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From: francois@yale.ARPA (Charles B. Francois)
Newsgroups: net.movies
Subject: Terry Gilliam's "Brazil"
Message-ID: <77@yale.ARPA>
Date: Sat, 21-Dec-85 11:48:43 EST
Article-I.D.: yale.77
Posted: Sat Dec 21 11:48:43 1985
Date-Received: Sat, 21-Dec-85 14:45:52 EST
Distribution: na
Organization: Yale University CS Dept., New Haven CT
Lines: 69

Because I'm not sure my jumbled thoughts can convey my enthusiasm about
this film, let me start off by saying that, after "Wetherby" and along
with "Prizzi's Honor", which it recalls in its power to keep you
off-balance by a mixture of laughter and horror, this is surely the most
rewarding English-language movie I've seen this year.

This film has been a long time coming.  Although it's been completed
for almost a year now, Universal would not have released it in this
country for probably quite another while if ever, had it not won the
L.A. film critics' award as the best movie of the year.  As it is,
it was rushed to theaters (at least one in Manhattan) as soon as the
news arrived, thus giving the victory to Gilliam who had been battling
Universal over the release of a film in which the studio had obviously 
no faith.  The story of the struggle is long and convoluted, but
essentially Univ. wanted Gilliam to trim the film down considerably,
and more significantly, end it differently.  Boy, am I glad Gilliam
never backed down!

Ok.  Briefly, the film is about Sam Lowry, a nice, dull bureaucrat at
the Ministry of Information in your basic Orwellian authoritarian
regime "somewhere in the 20th century", and his pursuit of happiness in
the form of a gorgeous militant blonde and "Brazil", or more precisely
the state of mind (gay, carefree) that this classic song represents.
Were the film's debts to "1984" not quite so evident, it would be
tempting to dismiss it as obviously inferior to its original, but
"Brazil"'s derivativeness (from Orwell's work and other sources as
diverse as "Potemkin" or "Obscure Object of Desire", wittily referenced
throughout) is part of its brilliance.

Essentially, by applying the old fake-and-punch tactic to Orwell's tale
about the death of the human mind, Gilliam, Tom Stoppard and a third
collaborator on the script, have made it even more gutwrenching.  The
tactic in question?  Get the audience to let its guard down by making
it laugh and go for the jugular.  In fact, I was one of a handful of
people in a 500-seat theater still laughing regularly past the first 10
minutes of the movie or so, and the thing is Hysterically Funny!  It's
just that the movie walks such a delicate thread between laughter and
tragedy, dream and living nightmare, grim realism and campy science
fiction, that it never lets its audience know what to be thinking or
feeling at any given time.  You are constantly at the edge of your
seat.

Sure, the movie does have its weaknesses, but its cast is surely not
among them.  Everybody *shines*.  Our leading straight man (how dare I
forget his name!) is perfect as the slightly befuddled but always
willing Joe Schmoe who decides that there is finally something to live
for.  He is surrounded by a dream bunch of character actors.  De Niro
steals the show as a cracker-jack handyman with unusual approaches to
fixing air-conditioning and other problems.  Katherine Helmond as
Sam's youth-obsessed mother, Ian Holm as his loving boss, Bob Hoskins
as a smiling terror of a Central Heating repairman, Michael Palin as a
smiling, ambitious co-worker are all superlative.

The look of the film also deserves comment.  Before you decide that
exterior shots of buildings look like amateur matte work, check your
knowledge of German expressionist film.  Interiors are mostly what I
would call bright, cheery, post-art-deco tubular.  Indeed, the film's
most striking image is that of tubes, all sorts of 'em, everything from
arteries to elevator shafts to the ubiquitous CRT's.  The music
consists mostly of variations on the theme song wryly commenting on the
action.  In fact, my only substantial criticism of the movie pertains
to its use of music, an art that seems to have gotten lost somewhere
along the line.  (Filmmakers should be sent back to Hitchcock to pick up
a few pointers).  Here the musical comment is intrusive as often as it
is ironic, a shame in one or two scenes, but that's a minor quibble,
and should not deter any moviegoer with a working mind to investigate
this provocative piece of work.  Go see it.

--Charles B. Francois      {...,allegra,decvax}!yale!francois