There is a lingering sense of connectedness that accompanies Theodoros Angelopoulos visually ambitious but narratively ambiguous The Traveling Players (1975). At almost four hours, the film has room enough to build up the intertwined relationships of its characters, but Angelopoulos opts instead to never quite solidify anything. At its conclusion I still wasn’t quite sure what I was seeing, and I felt a distinct inkling that I was missing something; that my limited knowledge of Greek history and language prevented an informed interpretation of the picture. Looking to the net for answers, I’m now inclined to believe that this was in fact the director’s intention.
The plot of The Traveling Players isn’t simple. It traverses close to fifteen of the most tumultuous years in Greek history (1939-1952), and the experiences of fascist rule, Nazi occupation, and communist conflict through the lives of the eponymous group. In a conventional film these events would unfold sequentially or in an easily digestible series of flashbacks. The audience would build an understanding of these turbulent happenings while developing an intimate relationship with individual members of the troupe, growing to sympathize with their personal trials. However Angelopoulos has no interest in conventional storytelling. He chooses instead to keep these characters at arm’s length, while blurring together different periods of the various political conflicts. How does he do this? Consider how his – and DP Yorgos Arvanitis’ – unique approach to photographing his characters might contribute to such a tone. In a film of 230 minutes, he uses just 80 shots. That’s an average shot length of almost 2.9 minutes. Within those minutes the camera often moves from one character to another, unveiling moments of their lives without any set-up. There are no typical close-ups contained within these movements. At several points the camera stops on a medium shot of an individual. Superfluous activities seem to cease in these moments, and the character, as if delivering a soliloquy on stage, speaks directly to the audience about a tragic personal experience. This happens numerous times and yet I could not tell you the name of a single such character. Their stories instead seem to represent the group as a whole, allegorical as opposed to individual. In these moments, without cuts or a scene change, the mood of the film is considerably altered.
Similarly, the camera seems to possess the ability to alter chronology. Exterior shots often begin in one year, on one group of people, before abandoning them to pan or float on to another, meeting up with a different set of characters in a different time. This makes an attempt to dissect the film literally nearly impossible, until this confusion over setting gives way to the notion that this story is much more concerned with place than it is with time. Once this perception takes hold the film becomes less a connected narrative and more of a collection of sequences. Some of these sequences are remarkable. Others are simply heartbreaking. Consider the episode in which a young woman is coerced into performing a striptease so that she might obtain the wine for her family dinner. The moment is simultaneously disgusting and evocative of the desperation the woman feels.
As I watched The Traveling Players I was struck by its ironic connection to another film, Yasujirô Ozu’s masterpiece Floating Weeds (1959). Ostensibly, there are few films that might seem so similar, if only described in terms of basic concept. In execution, they could not be more different. Both are films about troupes of actors whose lives are nomadic in nature. Both achieve a quality that deceives or debunks our perceptions of time in order to make a larger statement about a culture. But Floating Weeds achieves this with a camera that is relentlessly still (as with all Ozu), while Angelopoulos holds shots only occasionally. Through no camera movement Ozu gives us a deep understanding of his human subjects. Angelopoulos, through almost unyielding movement, gives us so little of his. Usually these choices have the opposite effect.
Patterns and connections to other films are somewhat obvious in The Traveling Players. They can be overdone, but occasionally are refreshing, as with a cantina momentarily transformed into a political pulpit via song, à la Casablanca (1943). The Traveling Players itself is directly referenced in Angelopoulos’ own Landscape in the Mist (1988; #158), when the group entire, included the members who expire during the course of this film, return in full to play a small part in that one. As if needed, this later appearance confirms the statement of timelessness and connectedness evident throughout Players. This film is not a masterpiece, and its odd structure, epic length, and relative difficulty to be found in a fully subtitled version render it less seen in U.S. film circles. However, it is certainly a worthy entry into the 1001 canon.
Language: Greek (primary)/English
Runtime: 230 Minutes
Available @Youtube.com
Grade: 2.5 Hats Off
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