Look Back in Anger

There was a period in my youth when I often went to the local library, and browsed the films they had for rent some of which were starring Richard Burton (The Robe, Cleopatra, The Night of the Iguana, The Spy Who Came in from the Cold, Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf? . . . ).

I admit I loved his work and found him instantaneously captivating, naturally gifted with cinematic composure enviously admired around the globe (but no Laurence Olivier).

It's honestly like he's not even acting, like he's just going about his daily routine.

What to the 50s and 60s Brad Pitt was to the 90s and early 2000s?

Irrefutable irresistible magnetism.

(Foucauldian investigation pending).

But angry.

In Look Back in Anger it's like you're watching solidified anti-spiritual acid vehemently castigate every moment of every day, with irate fury the superlative venom obdurately infects everyone he encounters (although he also uses it to productively fight racism).

Notably his wife, who's as right as rain, who just wants to chill and ethereally float, as modest as a Boston cream or perhaps mint chocolate chip, still adamantly tempting like chillaxed camaraderie.

Every time he sees her (Mary Ure as Alison Porter) he lays it on thick with bellicose rancour, fit only for the field of battle, the poor lass habitually scornful of things like separation.

But a friend comes to stay (Claire Bloom as Helena Charles) and his vitriolic fury regularly erupts, even going so far as to ruin one of her auditions, for the sake of meaningless voltaic banter.

One bitter interaction to the next he furiously proceeds beyonds limits or bounds, as if an aristocrat suddenly found themselves penniless, or an impoverished worker sought to make a fortune.

Apart from close family, every woman he encounters must endure his pernicious ramble, like watching one of the world's most idyllic cads consistently berate gentle fauns who then fall in love (written by men).

Do things still proceed so obtusely, is socioevolution just something you read about in the news?, I admit to having read several books and newspapers, and never really having met anyone who attempts to live that way (it's often a trap). 

I'm convinced that if I ever did I'd never know it because they're so stuck up beyond oblivion.

And doesn't that defeat the purpose?

Who knows?, discourses of the sincere.

The Entertainer

Archie Rice (Laurence Olivier), a struggling performer, the thrill of the stage, pressing forward ever onwards, hypothetical airtight integration, elastic dynamism salacious foothold.

Perpetual indulgence subjective omniscience fragile attachments paternal reprimands, constant motion deconstructing the breeze, leaving behind scattered remnants of ripe potential (he always knows what to say, or at least always says something).

Pressures paramount tactile gravity hands-on harkened hexed hashed haberdashery, innate insouciance magnetic pulse wayward rhythm irresistibility (people love him).

The hand that's dealt enriching bluff prevarication, smooth operation bewildering necessity (he's creative).

Extolled acquiescence resigned caricature agile concise persevering flexibility, dismissive of resonant embanked calculus, he'd be lost if he wasn't adrift (he's broke).

His inspired reactions lack sympathy for his loved ones, who've grown weary but haven't withdrawn.

Not one to dwell on the past or much besides the immediate moment, he tries to find revenue to launch his new show.

The moment dictates how he'll act and he can no longer write his own cheques.

But he'll do anything to secure independence, no matter what it might dutifully cost him.

Not that he isn't in fact independent, I'd argue he's never known fetter or chain, not that there aren't obligations he negotiates, he just always does so with purest freewill (not me).

In every conversation there's an anecdote or comparison, a reminiscence, a synthesis, a parallel, some truths requiring absurd empathy, as he pulls everyone into his sphere.

He's the kind of person who makes for great conservation and if things aren't too serious a reliable friend, especially if you happen to be in a pub, or heaping praise on his struggling show.

He's aware of responsibility and wants to be responsible but his fluctuating lifestyle makes it quite difficult, he has to create both audience and opportunity and build on whatever momentum's available.

If it's lavish, well then, he's responsible, and if not, fugaciously so.

Things haven't been lavish for some time and people have become rather critical.

But he's far too carefree for critiques, and does his best to verbosely withstand.

The Entertainer presents a showperson who's also a husband, father, and son, who isn't so far gone he's insufferable, but is still by no means sure and steady.

The attention to detail's incredible and it aptly entwines cerebral senses, less luscious conceptions of performance critiquing rowdier, gaudier ways.

Plenty of character, comedy, tragedy, inherent intrigue residual calm, a fascinating script by one John Osborne, that doesn't spare romance or conflict.

Laurence Olivier is once again outstanding (there's so much Olivier in this film) and presents another character who must be seen.

He was quite active for someone so talented (from a contemporary perspective) and played wonderfully unorthodox roles.

No wonder his fans never forgot him.

*This review is about Archie Rice in The Entertainer, who's struggling to keep performing on stage. His character's somewhat sympathetic if not conceited and there's no doubt he's a feisty cynosure. I don't know how the world moves forward from the President of the United States suggesting people inject disinfectants. It's beyond irresponsibility. It's a whole new level of recklessness all its own. Please don't inject disinfectants. Injecting disinfectants will probably kill you.