Dorathen Better Late Then Never

StyleSk8r At first rather annoying in its heavy emphasis on reenactments, this movie ultimately proves fascinating, simply because the complicated, highly dramatic tale it tells still almost defies belief.

Humbersi The first must-see film of the year.

Siflutter It's easily one of the freshest, sharpest and most enjoyable films of this year.

jefferino I saw Antonioni's "The Passenger" in September or October 1976, at the beginning of my freshman year at Columbia. It was the first "art house film" I ever saw, well before I'd heard that term. I was from Cincinnati, where apparently they didn't have such things. I had just turned 19, or was about to. I was taking a writing class with Kenneth Koch, discovering Frank O'Hara and Rimbaud, and doing everything I could to peel or dissolve the suburban Midwestern scales from my eyes. In that pursuit, this movie was as important as the LSD I would drop for the first time a few weeks later. Not that it was hallucinatory—just the opposite, in fact… though in both cases, perhaps, it was "the visuals" that I liked best.The film was playing at an auditorium on the Barnard campus, and I remember walking over there alone, being completely amazed by what I saw, and hurrying back to my Spartan dorm room to write excitedly about it in a notebook that is now long gone. I don't remember what I wrote, but I know it wasn't focused on Jack Nicholson, who plays a television reporter disillusioned with his life and work. Nor did I write much about the plot involving switched identities, riveting though it was. If I wrote about these things at all, it would have had to do with the way Antonioni de-emphasized Nicholson's movie star status and took the weight off a plot that would have been handled ponderously in a Hollywood movie, accompanied by ridiculous, tension-building background music. (I'd seen "Jaws" just the year before, which suddenly felt like ages ago.)In fact, everything in "The Passenger" had a different emphasis than it did in the movies I had grown up seeing; everything about it felt refreshingly "un-American." Nothing was explained: I was as clueless about what was going on as Nicholson's character and, like him, had to figure things out as I went along—discovering, with him, that he'd taken on the life of a gunrunner in Africa (like Rimbaud!). The film's pacing was slow, giving me time to think and, especially, to look. I was astonished by the long stretches of silence during which no one spoke at all. The minimalist approach made the movie feel not smaller but more expansive, making room for something else, which filled me with a calm excitement: beauty. I remember being struck, in the early scene in which Nicholson's character breaks down, by the gorgeous shots of the salmon-colored dunes against the blue sky in the saturated light of the African desert—then, in the scene where Nicholson's character changes identities with the dead man in the room across the hall, by the turquoise walls of the hotel hallway he drags the body through, and by the contrasting yellow doors. If you haven't seen the movie, this must sound crazy, but these, I think, are the things I wrote about in my notebook. And I'm sure I wrote about the shot of Nicholson from above, leaning out the window of an aerial tram and slowly flapping his arms like wings above the shimmering blue water of Barcelona's harbor. And the shot of Maria Schneider kneeling backwards in the red leather back seat of a convertible, spreading her arms and smiling as the plane trees lining both sides of a country road flicker by, seemingly without end. And the long, penultimate shot in which the camera (instead of focusing on the murder taking place) seems to move right through the bars of a hotel room window out into a dusty town square like something from a de Chirico painting.Of course, this would have all been written with the exuberance of my nineteen-year-old self, and I'm sure that notebook entry, if I read it now, would induce both nostalgia and embarrassment. I wasn't inclined to interpret these images so much as bask in the way they opened me up to another way of seeing. When I watch the movie now, in middle age, I notice many other things, among them the theme of not being able to escape oneself. But one of the things I'm glad I can't escape, or at least forget, is the intensity of my first encounter.First published in "New Ohio Review," copyright Jeffrey Harrison.

rodrig58 Michelangelo Antonioni likes very much to place the action of his films in the desert: "Red Desert" (1964), "Zabriskie Point" (1970) and some of this "The Passenger" (1975) Professione: reporter (original title). Not much is happening in this last one. I wonder how many were interested in watching this film if it did not have the name of Jack Nicholson, Maria Schneider (due to her previous role in "Last Tango in Paris") and Antonioni himself? I don't think too many. I like other Antonioni films, very much, especially "Blow-Up". I really like Jack Nicholson and "One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest" is one of my favorite movies ever. But this "The Passenger" is something hard to look at. Only the scenes with that angel called Maria Schneider's are somewhat more digestible.

keywitness "The Passenger" is a fascinating movie, a cinematic and philosophical masterpiece. I love Antonioni, and this is one of his best. I have watched it several times through the years, each time opening for myself a new moment or a new meaning. The acting is superb, and so is the camera work. The final scene that lasts for seven minutes without anything really happening is sublime. There is also a deep philosophical theme in the movie, uniquely different from other films of the time that also show dissatisfied, lost, or marginalized characters. Much has been written about the existential symbolism of the film, and it certainly pervades it on a grand scale. However, there is an interesting aspect of this movie which sets it apart from other existentialist works. In a Sartre-like view, a man is alienated from reality and does not feel welcome in the world nor connected with mankind. But in "The Passenger", it is David Locke's own life that is actually hostile to him. Let me try to explain what I mean. Like many people, he is trying to run away from mundane reality, the job that has been making him jaded, the marriage that's lost its flame. However, instead of making piecemeal changes, he tries to replace his life as a whole – reject it and become someone else. And now it is life itself that's after him, ready to punish him for violating the rules of engagement. It's as if he is just a vessel owned by life, which destroys him as soon as he tries to take matters in his own hands.At some point in the movie David says that he used to be somebody else, but traded him in (by the way, what a fabulous line). He boasts – he thinks he is in control of his life choices, but will soon find out otherwise. What crushes him in the end is not fate or circumstances or his past that catches up with him – it is life itself, ejecting an unruly passenger. Such juxtaposition of life with a man as a separate, all-powerful entity is unique in the artistic portrayal of existential struggle. The original title of the movie (in Italian) was "Profession: Reporter". This title would have made perfect sense if the character was an estranged observer of life. However, Jack Nicholson's character is truly a passenger – he is not in the driver's seat, and his privileges are pretty limited. His connection to life is neither cordial nor caring, the same way as there is no human connection between a train passenger and the train operator. David Locke has violated the rules, and his ticket is canceled. The train will continue forward without him. Captivating and mysterious Maria Schneider plays The Girl. As David jumps from one city to another, he keeps running into her. She is quite an ephemeral character, floating from place to place, seemingly not attached to any mundane or conventional activity like work or family. Having no name in the movie suits her character perfectly – one less connection to real life. Perhaps this is the only kind of people who David can interact with now and who can deal with him. When the police ask David's wife to identify his dead body, she says she doesn't know him. It is true – he has become a complete stranger to her. But when they ask the girl if she knows David, she says yes. Even though they have met only recently, they seem to be people of the same kind. Perhaps like him, the girl is also a passenger? Perhaps we all are.

eyesour Which you might call a better film, since it was more natural, less self-admiring and self-conscious, as well as three years earlier. There was a Girl-with-no-Name. She was a sort of a pick-up, in a way. Nicholson, like Oates, was someone who seemed to have lost his target in life, as well as the plot of his existence, and didn't know who he really was. We were told a little more about where Nicholson was coming from, though, which we never learned about Oates. Also, this was a kind of a road-movie, although the road criss-crossed the Mediterranean, not what I assume was the Bible belt, and the white convertible was more of a clipper than the 55 Chevy.The other characters in their bit-parts didn't seem to have much existence, either, and were just hanging around, waiting for something. Some reviewers complain about Schneider's performance. I thought she was just fine and dandy. Pity about that stupid Tango film. Couldn't see that she was high or doped in any way. Hendry, on the other hand, seemed to me genuinely and permanently sozzled every scene he was in. After it was all over, I spent time racking my brains to discover who someone called Stephen actually was, as I couldn't recall anyone with that name, or anyone playing a part which would fit someone of that name. I think I finally managed to place him. I have this funny feeling that if my name was Berkoff, I'd change it.Strange things happen in this movie. An African man, looking like a guerrilla leader, whose identity was obscure, was shot before our eyes, in real time, and in obvious reality. I never discovered why. Another man was suddenly kicked in the guts. I never worked that out either.I enjoyed this film. Can't really say why. I liked the photography, and the pace. It was slow, but it didn't seem slow. I kept expecting for things to happen, just like Blacktop. Another similarity was in the long-shots, where actions were happening in both foreground and background --- as well as middle-ground. I'm sure I will watch this again, and you can't ask for more when it comes to cinema. If you haven't seen Two-Lane Blacktop, try it. Another thought, as film-makers advance in years, they seem to abandon the idea of telling coherent stories, and, like I think Hitchcock once said, they just make pictures. Doesn't matter if these pictures don't join up, just because they move. Like walking through an exhibition in a picture gallery. It's happened to Tarantino as well.I was truly and exceptionally interested to see that Peter Wollen, an Oggsford man, had part-written the script.