La Grande Bouffe. (18.)
Directed by Marco Ferreri. 1973.
Starring Marcello Mastroianni, Ugo Tognazzi, Michel Piccoli, Philippe Noiret and Andrea Ferreol. In French and Italian with subtitles. 125 mins. Available to stream on BFI Player with a subscription.
In which four affluent men of privilege – two Italians, two French – hole up together in a suburban villa for one final blow out, an orgiastic excess of food, drink and sex. Tognazzi is the master chef, Piccoli is a TV producer, Noiret is a high court judge and Mastroianni is an airline pilot. Of course, Mastroianni is a pilot – one look at him in his uniform escorting a bevvy of stewardesses out of the cockpit and there really is no other occupation he could realistically take.
What do we learn from all this? Not a great deal. The points Ferreri wants to make about the moral redundancy of the patriarchy are so obvious, the film doesn't really bother to make them. It's more celebration than condemnation, a chance to observe four great stars in action and reflect that on the big screen there is no equality, the camera is enthralled by some faces and, though it helps if there is some technique behind it, there is no meritocracy to stardom. Hell, I suspect Mastroianni isn't even much good in this, but he's Mastroianni, he's too far gone for such things to matter.
It's great fun if you can take a few fart and poo jokes, and strangely erotic though I think it fails modern food porn standards. A lot of the food doesn't look so appetising and Tognazzi's cumulative dome of pate just doesn't appeal. It's not a meal worth dying for.
Directed by Marco Ferreri. 1973.
Starring Marcello Mastroianni, Ugo Tognazzi, Michel Piccoli, Philippe Noiret and Andrea Ferreol. In French and Italian with subtitles. 125 mins. Available to stream on BFI Player with a subscription.
In which four affluent men of privilege – two Italians, two French – hole up together in a suburban villa for one final blow out, an orgiastic excess of food, drink and sex. Tognazzi is the master chef, Piccoli is a TV producer, Noiret is a high court judge and Mastroianni is an airline pilot. Of course, Mastroianni is a pilot – one look at him in his uniform escorting a bevvy of stewardesses out of the cockpit and there really is no other occupation he could realistically take.
What do we learn from all this? Not a great deal. The points Ferreri wants to make about the moral redundancy of the patriarchy are so obvious, the film doesn't really bother to make them. It's more celebration than condemnation, a chance to observe four great stars in action and reflect that on the big screen there is no equality, the camera is enthralled by some faces and, though it helps if there is some technique behind it, there is no meritocracy to stardom. Hell, I suspect Mastroianni isn't even much good in this, but he's Mastroianni, he's too far gone for such things to matter.
It's great fun if you can take a few fart and poo jokes, and strangely erotic though I think it fails modern food porn standards. A lot of the food doesn't look so appetising and Tognazzi's cumulative dome of pate just doesn't appeal. It's not a meal worth dying for.
