In a tweet last year, Roger Ebert wrote:
"The Red Shoes plays on TCM tonight. A film more or less everyone should see. That probably means you."
And he's right.
For some reason, despite its reputation (perhaps because of its reputation), I had always avoided this film, the most famous of a whole series made by British duo Powell and Pressburger in the 40s and 50s.
The Red Shoes draws the viewer in in a way that the Oscar-nominated Black Swan never manages to do. It does this, too, without relying on tricks and by taking risks, such as inserting a 17-minute uninterrupted ballet sequence in the middle of the action.
Yet "action" is a misleading word to use of this film, despite the numerous dance sequences, because it is essentially the story of obsession – a young dancer's desire to dance and, more darkly, an impressario's desire to control, the desire for dominion.
Played with the type of menacing power that is all the more powerful for being understated, Anton Walbrook's Boris Lermontov is a man with with no heart, the type of person one might be hoodwinked into thinking doesn't exist today. Hoodwinked, for the simple reason that most of us tend not to spend sufficient time in an exclusive relationship with a single controlling individual with no capacity for feeling. Perhaps, though, I am wrong; the divorce petitions for "mental cruelty" might suggest so.
It's easy to miss, but there’s an important scene quite early in the piece where Lermontov blanks Moira Shearer's character, Victoria Page, walking past her as if she doesn't exist, even though he has already met her and spoken with her at some length.
"The Red Shoes plays on TCM tonight. A film more or less everyone should see. That probably means you."
And he's right.
For some reason, despite its reputation (perhaps because of its reputation), I had always avoided this film, the most famous of a whole series made by British duo Powell and Pressburger in the 40s and 50s.
Yet "action" is a misleading word to use of this film, despite the numerous dance sequences, because it is essentially the story of obsession – a young dancer's desire to dance and, more darkly, an impressario's desire to control, the desire for dominion.
Played with the type of menacing power that is all the more powerful for being understated, Anton Walbrook's Boris Lermontov is a man with with no heart, the type of person one might be hoodwinked into thinking doesn't exist today. Hoodwinked, for the simple reason that most of us tend not to spend sufficient time in an exclusive relationship with a single controlling individual with no capacity for feeling. Perhaps, though, I am wrong; the divorce petitions for "mental cruelty" might suggest so.
It's easy to miss, but there’s an important scene quite early in the piece where Lermontov blanks Moira Shearer's character, Victoria Page, walking past her as if she doesn't exist, even though he has already met her and spoken with her at some length.
It's a small touch, but it is indicative of the type of man that Lermontov is and a sign to the audience of the ultimate fate of any fully human and vulnerable being that chooses to place themselves under his tutelage. They will have sold their soul.
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