Now and then, a film not only exceeds my expectations, it leaps beyond them. If a film is older, this impact owes nothing to nostalgia, but shows how definitively the film has remained a living work.
This applies especially to CONAN THE BARBARIAN. I never saw the film in 1982; instead, I bought the MCA record album of the Basil Poledouris score. Despite the lousy sound of that vinyl pressing, despite the often-muddy recording of an under-rehearsed orchestra, the music stood out for me in its mood of melancholy introspection. I fell in love with it, and this love has endured.
Sometimes, good film composers write music not based on the films on screen, but on the films that play in their heads. Jerry Goldsmith did this often: no matter how wretched the film, he was able, time after time, to find something worthwhile in the garbage heap. For all that I knew, Basil Poledouris might have done the same with CONAN THE BARBARIAN, but I would not find out for certain until I had seen the film without interruption, at its full length of 130 minutes, just two or three years ago.
To my happy surprise, the film turned out not only to deserve its musical score, but to reflect it. The music was not glitter on a dull rag, not a pleasing mask on a bland face, but an accurate reflection of what the film showed and implied.
The 1980s brought a surprising number of brutally violent yet humanistic films, films that emphasized action without sacrificing human concerns. I think of THE ROAD WARRIOR, BLADE RUNNER, ALIENS, THE TERMINATOR, ROBOCOP: films of unexpected emotional resonance, "pulp" fantasies that somehow managed to convey something honest about human sorrows and human strengths. CONAN not only fits within this category, it defines the category.
What CONAN emphasizes even more than these other films is the melancholy, the isolation, of heroism, and this element shines out beyond the film's details of spurting blood and brutal deaths.
Much could be said about the technical excellence of this film. Its director, John Milius, might not be Akira Kurosawa, but he shows undeniable skill with the blocking of actors, the staging of action, the emotional and thematic values of lingering moments, the effectiveness of editing. His use of landscapes, of crowds, to support emotions and implications reveals a genuine vision.
In choosing his cast for their physicality, Milius ran the risk of poor performances. To counter this, he puts emphasis on eye gestures, on moments of stillness to convey suffering or sorrow. Even if someone like Sandahl Bergman lacks the voice of an actress, Milius ensures that her face, her movements, overcome this limitation. As a result, her character becomes not only convincing, but heart-breaking. Visual details make all of the difference.
The film is also less about well-rounded people than about the roles they serve. In moments like the introduction of the wizard, of Subotai, of Valeria, a character is not so much encountered by the hero, as recognized. This actually works in the films favour: these characters are not like us; they are mythic patterns, representations, within their own fantasy world.
All of this appears on screen, and is clear to anyone who pays attention, yet the meaning of CONAN, at least at first glance, can seem less clear, if only because the film would rather show its implications than spell them out. Some people have called this film a right-wing power fantasy, yet I doubt this, if only because the film adds layers to its apparent simplicity.
Early in the film, when Conan makes a name for himself as a gladiatorial slave, he is asked by a sponsor, "What is best in life?"
Conan replies, "Crush your enemies, see them driven before you, and to hear the lamentation of the women."
The sponsor approves, yet the film goes on to suggest better things in life. Subotai shows Conan the value of friendship and loyal companionship. Valeria shows him the value of love and a sexual relationship between equals. Osric shows him the value of family, of paternal devotion. And Thulsa Doom, ironically, shows him the value of purpose in life, of the strength and freedom to achieve this purpose.
All of this would suggest a film deeper and more nuanced than a simple power fantasy, and these layers become all the more clear at the film's ending. Unlike STAR WARS, with its final explosion and ceremonial medals, CONAN ends with a hero lost in thought, without purpose. After his defeat of Thulsa Doom, while surrounded and vastly out-numbered by the torch-bearing servants of Doom, Conan raises the broken sword of his father, and then drops it, discards it, as if to say, "Do whatever you like with me. My goal is completed. I'm finished."
Conan's moments of reflection, of isolation; Valeria's loneliness, her need for warmth and for someone who will not simply "pass by in the night;" Osric's realization, "There comes a time when the jewels cease to sparkle, when the gold loses its luster, when the throne room becomes a prison, and all that is left is a father's love for his child," these are not merely details. These are, I suspect, the foundation of what CONAN THE BARBARIAN means as a film.
A film that deals explicitly with violence and action can sometimes be misunderstood as being only about violence and action. Nobody would make this mistake while watching SEVEN SAMURAI, but many have been less willing to see nuance in CONAN THE BARBARIAN. I would urge them to take another look.
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