Sartre with Gainesburgers

By S. K.

The desire to be an animal is as old as humankind. It can be discerned in the rituals of primitive tribes, the fables of Aesop and the tales of the Grimm Brothers. As society grows more sophisticated, so do the stories, which progress from the wishful to the satiric, from the leisurely to the Swift. In Anatole France's Penguin Island, for example, birds are used to mock the church. In George Orwell's Animal Farm, the target is Communist society.

In Bob Downey's new movie, Pound, the personae are dogs, but the theme is man. Imprisoned, a pack of canines --in human form--are under sentence of death unless an owner comes to claim them. Their warden is a uniformed black woman, neither malign nor forgiving, just carrying out orders. Round and round the dogs pad and yammer, seeking a nonexistent reprieve, like Sartre characters on Gainesburgers.

Simultaneously, in the city, a "honky killer" is gunning down lovers. The police are confounded; no one is free; citizens on the outside are as cursed as the purebreds and mutts on the inside. The bullets ricochet, the gas jets open . . . Here Downey is filming on dangerous ground, here his central metaphor founders--and with it the whole movie. No artist in this century can create a death camp without triggering historical memories of the obscene, of Auschwitz, Treblinka and Dachau. These are monuments of evil, not toys to be manipulated by a gnatweight philosopher.

It is not enough to make dog jokes through the physical characteristics of human characters--a feisty boxer, a bald Mexican hairless, a pedigreed bitch in heat. It is not enough to announce that we-are-all-prisoners-of-the-absurd, as if the idea had sprung full-blown from the head of Downey. What is needed is a vision or a viewpoint. The writer-director can supply neither.

Yet Downey does evidence some glimmer of talent. His settings have the blinding, sun-washed aspects of Marat Sade. His mad, scatological songs could have been copied from the walls of Greenwich Village urinals; they are funny nonetheless. And in one scene there is authentic wit. A prisoner in black tie and dinner jacket (Harry Rigby) gazes at the dogs and whines: "What am I doing here? I'm a penguin." As he dies, his final dream is of a formal party complete with glacial ice cubes and attended by the great auk of Manhattan nightlife, Julius Monk.

The old Hollywood studio system has often been criticized for stifling originality. But it provided many film makers with a vital component. Without it, work needs no executioner; it can destroy itself. Downey's Pound yowls for attention but whimpers for discipline.

. S. K.

This file is automatically generated by a robot program, so reader's discretion is required.