OK then...
I would like to personally thank former Black Panther Kathleen Cleaver. Her scheduled Q&A last night after BAM's screening of the 1969 documentary "Elridge Cleaver" delayed the start of "Salò" by 20 minutes, forcing the curators to move us into the same theater (the biggest one at BAM). Got the most dead-center perfect view of the screen in the mostly-packed theater. Basically I got to experience "Salò" for the first time in as good a setting (closely mirroring how it was meant to be seen back in its theatrical release window) as humanly possible. Reminded me of when I involuntarily started crying of joy a couple of years ago when I watched Kubrick's "2001: A Space Odyssey" in high-def media on my then-new 47" HDTV with a surround sound hooked up. That I was experiencing a masterpiece I loved with as much clarity (visual, aural and mental given the maturity between myself and the younger self that had watched "2001" in awe before) in the privacy of my own home overwhelmend me. At that point in my life I was experiencing that perfect storm a true cinema lover seldom experiences in which technology, content, setting and one's state of mind were in complete and perfect harmony. It was a glorious one-of-a-kind movie geek high.
I mention my "2001" high-def home experience because, though not joyful or tear-inducing, I felt a quiet but potent empowering joy throughout my viewing of "Salò" (and thinking about it afterwards on the 'D' subway heading back to Gotham, then reading this monster thread I've avoided for years) that mirrored the self-patting of intellectual detachment many a liberal-thinker like myself worship. The younger, more impressionable version of me couldn't have handled the allegory and symbolisms in this flick because (a) the shit and gore would have overwhelmed every other memory of seeing this flick and (b) I wouldn't have been able to articulate a reasonable defense of its meaning when discussing it. I've owned a bootleg of "Salò" for years that never made it past my kevyp pile (it's still sitting there) because I never felt like I was ready to do the movie's reputation justice. One could say that I was waiting until I'd gotten enough movie-viewing savvy and maturity (which is different for everybody) to tackle "Salò" as impartially as humanly possible without letting stuff like my upbringing or own morality/lifestyle cloud Passolini's Mise-en-Scene (rather unique to this movie considering his filmography) or the movie's multiple messages. That it happened last night (because of aox posting news of the BAM screening here) on a big movie screen with like-minded folks watching alongside (except the four or five that stoop up to go the bathroom that never came back) was just random timing and cherry, respectively. I wasn't revolted or disgusted by the movie's infamous moments (though I reacted physically to the depictions of abuse and gore like I do with similar movies) but fascinated by the juxtaposition of the intelligence and craft that went into making it with the depth of Passolini's anger that fueled its creation. The violent death of Paolo depriving his movie of a strong-willed defender to take on its critics before it was even released (and eventually banned-rediscovered-rebanned-unbanned over many territories) is just the type of poetic injustice (like the decades-long butchering of Lang's "Metropolis" for such an inocuous reason as Hel's name being too close to 'Hell') that gives the "Salò" mystique an irresistible, "Citizen Kain"-ish cinematic appeal. It's completely plausible to both not like the movie but defend to the death its right to exist and tell its tale, just as much as I can be both physically taken aback by its cruelty while also thinking of it as one of the greatest, most potent movies I've ever seen. Though I may be broke right now the two-disc Criterion version will be joining my video library someday.
Above all though, this movie felt like a personal litmus test of sorts that makes me so glad I have ended up in a point in my life in which I can feel strongly enough about experiencing "Salò," sharing it with the world and defending it without shame or fear of what others might think. When I think of friends and relatives whose company and opinions I love and/or respect that could not, would not want to or simply cannot handle (or see beneath the surface of) "Salò" I cannot get mad at them but I'm equally glad I'm not them (or have ended up thinking like them). This is not the goriest, most disgusting or depraved movie ever made, but the steadiness and conviction of its morals (yes, the detachment by Pasolini of the depravities he himself stages for "Salò" makes it one of the most moral tales of good/evil/in-between I've ever seen) give it an in-your-face timeless stature and high moral ground that equally-disturbing movies like "I Spit in Your Grave," "Cannibal Holocaust" and the "Saw/Hostel" movies (who don't have an intellectual leg to stand on when stripped of its set-pieces and dime-a-dozen camera techniques) cannot claim to have. That's a scary way of thinking to a society that potty-trains its population to expect from its entertainment media that good guys to win over evil 90% of the time. Pasolini's subversion of film language on "Salò" (nobody to empathize with, distancing techniques, gorgeous cinematography/set design contrasted with debasing acts of depravity, etc.) takes away our reaction cues and comes closest to sad truths about humanity within its fictionalized fairy tale of the grotesque than most filmed fiction.
Yes, the tortured kids snitch on each other trying to save their own bacon... but wouldn't you do the same if you were in their shoes? The guards with guns don't shoot the four Libertines to save their fellow men/women... but can you conceive of a less-educated and more instinct-driven version of yourself becoming seduced by first-time taste/exposure to the debauchery the Libertines consume (to such extent it has warped their sense of right and wrong)? The piano player kills herself in a show of impotent grief... but wouldn't you after being part in that quasi-religious ceremony where you had to put on an improvised fake show for the benefit of the kids whose deaths you eventually witnessed (and which you're powerless to prevent)? As I was watching the movie I thought there wasn't enough tension because nobody had been shot trying to escape from the mansion or executed in bloody fashion (guess the kid that runs away and is shot in the bridge was meant to represent the futility of escape, but it sure felt very tame and distant). Then, as the second hour's tortures piled on, the complicit passiveness of the victims in their own undoing became clearer to me as a focal point of Pasolini's anger: the tortured were complicit in their victimization, yet the burden of their calamity rests solely on those in power (Libertines as well as guards) allowing it or making it happen. As someone that grew up in El Salvador during its bloody Civil War (the heyday of the government-sanctioned Death Squads) and ended up living in the States escaping from armed conflict in my homeland (as did my father escaping certain death for trying to organize a worker's union in the late 70's) I can say that, within its fiction (the 'depraved rich people behaving badly' subgenre that spawns as far back as silent cinema and mainstream masterpieces like Kubrick's "Eyes Wide Shut" and Renoir's "Rules of the Game"), there is a little too much reality in the tough questions that "Salò" brings up and doesn't (can't?) answer.
This is why the end of the movie with the two guards dancing left me stunned in its simplicity and open-ended interpretation. Are we seeing two innocents that have pretended all along to be savages so they could survive this nightmare? Or are we seeing the last remnants of humanity (sharing pleasant nothingness like a girlfriend's name) within the psyches of permanently-battered psychopaths that will be let loose on society when the war ends (which we know it will end shortly but the characters in the movie don't know)? The answer is probably somewhere in the middle, or something more innocent/sinister that what we're imagining because of what comes before. There's also something visually alluring about the way the titles of the chapters (including the last one, 'FINE') fade into white with a matter-of-fact beauty that only heightens the impact of reading its names ('CIRCLE OF SHIT,' 'CIRCLE OF BLOOD,' etc.) so boldly and emphatically juxtaposed with their artful presentation.
And I'm surprised that, except for HerrSchreck, nobody has brought up the gallows black humor in "Salò" as one of its redeeming features. These vestiges of humor exist because the actors given the juiciest roles go for broke in exuding maximum detachment/menace in their depravity, which makes a complete 180 on hindsight becoming hilarious. Aldo Valleti's face alone (especially his frozen expression when the Libertines are getting dressed for the ceremony) made the theater explode in nervous laughter many times. Valleti reminded me of Ray Wise in his ability to exude both total menace and a wicked-hilarious personality. The way Valleti and Paolo Bonacelli scream
'MANGIA!!!' at the top of their lungs seemed scary in the movie (since we could see the crap they were feeding their victims) but afterwards, remembering their faces, I was laughing out loud in the subway car. Caterina Boratto, Elsa De Giorgi and Hélène Surgère take turns being ridiculously freakish storytellers, but Sonia Saviange (the closest we get to an audience surrogate) has a mean duet scene with one of the 'Signoras' that (a) is hilarious and (b) puts in context her eventual suicide. The victims aren't given personalities worth remembering, and that's just the way Pasolini liked it. That may be the ultimate, darkest joke in the whole movie: the absence amongst so many pretty faces and undressed bodies (the grease that keeps the entertainment industry cooking) of someone we can relate/like enough to care. Even the likely candidates for audience sympathy (the girl whose mother drowned trying to protect her, the moustache guard, the girls that end up sleeping with each other, etc.) are eventually revealed to be loss-leaders, pawns in the Libertines' never-ending game of debauchery (and Paolo's technique of not giving the audience a comfortable place to rest their expectations).
Last thing before I sign off. The one thing I will forever take from watching "Salò" on a theater was the sound of 175 or so theater seats springing back at once after every notorious set-piece in the movie. During these scenes (the deflowering of the newlyweds, the banquet, etc.) you couldn't hear a pin drop in the entire place because everybody was sitting still or tense. The moment these intense scenes ended and the movie switched to a conversation/set-up scene the springs of the seats were heard loudly as we relaxed and adjusted ourselves. If Pasolini were a violin player you could say he was playing all of us like a well-tuned Stradivarius, making us tense-up and relax at the whim of his editing. Whether it's the movie's reputation, it's quality (or non-existent worth if you're so inclined) or the offensive nature of what's being shown, "Salò" owned me and everybody else in rapture for two whole hours. That, my friends, is the power of an artist at the height of his game. "Momma Roma" is on tap as I remedy by embarrassing lack of exposure to Pasolini's work over the next few months/years. Thanks for reading.
