Some months ago I posted a contribution to the 12 Hard-to-See-Movies meme, where I listed a dozen films from the 60s and 70s that I've long wanted to see. An extremely kind reader from the UK sent me three of the twelve, including Move, the lone entry in Stuart Rosenberg's 70s output that I hadn't seen. Though the DVD quality was awful (from a pan-and-scan PAL VHS), it was well worth the wait.
Rosenberg has always been something of a head-scratcher for me, for his films are so wildly inconsistent, both tonally and aesthetically. Perhaps a closer study would reveal some directorial signatures, but I never would have guessed that the same person was responsible for Pocket Money, Voyage of the Damned, The Amityville Horror and The Pope of Greenwich Village.
Move was one of two films Rosenberg released in 1970, the other being the nearly-perfect WUSA. Though nowhere as ambitious as the latter, Move finds Rosenberg at his furthest from the mainstream, and clearly taking inpsiration from the nouvelle vague. It's one of those 70s films you find hard to believe a major studio produced and distributed. Yet Twentieth Century Fox did just that.
It was in the 60s that Manhattan real-estate, specifically the issue of apartment space (and occasionally lack thereof) became a fairly common theme in New York-based cinema (and eventually television) -- where the apartment itself functions as a character. ( cf. The Apartment, Barefoot in the Park, Rosemary's Baby, Seinfeld, etc.) Move takes it one step further, addressing every New Yorker's secret dream -- to get out of a five story walkup and move into a proper building, with doorman and elevator.
Hiram Jaffe (Elliott Gould) and his wife Dolly (Paula Prentiss) want nothing more than to live that dream, yet their planned move from a cramped Upper West Side studio to a slightly larger one-bedroom just two blocks away becomes an almost Odyssian adventure -- ideal fodder for a situational comedy. Yet Move is nothing of the sort, and it can best be described as paranoid New York take on Waiting For Godot, with the Jaffes waiting for movers who never show, and whose existence is questionable.
The opening moments, a bit of reversed film which finds Elliot Gould walking forward through Times Square as the rest of the city walks backwards, brilliantly sets the tone for this absurd comedy that seamlessly blends reality and fantasy. The theme song, a bit of Bacharach-esque sunshine folk-pop by Marvin Hamlisch and Alan and Marilyn Bergman (sung by Larry Marks) is pretty amazing. (Click the link below.)
Hiram, a self-professed Zoroastrian (but in fact an echt New York Jew) is an unsuccessful playwright who makes a living writing cheap porn novels and walking dogs in Central Park. He spends most of his day lost in oddly perverse fantasy, including dreams that his ever-braless (ah...the 70s) wife Dolly is sleeping with her boss, or imagining a third breast on an attractive neighbor. Their drab, tiny apartment is in a state of flux, crammed with boxes for a move that's meant to happen that day. Their marriage is a happy one, though the stress of NYC compounded with his lack of success has created a rift between them, and Hiram bemoans the fact that he hasn't been able to sleep with her for months.
Permanently on-edge, and unable to sit still for very long, Hiram keeps leaving the apartment, which gives rise to the film's loosely episodic structure of one bizarre event after another, including a psycho-sexual phone call with the mover's wife, an epic afternoon sexual tryst with a breathy, British, child-like blonde (Geneviève Waïte, mother of Bijou Phillips), and a nightmarish costume party that would put a smile on Bunuel's face. Most of these encounters end with a nearly-nude Gould in all of his hirsuted glory.
Masculine inferiority is at the film's core, and many of Hiram's paranoid fantasies are rooted in his insecurities and fears. A pretty, topless breastfeeding neighbor is a threat to him, and the women he flirts with taunt him with details of their husbands' intense sexual prowess or immense endowments. He's convinced his wife is sleeping around, and even views his two-hundred pound St. Bernard as a sexual competitor. The moving from a the tiny apartment to the larger one can, I guess, be read as allegorical -- upsizing apartments as compensation for perceived penile inadequacy. There's a scene of Gould painting the new apartment in lusty bright colors, in the nude no less, that will keep Freudians busy for hours.
Other Hollywood comedies around this time dipped their toes into the borderline experimental, but few were able to pull it off as successfully as Rosenberg has in Move. There are no comic set pieces, and it doesn't devolve into slapstick in the final act. That's not to say it isn't funny -- it's just that the humor is more cerebral than silly, and very New York. The inconsistent pacing, fragmented narrative, jagged editing and exaggerated use of sound is more in line with sixties Godard than with seventies Hollywood. What's remarkable is just how different it is from Rosenberg's other films.
1970 was a busy year for Elliott Gould -- besides Move there was MASH, Getting Straight, and the similarly-themed I Love my Wife. Audiences (and the studio) may have felt it was overkill, which might explain why the film quickly faded into obscurity. (I don't think it was even issued on VHS in the States.) It's a shame, for it's one of Gould best roles, on par with his work for Altman. Paula Prentiss, another seventies staple (and early childhood crush), is also at her best, though sadly her part is all too brief. I've heard that the Fox Movie Channel has aired the film, but I've never seen it listed. Fox recently released the inferior S*P*Y*S on DVD, so perhaps one day they'll get around to this one.
Related Link: Theme from Move - Larry Marks (mp3).