Notes on "My Dinner with André (1981)"
20 June 2018 (somewhere between 3 and 4am)
Toward the beginning of My Dinner with André, André Gregory refers to Stanislavsky and his questions for actors––who am I, why am I here, where did I come from and where am I going?––and these questions struck me as remarkably important for this film. I'd seen My Dinner years ago, and was entranced, uncritically but thoughtfully, with the conversations occurring within the films near two hours. I had never heard of Grotowski certainly, and it wouldn't be unlikely if I'd never heard of Stanislavsky. Now, viewing it again, I'm graduated with a theatre degree and have become a director myself. I watched the film with much more judgment and distance from the characters, who I engaged with as arbiters of truth or at least honesty way back when, and now saw as indicative of at least somewhat a privileged lifestyle, even if throughout the presence of real emotional trauma was undebatable. Perhaps it was the imminence of global tragedy and depression that the film presents in the two characters' descriptions of brainwashed or bored people drowning in ennui, or New York City as a prison built by its prisoners, people immune to their surroundings, etc. etc. but what struck a cord with me was how vitally the film seems to be describing now in many ways it could not have understood then. The discourse surrounding technology sterilizing us not only to natural life but to each other, the horrific impending doom of global climate change, and the resurgence of Nazism and white supremacy all reverberate against the criticism of life in the early 1980s that both characters chime in. On a lesser note, the complaints about the death of theatre, the decline in the quality of art, the unwillingness to take art on terms any more important than as another daily event all seem much more valid nowadays in the age of theatre as a commercial tourist venture, even movies made impotent by oversaturation. Event movies, whether Oscar winners or blockbusters, fail to create any enthusiasm anymore as one overtakes another, and the only reason any has any foothold on cultural memory is because of franchises. But, I began this by pointing out those questions for the actors. Why was this movie made? Indeed, who thought it could be made? Not technically, of course. The movie is even more strikingly simple now than it seemed to me back then, as the actors sit and eat and talk. What is the motivation here though? Why was it made? It's almost a pallet cleanser with its constantly fascinating and thought-provoking conversation (explanatory as to why I couldn't write these notes without immediately getting sidetracked) and indeed one needs to be consistently thinking to get anything out of this movie. The title seems to be doing a lot of the work in establishing what the point is. Wallace Shawn spends most of the movie not saying much, only asking obligatory questions to get more of the exotic or mystical out of André, and in many ways, this identifies us with him. We are also having dinner with André (and Wally to a lesser extent) and this intimacy, while never harped on by the film, which never has either actor look towards us in a fourth-wall breaking moment, encourages us to receive this conversation not as a plot, story, or anything else, but as the material of life. The shape of the film is provided by their dinner, which they barely touch at times, and the serving of the food provides intrusions of the white-haired waiter, whose near silence, but distinct, memorable face and worn looks make his appearances somehow dramatic, breaks things up, as if each new segment of dialogue is a new course. It's a full meal. The thing I took away most last time and which still stands with me is a sort of wonder about the film––how two people relate to each other. How one can find more open expression with a stranger, near-stranger, estranged friend, than with close intimates. The most powerful moment of the film for me came when André described the ritual of being made to write his own last will and then being buried alive if only briefly, shot largely in one take in a tight close-up. In a film where acting is largely beside the point, and ultimately inscrutable because of the hovering questions of how much of this is real? André expresses a dreadful anxiety and terror, and all drops away as we listen to him and watch him shake. I do wonder, how much of this is real? especially when the film gives so many roadsigns, such as André's description of his time in Poland where he and his group did improvisatory exercises where they were the characters. We ourselves may find ourselves moved to consider our own lives as we consider how much of this was drafted from reality. I am watching this film at a time in my life where I have much before me, and am not sure how exactly to proceed, and have been squandering much time on comfort, boredom, paralysis. The film has, as it did years ago, given me much to think about. "Are you really hungry, or are you just stuffing your face because that's what you do, out of habit?"
Toward the beginning of My Dinner with André, André Gregory refers to Stanislavsky and his questions for actors––who am I, why am I here, where did I come from and where am I going?––and these questions struck me as remarkably important for this film. I'd seen My Dinner years ago, and was entranced, uncritically but thoughtfully, with the conversations occurring within the films near two hours. I had never heard of Grotowski certainly, and it wouldn't be unlikely if I'd never heard of Stanislavsky. Now, viewing it again, I'm graduated with a theatre degree and have become a director myself. I watched the film with much more judgment and distance from the characters, who I engaged with as arbiters of truth or at least honesty way back when, and now saw as indicative of at least somewhat a privileged lifestyle, even if throughout the presence of real emotional trauma was undebatable. Perhaps it was the imminence of global tragedy and depression that the film presents in the two characters' descriptions of brainwashed or bored people drowning in ennui, or New York City as a prison built by its prisoners, people immune to their surroundings, etc. etc. but what struck a cord with me was how vitally the film seems to be describing now in many ways it could not have understood then. The discourse surrounding technology sterilizing us not only to natural life but to each other, the horrific impending doom of global climate change, and the resurgence of Nazism and white supremacy all reverberate against the criticism of life in the early 1980s that both characters chime in. On a lesser note, the complaints about the death of theatre, the decline in the quality of art, the unwillingness to take art on terms any more important than as another daily event all seem much more valid nowadays in the age of theatre as a commercial tourist venture, even movies made impotent by oversaturation. Event movies, whether Oscar winners or blockbusters, fail to create any enthusiasm anymore as one overtakes another, and the only reason any has any foothold on cultural memory is because of franchises. But, I began this by pointing out those questions for the actors. Why was this movie made? Indeed, who thought it could be made? Not technically, of course. The movie is even more strikingly simple now than it seemed to me back then, as the actors sit and eat and talk. What is the motivation here though? Why was it made? It's almost a pallet cleanser with its constantly fascinating and thought-provoking conversation (explanatory as to why I couldn't write these notes without immediately getting sidetracked) and indeed one needs to be consistently thinking to get anything out of this movie. The title seems to be doing a lot of the work in establishing what the point is. Wallace Shawn spends most of the movie not saying much, only asking obligatory questions to get more of the exotic or mystical out of André, and in many ways, this identifies us with him. We are also having dinner with André (and Wally to a lesser extent) and this intimacy, while never harped on by the film, which never has either actor look towards us in a fourth-wall breaking moment, encourages us to receive this conversation not as a plot, story, or anything else, but as the material of life. The shape of the film is provided by their dinner, which they barely touch at times, and the serving of the food provides intrusions of the white-haired waiter, whose near silence, but distinct, memorable face and worn looks make his appearances somehow dramatic, breaks things up, as if each new segment of dialogue is a new course. It's a full meal. The thing I took away most last time and which still stands with me is a sort of wonder about the film––how two people relate to each other. How one can find more open expression with a stranger, near-stranger, estranged friend, than with close intimates. The most powerful moment of the film for me came when André described the ritual of being made to write his own last will and then being buried alive if only briefly, shot largely in one take in a tight close-up. In a film where acting is largely beside the point, and ultimately inscrutable because of the hovering questions of how much of this is real? André expresses a dreadful anxiety and terror, and all drops away as we listen to him and watch him shake. I do wonder, how much of this is real? especially when the film gives so many roadsigns, such as André's description of his time in Poland where he and his group did improvisatory exercises where they were the characters. We ourselves may find ourselves moved to consider our own lives as we consider how much of this was drafted from reality. I am watching this film at a time in my life where I have much before me, and am not sure how exactly to proceed, and have been squandering much time on comfort, boredom, paralysis. The film has, as it did years ago, given me much to think about. "Are you really hungry, or are you just stuffing your face because that's what you do, out of habit?"
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