deservedly given on this site to Sidney Poitier and Richard Widmark. I'd just like to give a few words of praise to Linda Darnell. She was an actress--usually dismissed as "ornamental" or "decorative"--who really did show little range in her Hollywood career, much of which was past her by the time she did this in 1950. Various sources give her birthdate as either 1921 or 1923, but whatever the case, she had been acting in movies since she was a teenager. Here--at either age 27 or 29--she gives a moving, sincere, deglamorized portrait of a confused woman. At first she wants to do right, then she does wrong by fomenting a race riot, then--realizing her mistake--tries to set things right again. And does it.

I think that she probably represents the average viewer of the period who did not quite know what to do about racial issues (as if we do today). Not naturally racist, she gives into Widmark after he wickedly questions her about views on blacks, making her turn to what she had probably always been taught.

Had Darnell been given the chance to give any more performances like this, she would probably have had a longer, more substantial career.

Why the Academy didn't notice her is a mystery, especially after giving a Best Supporting Actress nomination to Nancy (WHO?) Olson in the same year.

I believe that both Karina and Gabridl are slightly off when they say that the film is supposed to depict post-independence India. I don't believe this is true and, therefore, Renoir cannot be taken to task for not covering India's independence struggles. Although the film was made post-independence (1951), it does not cover the period of independence itself (late 1930s to actual independence in 1947). Remember, that the film is a "memory film" and is based on the autobiography of Rumer Godden, who was born in 1907. The adult narrator is a grown-up Harriet. A grown-up Harriet in 1951 would be speaking of an earlier time--probably sometime in the 1920s--that was a more peaceful time for the English colonial inhabitants. The clothing and hairstyles can't be used to indicate when the film takes place. Harriet's blue sack of a dress would have been worn by any 13 year-old girl from the 1920 through the 1940s. And Valerie's rather unkempt and flowing hair could be anytime, too.

As for Melanie having an Indian accent. I don't believe that it was ever said that Melanie was educated in England. I believe that the film says she was educated in a convent, and there were certainly convent schools in India in the 1920s. I find it interesting that when it is said that Melanie will probably marry Anil, an understanding that they have had since childhood, she is still wearing her convent uniform. When she develops a crush on Captain John, she starts to wear saris, maybe hoping to attract him through the exotic.

All in all, a beautiful, lyrical film that should not be missed.

Just saw the film, and like all of Moore's films it is the work of a polemicist filmed in a documentary-like style. I'm not going to quibble over the veracity of all that Moore presents here.

Just let it be noted that Moore is no Frederick Wiseman, and he's never presented himself as a Wiseman either. Moore doesn't do nine-hour, no voiceover films that allow the viewer to make up his or her own mind about the subject. And that's okay. One shouldn't go into a Moore film expecting that sort of technique. He goes in with a point-of-view and uses a mixture of factual footage, kooky gags, and pointed songs to put his point across. As a matter of fact, I happen to agree with his point-of-view in this film, but I can see why it riles so many people that he isn't a Wiseman, a Morris, or a Burns. But this is no reason to dismiss Moore.

I think that in a cogent and decidedly speedy manner he does show up the Bush presidency for the farce it is.

Some things Moore does can probably be called "cheap shots." Long takes of Bush and others getting made up for the camera are bound to make the subject look foolish. Sitting in a chair having a make-up person touching one up and a hair stylist subduing pesky locks of hair that won't stay put will make anyone look like an idiot. It is nearly impossible to maintain an air of detached and intelligent sang-froid while suffering the administrations of two or three people making sure that your nose doesn't shine. I've made my share of TV appearances and been subjected to the same attentions, so I'm sure there is footage of me out there somewhere of some woman powdering my nose and me looking stupid.

If the film is biased, it is no more biased than the "commentary" that is on the Fox News channel 24/7. Moore has a right to make this kind of film. The public has the right to see this kind of film, and it is shameful how the right has tried to suppress this film. First, by putting pressure on Disney/Miramax not to distribute the film. Second, by right-wing groups putting pressure on theaters not to show the film. Third, by denying the film a PG-13 rating; I guess simulated violence is okay with that crowd, just don't show the consequences of the real thing. Also, the language is less graphic than any Farrelly brothers film. And, finally, by Citizens United attempting to stop advertisements for the film from being shown on TV by spuriously invoking the McCain-Feingold Act.

What I really find repugnant are the "reviewers" on this site who proclaim Moore to be un-American and a traitor. If patriotism is having a love for one's country, then Moore is one of the most patriotic people around. He truly cares about this country and the path that this country is taking. For too long now, we've been letting the "Bushies" define patriotism as being "if you're not for us, you're against us." That sort of thinking is un-Americanism at its finest.

The most horrifying thing in this movie is the corpse in the segment "A Drop of Water." The thing is a dead ringer for Dr. Laura (Schlessinger), and if a vengeful Dr. Laura pursuing you from beyond the grave isn't enough to scare you to death, I don't know what is. Heck, the live Dr. Laura is pretty gruesome as it is.

What happens when you cast actors who can't sing, dance, and have all the charisma of a trio of dead garter snakes? Well, you get "Chicago" the movie musical. Whatever minor charms that Chicago the stage musical had are not in evidence here. The stage version--which I have seen both in its original Broadway production and in its recent Broadway revival--is a pleasant little musical, done in a series of vaudeville turns. This bloated movie version leaches away everything good about the stage version. The director is so busy covering up for the deficiencies of the stars by interrupting every dance and every song with extraneous business that even the tissue-thin plot suffers. When one leaves the stage version of the show, one does so with some sadness, because although the two murderesses go free, they are now to be chained to one another in a miserable vaudeville act for the rest of their lives (or as long as vaudeville exists). They hate one another, yet they are to be together forever. That is their punishment. That is their own brand of purgatory. However, the movie gives them a big, glitzy finish. Hell, they're STARS! Murder has proven to be a really nifty career path. I think Fosse must be turning over in his grave.

I saw this film when it came out in 1975 and again a few years later at a revival house in New York City. Perhaps, then I was too young to appreciate its haunting subtlety. IFC has been rerunning the film for the past few weeks, and I find myself drawn to it again and again, each time finding some new clue to a mystery that may not be a mystery at all and clues that may only be in my imagination. This ambiguity is what makes the film so compelling.

The basic "plot" of the film has been retold by others on this site, if, indeed the film can be said to have a "plot." It is this very "plotlessness" that makes my viewing of the film each time I see it so disturbingly enjoyable.

There are scenes, which will always remain in my mind. Early on, the four girls who go exploring on the rock of the title are overcome by torpor. Three of them remove their black cotton stockings and high-button shoes; the other retains her Victorian trappings of propriety. From above, the viewer sees the girls spread out on the rock and has a premonition that the three barelegged girls, while free of their confining shoes, are the ones destined to disappear. Only the girl who keeps on her the dark hose and shoes that contrast so vividly with the white dresses they all wear is the one not to disappear. On this most recent viewing, I learned that the very proper, older teacher who disappears along with the girls is seen climbing the rock wearing only her pantaloons. Whether this stripping down (if it can be called that) represents sexual awakening, as some have argued, or is merely there for the contrast it provides, doesn't bother me. It is the image that matters.

Another scene that remains indelible in my mind concerns the reappearance of Irma. She is mysteriously discovered alive a week after the initial disappearance, with no memory of the events that have transpired. After a period of recuperation, she returns to the school to say goodbye to her classmates, since she is on her way to rejoin her parents in Europe. All the girls are exercising in the "Temple of Calisthenics," wearing only bloomers. They raise and lower their legs on two bars suspended from the ceiling. When Irma enters, now literally a scarlet woman, since she is dressed in a vivid red cape and hat, the other girls menacingly swing the bars in her direction before they literally attack her for being the only survivor.

One person on this site commented that Weir was wrong with his day of the week. The film has a short title before it starts saying that Valentine's Day in 1900 was on a Saturday, when, instead, it was on a Wednesday. This viewer was right. This viewer also points out that Sara is kept away from the picnic in order to learn her lines for "The Wreck of the Hesperus." Mrs. Appleyard, the school's headmistress and owner, misattributes the poem to Felicia Hemans, whose most famous poem was, perhaps, "Casabianca," whose opening line is "The boy stood on the burning deck." I think that this mistake is less one of Weir's than his sly way of showing that Mrs. Appleyard's own educational qualifications were somewhat lacking.

For me, one of the most disturbing things about the film is the disintegration of Mrs. Appleyard (Rachel Roberts). And this has less to do with anything in the film itself than the fact that it somewhat mirrors the actress's own disintegration and suicide by poisoning, as it was posthumously told in her harrowing journal, "No Bells on Sunday."

Some other viewers on this site find the pacing slow. The girls who do not go exploring on the rock do nothing after their picnic luncheon. I think that these viewers forget that in 1900, respectable young women did not engage in games that would have soiled their immaculate white frocks (this is what makes the girls who do go exploring so shocking), and that after a heavy Victorian meal on a hot fall day (remember: the seasons are reversed in the antipodes), relaxation would have been the order of the day. After all, GameBoys were not yet invented.

I was shocked to see that some people on this site compared "Picnic at Hanging Rock" to "The Blair Witch Project." And, again, this may be my age, but comparing "The Blair Witch Project" to "Picnic at Hanging Rock" is like comparing Colt 45 to Dom Perignon.

Perhaps, those who find this film too slow have been affected by such whirling-dervish abominations as the most recent "Moulin Rouge," where lots happens but little remains in the imagination. For the careful viewer, "Picnic at Hanging Rock" is a mystery(?) worth exploring.

Does anyone care about Ross McElwee's life except Ross McElwee? Having seen several of his movies (I took a course in documentaries, and the instructor was enamored of the oh-so-twee McElwee), I can honestly say that I don't. I don't care about his family; I don't care about his wife; and most of all, I don't care about him. Some find his meandering self-explorations charming; they're just boring. And I can't recommend this film to anyone unless they are very willing to waste two hours of their life.

I just saw this film at the New York Film Festival and was quite bowled away at its powerful indictment of a system that only breathed its last in 1996, but in its span, undoubtedly, wrecked the lives of the many women who were consigned to it. The movie focuses on the semifictionalized lives of four young women, who are more sinned against than sinners and who are committed by their families or the Irish authorities to "Magadalene Homes" for "wayward" girls. And once there, their unpaid labor is used to run a highly profitable laundry business that operated throughout Catholic Ireland. Mary Magadalene got salvation by washing the feet of Jesus with unguents; these young women are given much harder toil with lye soap and washboards. Unless they are somehow released by a family member, they may expect to spend their entire lives working for the Church, growing old and dying there. Indeed, we see one such woman who does so, having sadly "bought in" to the salvation of shame that the nuns peddle through humiliation and sadism. Others on this page have commented on the performances of the young women, which are, without exception, laudable. Perhaps the most affecting is that of Eileen Walsh as Crispina, a poor, simple-minded creature whose innate purity of soul is all the more vulnerable to rape, both literal and figurative. The most stunning performance comes, not unexpectedly, from Geraldine McEwan as Sister Bridget, the head of the convent. She is an actress incapable of giving a bad performance, and is able, here, to inject some much needed drollery into a character whose behavior is mostly entirely reprehensible. Watch for her scene where she tells of her youthful love of the "fill-um." I nearly pitied her when she cried along with that consummate example of film nuns, Ingrid Bergman. Director Mullan makes one misstep in the tale, and that is at the very end. In "Animal House"-like fashion we are told the eventual fates of the four young women. I think that I would have preferred to have kept guessing about their eventual, semifictionalized lives.