directed by Michelangelo Antonioni, 1966
Blowup tries to do two things at once. It has its mystery, but first and foremost it is content to bathe in the essence of the swinging sixties. The titular photos don't appear until the film is half over and even then only nudge the film forward a tiny fraction, because there's always something happening somewhere to distract the photographer from investigating the mystery. I say bathe in the essence of the '60s rather than investigate or explore the essence of the '60s because there is absolutely nothing in the film that can be considered remotely active. The photos, when the do appear, just sit there waiting for meaning to be assigned to them from outside. Even Redgrave's character, desperate to get them back, is content merely to take her top off (very tastefully done, naturally) and wait for him to behave as she wants him to.
The problem is Hemmings's character. Named as Thomas in the script (although never on screen), he is a placid man indifferent to virtually everything he encounters. The irony is that he superficially appears to be the definitive sixties stud, wearing all the right clothes and listening to all the right music. We never learn much about his profession but we know that his services are in demand, as a couple of giggling dolly birds who fancy themselves as models are so desperate to be photographed by him that they are willing to essentially prostitute themselves. Ultimately though his desire to swing with the times is down to pure narcissism rather than any genuine connection with the age; he is content to sit back and watch the sixties rocket by, taking a few photographs occasionally, and I can imagine him in exactly the same state ten years later as one of punk's foremost chroniclers.
The best way to explore something is to look at it from the outside, with a certain amount of critical detachment. However, it does help to have at least a passing interest in what you're investigating and the photographer is utterly passionless about everything. Since the film is told entirely from his perspective we see what he sees, go where he goes, and learn what he learns. He just isn't bothered by learning anything ultimately, which is why the film is content to just drift towards its ending by Brownian motion. Upon discovering what's hidden in his pictures, he takes a break to cavort with some nude models (a horrible, misogynistic, unsexy scene) before spontaneously remembering that he's just uncovered a murder. At one stage he orders an antique aeroplane propeller, which ends up being delivered during a crucial moment of exposition, thereby interrupting it. After this scene it is never seen again; its only function is to disrupt the plot and divert it down one of its innumerable cul-de-sacs. If the propeller is a metaphor it is an ironic one, since there's no form of propulsion anywhere to be seen in this film. Even when the mystery is at its height the film is still more concerned with the iconography of swinging London, hanging out in a club where the Yardbirds (look out for a very young Jimmy Page) are playing the proto-punk blast of 'Stroll On' (a title loaded with meaning in context), a song which, in hindsight, looks forward while the rest of the film looks strictly inward. Eventually the same indifference the photographer feels is instilled in the viewer.
Technically the film is near flawless. Every shot and scene is expertly controlled by Michelangelo Antonioni to emphasise the photographer's isolation from his surroundings � there is very little dialogue, with long stretches playing like a silent film with only the ambient noises of footsteps, wind blowing and birdsong to fill the soundtrack. Dialogue, when it does appear, is sparse, clipped and doesn't tell the viewer very much. This isn't a film where ideas are expressed: this is a film where some guy goes somewhere and does stuff, sort of, and that's it. It's great film-making but it doesn't make a great film.
The ending, where the photographer engages in a game of imaginary tennis played by mimes, is no different to the rest of the film. The photographer just stands and watches until directly invited to participate (by throwing the imaginary ball back after it has gone out of the court), which he does. This sums up his character: he is a no-person, devoid of principles or motivations, who passively allows himself to be defined by his surroundings. If he is surrounded by mimes, then he's a mime. If he's surrounded by models, then he's a photographer. If he uncovers a murder, then he's a detective. It makes the film's premise (the nature of perception versus the nature of reality) a bit of a damp squib because it doesn't strike me as a question that would bother the photographer much. Did he really uncover a murder, or did he just imagine it all? Who cares? He certainly doesn't.
It's possible to admire Blowup but I wouldn't say I like it as such. Sterile and self-indulgent, it feels more like a technical exercise than a film. I'd say it's worth watching once but after that it's more of a film to own than to see.
***
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