Blow-Up is the very definition of “cool.” It will always be one of my absolute favorite films. It radiates sex and style and class and sophistication and the way Michelangelo Antonioni primarily used images to tell his story will always fascinate me to no end. You get David Hemmings in one of the quintessential screen performances and Vanessa Redgrave in all of her radiant splendor, not to mention an absurdly talented (and photogenic…) supporting cast. This was the first of three movies that Antonioni made for MGM (Zabriskie Point and The Passenger are the other two), and it remains one of the most influential, form-busting movies of its era, a wild romp through London’s swinging 60’s, with the outsized exploits of famed fashion photographer David Bailey serving as a character influence.
The plot was inspired by the short story The Devil’s Drool by Julio Cortazar, and the film features Hemmings as a cocky, womanizing photographer, and revolves around a series of photos that he snaps out in the park one afternoon, which may or may not contain the identity of a killer and a murder in progress. Brian De Palma would do a riff on this material with his classic 1981 thriller Blow Out, which starred John Travolta in one of his best performances as a movie sound mixer collecting sound effects near a river when he inadvertently witnesses and records the sounds of a car crash which may be more than it seems. But back to Blow-Up; this is a film I’ve viewed multiple times, always with a few years in between each viewing, and I love how it’s come to mean so many different things to me as a person each time I encounter it. The film has a bewitching nature, a dreamy quality, not hallucinatory, and it sort of resembles a methodical thriller without the conventional ending that we’ve all come to expect after years of Hollywood shoving plot contrivances down our throats.
Antonioni, a master filmmaker who loved to subvert his audience at every opportunity (I fucking love The Passenger, too), was clearly fond of the open-ended finale, a storytelling device that can be extremely effective when properly handled, but can also feel amazingly cheap and artificial in the hands of lesser filmmakers. Here, because Antonioni has set so much up and given the audience so many tantalizing bits to examine, the fact that the film ends the way it does shouldn’t provoke anger, but rather, further mystery with the potential for more discoveries on repeated viewings. Herbie Hancock’s jazzy score punctuates the film in all the proper ways, but what Antonioni excelled at best was silence, and how it can be used in so many ways to evoke so many emotions. The cinematography by Carlo Di Palma is absolutely brilliant, each shot informing the one previous and the one following, with an expert sense of camera placement, color, and space within the frame.
And then there’s the parade of gloriously beautiful women that are trotted out for Hemmings to flirt, photo, and party with, with one extremely memorable sex scene clearly ranking as one of the best ever put on film. Damn this movie must’ve pissed so many prudes off! Hemmings gives a fascinating performance, filled with self-assurance then self-doubt, all the while displaying a unique resentment towards women despite his glamorous job, with a stare that could cut glass and shake anyone off their guard. He’s a man who has become jaded by his lifestyle, but when he’s offered the chance to do something with true meaning, he becomes re-energized by the possibilities that his craft allows and by the random nature of life itself. Blow-Up isn’t a movie where you’re going to learn all of the plot points in an easy fashion, and in many instances, Antonioni leaves his audience to interpret what they’ve seen and what he’s shown. For me, that’ll always be the mark of a GREAT artist – the rare ability to create something rich and complete while still allowing for room to grow and rediscover.
Podcasting Them Softly 