Review of Harold and Maude (1971) by Rory D — 09 Jun 2011

Fresh off a week's height of dealing with the supernatural sweetness of M. Night Shyamalan's "The Sixth Sense", I'm still lazing about in flower power melancholy of the 20th century. Next on tap: "Harold and Maude". What the hell can I say: Surprising. Dark. An acting juggernaut riddled with dialogue, soup thick enough as not to drown out the soul. As black as Hal Ashby's wacko romance gets, and the depths to which it so resonantly explores, feels always implosive. See, teeny bopper Harold Chasen (Bud Cort) has a sort of fetish for suicide, but doesn't bring himself to ever seriously go for it. He finds his mom respects him more upon the fed's dish he died in a school chemical fire, and follows that selfish suit. On the other side of the fence is Maude (Ruth Gordon), a cheerful old bat who seems to have cracked the fountain of youth but can't bring herself to spill its secrets without a con slipping in to fit the pursuit of her own needs.

Who'd have guessed the two for such a cute couple? No one on camera, obviously. Mama Chasen (Vivian Pickles) is too busy setting up deadpan dates for her son, and blue-blooded Uncle Victor (Charles Tyner) is beside himself in wooing Harold with post-Watergate hup-two dreams. Anything to help the kid come of age. But Ashby, or, more notably scribe Colin Higgins, all but ignores Harold's self-infliction. The spectacular Gordon's Maude can only leave the boy sky-high on his own, and it's a mighty drop down. The laws of gravity would have him crash. And he does.

Not as hard as his vulture swoon for the elderly Maude, though. Ashby correlates a Cat Stevens soundtrack with beachfront backdrops for maximum sentimental effect. If the dry-eye gauge sketches as too empty, skip the show and pass the remote. Just be sure to leave it on for the rest of us passersby with teary draws to the happenings on screen. "Harold and Maude" purrs like a kitten with claws, or maybe the engine to one of those fine cars Har's chick keeps picking off. Ashby's film doesn't pit against world views. Maude may burn the midnight oil, but first as a checklist penned of her own downfall. And both their troubles are cockily created: Maude plans to die at 80, and Harold can't wait to meet her there. Let go, dude. Chill back and look around. There's a whole heaven in front of you just waiting to be touched, in "Harold and Maude", that divides and conquers and splits us apart for conversation.