There's a fundamental irony at play in the core of L'eclisse, Michelangelo Antonioni's pivotal and emphatic finale to his celebrated "Alienation Trilogy" from the early 1960s. His meditation on the tensions that exist between the poles of erotic allure and existential ennui resonates precisely because of the physical beauty of the young people he puts before us, as well as the cunning artifice and intelligence with which the story is framed. Put two middle-aged, dumpy, world-weary people into the same exact scenario and landscape, I don't think we come away with quite as compelling or even hypnotizing a film. But we really don't have to worry about such alternate-universe speculations, because what we have in L'eclisse is something inestimably worthy of our contemplation, just as it is. Monica Vitti is ravishingly gorgeous. Alain Delon is impeccably stylish and on point. Even Francisco Rabal, the boyfriend of Vitti's character Vittoria who's appalled to find himself unceremoniously and ambiguously dumped (for reasons never made quite clear to him) in the film's opening minutes, presents a rather fine specimen of masculinity who seems to deserve better than he gets. Watching these beautiful people, at the peak of their physical attractiveness, go through the motions of erotic flirtation and bitterly disappointing failure to connect, can hardly help but have a galvanizing effect on a receptive viewer. Those of us who find ourselves less gifted in those aspects of talents and physical attributes so lavishly displayed by Vitti, Delon and Rabal can only be left to wonder, "if they can't get it together, with all the obvious advantages bestowed upon them, what hope is there for me?"
Even though it doesn't quite play out in real time the same way that its predecessors in the Alienation Trilogy - L'avventura and (sadly, non-Criterion as of yet) La Notte - or most notably my previously viewed film here, Cleo from 5 to 7, did, L'eclisse continues building on the themes of wandering exploration of a modernist milieu that those films helped to establish as so de rigeur in the art house scene of the early 1960s. Observing a strict departure from the standard rules of plot and character development that had prevailed in mainstream films over the previous few decades, if not longer, L'eclisse takes a special delight in challenging and thwarting viewers' expectations. Just about every action we see from the three main characters rests strictly on the surface; their interpersonal connections or even a simple awareness of deeper drives and forces within themselves is never made explicitly clear. Yes, we see them react with disappointment, frustration and desire that could be interpreted as evidence of interiority, but the specific strategies that Vittoria, Piero and (before he is abruptly dismissed once and for all) Riccardo utilize in their attempts to forge a connection aren't really all that more subtle or sophisticated than those employed by young children seeking the simplest, most rudimentary forms of ego gratification.
Or, if viewing their behavior as essentially child-like seems a touch of condescension gone too far, we could interpret them as slightly evolved adolescents, now privileged with financial resources, a lack of adult supervision and fully developed sexual desires that even the most precocious of teens usually lack. Vittoria's persistent but inadvertent positioning of herself to be hit on by an aroused male pursuant is just one of several unfortunate "accidents" that nevertheless go on to establish themselves as undeclared ground rules that govern future actions as the film's deliberately slight narrative develops.
Another one of the ground rules has to do with the inevitable triumph of finance and commerce in its conflict with emotion and just about any other non-monetized influences on human experience. Though the scenes are relatively brief and seeming incidental to the personal interactions shared by Vittoria (daughter of a petty investor who spends her days fruitlessly, obsessively speculating at the Rome stock exchange) and Piero (a young broker who simply uses his insider status as a day trader to fund his hobby of perusing the services of call girls and any other female with whom he feels he has a chance to even briefly connect with), Antonioni's strategic incorporation of footage shot inside the trading room exerts a powerful influence over everything else that happens on screen. Piero, despite his good looks, sharp wardrobe and fast (soon to be stolen) car, would never cross Vittoria's radar if it weren't for his lucrative, adrenaline-fueled employment. Likewise, if it weren't for Vittoria's mother's addiction to playing the market, the relationship she pursues with Piero would never get off the ground. This fiscal axis, already well enough established as an determinative consideration in modern courtship ever since the advent of the Industrial Revolution, takes on a privileged aspect here, overwhelming Vittoria's ever so brief exploration (affected as it is) of native cultures as exemplified in her campy black-faced African dance, before she abandons it out of sheer embarrassment:
It's also quite remarkable how quickly and thoroughly she's able to remove the dark make-up and resume, alongside her girlfriends, her privileged upper-middle class posture of reclining self-indulgence.
Antonioni consistently loads the screen with immaculately lit, crisply framed and suggestively intriguing eye-candy: roaming packs of dogs, weirdly vibrating flagpoles, creepy sculptures and futuristic architecture stimulate our aesthetic receptors while we wait for "something" to happen. The director understands that the kind of movie he wants to make isn't going to be easily received by most of his intended audience; after all, L'avventura triggered riots at the 1960 Cannes film festival, and if anything, L'eclisse only ups the ante in terms of confronting the smug self-assurance of its viewers, as to their readiness to "get" the director's intentions this time around. To those of us who've already gotten familiar with the extended pace and leisurely gestures of numerous directors (Tarkovsky, later Bergman, Malick, among others), Antonioni's rambling gait may not present any significant difficulties, but he was far from the mainstream, despite his emerging notoriety and award-winning festival runs, in 1962. He did use his fame to launch a multi-year foray into counter-cultural celebrity (warranting a mention in the Broadway musical hair Hair in the lyrics of "Manchester England" several years later, along with Federico Fellini and Roman Polanski), before gradually settling back into the niche-specialized obscurity in which he currently abides today.
Still, despite the volumes of intellectual abstruseness that could have (and has) been spun out of Antonioni's erudite brand of film-making, the overwhelmingly powerful and lasting impact of L'eclisse still resides in the classy sexual magnetism projected by Vitti and Delon during the last third of the film. Their chemistry, and the way they are able to succinctly capture both the tantalizing possibilities of fresh and raw erotic attraction and the frustrating impasses that so often prevent either their natural follow-up or a lasting contentment with the relationship that develops from those early encounters, leaves an indelible mark on just about anyone who pays close attention. Though the accompanying soundtrack to this clip fairly obliterates Antonioni's original intentions of demonstrating the then-current state of affairs in modern dis-ease and miscommunication, the sheer adaptability of his images to speak to a millennial audience is indisputable. That's largely attributable to Vitti's timeless sense of style - far from presenting a retro look, her bearing, attire and overall look function as perfectly in 2012 as they did fifty years earlier. (Well, maybe her hair is just a little more bouffant than it might be today...)
Trailing after Vitti and Delon, after their initial consummation and the establishment of their tentative plans to reconnect on a subsequent evening, is (of course) Antonioni's final grand gesture, the seven or eight minutes that close out L'eclisse in which we wait in vain (though not without a few tantalizingly deceptive teasers) for either or both of our appealing young lovers to re-emerge on the screen. It's one of cinema's most effectively realized and severely obliterating acts of coitus interruptus (in a metaphorical sense, anyway.) Expecting to see the lovers resume their coupling, instead, we are given a brief recap of several locations in which Piero and Vittoria had been seen cavorting earlier in the film. The most notable aspect to each of them is their absence, and the vacancy of just about any other indicator of human involvement or interest, almost as if the world had come to its end, with the exception of a few disinterested survivors who've decided to only be concerned about themselves and nobody else. The detachment of the bystanders is merely a reflection of Vittoria and Piero's abandonment of each other (they both fail to show up, unbeknown to the other, at the appointed place and time), manifesting the social atomization which now seems so normal, that Antonioni seems to have accurately prophesied a full half-century ago. Their inevitable break-up, foreshadowed by kisses through glass, accidentally ripped clothing that transforms Vitti's clean white blouse into an echo of a Roman toga, is accelerated as she comes to grips with the oppressive weight of her cultural past (the foreboding decrepit monuments, paintings, traditions hardly altered since medieval times) and the tremulous uncertain promise of the modernity that descends upon them so relentlessly. Though the pleasures of Eros are formidable, and satisfying enough on their own terms, even if just for a moment, they cannot compel or ultimately disperse the dread of commitment and lasting inhabitance that seem to be so integral to the bargain. And thus, when it's time to show up, neither Vittoria nor Piero are anywhere to be found.
Back to that fundamental underlying irony. L'eclisse, and particularly the performance of Monica Vitti, is rightly celebrated for the remarkable serendipity that took place between her and Antonioni, the film's director. It's well-known that the two of them had been lovers ever since they first collaborated together on L'avventura. Vitti also played a prominent role (though not the lead, which was given instead to Jeanne Moreau) in La Notte, which makes total sense given the set-up for that film, which required a slightly older and more "weathered" looking female actor. Thus it's no surprise that Vitti and Antonioni had, by this time, achieved a marvelously intuitive compatibility, with him behind the camera and her in front of it, almost effortlessly realizing their shared vision of love's elusive foundation and maddening instability. It would only be a few more years (and one more classic film, Red Desert) before the auteur's mercurial temperament pushed his most enduring and charismatic lead actress away, for reasons that we'll never fully understand and which of course are none of our business. The relationship between Antonioni and Vitti apparently collapsed around 1965 or so, shortly after he ceased casting her in his films. She was, of course, quite a gifted actor and so went on to have a long career that shifted in the direction of romantic comedy and Italian television. The regrettable failure of their relationship (both romantic and artistic) to endure either the perils of fame or some mix of incompatible ambitions on both their part may be foreshadowed in the newspaper headlines that pop up near the very end of L'eclisse: NUCLEAR ARMS RACE... A FRAGILE PEACE... alongside the stark, unforgiving angles, desolate streetscapes, garbage casually tossed aside and harsh glare of unblinking lights (from stern human eyes and cyclopean orbs of overhead streetlamps alike) that bear down on us all so relentlessly.
Next: The Exterminating Angel