Richard: Do me a favor. Don’t be silly anymore. Just be yourself.
Jeannie: But I am myself. Who else would I be?
Richard: I’m serious.
Jeannie: Definition of serious: Blah blah blah blah …
– John Cassavetes, “Faces”
A few months after filmmaker John Cassavetes’s death in 1989, someone had the great idea of showing several of his films in theaters throughout the nation. It was a fitting tribute, and a necessary one, since Cassavetes demanded that his works not be shown on television, even after his death. This request was his final attack at Hollywood.
When the retrospective came around Sacramento, I caught his 1968 film, “Faces,” at a small suburban theater in the middle of a summer day. The theater was less than half-full. The audience looked young. Probably like me, they only heard of the director’s name but have not seen any of his movies.
After the house lights dimmed, the projector rolled and the film began. The first 20 minutes were mind-boggling – the black-and-white film was grainy and at times overexposed; the sound was full of echo and … my God, was this movie overdubbed? It seemed parts of it were. The characters on-screen – two middle-aged businessmen (John Marley and Fred Draper) and a 28-year-old blonde (Gena Rowlands) – had just left a bar and were continuing their fun at her apartment. They told bad jokes, ran through horrible college routines, and sang loudly off-key. The scene felt like it’s taking for hours, then suddenly one of the men noticed that he was being left out in the fun. Jealous, he went in for the kill. “So what do you charge, Jeannie?” he asked the woman. Time came to a halt. Suddenly insults were flying and wounds ripped open. Right then the film became interesting, although I felt I shouldn’t be watching it. It was so unsettling, yet my eyes were hooked on the screen.
The first three-fourths of “Faces” are like that scene. They follow the same formula – a drunken gathering is held; there are lots of laughter, dancing, joking around; then suddenly someone says something inappropriate and all hell breaks loose. And the audience members become flies on the wall, witnessing these battles and their bloody aftermaths.
The film’s last act is the hangover. Emptiness settles in. The bathroom mirror reveals the lines on the faces. Someone tries to kill herself, but then again, all of them feel like they need to be saved. So they cling on to the closest person lying next to them.
Gena Rowlands once recalled a preview screening for one of Cassavetes’s film. She and Cassavetes were standing in the theater lobby as the film was rolling. In the middle of the screening, a man storms out of the theater. He is sweating bullets, obviously aggravated by what he was watching on screen. The man stood there in the lobby for a moment. He then wiped his brow, took a deep breath, and walked back into the theater. Cassavetes had a big grin on his face. He knew his film’s magic was working.
I knew how that stranger felt. After seeing “Faces” for the first time, I felt like I fell down a flight of stairs. I picked myself up, brushed myself off and walked out of the theater. The sun was setting, and I never felt more alive. But man, I could have used a drink.
So what film changed your life?
A short look at “Faces”:
