I may, alas, have to give up Netflix. The trouble is that after indulging in its services over the past few years, I've reached the point where I have seen virtually all the available movies that I actually want to see. With too many of the titles I pick from among the remaining choices, I find myself switching off part way through. They simply aren't worth finishing.
The item at the top of my queue at present is Vicky Cristina Barcelona. "Long wait," says Netflix. Never mind. I don't really want to see it. To judge by his last few films, Woody Allen has lost his touch. He got old, it seems. Vicky etc. is only in the queue because my wife has decided to go to Barcelona and she wants to check it out.
I'm not going. I was in Barcelona in the sixties and seventies, and in any case, the age of travel is over, and tourism is a pain.
Most of the new stuff is imbecilic trash, so I watch old movies, viewed . . . jadis. Also on my list is Godard's Pierrot le Fou (1965). I loved it when I first saw it, but do I really want to see it again now?
How about Bad Girls Go to Hell (Doris Wishman, 1966). Perhaps good for a laugh, but once again I may not finish watching.
One movie suggests my next move, Alain Jessua's La vie à l' envers (1964, released in the U.S. as Life Upside Down). "Jessua has never achieved the fame of Truffaut and Resnais, but he was at least their equal in talent," an IMDb (Internet Movie Database) reviewer writes. "In this, his finest film, he explores a young man's withdrawal from Parisian bourgeois life into a world of his own. Is the man going insane? By conventional standards, yes, but it's clear that the life he's fleeing is madder still." The protagonist in the end escapes from the quotidian lunacy into the world of the very, very small. We finally see him examining the texture of a wall with intense interest.
No, Netflix doesn't have it.
Nous sommes
le 17 Germinal, An 217
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