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I have a confession to make. Prior to seeing Max Mon Amour, I’d only seen one film by Nagisa Oshima, Merry Christmas, Mr. Lawrence, the WWII POW drama known for starring two famous musicians (David Bowie and Ryuichi Sakamato) that used a disconnect in dramatic styles to explore the cultural gap between its Japanese and British characters. Now, I can blame my neglect of the oeuvre of this titan of the Japanese New Wave to sheer laziness, but what drove me to make the second one of his I watched Max Mon Amour, his final film and one that almost nobody thinks very highly of? Well, aside from my pathological need to seek out allegedly terrible films to mine them for genuine value, when most of his films sound challenging, the film of his most people tell you to see is known for a castration and egg-in-vag action, another film presents itself with the promise of a torrid love affair between Charlotte Rampling and a chimpanzee and you’re just in the mood for some easy laughs, you go with the torrid love affair between Charlotte Rampling and a chimpanzee. (And lest any of you preverts get your hopes up, Charlotte Rampling does NOT get it on with the chimpanzee. On screen, at least.) Now, is the movie any good?
Well, if the intent was to make a cutting satire of the upper class that would rather embrace this unusual relationship than lose composure, then no, as the film never seems sharp or determined enough to land any of these jabs. But if the intent was to pour some extremely deliberate direction into what ends up being an almost perversely mild and stately affair, it holds a strange fascination. The chimpanzee, played by the dancer Ailsa Berk, is surprisingly convincing and the film gets decent comedic mileage out of her performance, yet it never sells us on the affair between her and Rampling’s character. Rampling can be great at evoking complex erotic longing underneath a cool exterior (as much as I hate The Night Porter, she’s perfect in it), but her attraction to the chimpanzee seems characterized more by amusement than actual passion. Yet watching this premise spin its wheels and piss away any semblance of potency and seeing such elegant, purposeful craft in the service of the easiest, most gentle laughs is entertaining in its own way. Because sometimes watching a chimpanzee doing amusing chimpanzee things is enough for a good time.
Max Mon Amour (Oshima, 1986)
I have a confession to make. Prior to seeing Max Mon Amour, I’d only seen one film by Nagisa Oshima, Merry Christmas, Mr. Lawrence, the WWII POW drama known for starring two famous musicians (David Bowie and Ryuichi Sakamato) that used a disconnect in dramatic styles to explore the cultural gap between its Japanese and British characters. Now, I can blame my neglect of the oeuvre of this titan of the Japanese New Wave to sheer laziness, but what drove me to make the second one of his I watched Max Mon Amour, his final film and one that almost nobody thinks very highly of? Well, aside from my pathological need to seek out allegedly terrible films to mine them for genuine value, when most of his films sound challenging, the film of his most people tell you to see is known for a castration and egg-in-vag action, another film presents itself with the promise of a torrid love affair between Charlotte Rampling and a chimpanzee and you’re just in the mood for some easy laughs, you go with the torrid love affair between Charlotte Rampling and a chimpanzee. (And lest any of you preverts get your hopes up, Charlotte Rampling does NOT get it on with the chimpanzee. On screen, at least.) Now, is the movie any good?
Well, if the intent was to make a cutting satire of the upper class that would rather embrace this unusual relationship than lose composure, then no, as the film never seems sharp or determined enough to land any of these jabs. But if the intent was to pour some extremely deliberate direction into what ends up being an almost perversely mild and stately affair, it holds a strange fascination. The chimpanzee, played by the dancer Ailsa Berk, is surprisingly convincing and the film gets decent comedic mileage out of her performance, yet it never sells us on the affair between her and Rampling’s character. Rampling can be great at evoking complex erotic longing underneath a cool exterior (as much as I hate The Night Porter, she’s perfect in it), but her attraction to the chimpanzee seems characterized more by amusement than actual passion. Yet watching this premise spin its wheels and piss away any semblance of potency and seeing such elegant, purposeful craft in the service of the easiest, most gentle laughs is entertaining in its own way. Because sometimes watching a chimpanzee doing amusing chimpanzee things is enough for a good time.