by Douglas Messerli
John Osbourne (screenplay), Tony Richardson (director) Tom Jones / 1963
How remarkable,
accordingly, for the culture at large to encounter Richardson’s bawdy revelry,
hidden behind its faux 18th century moral narrative dictums. Albert Finney,
portraying the naughty boy antics of the Henry Fielding hero, literally
giggling along with composer John Addison’s spritely harpsichord refrains,
permitted nearly anyone without dour religious convictions to give themselves
up to the sin of the flesh without actually having to admit it had anything at
all to do with their own daily personal lives.
No wonder the
movie made millions and won over nearly any Britisher and American living
through those days, winning several Academy Awards, including the best film of
the year, while being described by popular journals such as Newsweek as “The best comedy ever made.”
That the usually anguished, working-class spokesman, John Osbourne was so brilliantly able to whip up a screenplay out of Fielding’s encyclopedia original satire, is truly amazing—akin to the possibility that American playwright Arthur Miller might have been able to create a comic masterpiece, of which that sincerely-serious writer was clearly incapable.
And just as
startling is that the director of works like Look Back in Anger, A Taste of Honey, Luther, and The Loneliness of the Long Distance Runner
could possibly stir up the delicious pot of Keystone Comedy antics and the
gluttonous sexual orgies of this film. Those who worked with him, including
cinematographer Walter Lassally, report that Richardson, out of personal
dissatisfaction with the results, almost boiled the frothiness of this work
away to a stale stew. Fortunately, finances and temporal limitations prevented
his further stirring.
The accidental
results are absolutely memorable. But it was probably the fact that Richardson
was himself a closeted bisexual who ultimately died of AIDS that allowed him to
create of film with so much sexual promiscuity and freedom. If Tom is utterly
heterosexual in the movie, he represents the notorious sexual appetites of gay
men of the next couple of decades. And throughout the film, men who live their
lives fully also love Tom. Certainly, at age 16 I fell in love with Tom and the
actor who played, without fully realizing why or what that meant. It is only
the sexual prude Blifil, clearly a version of a closeted gay man, and his kind
who cannot abide Tom, probably because there is no possibility that the
handsome hero might pay any sexual attention to them. Despite his obsession
with Tom, Blifil, moreover, seems more interested in money and position than in
any kind of sex.
No one who has
seen it can forget the intense flash of Mrs. Waters (Joyce Redman)—the hero’s
possible mother—and Tom’s eyes as they fathom the full feast of birds, raw
meat, and human flesh that together they ecstatically face across the table
from one another: no sexual act could possibly match the fulfillment of those
eyes, mouths, and jaws consuming everything in sight. Lust has never before or
since been so perfectly embodied.
For years after,
in my literature classes, I used this exuberant film to demonstrate narrative
strategies that were employed only by the most experimental of 20th century
fiction writers, including the intrusive narrations, the direct address of
characters to the reader/viewer, and the authorial interventions that so
delighted 18th century readers—until, one day, I realized that most of my
students were not even born when this popular film transformed its audiences.
Along with the
Beatles and The Rolling Stones, Richardson’s film represented a part of the
British cultural revolution that soon would change everything in American
society, punching American artists and audiences to transform the arts on an
even larger scale. If Richardson, as his later films reiterate, was hardly a
cinematic visionary, in 1963 he was able to create a work that suggested he
might possibly be one, and helped to extend what the French New Wave filmmakers
had already intimated.
Two years later
Godard would offer up, in Pierrot le Fou,
the same sort of self-conscious and self-destructive fool that Tom Jones was in
Richardson’s and Osbourne’s droll cinematic representation—but, even then,
without Finney’s sexual exuberance, Godard’s hero had no solution but finally
to completely destroy himself. Only in Penn’s 1967 Bonnie and Clyde, did we discover characters as openly able to
flaunt social and sexual conventions as did Fielding’s handsome foundling—yet
they too were necessarily destroyed by the surrounding society.
By that time,
however, everything, everywhere had already changed, and the society of the
late 1960s began realize that death was not a necessary result of sexual and
political
Coming as it did
before we even expected it and could assimilate its radical message, Tom Jones should be perceived as a kind
of self-enchanted trumpet charge into a new generation, a work that had no idea
where he was going, but gracefully went there nonetheless. If Rick and Elsa
will always have Paris, I and millions of others of my generation, will always
have the light-tripping antics of night-shirted Tom, merrily traipsing off in
utter confusion from bed to bed.
Los
Angeles, December 12, 2011
Reprinted from World Cinema Review (December 2011).
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