Watched shortly after the welcome ending of the Trump years,
the most prominent topical reference point for Jodorowsky’s The Holy
Mountain might be Qanon, a swirling, ever-renewing theory of everything, in
which its adherents claim (however sad their disillusionment) to transcend the
lying confines of conventional understanding (the main narrative follows a
group of powerful individuals, each associated with one of the planets, that
comes together to acquire ultimate power). Of course, the comparison is unfair
to the ecstatic and (in their way) deeply-sourced aspects of Jodorowsky’s work,
but the film is, by some measures at least, so (as they say) out there that it’s
hard for the uneducated viewer to separate meaning from opportunism. It
certainly impresses as an exercise in physically committed movie-making – pressing
tigers and hippos into action for the sake of one or two shots, marshaling a series of staggering crowd scenes, a parade of amazing sets and other design
elements and any number of logistically impressive shots (it’s staggering that
the budget was apparently under $1 million); it also has a constant parade of
nudity, mostly of an impersonally ceremonial kind of nature, summing up the
absence of much that feels authentically human, or relevantly rooted in
contemporary experience (leaving aside its various satirical aspects, for
example its parodies of the excesses of the military-industrial complex, which
although overdone at least further demonstrate the scope of Jodorowsky’s
imagination). The surprisingly offhand nature of the ending seems on the one hand
unequal to the involved quest that led up to it, but on the other hand asserts the
film’s most direct connection with its audience, an implicit invitation to take
from it what we wish and discard the rest. Still, even though one could list
the movie’s points of interest almost indefinitely, it all ultimately feels
less illuminating or potentially transformative than any number of far more
modest, earthbound works.
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