Pretentious Film & I

James Mahon

I’ve been told on many occasions that I am the very embodiment of pretentiousness. The logical extension of this therefore is that I must watch pretentious films. I no doubt confirm this fact when I reply to the age-old question of what’s your favourite film with the seemingly smug ‘Basically any Italian film made in the 50s or 60s’. I am not, despite the immediate assumption, being an asshole - desperate to show off my in-depth expertise on Italian neo-realism. Rather, as I try to explain, an open module about Italian cinema revealed to me my scandalous lack of knowledge of directors like Bertolucci and Fellini, whose films I have consequently been entranced with. Nonetheless, such a declaration, no matter how enthusiastically I state it, fails to dispel the air of my own individual pretension and that of Italian cinema itself.

What do we mean though when we use the word ‘pretentiousness’ in relation to film-making. There is a certain ambivalence surrounding the term –are we referencing particular subject matters, the stylistic technique of the director or the overall aesthetic composition of a film? It seems it is an inherently subjective way of classifying a film, your interpretation of ‘pretentiousness ‘surely differs from mine. Nevertheless, I tend to identify a ‘pretentious film’ based upon its explicit desire to be considered a film of ‘high art’. Such a film is intentionally cerebral, not for the sake of narrative or its character, but because the directors want these signifiers to be the defining elements of the film. As such it is not really specific acts of film-making or story-line that make a film ‘pretentious, although these help, it is rather a pre-mediated effort of infusing both the substance and appearance of a film with a conceited pseudointellectual aura. The end result being devoid of any emotionality, but possessing a stultifying insipid and academic tone. Charlie Kaufmann’s recent I’m Thinking of Ending Things ( 2020) is a case in point.

As such Bernardo Bertolucci’s film-making seems to easily fall into this ‘pretentious trap’. After all, virtually every one of his protagonists function as a means of exploring the tension between Freudian family dynamics and a Marxist critique of the capitalist system in which they exist. Two of his most striking films underline this fact. Before the Revolution (1964) centres on Fabrizio (Francesco Barilli) as a young man struggling to align his radical left-wing political views with his clearly defined bourgeois identity. The Conformist (1970) is an indepth examination of the psychological effects of fascist conformism, framed through a Freudian lens in which the main character Clerici (Jean-Louis Trintignant) must kill his father figure Quadri (Enzo Tarascio).

Although, at least on a surface level, such films are manifestly trying to achieve a level of self-importance, it is in fact the opposite. Bertolucci deliberately subverted the pretension intrinsic to Freudism or Marxism. He transfers them from abstract theoretical commentaries into the practical reality of everyday life. The whole point of his films is to show the struggle of his characters as they try to apply these conceptual ideals to their lives, and their varying degrees of success and failure in doing so. Bertolucci is engaging with these topics, not as a form of self-gratification, but to investigate and challenge their utility in explaining our actions.

Moreover, as a director he acknowledges the artificiality intrinsic to his profession – he consciously breaks the artifice of filmmaking purposely including mistakes and technical inaccuracies. In revealing the make-believe Bertolucci paradoxically emphasises his true authenticity.

Federico Fellini’s films suffer from a similar popular denigration of pretentiousness. This is not helped by the fact that a large part of his filmography seems to make a concerted effort to dislocate and bewilder his audience. His two critically appraised ‘masterpieces’, La Dolce Vita (1960) and 8 ½ (1963), possess seemingly bizarre dream sequences, off-beat fantasies and surreal childhood flashbacks. Marcello Mastroianni, who plays the title role in both films, cultivates a brooding cynicism that borders on contempt for anyone who attempts to understand him, or the world he occupies. Such is the feeling that Fellini’s films can evoke, enmeshed in this intellectuality that almost punishes any endeavour to comprehend it.

To believe in this however, would be to miss out on one of the greatest filmmakers who ever lived. Of course, there are nuances and complexities in Fellini’s work, but to call it pretentious is simply incorrect. Amongst the kaleidoscopic array of themes and theses in La Dolce Vita and 8 ½ , the prevailing one is a refutation of academic explanation. Both films contain intellectuals. In La Dolce Vita this is Steiner (Alain Cuny), who Marcello idealises and desires to emulate. In 8 ½ Guido, an autobiographical version of Fellini as himself, is accompanied by a film critic Daumier (Jean Rougeul).

Whilst the portrayal of both is different, the outcome is the same. Marcello and Guido are ultimately both disillusioned by the vacuity and yes, pretence, of their companions. It would be too reductive to say that Fellini is anti-intellectual, instead he is underscoring the need at times to simply enjoy an existence without the need to constantly interpret life through a certain ideological framework, – the joyous collective celebration at the end of 8 ½ is an evident reminder of this.

Perhaps then it is the aforementioned uniqueness of Fellini’s filmmaking that leads one to disregard his work as that of inflated grandiosity. However, Fellin’s dream sequences or surreal escapades have a distinct purpose. They provide a further means of insight into the psychological makeup of his characters. Guido’s distorted flashback to his school days, symbolic of the Catholic guilt surrounding carnal desire or Marcello’s dancing with the arriving Hollywood star Sylviia (Anita Ekberg), the question of whether it’s real or not reflective of the dubious reliability of Hollywood itself. Fellini utilises this personal fantasy mode, not to disorient, but when the limits of reality itself are too inhibitive.

A lot of Italian Cinema is pretentious, this is undeniable. However, Bertolucci, or Fellini cannot be unfairly tainted by the same brush. The fundamental nature of their films interrogates and untangles the complexities innate to the world we live in. A superficial glance at their work would lead to presumptions of pretension, yet any substantial exploration dismisses this entirely. As for my own pretentiousness, well that is still up for debate.