The
Killing Fields
Canby observes
the difficulty, Ebert finds advantage in it. It may be simply stated thus: the
first-person narrative rendered cinematically takes on a new dimension and on
the surface acutely resembles Love Is a Many-Splendored Thing, with John
Lennon’s Imagine at the ending gaily capping off a surprise
reconciliation. Now, bear in mind that there are two types of moviegoers, those
who complain because the movie isn’t like the book, and those who never read
the book in the first place.
There are two
types of artists as well, the ones who manufacture criticism in the guise of
art (Postmodernists), and the rest who are in turn the subjects of the former’s
attentions. That is the real dichotomy of the film, and so you have Dith Pran
(Haing S. Ngor) amongst his country’s very dry bones while Sydney Schanberg
(Sam Waterston) of the New York Times is very guiltily accepting his
Pulitzer Prize.
Joffé has some
exceptionally fine effects derived from Bergman’s The Silence and filmed
in color at close hand. The reporters gathered in the French embassy at Phnom
Penh try their best to fabricate a passport for Pran, but it won’t wash. Joffé
is also very good at conveying the childishness of the Khmer Rouge, and
generally shows a vigorous technique in the technical applications of filming a
crowded street full of motion, perhaps in opposing directions, but it’s neither
a travelogue nor a hallucination, just a sure attempt to find footing where
things aren’t always what they seem at first blush.
Vatel
The paragon of
chefs, a master artist on the analogy of Velasquez and Haydn, dies rather than
leave his Prince to serve the King at Versailles.
The ideal structure
counters His Majesty with Monsieur his royal brother, an arrant queer.
The real
structure is full of beautiful feints including court intrigue and a royal
mistress, best of all the historical legend that Vatel died because the fish
banquet was unsupplied.
The alarming
reviews in Variety and the New York Times betray the film as cast
before swine.