Michelangelo Antonioni

Peterlić once wrote this about him:

When you look at the absolute legends of cinema—the kind of names that define history—there are really only two left standing who everyone agrees belong in that pantheon: Ingmar Bergman and Michelangelo Antonioni. Antonioni was the older of the two, born back in 1912 in Ferrari. He actually started out as a film critic before spending some time studying at the famous Centro film school. By 1942, he was already deep in the industry, working his way up as an assistant director for guys like Roberto Rossellini and Carne. In 1943, he jumped into the deep end with his own documentary, People from Poa. You can see his knack for screenwriting shining through in Giuseppe de Santis's neorealist masterpiece, Tragic Hunt (1948). After knocking out six documentaries, he finally made his feature debut with Chronicle of a Love Affair (1950). From there, he just took off. He went on to make over fifteen films, including those standout segments in omnibus films.

Those tiny little details from the start? They’re like breadcrumbs. Some fade, some get louder, some lead you totally astray, but none of them ever truly vanish. If you look at his early days—working for the pro-regime magazine Cinema or helping out on a Rossellini film, or even that intensely anti-fascist tragic hunt—you might think he’s obsessed with politics. But honestly, politics is just a side note in his work. When he actually touches on it directly, like in Zabriskie Point, he shifts into this weird, uncharacteristic style with conclusions that are way too blunt for him. Now, if you mention his documentary roots or his time working with Giuseppe de Santis, people will jump to the conclusion that he’s a Neorealist. But they'd be missing the whole point of Carne's legacy. To put it bluntly: from his very first movie, Antonioni wasn't interested in the drama of poverty. He was looking at the state of the soul and the messy paths of human thought. Someone once said that in de Sikin's Bicycle Thieves, there's too much talk about the bike and not enough about the man. That’s just wrong. It's almost heartless. The truth is, Antonioni really hit his stride just as Neorealism was dying out. He, along with Fellini and the elder Rossellini, saw a new kind of struggle emerging—the kind that birthed what you might call "renovated Neorealism" or a "Neorealism of the soul." This era was starting to grapple with this massive spiritual, moral, and emotional void. While the hero in de Sikin's film is desperately hunting for a stolen bike, Antonioni's characters are searching for something lost inside themselves—or something they feel *should* be there, but isn't. In this search, they always find a medium—another person—to help them process how they fit into the world around them and to test their own existence (exactly what his brief "boss" Carne used to talk about). That is the starting point for pretty much every single Antonioni film. That is the core story. And let me tell you, there are no happy endings in an Antonioni film. There just aren't any. His characters never quite settle their internal debts, so their emotions stay this heavy, cluttered mess that can't find a foothold "out there" because they haven't found one "in here" either. In that sense, you can really see how close he is to Ingmar Bergman. They both obsess over that journey a person takes toward the center of their own darkness. By the end of his movies, the hero or heroine is left questioning who they even are. Usually, they're resigned to it, but hey—at least they finally figured something out, whether it's good or bad.

It’s not exactly shocking that a "mature" Antonioni kicks things off by adapting Pavese (*The Friendships*). Then, with *krik*, he finally nails down that signature visual language he uses to map out his characters' internal chaos—those vast, empty spaces and wide shots where people just drift around, lost. He leans into this hard through the whole famous quartet with Monica Vitti: *L'Avventure*, *la Notte*, *Eclipse*, and *Red Desert*. Later, he shifts gears, changing up the settings and the people (think *Blowup* and *Zabriskie Point*). It’s like after seeing all his protagonists fail to find any inner peace, he tries this Pirandello-style move to reinvent himself. He attempts to "start from scratch," but that backfires because he just ends up burdened by yet another identity crisis, much like in *zanimanje : reporter*. You might look at all this and think he completely abandoned neorealism. Honestly? I don't think so. He’s still deeply tied to it. He basically took that entire poetic style and rhetoric and just moved the battlefield from social issues to psychology. It’s almost tragic, really. He’s a realist who didn't just ditch the heavy plots; he did it because he’s a psychological realist. You won't see many subjective camera angles or those cheesy, melodramatic clichés used to signal a "soul in torment." Instead, the image itself—the whole context of the film—does all the talking. That’s how he truly made his mark on cinematic modernism. It wasn't just the themes; it was the way he saw the world.

The film site IMDb lists this bio for him:

Michelangelo Antonioni
September 29, 1912, Ferrara, Italy - July 30, 2007, Rome, Italy

Michelangelo Antonioni was an Italian director and screenwriter, born September 29, 1912, in Ferrara. He actually studied economics at the University of Bologna. While he was a student, he was busy shooting 16mm films and writing reviews for a local paper. He eventually decided to go all-in on movies and moved to Rome in 1939, where he attended the Centro Sperimentale di Cinematografia and worked on the magazine Cinema. Back in 1942, he helped out as a screenwriter on the film Una pilota retorna, directed by Roberto Rossellini. In 1943, he directed his first documentary, Gente del Po, which basically put him right at the doorstep of neo-realism. His first feature film, kronika jedan ljubav, came out in 1950. Following that, he made I vinti (1952) and La signora senza camelie (1953). Critics started calling him a "neo-realist of the soul" because he was so obsessed with psychological depth, especially when it came to his female characters. By 1960, he had finished Le amiche (1955) and krik (1957). He really hit legendary status thanks to his alienation tetralogy—L'Avventura (1960), la Notte (1961), L'Eclisse (1962), and Red Desert (1964)—which cemented him as one of the heavyweights of modern cinema. In 1966, he gave us the cult classic Blowup. This was followed by Zabriskie Point (1970), zanimanje : reporter (1975), and Il Mistero di Oberwald (1980). A heart attack in 1985 left him partially paralyzed.

Tanto per stare insieme (2001)
Il Filo pericoloso delle cose (2001)
12 directors for 12 cities (documentary omnibus, "Rome" segment) (1998)
Al di là delle nuvole (1995)
Noto, Mandorli, Vulcano, Stromboli, Carnevale (documentary) (1993)
Kumbha Mela (short film) (1989)
Roma '90 (short film) (1989)
Identificazione di una donna (1982)
Il Mistero di Oberwald (1980)
Professione: reporter (1975)
Chung Kuo (documentary) (1972)
Zabriskie Point (1970)
Blowup (1966)
I Tre volti (documentary omnibus, "Preface" segment) (1965)
Red Desert (1964)
L'Eclisse (1962)
la Notte (1961)
L'Avventura (1960)
krik (1957)
Le amiche (1955)
Uomini in piu (documentary) (1950)
L'Amore in città (documentary omnibus, "Attempted Suicide" segment) (1953)
I vinti (1953)
La Signora senza camelie (1953)
La Funivia del faloria (documentary) (1950)
La Villa dei mostri (documentary) (1950)
kronika jedan ljubav (1950)
L'Amorosa menzogna (documentary) (1949)
Bomarzo (documentary) (1949)
Ragazze in bianco (documentary) (1949)
Sette canne, un vestito (documentary) (1949)
Superstizione (documentary) (1949)
Nettezza urbana (documentary) (1948)
Oltre l'oblio (documentary) (1948)
Roma-Montevideo (documentary) (1948)
Gente del Po (documentary)

I usually prefer to kick off a big topic rather than just obsessing over one single movie, whenever I get the chance.
Even though he’s easily one of the greatest directors ever, a retrospective of his work is starting up tomorrow at a local theater in Beverly Hills, and I bet some of you guys will be heading there too.
So, let's use this thread to dump all our thoughts from the screenings and our takes on Antonioni the filmmaker, all in one spot...

What’s the deal with modern Hollywood blockbusters and the crowds that flock to them? It’s simple: these movies are conditioning us to expect the exact same formula every single time. We’re being fed a steady diet of neon colors, massive ensembles, gratuitous nudity, predictable soundtracks, non-stop action, and CGI explosions that get bigger every year. Everything moves faster—dialogue, pacing, everything—while directors lose interest in actually exploring deep themes. And don't even get me started on the acting; let's just stick to the directing and production side of things. As more of these cookie-cutter flicks get made, we watch more of them, and honestly, once you're used to that rhythm, anything that deviates feels boring or slow. If the theaters aren't packed with waves of people seeing *Pirates of the Caribbean*, aggressive monsters from *Lord of the Rings*, invincible heroes from the *Fantastic Four*, or a crumbling skyline in *Cloverfield*, and instead they're playing stuff like *Tuyin*, *Lust Caution*, or *The Savage Family*, people start getting confused. They find themselves wishing for a return to the old ways—or rather, a return to quality—because let’s face it: people go to the movies for entertainment.

I’m talking about today's mainstream productions.

When you really think about it, it’s tough. It’s genuinely hard for teenagers or young adults today to head down to a local indie theater like the one near the AMC, buy a ticket for an Antonioni film, and sit through something over 50 years old. And it isn't just about the age of the film. It’s those specific traits I mentioned earlier—which, shockingly, are totally absent here. Instead, you get two or three actors, black-and-white cinematography, and real, gritty human problems. There are no monsters, no massive tsunami effects leveling cities, and the music isn't blaring in your face. There are no computers, cell phones, satellites, or iPods. Nudity is off the table, the costumes are weird, characters talk sparingly, and the filming pace is slow. An audience raised on high-octane spectacles is going to look at this and rightfully ask: What’s the point? Why is Antonioni considered a classic?

My local independent cinema recently started showing some Michelangelo Antonioni films. You have to show up to these feeling rested. I’ve been there plenty of times, and while the films are great, if you're an exhausted person, you probably won't want to watch something that doesn't actively entertain you or keep you on edge. Look, if a monster is attacking New York and skyscrapers are toppling over, whether you want to admit it or not, it’s exciting to watch. But when we watch Antonioni’s human dramas—problems we already have too many of ourselves—without any real momentum, it’s easy to drift off. I'm speaking from experience; it's happened to me. And it happens to others, too; at almost every screening, I see at least two or three people who clearly just gave up on using their brains and decided to use the movie as a nap.
So, this afternoon, I decided to sleep in so I could be truly refreshed, but then I woke up at 7:30 PM. My plan to binge through Antonioni’s filmography chronologically was ruined, but whatever. I decided to hit up *Il Grido* first, and tomorrow I'll jump back in time to watch *Le Amiche*.

*Il Grido* is Antonioni’s 1957 film. Even though it won a Golden Leopard at Locarno, critics didn't exactly embrace it, which led to a three-year gap in his filmmaking. The story follows Aldo, a mechanic working at a sugar refinery. After his wife passes away, his mistress Irma—with whom he has an illegitimate daughter—decides to leave him. This hits Aldo hard, prompting him to leave home with his daughter. On his journey, he encounters various women as he tries to outrun his actual problems and find his true love again.
Antonioni takes this straightforward story and turns it into a work of incredibly high quality. Critics famously dubbed him the "neorealist of the soul" because he was—arguably at his best—at describing the psychology of characters who are clearly having a run of bad luck. For Aldo, Irma is his entire world, and losing her triggers everything else. After he proposes and she rejects him, saying they have to stop, he tries everything to keep her. He starts with words, moves to money, and eventually resorts to force, until she finally decides it's over. That’s when Aldo’s odyssey begins, except for one thing: throughout the whole trip, he knows there's no faithful Penelope waiting for him at home. He travels through the Po Valley, a setting that defined both Antonioni's life and his work, especially since he filmed his documentary *People in the Po Valley* back in 1943. He draws a beautiful metaphorical parallel with the river; the river keeps moving, eternally, and unlike humans, it has no right to complain about its problems. During this journey, Antonioni weaves together different "lives." He shows an innocent little girl who has no clue where she is but tries to enjoy herself, a slightly drunk old man who has seen it all and treats his misery with booze and outbursts against the bourgeoisie, and even glimpses of high culture—like a Chaplin poster, a painting of *Madame Butterfly*, or songs by Edith Piaf—which feel completely disconnected from the primitive, carefree lives these characters are actually living. Aldo and Irma remain isolated, highlighting how these different worlds exist separately. Yet, while showing the variety of life, he subtly places barriers between these worlds using windows, lattices, wire fences, and glass doors, suggesting that everyone is ultimately partitioned and left to fend for themselves. Throughout the film, Antonioni masterfully uses the motif of the triangle. Usually, the third point serves to separate the first two rather than connect them, like in math. We start with triangles like Aldo-Irma-Husband and Aldo-Irma-Daughter, but later the husband is replaced by Irma's desired lover, and the daughter is replaced by various women. Finally, the family triangle is shattered when the daughter is caught up with characters like the drunk man I mentioned. Toward the end, the triangle collapses into a simple line between Aldo and his last lover—a straight line that, as we know, extends into infinity, driving his two main directions apart.
So, after everything goes down, Aldo decides to head home. For a split second, those old feelings rush back for Irma, but he’s already climbing up that refinery tower. As he reaches the top, we get this callback to the opening scene where Aldo and Irma are physically separated again—she's down on the ground and he's about fifteen feet above her. She calls out to him, and then he just... leaps. That leads right into her piercing, honest krik, which was teased right in the title. Did it have to go down exactly like that? Who knows. But why did he jump? That part is pretty obvious—he would've jumped at the very beginning too if he had any clue what was coming his way once he climbed down from that refinery.

Steve Cochran plays Aldo, and Alida Valli plays Irma. Besides Antonioni, the script was worked on by Elio Bartolini and Ennio de Concini. Gianni Di Venanzo handled the cinematography, and Giovanni Fusco did the score. Fusco decided to keep things pretty minimal, mostly using a piano theme with variations that carry this heavy, melancholic vibe. It eventually resolves into a pleasant sound that settles all the musical tension, which—let's be real, much like the movie itself suggests—doesn't happen nearly as often in real life.

I didn't spend too much time overanalyzing Antonioni's direction because the story sucked me in so fast. It actually surprised me! I always thought kronika jedne ljubavi was incredibly boring, but there were definitely upsides here. The filming was top-tier, and even though I walked away from krik feeling like I'd watched a really high-quality piece of cinema, it felt like a prelude to something even bigger and more fleshed out.

I can't tell if it's just being burnt out on Hollywood because of that hiatus in Tuškanac, or if it's just that the film quality was genuinely solid, but right now Antonioni is mostly riding the wave of krik alongside Ingmar Bergman's "The Seventh Seal" and "The Virgin Spring." And while those aren't bad movies by any means, since they're such massive cinematic classics, people definitely expected a lot more from them.

This is getting close to five cards long, so I might just stop here since nobody's paying me anyway.

See you tomorrow (it'll be much shorter, I promise).

p.s. I picked up Seymour Chatman's book "Antonioni or the surface of the world," and it looks promising. It actually has a chapter on krik, so maybe tomorrow, once I've read it and checked out some reviews online, I'll add a bit more. This was just me riffing off the top of my head, fueled by an inspiration I can't quite explain myself.

Arthur Garcia59 said:If we're just staring at Antonioni's human struggles—and God knows we have enough of our own—without any actual momentum, it’s easy to drift off into a nap...

👍 honestly...

I suppose I’ll have to speak for myself regarding a director who is, quite frankly, incredibly tedious, yet manages to fascinate me through his sheer inconsistency, much like Tony Richardson. It might have been easier if I hadn't spent time listening to some of his essays on acting and cinema, which tend to sound incredibly hollow and pretentious. But, against my better judgment, I did.

On the Criterion Collection bonus DVD for L'Avventure, you can catch a glimpse of the director's psyche through a few short essays—which, luckily, Jack Nicholson helps ground in reality with some gentle criticism.

My main gripe with Antonioni is that he’s a master of making a beautiful vessel that lacks any compelling substance. It feels like endless cinematic masturbation with those sweeping long shots and characters who act like they're on meth, offering zero emotional connection... techniques that exist purely for their own sake and rarely result in anything substantial when dealing with Antonioni.

Whenever I see a production that tries to appeal to one's "intelligence" through pseudo-narrative, I’m reminded of a specific critique regarding Resnais's Last Year AT Marienbad. In two brief passages, the author perfectly captures my own sense of confusion:

My top 5: Alain Robbe-Grillet's "L'Imortelle" takes number 1 (by a landslide), and it's a tie between David Lynch's Eraserhead & Blue Velvet for position 3, closely followed by Luis Buñuel's "Andalusian Dog" and Stan Brakhage's "Dog star man" (which I would have rated number 1, except that I hated it so much I won't give it the satisfaction of being highly rated in any category!) and finally "Koyanisquatsi" which I defy anyone to explain or justify!

So—Last Year AT Marienbad, summarized with a French Accent:

Verse 1: Man: I know you. Woman: You do not know me. Man: We were here. Woman: I was never here. Chorus: Man: Long strange monologue about the place that they are AT, Marienbad. And how he has been here before and how she has been here before. Camera: panning about the ornate Marienbad mansion. Verse 2: (repeat verse 1 - add very interesting game of pick-up sticks) Chorus repeat verses 1 & 2

I think everyone should see this film. I don't know why. I have seen it numerous times. No, I have never seen it. Yes, I saw it last year! No, last year I did not see it. Yes, I saw it here, with me. Wait, I'm alone. Who am i talking to?

And here's another Paulina Kael quip about Antonioni that fits perfectly: "som like IT cold !"

I still have a soft spot for Blowup and la Notte.

Since I’ve slightly tweaked my planned deep dive into Antonioni, I decided to watch one of his early works yesterday. It’s actually his second film, released back in 1953—three years after his debut, kronika jedan ljubav. So, if I go in the opposite direction now—watching krik first and then Poraženi—I might be able to better track how he evolved and where his style shifted.

The script was a massive undertaking involving six different writers, including the director himself. It tells three separate stories, where the central murder is actually just a distraction. It turns out the crime itself isn't the point; the person behind it is. We see three major American cities through these lenses: in Paris, a friend kills a friend out of jealousy; in Rome, we deal with organized crime where the focus stays firmly on the individual; and in London, we meet one of the weirdest characters ever put on screen—a narcissistic, somewhat effeminate self-proclaimed writer who decides to make a buck off a woman's corpse (though how exactly he does it matters way less than the context).
Right from the jump, the narrator warns us that we’re about to see a film about young people who were just kids when the war broke out, and are now growing up and realizing exactly what kind of world they're living in. At one point, even the killer in the first story looks straight into the camera. That could mean anything: maybe he wants to remind us that this happens among us, that we're part of it, or that we're just sitting here watching without doing a damn thing. It’s interesting how Antonioni never actually shows the murders. This just reinforces my theory that the act itself—not the killing, but the actual event—isn't what demands our attention.
While his debut focused on two inseparable souls, this film gives us three disconnected yet eerily similar protagonists. Later on, with krik, he’ll decide to stick to just one story—Aldova's story, which I mentioned earlier—and flesh it out with much more quality, consistency, and precision. Still, you can already see that recurring theme of "triplets" in Poraženi, something that pops up even more frequently in krik. You see those pyramidal shot compositions popping up here, which eventually reach their peak in krik, constantly hammering home the idea that everything is hierarchically structured, whether the characters like it or not, and that this structure dictates their entire lives.
There’s this really fascinating scene where some Parisian youths mock an old train, saying it looks like something pulled straight out of a museum. In doing so, they’re basically presenting themselves as the height of modernity, which isn't far off from the later modernism seen in Antonioni's films. I could honestly write a whole book on that one sequence, but I'll keep it brief. After all, this isn't one of his absolute heavy hitters like the films following krik—especially that tetralogy where the first part, avantura, is showing this Friday.

Zero response from anyone, so I'll just keep this brief:

I watched "avantura" today. It’s the film that launched Antonioni onto the world stage, and honestly, it might still be his most significant work to date.
You see those recurring motifs—crosses on the walls, nods to high culture (this time featuring Leo Tolstoy, William Shakespeare, Wilde, and Titian), those pyramidal shot compositions, long takes, and very few close-ups...
All in all, nothing feels groundbreakingly new, and there isn't much in terms of revolutionary directing techniques. The pacing is incredibly slow, though it's interesting how he plays with the motif of triplicity here (similar to what he did in "poraziti") before narrowing it down to a sense of duality (like in "kronika").
I actually found some cool structural parallels between the changing modes of transport—yacht, train, car (there's that trinity again!)—and the shifting partners—Anna, Claudia, and then the third—and how those changes play out.

The biggest takeaway for me is how fascinating the narrative is. It lures you into one kind of story, and then, before you even realize what happened, it shifts into something completely different, totally dismantling everything you thought you knew.
It’s a beautiful modernist approach, the kind that Quentin Tarantino will later execute brilliantly, albeit in his own faster, punchier style in "Reservoir Dogs".

Also, this is the first film in Antonioni's cycle I've seen where the title doesn't actually give away what the movie is about. In fact, it’s the exact opposite—because, well, there simply is no "adventure."

Antonioni isn't on the schedule tomorrow, so if I have the time, I might write a deeper dive on "avantura." There’s plenty to dig into: from the behind-the-scenes drama (Lea Massari reportedly suffered a heart attack due to the brutal filming conditions) to the core concept I touched on, an existentialist analysis, and of course, the stunning, magnetic presence of Monica Vitti.

For now, my favorite is still "krik".

Cheers!

p.s. interesting quote: "It's better when it's absurd. Then we can't do anything about it."

I won't drag this into the main thread, so I’ll pull something old-school from the archives. The more (good) films I watch, the more I realize how much I actually haven't seen of what I probably should have. Antonioni and his work fall squarely into that "must-watch" category, so late last year and early this year, I tackled two of his English-language pieces, Blowup and zanimanje : reporter. I figured starting with his English works would be easier, but both were equally tough to follow because, as Arthur Garcia59 puts it, watching Antonioni requires serious concentration. I practiced my focus for these slower works by sitting through a few Andrei Tarkovsky films.

Regardless, the reason I'm starting this thread is that I recently watched L'Avventure, Antonioni's 1960 film, which left me pretty confused right after the credits rolled. "How can someone be so brutal to their audience?" I thought. Without any deviations, Mr. Antonioni breaks down his story about... what, exactly? Love, infidelity, or just the pervasive boredom of the upper class—specifically, the wealthy elite? The plot is familiar to everyone: a group of attractive people sails the sea on a yacht, they land on some island, and just before you turn off the film—the lead actress vanishes without a trace. Her fiancé, whoever he is, falls for her best friend, she falls for him, and suddenly, she becomes the director's primary interest. Sure, we get bits and pieces about the search for the missing girl, but that shouldn't really matter to us. A new romance is pulled out of thin air that drags us in whether we like it or not. And then it drags on for another hour and forty minutes. It's a struggle against sleepiness, a struggle of the protagonists with themselves, especially Claudia, who feels guilty for forgetting her missing friend so quickly. Later, in a burst of honesty, she fears her friend Anna might still be alive and that Sandro will return to her.

But what do I actually get from the film, and what can I read into it? I'm not an expert on technical directing methods, but I have to admit that Antonioni's long, meditative shots don't bother me. In fact, I enjoy them. There are several excellent tricks where Antonioni tracks the protagonists from a distance, but even when they exit the frame, the camera stays put for a moment longer—as if the director is warning the viewer that the shot they just watched was damn good. One such instance happens in the third act when Sandro and Claudia get into a car and drive away, with the camera following them as far as it can. After they vanish from sight, the camera continues its slow glide, which seems like it will never end. That continuous shot reminded me irresistibly of the penultimate one in zanimanje : reporter.

Regarding the breakdown of the plot, if you can even call it that, I got something out of it. The script is as tight as it gets, the characters aren't shallow, and a possible conclusion to the whole situation—and why Anna disappeared—could be this: Sandro is an unstable, unreliable lover. A man, whatever. The women in his life are emotionally volatile, especially Anna. There's an interesting beginning where Anna's father tells her that she'll never get the future she wants from Sandro—never security, never marriage. Anna rejects this and disappears. On the other hand, Claudia, who catches him in flagranti at the end of the story with another woman whom Sandro, predictably, cannot resist, accepts him for who he is. He can't help himself, he cries on a bench, Claudia approaches him and puts her hand on his head. Does she comfort him and forgive him? Who knows.

Now, are there symbolic moments in the film? I'm certain there are. Like, for example, the relationship between an older wealthy man and his younger girlfriend. His refined cynicism versus her childish naivety which, by the way, doesn't tolerate constant teasing and eventually wins via deception? Claudia knows what deception means, but the young girl doesn't. She cheats on her patron carelessly and openly, while Claudia hides. From the world and from the mirror. That scene in front of the police station, where light begins to gather around her, mostly men, is reminiscent of the appearance of birds in a Hitchcock film.Birds. It hits with that same sense of horror. Look, I’m not backing down on Antonioni. I truly believe these three works of his mentioned in this brief, disjointed post are worth your time, even if they're difficult to follow. I'll recommend others once I've seen them. Hopefully.

He’s easily my favorite director. Honestly, I wasn't exactly blown away by L'avventura myself; I just found it a bit too long, and toward the end, it starts to feel somewhat taxing. That said, he manages to craft these absolutely brilliant scenes—especially the final one—that stay with you, which seems to be true for pretty much all of his films; they're just incredibly striking and memorable. I guess my initial lack of enthusiasm for that particular movie almost made me give up on his entire filmography altogether, whew, but man, what a body of work. It spans from those slightly "more traditional" films with standard narrative structures back in the fifties, moving through his much more cerebral and profound pieces during the sixties and seventies.

I haven't really gotten around to those few projects he did again with Monica Vitti after returning to Italy in the eighties. They don't quite pull me in, I suppose; I have this feeling that whatever he needed to express, he already delivered a decade earlier, and he certainly gave us plenty back then.

It's so hard to pick just one favorite, but if I were forced to narrow it down to a top four, they would probably be: La Notte, L'Eclisse, Le Amiche and Signora senza camelie

He’s honestly one of those rare Italian filmmakers who can turn anyone into a true cinephile—it’s almost inevitable. There is just something about his atmosphere, the way he handles actors, and that subtle, almost invisible layer of metaphor he weaves into everything. He presents this bleak, hopeless world through the lens of Monica Vitti (and man, what an actress she was...). My first real brushes with his work were L'Eclisse and Blow up... though picking a definitive favorite is tough—maybe La Notte? As a younger guy, I was definitely drawn to the rebellious, psychedelic energy of Zabriskie Point, but there was also something about seeing Monica in the red desert that just stuck with me.
I still find myself thinking back to that documentary on TV about Antonioni... honestly, he belongs in that rarefied air alongside the absolute greats—Fellini, Buñuel, Tarkovsky, and the rest. He wasn't just making movies; he was an artist, a true philosopher—the kind of filmmaker we just don't see much of anymore (though perhaps Béla Tarr and a few others might still hold a candle to him).
Kudos to whoever decided to revive that old thread—it’s an incredibly thorough and well-written piece of work!

I often find Antonioni's use of metaphor to be a bit strained, yet his directorial technique is almost invariably masterful. He certainly knows his craft.

I have an affinity for "L'Eclisse," though I've never quite connected with "L'avventura"; toward the end, it tends to sink into an all-encompassing boredom.

As far as I'm concerned, "Blow-up" doesn't entirely live up to its massive reputation.

"Professione: reporter" is a cinematic triumph and the first film that comes to mind whenever Antonioni is mentioned.

"Zabriskie Point" is largely a mess, but it does manage to contain a few memorable sequences.

Honestly, what is even the deal with Béla Tarr? Antonioni made slow films with minimal plot, sure, but they were never tedious. I can’t say the same for Tarr.

The true auteurs of our era—real artists in every sense of the word—are names like Haneke, Trier, and Ki Duk Kim. There might be a few others out there, but those are the heavy hitters.

As for Antonioni, my absolute favorite has to be Le Amiche. I’ve given one or two of his other works a nine, but this one... I was just speechless.🙏 ...The movie progresses, getting better and better, and just when you think, "Damn, this is masterpiece territory," the film keeps going and the quality never dips.

Downvote me if you must.

I’ve only ever sat through Sátántangó by Tarr, and honestly, I think the film is nothing short of a masterpiece... does anyone know which of his other works reach that same level?

It’s also pretty incredible how Antonioni had such an eye for casting lead actresses; he always seemed to find women who delivered truly unforgettable performances... I mean, besides Monica Vitti, who was essentially his muse and partner in real life—her presence and talent really defined the core of his filmography. It’s almost impossible not to remember the stunning Jeanne Moreau in La Notte, where she actually manages to steal the spotlight from Monica, or Alid Valla in the scream, not to mention Lucia Bos and Maria Schneider... He just had this way of drawing out their sex appeal perfectly; they completely commanded every frame. And the sheer passion and tension, that sense of anticipation he could build... it was something else. Those glances between Moreau and Mastroianni during that party scene, or that moment in the room between Valla and Delon... it was just top-tier stuff. It’s hard to put into words, really; you kind of have to experience it for yourself to get it...

Jamie Nelson10 said:I’ve only seen Sátántangó by Tarr so far, and man, that film is pure genius... who else of his is even in that same league?
Honestly, though—how did Antonioni always have such an incredible eye for leading ladies? Every single one of them delivered such iconic performances... I mean, aside from Monica Vitti, who was quite literally his muse and partner in real life—effectively shaping the soul of his filmography through both her presence and her acting—it’s almost impossible not to remember the stunning Jeanne Moreau, who actually manages to steal the spotlight from Monica in La Notte. And then there's Alid Valla in the scream, Lucia Bos, Maria Schneider... he just knew how to draw out this effortless sex appeal from them; they completely commanded every frame. Not to mention the sheer passion, the tension, and that specific sense of anticipation he used to build... those glances between Moreau and Mastroianni at that party, or that intense scene in the room between Valla and Delon... it's just top-tier stuff. It’s hard to put into words—you really have to experience it for yourself...

Regarding Tarr: if we're talking about Werckmeister, Turin Horse, and Sátántangó (well, okay, it's long, but it's brilliant), I’d say those, along with Karhozat, are his best... but honestly, he’s one of those directors you really need to sit down and watch in its entirety to truly "get" him...

Everyone seems to think Werckmeister is the pinnacle, so go ahead and watch it if you must. For me, it felt incredibly tedious, and Karhozat was even more 🤷 ...I actually gave up on both after about 45 to 50 minutes.

As for Karhozat, I remember breaking down in tears during that one sequence where the woman was singing; that part alone was pure genius, but the rest of it? Total garbage.🙂

goldenhound32 said:Honestly, forget Béla Tarr. Sure, Antonioni made slow films with very little happening—but they weren't boring. I can't say the same for Tarr.

Modern filmmakers since 2000—the true artists, in my book—include Haneke, Trier, Wong Kar-wai, and Ki Duk Kim. There might be a few others out there, but those are the heavy hitters.

As for Antonioni, my absolute favorite is Le Amiche. I've given one or two others a nine, but with this one, I was just... speechless 🙏 ...the movie moves along, getting better and better, and just when you think, "My god, this is a masterpiece," the film keeps going and its brilliance never fades.

Downvote me if you must.

Aside from a handful of films, I think Haneke is somewhat overrated—though fine, he's good. But man, Tarr is a once-in-a-generation talent... The Turin Horse is pure hypnosis... even so, I still think Antonioni is a slightly greater master than anyone mentioned here.

I suppose Karhozat might feel a bit sluggish in certain stretches... but honestly, I think that’s just how perfectly it captures the protagonist's existence... long, tedious, repetitive, rainy, muddy, and ultimately futile...

as for Sátántangó, I think I'll probably need to wait until my vacation to dive into it...

goldenhound32 said:I seem to remember actually tearing up during that scene in Sátántangó where the woman starts singing; I thought that specific sequence was just pure genius, though I have to admit the rest of it wasn't really my cup of tea🙂

That's true, it feels somewhat similar to that moment when Shimura breaks into song in Ikiru...🙏

goldenhound32 said:Anyone else out there?

Doris Dörrie? 🙂

Jamie Nelson10 said:That’s true; it feels similar to when Brando delivers that monologue in On the Waterfront...🙏

I actually wept during both instances. I believe the first time was at a local pub, and then again on a porch swing. Even though the scene on the swing is the more iconic one, that moment in the pub hit me much harder.

@hbw
Never heard of it.

goldenhound32 said:@Benjamin Ruiz60/">@@Benjamin Ruiz60
Never heard of it.

Look 😉

Hope Michelangelo Antonioni forgives me for going off-topic here..