Recently we watched Blow Up (1966), a film about a London based photographer who spends his time trying to get just the right shot, smoking pot, shouting at useless models and generally being a little odd. Whilst trying to capture the picture of a couple in the park he accidentally photographs evidence of a murder.
I know this is supposed to be a real mine field of metaphors and allegorical meanings, I get that, but this film really didn't do anything for me. Yes it was a reasonable (if lazy) portrayal of the life of a photographer, but the strange scenes of everyone standing still at the concert and the photographer joining in the mime's tennis game just threw me me too much. The scenes I liked and enjoyed were the ones where the photographer and Vanessa Redgraves character are in the cramped confines of the studio. The tension between the characters, both sexual and nervous, is palpable and their interctions are pure cat and mouse. This alone was the most interesting part of the film for me. Other than that I felt as if the climax had been robbed from me and the rest of this film seemed just a little drab.
Good music though.
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