Synapse to Cintax
Transposed Heads
As alluded to in the last post, the task I set myself this week was to ingest – and consequently try to digest – the filmography of the surrealist Chilean director Alejandro Jodorowsky; seven days, seven movies and one predictably difficult experience to explain. In truth, it was always going to be nigh-on impossible to distil the meanings of all his films in a single article – one could easily wax lyrical about each one in turn – and his oeuvre’s metaphysical absurdity delivers in spades. Though, to describe it as banally as ‘absurd’ is doubtless missing the point. Come on now, this is a man who once commented,
“Most directors make films with their eyes; I make films with my testicles.”
And, for those unfamiliar with Jodorowsky, this might just give you an inkling that his thought-patterns veer somewhat to the leftfield. And then, a little more to the left if you please. His leitmotif is to use brutally surreal images to mystical effect and, with the starkly beautiful aesthetics he conjures, it’s hardly surprising that he’s cited as inspiration for the likes of David Lynch. And Marilyn Manson. Natch.
The silent short film La Cravate (1957) or – to give it one of its many alternative names – The Severed Heads was my first. The story entails a female shopkeeper who makes a living exchanging human heads and concerns the quest of the male protagonist to find love. Despite relying heavily on mime and being extremely theatrical in poise, it’s a joy to watch and contains the humorous flourishes, yet dark undertones, which set the scene for later efforts. Fando y Lis (1967) followed and charts Fando and his paraplegic girlfriend Lis’ quest through a desolate landscape to find the lost city of Tar (for when they get there they ‘will know eternity’). It is littered with symbolism and surreally-placed objects – like a burning piano amidst aristocratic revellers – which are deeply unsettling. An unpleasant array of people torments and bullies and seems determined to separate them; frequently displaying acts of domineering Russ Meyer-esque sexually-charged depravity. Such torment often appears a result of Fando’s maltreatment of Lis and, her utterance “I will die and no one will remember me,” takes on a haunting quality as the mythical paradise they seek fades out of view.
El Topo (1970) is an ‘Acid Western’ of sorts although that is an, ultimately unhelpful, description of this remarkable film. Still, it is about as far away from The Searchers as you can possibly get while still donning a cowboy hat. At first, it charts the eponymous hero’s quest – while accompanied by his young son – to confront four great warriors and, in its latter stages, his search for redemption. I use the term ‘hero’ loosely and, one thing’s for sure, El Topo won’t be winning any ‘father of the year’ awards. His opening line to his son goes as follows,
“You are seven years old. You are a man. Bury your first toy and your mother’s picture.”
He then gets him to shoot someone and, buggers off before long, leaving his son behind. Thanks dad. Granted, it is a disquieting film (the body count goes off the scale within the first few minutes) and yet it operates heavily as a spiritual, nay, religious allegory (I call to the bench, El Topo’s self-depiction as ‘God’ and his subsequent resurrection, as well as the film’s chapter-split into Genesis, Prophets and Psalms). It goes without saying that it is visually spectacular – lurid shots and bird’s eye camera angles exploit the stark vistas, standoffs and frequently roseate colour palette – and the sparse and grating audio has a similar effect to Jonny Greenwood’s malevolently brooding There will be Blood soundtrack.
Likewise, The Holy Mountain (1973) produces further striking imagery and remains my favourite of the lot. The concept of the plot (not that it exactly pieces together this jigsaw) is that the main character – referred to as ‘The Thief’ – together with the alchemist (played by Jodorowsky) and seven all-powerful individuals set out to conquer the Holy Mountain. Themes such as the commoditisation of religion appear early on (such as the visually arresting scene showing the various casts of Christ surrounding the Christ-lookalike ‘Thief’ character) before several fantastical turns set up a tense and colourful first encounter between the thief and the alchemist. The Holy Mountain is, without question, firmly a product of its time (it was produced by The Beatles’ manager Allen Klein after all) amidst distrust of governments and the wane of the hippie movement. Each of the seven individuals (who represent a planet in the solar system) stands as a satirical take on the worst aspects of each planet’s apparent characteristics and, in turn, that of mankind. My favourite: Isla from the planet Mars. She’s a weapons manufacturer and, as she puts it,
“(The) young generation needs arms for its marches and sit-ins; we have psychedelic shotguns, grenade necklaces, rock ’n’ roll weapons…”
Elsewhere, we see robotic ‘love machines’ and Axon – chief of police from the planet Neptune – quashing student protests with mimicked brutality. In the ensuing farce, paint is thrown around as if blood and fruit is pulled out of victims like innards, perhaps depicting the comic-book horror of totalitarian regimes and people’s seeming numbness to the violence which continually surrounds them. The improvised ending is brilliantly self-referential and departs from the conventions of traditional theatre, removing the distance between the players and the audience. The ‘fourth wall’ is figuratively and literally overturned with the final line,
“Goodbye to the holy mountain – real life awaits us…” which plays with the notion of film’s immortalisation.
Oddly, after that, his works are not nearly as intriguing with the exception of the superb psychological horror, Santa Sangre (1989).Tusk (1978), however, marks a severe departure from his more experimental fare and tells the tale of a girl inextricably linked with an elephant born at the same time. Er…prog rock soundtrack and Mighty Morphin’ Power Rangers-style elephantine belligerence? Check. That said I’m still totally digging the inappropriate guitar solo that kicks in during said elephant fisticuffs and wondered at the time whether I had in fact been transported to a savannah-based Yes concert. The teleporting shaman is a particular comedic delight along with the fact that the main characters are supposed to be English (note: the film is wholly in French) aside from an individual who’s asked whether he’s American. “Oui” is the reply. Bizarre.
Anyway, 11 years passed before the release of Santa Sangre (i.e. The Holy Blood) which is a helluva lot more like it. This is a quite brilliant horror that keeps the abstract touches while dispensing with the wholly dreamlike narrative structure in a tale of circus freaks, flashbacks and brutal violence. Scenes of a religious cult battle provide a backdrop against the lead’s insanity and his depiction as a sort of macabre marionette. An eerie movie for sure and its similarity in part to Psycho is clear but no less effective because of it.
The Rainbow Thief (1990), unfortunately, is a massively disappointing way to end. Despite charting an impressive blend of ‘big-time’ actors (Peter O’Toole, Omar Sharif and Christopher Lee) it lacks any real semblance of plot and reeks of a producer preventing an obviously frustrated director from really pushing the limits of his craft.
If one thing is clear throughout my wading-through of his films, it’s of Jodorowsky’s ability to create and maintain a relentless sensual energy. This truly reaches its heightened, feverish best in the likes of El Topo and The Holy Mountain and, on a slightly different level, Santa Sangre. In short, I witnessed a great deal of spiritual allegories, Jesus-complexes, dwarves (actually, loads of dwarves), dismemberment, nudity (lots of it too), violence and consequently death (it follows). Oh, and a bit of body horror. Not to mention birds frequently operating as a neat metaphor for the soul leaving the body. Or something. His films are not simply the sum of these parts, however, and often his films have comedic results; toying with the apparent farces within and betraying the rigidities of traditional cinema. Jodorowsky is 82 now although I get the faint impression that there’s more to come. Rumours abound whether the sequel to El Topo (Abel Cain or The Sons of El Topo) will ever happen but, in today’s environment where risk limitation appears to overshadow experimentalism, it would take a financier with some balls to put it out – for this is a director who only ever makes films with them.
