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Jodorowsky’s “Endless Poetry” Continues a Phantasmagorical Coming of Age

At 88 years young, the rebel-shaman filmmaker Alejandro Jodorowsky has led an eclectic life and enjoyed a provocative career not easily encapsulated. His 1970 acid western, El Topo, crowned him godfather of the midnight-movie craze. His phantasmagoric 1973 masterpiece, The Holy Mountain, was ripped off by Kanye West for the design of his Yeezus tour. His impossibly ambitious, unfinished Frank Herbert adaptation was anecdotally chronicled in the Cannes-vetted doc Jodorowsky’s Dune. And that’s just within cinema — “Jodo” has also been a playwright and a novelist, a writer of comic books and a musician, a Tarot scholar, and the inventor of “psychomagic” therapy. He once was a mime who studied with Marcel Marceau.

Jodorowsky began to unpack his origins and his emotional baggage in 2013’s The Dance of Reality (the first in a proposed pentalogy of autobiographical magic-realist fantasies), which concerned his melancholic 1930s childhood in Tocopilla, Chile, under the roof of his Stalin-obsessed, authoritarian papa, Jaime (played, via Freudian stunt casting, by his real son Brontis), and ever-coddling mama, Sara (opera singer Pamela Flores, who serenades every line of dialogue as an ironic corrective to his real mother’s unrealized dream of being a vocalist). Dance was a welcome return after the director’s 23-year filmmaking hiatus: playful, perverse, occasionally profound, yet frustratingly uneven in its conspicuous budget constraints and self-indulgent longueurs.

You need not have seen that film to delve into its spectacular follow-up, Endless Poetry, which picks up in the 1940s with Alejandro and his Jewish-Ukrainian folks moving from their provincial home to open a garment shop in Santiago. Dazzlingly shot on location by cinematographer extraordinaire Christopher Doyle (In the Mood for Love), this color-splashed, user-friendly sequel draws a heartfelt if comically absurd portrait of a young man growing into his identity by leaning into his creative passions. Taking over for Dance’s Jeremías Herskovits (who briefly cameos as the ragamuffin “Alejandrito”), Jodorowsky’s youngest son, Adan — who also composed the film’s score — steps into the now older role with the methodical, loose-limbed physicality of a professional clown.

Thirsting to become an artist but taunted by his tyrannical father, Alejandro escapes into the night and the loving (sometimes lusty) embrace of manic, carnivalesque bohemians. At the Café Iris, he discovers a mentor and lover in the voluptuous misfit poetess Stella (Flores again, with bright-red hair, Divine-like makeup, and gold-painted breasts) and shakes up the system in rabble-rousing collaborations with fellow writer Enrique Lihn (Leandro Taub). Jodorowsky periodically turns up on-screen as a spectral adviser to his younger self, like a cartoon version of Wings of Desire’s observant angels, while black-clad stage ninjas add and subtract props “invisibly” from scenes — moments played as Brechtian gags.

Episodic in structure, Endless Poetry feels like a scrapbook of amended memories filtered through Jodo’s lysergic proclivities, still on-brand decades later. There are Nazi dwarves and amputees. There is more full-frontal nudity than the MPAA could stomach (naked crowd-surfing at a circus!). Epic choreography commingles a marching band of red devils with a street procession of skeletons. This self-reflexive ode to following muses, finding meaning in nothingness, and transcending the sensitive roadblocks between fathers and sons is loopy, irreverent, and more intensely personal than anything its mystic creator has invented before.

Endless Poetry
Written and directed by Alejandro Jodorowsky
ABKCO Films
Opens July 14, Landmark Sunshine

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The Dance of Reality is a Sweet, Inventive Coda to One of Film Culture’s Most Unique Careers

The grand old dirty pope of midnight-movie voodoo and post-’60s turn-on, drop-out mythopoeia returns with a vengeance, in his autumnal phase and with, surprise, a personal look backward at his own childhood. The Dance of Reality may be Alejandro Jodorowsky’s best film, and certainly, in a filmography top-heavy with freak-show hyperbole and symbology stew, the one most invested in narrative meaning. Now a spring-chicken 84, Jodorowsky stands as a kind of anti-master, doggedly and self-seriously making the insane kinds of movies only pharma-busy teenagers might want to watch and imitate, and yet, by now, his absurd struggle has attained a kind of pulpy grandeur. Newbies should start at the beginning, with Fando & Lis (1968), and work chronologically, because Jodorowsky has been nothing if not a psychotropic kink in the global pop culture continuum, and therefore integral to what it has become in the last half-century. Every inch the graybeard valedictory, The Dance of Reality has something El Topo (1970), and The Holy Mountain (1973) did not: the graceful clarity of a fairy tale.

Or, rather, a Marquezian magical realism populated by the familiar Jodorowsky carnival of animals, dwarfs, amputees, clowns, shamans, and endomorphs. Jodorowsky was born in the small seaside Chilean village of Tocopilla, and that’s where he returned to shoot his memoir-movie, turning the town into a circus. Naked beggars paint themselves with Asian glyphs and limbless mine workers lollygag in crutch-carrying gangs rapping about the risks of dynamite. Raised in his émigré parents’ undergarment shop, nine-year-old Alejandro (Jeremias Herskovits) is torn between his sadistic and homophobic father (Brontis Jodorowsky), who rabidly tries to toughen the little softie up with abuse, and his dreamy, bosomy mother (Pamela Flores), who, in a self-conscious master stroke, sings all of her lines in an operatic soprano. True to the title, reality is a non-issue, as are time and history. Everything is shaped by the boy’s beleaguered but dazzled subjectivity, and by the way memory distorts truth. Jodorowsky himself even appears, in suave most-interesting-man mode, narrating to us in cryptic pronouncements about the chasm between what we see and what actually is.

It’s best to take the movie’s shotgun metaphysics as yet another subjective tangent, and go with the tall-tale-telling, most of which focuses on the tortured father’s odyssey to overcompensate for his son’s perceived cowardice. The ordeal only begins with the father’s courageous attempt to bring water to a pilgrimage of several hundred dying plague victims (marching in black over the sandy hills, one of Jodorowsky’s most bewitching visuals), only to have his pack donkeys eaten by the crowd. Infected, he is summarily saved by his devout wife, who in one epic shot howls an aria to God for his life as she squats and pees on his blistered body, curing him.

From there, Alejandro’s father is persecuted as a Communist and Jew, plots to assassinate the then-dictator Ibáñez (who only held power for a few years), ends up becoming the groom for the president’s beloved horse, suffers amnesia, wakes up a vagabond cared for by a pious hunchback who loves him, and eventually finds God. Then the Nazis show up, and the Resistance, dressed in ’60s garb and armed with electrical torture devices. (Brontis, Jodorowsky fils, endures a Tough Mudder obstacle course of suffering, mostly sans clothes.) As always, Jodorowsky’s dalliance with politics is rather child-like, but here it works, because everything is manifested from a child’s point of view, grappling with the irrational appetites of adults.

To some degree, it’s late Fellini in Patagonia, and for many, that’s an out-of-season flavor not due for re-evaluation. More than that, Jodorowsky is still constitutionally unable to conceive or stage scenes in which characters believably speak to each other — “character” per se doesn’t exist, only metaphoric roles, suggesting or augmenting some vaguely expressed mystical idea. The story doesn’t unfurl fluidly so much as get acted out in chunks. (Jodorowsky started out as a mime.) But Flores disrupts the filmmaker’s dream world. Zaftig, fearless, and passionately committed (even though she alone is belting out dialogue in song), Flores is a titanic, slightly deranged wonder, and her Sara Jodorowsky might be the most convincing and stirring performance in the filmmaker’s career, a landscape where everything (and everyone) else is only iconic.

Jodorowsky thinks primarily in disconnected images, and while some are simply goofy, others (a tidal wave’s ironic gift of sardines, the nude Mom covering herself and her nyctophobic son with black shoe polish, the dock tableau with black-and-white cutouts of the film’s characters) are disarmingly lovely. The Dance of Reality shouldn’t be anyone’s indoctrination to El Maestro, but as a sweet, inventive coda to one of film culture’s unique and defiant careers, it’s a welcome thing.

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How to Watch and Think about Alejandro Jodorowsky

Is it time, or will there ever be a time, to reevaluate Alejandro Jodorowsky? The appearance of his new film, The Dance of Reality, along with the doc Jodorowsky’s Dune, is spurring a rash of Jodo appreciations and reconsiderations (including, in all places, the Miami Beach Cinematheque, where I’m hosting a Jodo talk in June), and since at 84 the notorious charlatan has probably ejaculated his final mytho-anima warhead at us, the least we can do is attempt to account for his presence, and his perennial appeal. A unique cultural figure for almost a half-century, always dancing on the psychotropic fringes of cinema culture, Jodorowsky has never garnered a serious reputation as a filmmaker, but he’s never compromised his unmistakable arsenal of manias, either, and he’s never completely disappeared from view (despite distribution extinctions and industry skullduggery that would’ve buried someone less obsessive).

His remarkable career as a counter-culture provocateur and midnight-movie legend need not be revisited now, and neither, I think, do we need to shred his seven movies all over again for their very politically incorrect outrages, from strangely guileless exploitation of the handicapped to pure mucho-macho misogyny to the blithe butchering of hundreds of Mexican animals. (The rabbits alone…) Jodorowsky stands no chance of ever satisfying contemporary cultural norms in any broad sense, which is probably why those who love him love him dearly. He is a professional apostate, and has been from his first Panic Movement days. That has always been part of the problem – once you outgrow the need to shock your own mother, and break social taboos simply for the adolescent thrill of doing so, you naturally look upon those emotional strategies as being unsophisticated and juvenile. Which is a way of saying that I remember conceiving and outlining film and theater projects as a young teenage basketcase that were quite Jodorowsky-esque in nature. I recall them now as fondly as I recall the epic acne that mutilated my face.

Nothing can spell death for an artist quicker than having his work remind critics of ideas they themselves entertained as snot-nosed pre-adults. But perhaps this is also Jodorowsky’s grace note: He’s been the one cinematic voice who’s dared to retain what William Blake called “the auguries of innocence” – albeit spiked with freakshow giggles and buckets of cows’ blood. Is there no room in film culture for one unapologetic, megalo-mythic Ever-Teen? Formally, Jodorowsky’s films have always been stodgily assembled and sleepily paced, like pagan temple tableaux of limbless dwarfs, circus big tops, and baby hippos. But could their lack of narrative fluidity not also be a patience-demanding syntactical choice meant to ritualistically frame the movies’ totemic materials? Is Jodorowsky unable to make a dramatic narrative, or has he chosen instead to make films, like Kenneth Anger, that stand as mythopoetic objects in and of themselves?

Looking El Topo (1970), The Holy Mountain (1973), and Santa Sange (1989) this way doesn’t make them easier to watch, but it does reveal in their litanies of lumbering, Gomorrahic imagery an authorial strategy. You can see what he’s trying to do, even if it rankles you. But if that’s too rich for your blood, there’s still plenty of Jodorowsky set-pieces to reckon with, of a kind that moviemakers just don’t seem to have the walnuts to attempt anymore: just reconsider the section of The Holy Mountain depicting Conquest of Mexico as a public carnival show using live frogs and lizards (in costume), miniature pyramids, and very real explosives. That film proceeds through a lacerating takedown of Euro-Christian colonialism, ending up in a forest of ten thousand life-size plaster Jesuses and on the street, where the dynamic of occupying army vs. native peoples is played out as grotesque pantomine, under a platoon of crucified animal carcasses.

From there The Holy Mountain simply goes groggily, wearily bonkers, leaving the political symbology behind, but Jodorowsky has always been, amid his self-aggrandizing messiah scenarios and gratuitous everything, good for the occasional juggernaut movie moment. You may not treasure the full experience of Santa Sangre, say, but you remember the elephant’s funeral march. Even so, Jodorowsky’s world is all of a piece, and it has always seemed to me to be a hellish place to visit, a nightmare vision of Mexico (and by extension all of the Third World) as a post-civilized wasteland of cripples, corpses, fruitless rituals, and primal ruin.

As his films became more magical-realist and less apocalyptic (this includes 1980’s Tusk, an ostensible children’s film made in India that begins with one of its era’s most spectacular traveling shots), Jodorowsky’s imaginary landscape still retained a creepy After-the-Fall feeling, poisoned by human decadence and waiting to be swallowed by the abyss. I’m pretty sure this was not the filmmaker’s intention – Jodorowsky has always been on a mission to create new myths, and expand his audiences’ consciousness, and imagine new Christs and Buddhas, and save modern society from itself. He cast himself as a shaman time and again, and that’s what he wanted his film work to be, too – a path to enlightenment, to be employed alongside dope and Tantric sex and meditation and crazy costumes. But instead his films, including The Dance of Reality, are dreams of a world gone terribly wrong. El Topo remains famous as a stoner mind-fuck party movie, but it’s actually incredibly grim and disquieting; The Holy Mountain may be the most unpleasant movie ever made about salvation. Decades from now, that may be how Jodorowsky’s career is remembered – as one long, drunken, nauseating Day of the Dead parade.

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Jodorowsky’s Dune: The Dune That Died

The most perfect works of art are those suspended between conception and realization, the ones that seize you up with how great they’re gonna be. (Well, those and Busby Berkeley numbers.) Alejandro Jodorowsky’s daft, daring, surrealist, possibly impossible adaptation of Dune, Frank Herbert’s spice-mining science-fiction novel that later proved unadaptable for David Lynch, enjoys that rare benefit of the doubt shared by Hitchcock’s Kaleidoscope and Kubrick’s Napoleon. It screens only in the warmest theater of them all: the minds of the faithful who dream of it.

It’s also laid out, shot by mad shot, costume by rococo costume, in a beautiful book that Jodorowsky (director of the still-gobstopping avant freakouts El Topo and The Holy Mountain) and producer Michel Seydoux shopped around Hollywood in the mid ’70s. Funded by Seydoux, Jodorowsky wrote a script in a French castle, storyboarded it with brilliant comics artist Jean “Mœbius” Giraud, hired newbie H.R. Giger to design alien worlds, talked Pink Floyd into doing the music after upbraiding them for eating hamburgers in his presence, refused to work with special-effects pioneer Douglas Trumbull after realizing Trumbull was not a “spiritual warrior,” and wooed for his cast Mick Jagger, Orson Welles, and Salvador Dalí for the role the artist was born to play: the emperor of the universe. As an 84-year-old Jodorowsky tells it in the impassioned present-day interview segments that make Jodorowsky’s Dune a knockout comedy, all three of those heavyweights were game. Dalí demanded a giraffe. Here are the actual storyboard directions for a scene that would have involved Jagger: “He burns a butterfly and lights a long joint.”

Seydoux declares today that any masterpiece takes some madness but admits, “Dune had, perhaps, too much.” Early on in Frank Pavich’s fascinating and perversely uplifting doc, Jodorowsky lays out his goals for his Dune, which he considered not just a movie but “the coming of a god.” He would stir in audiences the hallucinatory effects of LSD; he would open the minds of the world’s young people to the “sacred” and the “free.” The script and gorgeous design work shared characters, settings, and an interest in hallucinogens with Herbert’s novel, but as an adapter, Jodorowsky granted himself a free hand. He chose to castrate the hero’s father in a bullfight before the hero had been conceived. To write around that Tristram Shandy–style roadblock, the father would now impregnate the mother with a single drop of blood that audiences would see racing up her fallopian tubes to a planetoid ovum, the resulting child, Jodorowsky explains, being born of spirit rather than lust.

Birth is also on his mind when he describes the process of adaptation. He likens turning a novel into a film to being a groom on a wedding night. If you want to get a baby, he says in his occasionally uncertain English, “You need to open the costume and rape the bride. I was raping Frank Herbert! Raping! But with love.” Not long before that, the jovial fellow shushes his mewling Siamese.

That up-the-vagina journey is a diminution and inversion of the film’s opening shot, which would traverse entire galaxies, partially because Jodorowsky wanted to show up the tracking shot kicking off Orson Welles’s Touch of Evil; by comparison, that meager entry only went from one country to another.

Several animated sequences based on those original storyboards confirm the movie would have been at least as beautiful and upsetting as Jodorowsky’s other films. (One brutal, comic scene of torturous amputations anticipates something the Pythons were cooking up an ocean away.) Film critics turn up early on to freight the never-was film with ambition every bit as unrealistic as Jodorowsky’s: Maybe, if it had hit theaters before Star Wars did, the last 40 years of movie history would have turned out better. At the end of the doc, everyone’s praising the work done on Dune for just the opposite, pointing out how shots and designs the team had crafted later stamped Star Wars, Flash Gordon, Raiders of the Lost Ark, Contact, and, seriously, Masters of the Universe. Dan O’Bannon, Jodorowsky’s special effects guy (and presumably a spiritual warrior), went on to write Alien; Giger’s designs for Dune often suggest the phallo-dentata beasts he would dream up for Ridley Scott.

Nobody says what really would have happened — that the film would have cost a mint, made little back initially, and now stand as a beloved and influential cult hit. At least we have this gem, the rare tease of what could have been that actually proves satisfying enough on its own.

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We Are All One in Babel-Meets-Benetton-Ad Altiplano

High in the Peruvian Andes, young Saturnina (The Milk of Sorrow‘s Magaly Solier) loses her fiancé to the toxic mercury spill that has left her village sick and blind. Meanwhile, war photographer Grace (Jasmin Tabatabai) has hung up her career after being forced at knifepoint to take a picture of her Iraqi guide’s execution. The two women are linked by Grace’s Belgian hubby, Max (Dardenne regular Olivier Gourmet), a cataract surgeon working near Saturnina’s town. Altiplano falls in the genre of films that tell, with heavy-handed overreach and humorless platitudes, ambitious stories of how invisibly, fatalistically connected we are in this tiny global village of ours—here’s looking at you, Babel and Mammoth. Compared to those two, there’s thankfully less bathos in the puffed-up reflections of injustice and spirituality that define Altiplano, though co-collaborators Peter Brosens and Jessica Woodworth (directors of the Mongolian-set Khadak) still cheapen their ethnological lyricism by over-stylizing the venture as if it were a Benetton ad by Alejandro Jodorowsky–lite. A statue of the Virgin Mary shatters, portraits of the deceased float down an inky river, and a tragedy is accompanied by walls falling down in slow-motion, the victim left on a bed in the middle of the remote plains.

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You Had to Be There . . .

Repeat the mantra “far fucking out” all you like but to fully appreciate the thing that is El Topo you’d have to have been there 36 years ago, in the wee hours of the morning, stoned out of your gourd, in a run-down theater on lower Eighth Avenue. Even then, I assure you, Alejandro Jodorowsky’s magnum opus was less kabbalah than cowabunga—albeit a triumph for theater owner Ben Barenholtz.

It was Barenholtz who spotted Jodorowsky’s Mexican whatsit at the Museum of Modern Art in late 1970 and booked the film for midnights (1 a.m. on weekends) because, as the single ad in the Voice put it, it was “too heavy to be shown any other way.” Unlike midnight movies before or since, El Topo played seven nights a week. Its astonishing word-of-mouth success was dependent on a demographic of hippie-boho druggies with cheap rents and no cause to wake up early for work. People like me.


El Topo
photo: courtesy Abkco

Glenn O’Brien’s hilarious review (republished for your delectation in the newly released Voice Film Guide) recaptures the moment. El Topo was a midnight Mass, a way of life—not least for Jodorowsky, who not only wrote, directed, and scored the picture but also played the eponymous holy killer–gunslinger saint. Although I vastly preferred Sergio Leone’s spaghetti westerns to Jodorowsky’s peyote variant, I saw El Topo twice—was this movie really as stupefying as it seemed? (Those were the days of acid fascism.) Indeed, El Topo was still packing them in when the film was bought that summer by John Lennon’s manager and yanked in advance of a full-scale Broadway opening, where it flopped. Big-time.

This saga has been told by many— including me in a book written with Jonathan Rosenbaum. I volunteered for the El Topo chapter not because I liked the movie but because a mysterious fate brought me into contact with its creator at the acme of his counterculture prestige. Improbably,
he and I were both present at an underground- cartoonist nerdfest in the spring of 1971; even less likely, I stumbled upon him two days later browsing in a midtown bookstore. I volunteered the information that I was soon going to Mexico (where I planned to stay for as long as I could make $500 last). “Incredible! You must look me up!” Where, I wondered? “Do not worry—everybody knows me there!”

Indeed, when I asked the student residents of my Mexico City flop they were incredulous: “You know the Maestro!” I journeyed to the depths of Chapultepec Park, where Jodorowsky was staging his psychedelic version of Alice in Wonderland. Maybe not so thrilled to find (hey, remember) me and two traveling companions (oh, hello), the expansive Maestro did a good job concealing it. What, he wondered, did we want to do? Did we want to eat, to drink, to fuck? Uh, dinner sounds cool. Jodorowsky and his wife—a frizzy-haired chick who was pure St. Marks Place—took us out. Table conversation was surreal. I was reading Impressions of Africa. “You know Raymond Roussel?” Jodorowsky bellowed. “How do you know of him? He is fantastic! Incredible!” As if on cue, the clean-cut group of American kids at an adjacent table leaped to their feet and burst into “Up With People!”

I’d never met a famous person before and I’ve never met one since who (with the possible exception of Susan Sontag) took such obvious pleasure in being their very own self. An amiable host, Jodorowsky plied us with toritos and showed off some Danish porn (snatching it nervously back when we began to riff on it in public). Outside, he paused to relieve himself against a parked car. “Look, he has made three streams,” Mrs. J remarked proudly as we staggered toward a disco named Paz y Amor. The evening provided material for three months of stoned impersonations: “Three streams! I . . . am . . . the Maker of the Topo!”

El Topo now can be seen at normal hours at IFC. You may find it a tiresome, macho relic—or a ragtag circus wandering through a fantasy realm part Treasure of the Sierra Madre, part Tolkien’s Middle-earth. I can’t watch it without conjuring up Alejandro. Maestro, I salute you: paz y amor!

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The Revolution Will Be Westernized: Leone’s Nutty, Lefty Epic

The most abstract and eccentric of Sergio Leone epics, Duck, You Sucker (a/k/a A Fistful of Dynamite, a/k/a Once Upon a Time . . . the Revolution, a/k/a What the Fuck Was He Thinking???) belongs with the crazy left-wing westerns that mark the post-’60s wreck of revolutionary dreams: Alejandro Jodorowsky’s El Topo, Dennis Hopper’s The Last Movie, Jean-Luc Godard and Jean-Pierre Gorin’s near unwatchable Wind From the East.

Originally released here during the summer of 1972, Duck, You Sucker reappears perhaps still incomplete, given the incidental ellipses and mysteries. But the new print is good, and the 20 restored minutes are choice. For the first time, American audiences can enjoy the introductory quotation from Chairman Mao (“The revolution is not a dinner party…”) and the opening close-up of a barefoot peon, later revealed to be Rod Steiger’s Juan, urinating on an anthill. Take that, Sam Peckinpah!

Duck, You Sucker begins as a relentless exercise in class vengeance. Juan is insulted by the haughty bourgeois scum of a luxury stagecoach—stuffing their mouths in mega-close-up—before dispensing some extremely raw justice. The movie switches from third-worldist macho to post-revolutionary disillusionment with the introduction of Juan’s reefer-smoking Irish alter ego, Sean (James Coburn), an IRA terrorist on the lam. Sean, whose political credo might be described as anarcho-dynamitism, is totally wired to explode, but it’s Juan whose mind is blown. The two engage in a lengthy contest of wills, team up to rob a bank, and find themselves embroiled in Mexico’s revolutionary chaos.

The part of Juan was written for Eli Wallach and, technician that he is, Steiger lacks the warmth that his more volatile Actor’s Studio comrade might have brought to what would have been his fourth turn as a Mexican bandito. Steiger’s performance is concentrated to the point of eye-bulging strain, particularly opposite the ineffably cool Coburn (Leone’s first choice for the lead in A Fistful of Dollars). Mannered even by Leone standards, Duck, You Sucker features a self-mocking Ennio Morricone soundtrack that begins crooning “Sean-Sean-SEAN” every time the maestro flashes back to the Irishman’s gauzy past.

The cynicism meter oscillates between outrageously callous and merely irresponsible. Every “up against the wall” is countered with a “duck, you sucker!” (According to Peter Bogdanovich, who was briefly attached to the project, Leone insisted that this lame phrase was common American slang.) Long before the apocalyptic closer, lumpen metaphors are crashing down like boulders—a bank turns out to be a political prison, Juan finds himself an inadvertent hero of the revolution, Sean tosses away his Bakunin to take an individualist stand against the Mexican army. History is swept away by the avalanche of allegory. The genocidal federales are modeled on Nazi storm troopers and the revolutionaries on Italian partisans.

As ambitious as it is anachronistic, Duck, You Sucker demands to be read through the prism of World War II as well as 1968. Could this be the last movie in the great Italian tradition that began in 1945? In its lunatic way, Duck, You Sucker engages Open City and Senso, Il Grido and The Battle of Algiers, Before the Revolution and Fellini Satyricon. It only remained for Pasolini to make Salo to postscript the most sustained national run in the history of movies.


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“Scenes restored to Duck, You Sucker” by J. Hoberman