DON'T LOOK NOW

DON'T LOOK NOW
Director: Nicolas Roeg
Starring: Donald Sutherland, Julie Christie, and Donald Sutherland’s hair
Year: 1973

Bumper: Ryan Wilson

Let it be known to all tender, open hearted souls that the willful act of watching Don’t Look Now could maim your consciousness, cause incontinence, destroy already tenuous familial relations. Basically, it could fuck your shit up bad, real bad, for at least a few hours. More likely days. And, in the rare case, I’m sure, for life. It’s that good, on multiple levels, and so is deserving of the lead-off spot in this, the first ever Queue Bump.

I’m a Sutherland guy, always have been, always will be. His expressive face, his hesitations, the moments he averts his eyes, as if suddenly overtaken by the absurdity and wellspring of emotion in this temporal existence. He makes me feel good about basic human acts and parts: listening, thinking, debauchery, tomfoolery, raillery, my shoulders, my hair. The first time I heard the Hawkeye whistle, learning that by God there was something before and beyond Alan Alda, I was hooked. I may have, in those murky moments before drifting off to sleep, attempted to convince myself that he was my biological father, even if Mom was brazenly infatuated with his partner in crime, Trapper John. But I swear to Christ and whoever else should be addressed in this forum that I knew nothing about this film before settling down on our broken futon, already in the midst of the usual emotional turmoil.

Every obsessed keeper of a Netflix queue has a system, obviously. When I’m feeling like no one in this cold goddamn world gives a shit, I pack the top ten with dramas, high on emotional content and gripping performances, usually foreign (not out of preference but necessity). When Sarah grabbed the mail, and I was reminded I had a date with Sutherland and Christie, I gave a little internal 3 note whistle, hoping for the best, but expecting nothing beyond an intriguing premise and fine acting. From the first shot, you know damn well you’re not watching a strictly commercial thriller. This mother’s serious, and it’s going straight for your fucking mind. Beyond dissonance. It’s a scalpel sans anesthetic. Okay, I’m not giving anything away to say it: dead kid. With Sarah 13 months pregnant, the jacket description was more than enough to chase her from the game.


“…death of their daughter… nope.”

“But I bet the way they handle—”

“No fucking way.”

“But Suther—”

“Uh-uh.”

“Okay, darlin’. Okay.”

Watching Sutherland and Christie speak to each other, just the old married banalities in the opening scene, goes beyond fly on the wall. It’s easy to convince yourself that these people know each other’s body odor better than their own, which is both jarring and comforting. What else is there to do but wonder what act of negligence is going to do in the little girl, thus depositing upon them the crippling guilt that will consume their love? Ah, but Don’t Look Now is far too shrewd for that worn out meme. She’s simply going to die, and there is simply nothing they can do about it; but, grab onto your woobie when it comes time for Sutherland and Christie to react to the tragedy—whew.

It’s also giving nothing away to briefly discuss the essential psychic element. So it’s a year later and Christie is crushed, trying to soldier on along the Venetian canals with her strong meds and her gorgeous face. In a restaurant bathroom, she meets the blind psychic and she’s healed! Fine, easy enough. But the transformation in her character, the way she plays it, is not just believable, but simultaneously inspiring and horrifying. The movie is chock full of these emotional dualities played to the tits by S and C. The crux, what’s truly great about this gem, can be found in a still early scene in which Christie tells a deeply scarred and skeptical Sutherland that everything is alright, that their daughter is with them and happy. Both actors, bless them, turn their organs inside out to show you each fragment of thought, each molecule of emotion. Sutherland’s concession, at the end of the scene, isn’t a result of the obvious veracity of Christie’s plea, but of her goddamn tidal wave of beauty that comes with the first joy she’s known since their daughter’s death. You see the real change inspired by real love…for the real Christie!

And, as you may or may not have heard, the sex scene… just… I can’t… thanks…

The camera loves and challenges you constantly. The score makes imitators (Eyes Wide Shut) blush—or should. It generously bestows lush silence and the balls to follow through on the myriad arcana of life. I’d be a terrible glutton to ever ask anything more of a motion picture than what Don’t Look Now serves up on a blood soaked platter.