Fahrenheit 451 (1966)

There's much to be said about cinema and the ways it can touch us, affect us in its own subtle way. Some of us want adventures, others romance. A few even delight in the karo syrup drenched macabre. I crave these feelings that can be lived through film, and as I venture more and more into the cinematic past, unearthing the classics, this phrase comes so often to my lips: "They don't make 'em like this anymore."

It's not often that I think of myself as an old fart, or even curmudgeony, but the feeling sure came up while watching Fahrenheit 451 by French standby François Truffaud. Was it the Technicolor? The stilted, outdated vision of a future? Or is it the fantastic score by legendary film composer Bernard Herrmann, at times yearning, at times hypnotic? Everything in this film somehow feels right... a feeling of rightness that I can't often find in the films of the 21st century.

I think it must be the source material.

Although I have only read Ray Bradbury's novel once, the film seemed to sum up it's spirit quite well. It is a post-censorship future in an unnamed land (the television personalities have British accents; the protagonist, a French one) where books are banned and firemen start fires instead of putting them out. The zombie-plebes eke out their lives in their living rooms, watching their view-screens, which broadcast bland programs and brain-washing segments.

Montag is a fireman. His job is to find books and burn them. He slides up and down the pole of his fire station with the same bland expression every day... but someone senses he is different. A girl, Clarisse, who has a marked resemblance to his wife (both played by Julie Christie) chats him up one day on the suspended monorail. It's an innocent interchange, but some of her questions disturb Montag.

"Have you ever read any of the books that you burn?"

"Are you happy?" (before quickly darting away)

"What do you think, Linda?"

This is the perfect setup for the exploration of themes that fascinate me so much... Freedom of expression, the banality of modern entertainment, the death of literacy. All things that seem far-fetched, but somewhat believable, if one would look at the youth of today, a collective of tech-savvy, but word-weary youngsters who frown upon reading anything more complicated than the "Harry Potter" novels. I suppose the fact that I'm an avid reader lent itself well to the scenes of horror in this film. Long, agonizing shots of pages slowly curling up into dark ash "Like flowers, or a butterfly." One shot especially, of a page from Dostoevsky's "The Brothers Karamazov" slowly being carbonated, caused me to hiss in outrage.

Some would call this film outdated or corny. Certainly on the visual level, there is much to be desired by today's standard, but the storytelling here is excellent, and there is a bountiful collection of moments in this film that shine like diamonds in the rough. When Montag hesitantly reads the first paragraph of Charles Dickens' "David Copperfield"; the scene where Montag reads from a novel to the vapid wives gathered in his home, causing one of them to cry; and whom who has seen this film could forget the hypnotizing final minutes, as humanity's last hope wanders the banks of a snowy river, reciting from the novels they have memorized, as Bernard Herrmann's score, subtly recalling Barber's Adagio for Strings, yearns in the background.