Z

A fascinating look at the 1963 assassination of Greek pacifist and political activist Grigoris Lambrakis, Z (1969) is a fast-moving study of political corruption and the subtle ways government uses red tape and compartmentalization to aid its own propaganda and silence voices of dissent. Director Costa-Gavras is Greek by nationality, but his film is in French, where he has lived since the 1950s. It's an astonishing comment on corruption both right and left, and it's surprisingly energetic for such a talky film. You don't generally expect these kinds of movies to hold up 40-something years later, but the camera remains a fluid eyewitness to what feels at many times like a documentary. It's as if you're watching a rapidly edited version of C-Span, with intermingled shots of people protesting in streets, and of revolutionaries being attacked by the police and their paid hoods. For people who imagine the future as one of Orwellian proportions, Z suggests that we're in for more of this subtler kind of sleazy erasure of facts, doctoring of evidence, and manipulation (or silencing) of anyone who's willing to speak the truth. It's not as overtly horrific as something like 1984. It's the game of being powerful enough to pay off your enemies, or have them killed in "accidental" car accidents, or their autopsies re-written to corroborate falsified accounts.

Z was the first foreign film to be nominated for a Best Picture Academy Award (it won in the Best Foreign Language category). But it deserves more recognition for its witty and insightful view into post-WW2 international politics. It may have been all the more timely in terms of its reception in the U.S. because of our own notorious assassinations and their associated plots, however real or imagined. The world of Z is frighteningly real and present (even as this film nears 50 years in age), and it has an ominously prophetic view of the media's involvement in political maneuvering.

With Jean-Louis Tringtignant, Yves Montand, Irene Papas, Jacques Perrin, Charles Denner, Francois Perier, Pierre Dux, George Geret, Bernard Fresson, Marcel Bozzuffi, Julien Guiomar, Magali Noel, and Renato Salvatori. Written by Costa-Gavras and Jorge Semprun. Edited by Francoise Bonnot. Cinematography by Raoul Coutard.

The Wild Bunch

The Wild Bunch (1969) may be responsible for giving the Western film some new breath. Its director, Sam Peckinpah, was known for his use of brutality, and in The Wild Bunch he gives the violent seems some kind of poetic elegance. (They have a kick to them that you don't exactly enjoy, but it's exciting nonetheless.) There are a number of striking sequences which make The Wild Bunch a memorable Western even 43 years later. The three that stand out the most are one at the beginning, where the band of outlaws robs a bank; one in the middle, where they blow up a bridge; and the final showdown between the main characters and an army of Mexicans, where the machine gun they've just handed over to the Mexicans is then used in a show of mutual annihilation.

The problem with The Wild Bunch is its length. At two hours and twenty-three minutes, it goes on and on and on, and the exciting moments aren't enough to make up for the long, poky stretches. It reminded me of that incredibly drawn-out wedding sequence in The Deer Hunter. There's a point where a director's attempt to contrast violence with more jovial, laid-back sequences becomes overstated, and Peckinpah is guilty of this in The Wild Bunch just as Michael Cimino was in The Deer Hunter.

The cast is noteworthy: William Holden, Ernest Borgnine, Robert Ryan, Edmond O'Brien, Warren Oates, Jaime Sanchez, Ben Johnson, and Strother Martin. The performances are as brutally real as the surroundings. This is certainly the anti-Butch Cassidy (a light-hearted version of the same idea, also released in 1969. You can't fault Peckinpah for wanting to make Westerns tough and unashamedly gritty again). And there are some funny throwaway lines. Martin calls someone a "two-bit, redneck peckerwood." (He was also the one who uttered the most famous line in Cool Hand Luke. He has a way with dialogue that is all his own.)

William Holden really carries this movie. Between Holden's performance and Peckinpah's vision, the two of them endow The Wild Bunch with a sense of the beauty of hopelessness. The tragic ending that's destined for these criminals is right because it's inevitable, and it's not delivered with any kind of moralistic hubris. Rather, Peckinpah is pointing out the futility of things. Perhaps that's the appeal of this kind of movie, and the ultimate appeal of the Western genre. And Peckinpah's influence is still felt in movies. His shoot-out sequences have been plagiarized over and over again. Despite all this, I found myself looking forward to the final credits. It's the kind of movie I can appreciate more than I can truly enjoy.