Occasionally I run into films that present a challenge in the review department. What more can be said about “The Red Shoes,” released in 1948 and hailed by many as one of the best films of all time? The reviews that exist all boil down to the same details: it looks good, it’s surreal, it makes you think of cinema in a whole new way. And on and on for the last 60 years.
Lately I’ve been trying to challenge myself by reviewing films of some pedigree (“The Leopard” being another recent example). While I start out trying to appeal to modern audience sensibilities, I have the tendency to get excited. My review of “The Red Shoes” has thus far taken the form of a polemic, coming off as the rantings of someone who believes he’s found God. Fitting, in a way, since “The Red Shoes” is a movie very much about people who follow art religiously, but I imagine agonizing to people who regard movies as mere distractions and people who can’t abide the “look at me, I have a thesaurus” tone of some know-it-all fuck with a Blu-ray player.
But I really think that watching “The Red Shoes” is like getting a glimpse of the face of God, and why not? What better reason would there be to make a movie in the first place? I’m no doubt conflating ideas of God with ideas of truth, and filmmakers and critics alike have their own ways of discussing both. But “The Red Shoes” is brilliant in part due to its willingness to jumble these ideas. Is it a movie we’re watching, or is it an excuse to indulge our souls’ yearning to find something more reliable than our bodies for 133 minutes?
Oh, but it looks good, too. I do go on in this review, but maybe it’s okay to go on once in a while. Movies, and all art, can mean more to us than we generally give them credit for. That’s what I’m really trying to communicate.
