christopher-underwood After this, Antonioni's third English language film, he would make several more including Identification of a Woman (1982) and Beyond the Clouds (1995) but this was probably his last really great film. It is not as startlingly stunning throughout as some certainly are but the ending is so fantastic that it changes ones perception of the whole film. Jack Nicholson is on peak form and allows himself to be coaxed into a very laid back and effective performance which is vital in view of the crucial and central role he plays (or is that roles!?). It is a pity that Schneider came off Last Tango with such a chip on her shoulder but she does enough here to ensure that the improbable relationship is plausible enough even if we have some doubt as to who she might be. Intelligent and inspirational film making that encourages multiple viewings and although it is some time since I saw it previously I am already tempted to watch it again.

gogoschka-1 A film of such melancholy and quiet beauty, yet never boring or pretentious, and with a Jack Nicholson that shows that his range as an actor goes far beyond his more famous, over-the-top performances. Superb. 8 stars out of 10.In case you're interested in more underrated masterpieces, here's some of my favorites:imdb.com/list/ls070242495

federovsky This was the first art film I ever saw, and probably also the first time I'd seen Jack Nicholson. It made a big impression. I'd never seen a film that pondered things like this, gave you opportunity to experience feelings in real-time. I took it that Antonioni invented this sort of movie - possibly even invented the art-movie genre.There's a lot that doesn't add up here. When I see subtle ambiguities, unexplained depths, and especially questions of identity, I immediately look for sexual ambivalence - and often I find it. First, there's the title. Some people think the 'passenger' is Maria Schneider, or that it relates to Nicholson using the dead man's plane ticket. What I get is that Nicholson's hidden, secret, suppressed inner self was a kind of passenger in his own official, external life, the life he didn't want. That indicates only one thing to me. Other clues? He sees his wife later without any pangs of remorse or sentimentality - simply runs away; he has an adopted child (why adopted?); he doesn't expose the lies of the politicians he interviews (saying 'those are the rules'). These may all be extremely subtle hints about the man's secret sexual identity. Sure, he hooks up with tasty gamine Maria Schneider, but that's a smokescreen to puts us off the scent - and there is always a smokescreen because it's essential to the point of the film that no one fully understands it - but note that there was no overt sexual encounter between them - quite significant in its omission. So there you are. It works for me, and if I am right, we are now probably the first people to fully understand what this film is about. So how good is it? We start out in the African desert with a schematic series of silent encounters, miscommunications, words falling flat in the emptiness, the lethargy of heat, a quasi Paul Bowles feel of lurking malice. So far so good. Atmosphere. Images. Metaphor. Meaning. The desert is symbolic and significant - exactly as it was in the life of that that other (married) gay journalist Bruce Chatwin. Then, Nicholson's character switches identity with a dead man (without reason, because it is not expressible), dons a naff seventies brown suit with flared trousers, and we land in a silly intrigue relating to the dead man's job. All those scenes with the gun-runners, the wife, and the television studio boss are redundant and should have been ditched. It's a relief when he and Maria Schneider hit the road because that's when the film really finds itself: illicit freedom, the escape from the person you don't want to be. That ought to have been the key theme throughout and I don't think Antonioni really got to grips with it properly. He was too keen to take us round Gaudi's buildings in Barcelona for one thing.I don't know what Antonioni was thinking of in leaving Italy. Probably he just wanted to be part of a bigger, trendier scene. But whereas Bertolucci found new depth in things like Last Tango in Paris, Antonioni forgot quite a lot of what he knew about cinema: of reality vs silliness, of story vs meaning, of style vs substance. He was like one of those pop singers (Faye Wong comes to mind) who sound great in their own language, but rotten in English.After all these years I'm less impressed with The Passenger than I was before. Antonioni seems to be a man of limited interests (basically two: alienation and architecture), and it's all there is here again. The famous final scene must have been original at the time but now looks vaguely silly. Lots of weak moments, and only a few great ones.

eyesour Which you might call a better film, since it was more natural, less self-admiring and self-conscious, as well as three years earlier. There was a Girl-with-no-Name. She was a sort of a pick-up, in a way. Nicholson, like Oates, was someone who seemed to have lost his target in life, as well as the plot of his existence, and didn't know who he really was. We were told a little more about where Nicholson was coming from, though, which we never learned about Oates. Also, this was a kind of a road-movie, although the road criss-crossed the Mediterranean, not what I assume was the Bible belt, and the white convertible was more of a clipper than the 55 Chevy.The other characters in their bit-parts didn't seem to have much existence, either, and were just hanging around, waiting for something. Some reviewers complain about Schneider's performance. I thought she was just fine and dandy. Pity about that stupid Tango film. Couldn't see that she was high or doped in any way. Hendry, on the other hand, seemed to me genuinely and permanently sozzled every scene he was in. After it was all over, I spent time racking my brains to discover who someone called Stephen actually was, as I couldn't recall anyone with that name, or anyone playing a part which would fit someone of that name. I think I finally managed to place him. I have this funny feeling that if my name was Berkoff, I'd change it.Strange things happen in this movie. An African man, looking like a guerrilla leader, whose identity was obscure, was shot before our eyes, in real time, and in obvious reality. I never discovered why. Another man was suddenly kicked in the guts. I never worked that out either.I enjoyed this film. Can't really say why. I liked the photography, and the pace. It was slow, but it didn't seem slow. I kept expecting for things to happen, just like Blacktop. Another similarity was in the long-shots, where actions were happening in both foreground and background --- as well as middle-ground. I'm sure I will watch this again, and you can't ask for more when it comes to cinema. If you haven't seen Two-Lane Blacktop, try it. Another thought, as film-makers advance in years, they seem to abandon the idea of telling coherent stories, and, like I think Hitchcock once said, they just make pictures. Doesn't matter if these pictures don't join up, just because they move. Like walking through an exhibition in a picture gallery. It's happened to Tarantino as well.I was truly and exceptionally interested to see that Peter Wollen, an Oggsford man, had part-written the script.