the catastrophe
by Douglas Messerli
Michael Cacoyannis (screenplay,
based on the novel by Nikos Kazantzakis, and director) Αλέξης Ζορμπάς (Zorba the Greek) / 1964
Although I seem to recall seeing Zorba the Greek when it was originally released in 1964, since I was in Norway for most of the year I probably didn’t see it until I moved to Wisconsin in 1965. In any event, it was certainly a memorable film, and, even though I’ve seen it a couple of times since—including yesterday at the Los Angeles County Museum of Art, Bing Theater—I still recall my earliest viewing. Before I attended the film, Howard spoke of his memories, recalling it being a very romantic film.
And maybe if you boil down gay director Michael Cacoyannis’ story to its essence—boy meets boy, boys egg on each other to find a woman, women are destroyed, and boys go dancing on the beach—you might be able to see this work as a truly misogynistic romantic tale. But then I don’t think most audiences of the day would have seen it this way either. *
Actually, I now realize, nothing about Zorba is precisely what it seems to be. Although the Nikos
Kazantzakis-based tale seems very much to be about living life to the full
despite all the dangers of doing just that, in reality this story and its
central figure, Alexis Zorba (brilliantly embodied by the Mexican-born Anthony
Quinn) represents a series of catastrophes. Indeed, early into the story, Zorba
admits that not only was his marriage a catastrophe—
Alexis Zorba: Am I not a man? And is a man not stupid? I'm
a man, so I married. Wife, children,
house, everything.
The full catastrophe.
—but that everything he does results
in near-disaster. Nonetheless, the naïve and shy Britisher Basil (who
supposedly is half-Greek and has inherited a crumbling mine) still takes him on
as a friend, advisor, and confidant. Except for Quinn’s big smile and broad
melodramatic gestures, it’s hard to know why.
From the moment they arrive in Crete,
staying at the Hotel Ritz, a run-down claptrap of a place owned by an aging
French woman, Madame Hortense, Zorba begins his pattern of womanizing that
fascinates but also shocks the reasonable Britisher. Yes, he gives the
consumptive old “cow” (as Zorba later describes her) a new reason to live, but
his lies, his lust, and his generally absurd behavior certainly do not lie
within the realm of reason which we are led to believe is what keeps the
closeted and bookish Basil in check.
Perhaps it is simply the fact that he has never met someone as
outlandish as Zorba is what attracts him to the man. Quinn plays, at times,
another version of Fellini’s near-idiot, volatile strongman in La Strada, a man who attempts in this
film to single-handedly tear down the timbers of the aging mine before coming
up with an idea of bringing the mountain forest down to the sea. Zorba is
charming enough, particularly with a good jug of wine, to even convert the
monks who own the forest, to embrace his dreams.
Like Zorba, Basil lies: Zorba will return to marry Hortense. I should add that, although Lila Kedrova won an Academy Award for her endearing performance, half of her lines are still nearly impenetrable, as she speaks in a kind of Russian-inspired French/English (in her first English-language production) somewhat similar to the Belgian-French/English employed by Peter Sellers’ in his role as Chief Inspector Clouseau.
Soon after, we realize that Zorba’s behavior has infected him even
further, when he (finally) visits the beautiful Widow (Irene Papas), bedding
her in a village of angry and horny men who—when the son of one of them drowns
himself out of his love for the woman—are perfectly willing to interrupt the
son’s funeral to perform an honor killing, stoning and finally slitting the
Widow’s neck.
I suppose that we might imagine that Zorba is still a kind-hearted hero
when he retrieves the only thing remaining in bride’s room, a caged parrot. But
one would think that after seeing the woman with whom he had a one-night stand
murdered and Zorba’s bride (very much like the Bride of Frankenstein) stripped
of her personal remnants—she will not even be buried, Zorba reports, since her
Catholicism is different from that of the Greek island—Basil might question his
now dear friend’s competency, if not his sanity.
Basil’s request that Zorba teach him “how to dance” is clearly an
invitation to a kind of deep bonding between the two men that is a truer marriage
than either has had with their women friends, in response to which Zorba
gushes, “You know boss, I have never felt about another man what I feel for
you,” or something to that effect.
But even here, ironically, Quinn as Zorba created quite a catastrophe
when, on the very day before shooting the scene, he broke his foot. The notes
at the LACMA showing by Jeremy Arnold say it all:
“When filming resumed after several
days, the foot had been wrapped in tape which could be removed for the shots,
but Quinn could not jump or hop around as the scene required.
Cacoyannis was worried, but Quinn reassured him. “And I danced. I could
not lift my foot and set it down—the pain was unendurable—but I found that I
could drag it along without too much discomfort, so I invented a dance with an
unusual sliding-dragging step. I held out my arms, in the traditional Greek dance
and shuffled along the sands. Soon, Alan Bates picked up on the move, and the
two of us were lifted by the music and the sea, taken arm in arm to a spiritual
place, out of the ordinary and far away. We were born-again Greeks, joyously
celebrating life. We had no idea what we were doing, but it felt right, and
good.” Afterwards, Cacoyannis asked him what that dance was called. Quinn
replied, “It’s a Sirtaki. It’s traditional. One of the villagers taught it to
me.” He drew the name from thin air.”
So even the great last scene was pure bravura, a lie bigger than those
even told by the character Quinn played.
But who could possibly dismiss
such a brazenly beautiful false reality? And who could forget Mikis
Theodorakis’ music or Walter Lassally’s memorable black-and-white
cinematography, which also was awarded an Oscar in a year in which the big
colorful musical My Fair Lady won
most of the awards. Perhaps we simply must forgive Zorba and the film depicting
him for such terribly catastrophic lies. After all, this movie is still
something that once seen is unable to be forgotten. And its deep male-bonding
clearly appealed to all those middle-class American males whom had never before
been able to express it.
*
I was amused recently (2023) to read a sort of purposely exaggerated
commentary by the fiction writer John Wier about this film in which, while
admittedly skipping over much of the necessary plot, he zeroed in on the gay
insights which I only hint at. But they certainly give credence to what I
attempted to convey in much more nuanced language.
One of his first, and perhaps most exaggerated comments—also quite
literally true was the question with which he begins his short essay: “Did 1964
audiences get that Zorba is about two tortured and torturing bisexual killers
who conspire to get the local widow murdered, all the while taunting and
teasing and abusing Lila Kedrova?”
He continues is his taunting tone: “Michael Cacoyanis was nominated for
Best Director, but Zorba has no tone, no point of view. It's got crisp black
and white photography that does what it can to suggest a narrative approach,
but the film wanders around, not in a fun way, and doesn't get to the point
until the scene that's shown in YouTube clips, where Quinn and Bates dance on
the beach to the famous "authentic Greek" bouzouki riff by Mikis
Theodorakis.”
Wier continues:
First, though…we have to kill two women: Irene
Papas, the only member of the main cast who is in fact Greek; and Lila Kedrova.
Papas plays The Widow (does she get a name?...) whom Quinn keeps urging Bates
to, you know, get with; but Bates, who plays a Greek British guy on extended
holiday in Crete, and who is dressed like a 14-year-old Eton schoolboy who is
fagging (in the 17th century Etonic sense) for Quinn—Bates, whose acting choice
is to keep his sweater clean—his want is to be tidy: Bates keeps saying, every
time Quinn pushes him at Papas, ‘I would prefer not to,’ and who wouldn't read
him as a closeted gay guy whose buddy is daring him to come out?
Quinn
goes off to the big city to get supplies for the lignite (brown coal) mine
they're digging, and while he's gone, Bates sleeps with Papas (rather
unbelievably, as Bates has shown no sexual urge that does not involve his doggy
devotion to Quinn); and then the entire village gathers murderously outside
Papas's house and stones her like Mary Magdalene, because the local boy who
wanted her, and whom she spurned, has drowned himself while she was banging
Bates-the-foreigner. . . .Why stone the woman? Bates is the culprit; he's the
guy who seduces Papas while her tragic Tristan-ish wannabe lover gives himself
to the sea; and yet it's Papas whom the village surrounds and stones and kills,
her throat slit by a big dude with a dull knife.”
And
then poor Lila Kedrova dies horribly of cancer while Quinn holds her, and,
okay, she gets an Oscar for it, but the movie mocks her, laughs at her desire,
lets Quinn hold his nose while he makes love to her and calls her a slut and a
whore, not in a fun way. The film treats her sexuality as
grotesque-because-an-old-woman's, even though she was, in real life, three
years younger than Quinn, who is treated as priapic and hot and whom we watch
strip naked and dash into the ocean's waves, the camera gazing in admiration
upon his 49-year-old receding naked manly buttocks. So whee.”
Wier
again invokes his fascination with the final scene. “Why did I watch? Because
of the YouTube clip with the beach and the dudes and the dance and the bouzouki
music. It happens in literally the film's last five minutes, at the
2-hour-18-minute mark. The boys have now lost everything: the women they
tortured, the mine they dug; and with it all gone, Bates, who knows he's going
back to England in a couple days, can finally ask his beloved Quinn to show him
how to dance.
Alan
Bates is so handsome. That's why I kept watching. I'm empty inside, don't judge
me. He was also, in real life, a tortured bisexual, who was reportedly as mute
about his desires as he is libidinously muted in Zorba the Greek.
Suddenly, at last, the film comes into focus. Cut to Quinn rising up into the frame, all grey and grizzled, but still virile, and he strips off his coat and rolls up his sleeves and says, ‘Come on, my boy,’ snaps his fingers and circles Bates—his gay gaze! as he circles and considers Bates! And then the film cuts, in the middle of Quinn's circling, in a shot that stops time, to Quinn's face and shoulders centered in the frame, against the wide sea, and Walter Lassally's photography, campaigning for an Oscar, which it got, does its black-and-white best, as Quinn spreads his arms wide like Jesus getting up on the cross. The men are both wearing neckties, Quinn's is pulled slant, Bates's is tied tight, and Bates is all in white, the mother of God, his suit is slightly too big for him and hangs a bit, he's been emaciated by his desire for Quinn, “velleity”—desiring but not acting— has gnawed at his flesh, Quinn is pretending he's Greek, you can feel the impersonation but so what, it's the kind of film where you expect the hero to say stuff like, "Strong like bull," and he does!
But
what he says to Bates is, ‘I never loved a man more than you.’ And repressed
gay men worldwide in 1964 ejaculate in their minds. Quinn calls him boss! ‘I
have so much to tell you,’ he tells Bates. Quinn is coming out, but the film's
over.”
*Oddly, the often somewhat cynical and
certainly hard-nosed film reviewer Ira Joel Haber reveals the far more innocent
and romantic reading of the film that my husband Howard and others had at the
time of the film’s premier:
“I saw it when it opened in NYC in 64 at the
Sutton theatre. I was 17 and loved it. I
was starting to see more exotic and adult films, and this was not only exotic
and adult but wonderfully entertaining. I had never seen anything like it and
it was a big critical and popular success. It was Quinn's last brave and
exciting performance and his last Oscar nomination (I thought he was a shoo in)
and I adored Lila Kedrova and Irene Papas who I don't think I had ever seen in
a movie before.”
Yes, this film was exotic and romantic in a way, apparently, I never
quite understood.
Los Angeles, July 26, 2017, December 12, 2023
Reprinted from World Cinema Review and My
Queer Cinema blog (July 2017 and December 2023).
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