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Friday, May 30, 2014
Miklós Jancsó | Szerelmem, Electra (Electra, My Love)
woman of discontent
by Douglas Messerli
Gyula Hernádi (writer, based on a play by László Gyurkó), Miklós Jancsó Szerelmem, Electra / 1974
Miklós Jancsó’s Electra, My Love (also titled Elektreia) is a film that could never be made in Hollywood—or for that matter imagined by most Western European countries. A political musical, based on the story of Orestes plays, and centering on Electra might possibly be imagined as a kind of theatrical joke, but to actually present an entire scenario, presented in 12 long photographic shots is almost inconceivable. And, as Electra (Mari Töröcsik) intrudes upon King Aegisthus’ József Madaras) celebratory day—held every year for the now for the fifteen years since her father, Agamemnon’s murder—wandering in a kind of stumbling pattern through the crowds of dancing peasants, nubile nude virgins, singers, comic dwarves, and a column of stridently brutal flagellators, as she speaks her long monologue of sentences such as: “I, Electra, who does not forget. While one person lives who doesn’t forget, no one can forget.” Despite everyone’s attempt to ameliorate and calm the “mad” woman in their midst, Electra remains, as Aegisthus describes her, “the woman of discontent.”
We recognize, in these theatrical cries, the roots of a fable of serious political significance, in which Electra rails again and again against all tyrants, which people such as her deter in their very statements of the tyrant’s lies. But also cannot help but wonder, at times, whether or not Jancsó is also intentionally satirizing his own metaphors; even in the most grand epic presentations of royal ceremony, such as the operatic-like marches of the masses of The Ten Commandments or Verdi’s Aida, have we encountered such over-the-top obsequious demonstrations, as the peasants, like an amateur folk-dance group, run back and forth across the Hungarian putzla amidst the posed scenes of nude women and young boys. And, in a sense, we side with Electra all the more because of our recognition of the absolute silliness of Aegisthus’ celebrations, and his bread-and-circus solutions to his culture’s woes. Even if we didn’t know that Aegisthus is a tyrant, we have to recognize him, in these often meaningless song and dance routines that he is a grand impresario in the manner of someone like Cecil De Mille or Busby Berkeley, carefully managing the masses by parading them in patterns so grand that even they cannot recognize their own beginnings ends. When the peasants are no longer asked to perform they fall to the ground, as if drained of any energy they may once have represented.
Los Angeles, May 30, 2014