But it is equally likely that the movie is not quite possible to ignore: that it is original, challenging in some way arresting—even (dare one say it) worthy of our attention.
You clever devil, you are way ahead of me here: I'm talking about Satantango. Béla Tarr's glepic* of despair on and off a Hungarian (collective?) farm. Il Teatro Buce has now completed 1/15 of a Sontag-sized viewing of Satantango. The conclusion: it is distasteful, repellent or at least unpleasant and generally hard to watch. But it is not quite possible to ignore: original, challenging and (dare one say it--oh, forget it). I won't go so far as to say I "enjoyed" it; perhaps it belongs in the same class as the Battle of Guadalcanal: good do have been there, even though the experience of actually being there is one you wouldn't wish on an unsuspecting friend.
Wiki declares that there is a complex and subtle fabric to all this, drawn from the underlying novel, but I'd take that with a grain of salt. What is arresting here is not the subtle undercurrents but the raw simplicity. They say there are two plots: a boy leaves home and a stranger comes to town. You can bet your poop-covered farm boots that nobody leaves home in this one (forgetting the throngs who must have left town before the cameras started running). There is a "stranger" of sorts, although everyone in town seems to know him. He can't get his identity papers straight, it isn't clear why. So the man behind the desk tells him he'll have to spy on the villagers, it isn't clear what for. And he undertakes to flimflam them out of all there money, it isn't--well, okay, I suppose it is clear that he just wants the money.
With all earnestness, I have to concede that the stark despair of it all was a sight to behold--a bit like Beckett, if not nearly so funny. And I think you have to take on the terms of its own sheer pointlessness. I wouldn't go so far as to say (some have) that it is a searing indictment of capitalism. I don't really think it is a searing indictment of communism either--indeed, not a searing indictment at all: searing indictments take too much energy, and focus, and vision.
The next thing you notice, aside from the bare structure of the piece, is the rhythm, and this is where seven hours (sadly) probably matters. Tarr can set up a shot like nobody else I know: he sets his camera at a distance; he waits, watches, patiently, while something (or maybe nothing) happens. It certainly isn't the only way to look at something, and there's no reason to think it is the best way, but it certainly is a way and I can't think of anyone else who does it so well. I'd grant what I take to be his point. Maybe you just have to see it all stretched out like this to get his particular feel for this corner of life.
We did, I confess, stretch it over three evenings. And more than once I thought: thank heavens I'm not hunched down in the theatre. So, only 14 more to go.
Afterthought: Tyler Cowen is another who speaks highly of Satantango. I'll bet he was multitasking.
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