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Salient. Victoria University Student Newspaper. Vol. 37, No. 10. May 22, 1974

Flicks

Flicks

Photo of Robert Redford

Notwithstanding its unequalified commercial success, Arthur Hiller's 'Love Story' managed to attract almost every epithet of scorn known to the modern film critic: rather surprisingly, the film industry has seemed more impressed by these critical objections than by the box office receipts. Since the release of Miller's blockbusting syrup opera there have been remarkably few following in its footsteps, and, more important, these show every sign of having been made with an eye out for avoiding the mistakes of the former. No longer is love enough: a tangibly grim backdrop is needed to set off the kiss and cuddle crap. A pass isn't made in a social vacuum nowadays, or so say the new progenitors of old-time stork stuff.

"The Way We Were" is one such new-look much movie, and the social side shows vindicate their inclusion from beginning to end. American Marxism a la thirties, World War II, Hollywood in the Forties, and McCarthyism in the fifties are all there for those who interest in matters of the heart begins to wane. Admittedly, there is no real discussion of these co-incidental phenomena, and they never look like overwhelming the principal action; but their own reason for being around is quite unquestionable. At least the characters can talk about society and respond to it with a background of some substance, and not, as is the case in love for love's sake movies, be reduced to talking about ice-cream flavours and wearing out their gums at overpriced New York restaurants. Real issues do give the characters something to live off: and, in turn, they enable the protagonists, in particular, to give value for money when the time comes for coughing up the goods.

And, certainly, Mr Redford and Ms Striesand relish not having to 'get a little sentimental' every five minutes. Redford, relieved of the burden of having to project a continual cool, deigns to act, and this he does rather well. It is unfortunate, however, that his achievement is belittled by Striesand's. An actress known for her comic bent, she barnstorms the movie with a performance of great depth and phenomenal [unclear: range]. To see such vigour from a young American actress is very rare; not since the better days of Katy Hepburn has were been a display of similar virtuosity. And it is all the more remarkable for her having only a boy meets girl, boy marries girl, boy leaves girl, and lives unhappily ever after plot on which to display such a variety of passions. That the passions are more often universal than not in no way negates her achievement....the lucidity and apparent novelty of treatment with which she infects them enhances both the passions themselves and her portrayal of them. And it does not require the viewer to be au fait with the Downstage coterie to appreciate what she is doing. She is, after all, what is called a star.

This, coupled with Sydney's Pollacks patient direction, and the rapport between his set designer, costumer, and cameraman make it a memorable film. If you don't like the cinema to wax sentimental then it will, more than likely be memorably awful. If you do like the cinema to wax sentimental, then the memories will be housed nearer the heart than the stomach. There is no likelihood of either faction consigning to the brain, however. No matter....thinking is one of the plagues of the cinema.

Those familar with the work of Mike Nichols (Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf, The Graduate, Catch 22 and Carnal Knowledge) will be surprised if they venture out to see his latest film, 'The Day of the Dolphin'. It is unlikely to remind them of the psych-oneuro-scream-blah material he has favoured hitherto. A rather slight and rather silly film, it tells the heart rending tale of two talking dolphins stolen from a less cerebral John C. Lilly and used by some jet-aged Machiavellis to plant mines on the Presidential luxury launch. Fantastic stuff, and taken quite seriously, as is the moral of dolphins fulfilling the traditional role of the noble savage and being exploited like their literary precursor. It's a film that may appeal to children, because its adult pretensions are sufficiently laughable to escape the notice of an ordinary child: to a viewer making more aesthetic demands it cannot fail to have him cringing. Even the staunch efforts of George C. Scott and a talented photographer fail to save the whole affair from the charge of being asinine. For asses, or dolphin freaks only.

—Jeremy Little John