Rent Blow-Up (1966)

I think you need to have been there. - Blow-Up review by CP

As a film, I would not give it much time; the plot is silly and the acting, despite the big names, is amateurish. If, however, like me, you grew up in the sixties, it has a certain charm, and it's always a pleasure to see how empty the streets were then, and the cars that we drove.

Intruiging - Blow-Up review by LC

I was expecting a straightforward murder mystery, but this is a much stranger, more artsy film. The whole movie is very stylishly shot, and a great snapshot of swinging 60's London. The central character of David Hemming's photographer is certainly no hero, but much more flawed and interesting, flipping between jaded boredom and manic energy, whilst the sexual politics of his interactions with women will probably often feel uncomfortable to modern audience. The murder mystery plot is there, but it doesn't play out in expected fashion, and seems to exist more to throw a light on the central character - does he treat what's in front of him as real, or just material for his art? Just how much of what we see in the film is real? This film asks some intriguing questions, then lets the audience make up their own mind.

Sixties Arthouse. - Blow-Up review by Steve

Surreal enigma from the Italian modernist Michelangelo Antonioni, which is a candidate for the definitive film about sixties London. David Hemmings plays a trivial, but chic and successful fashion photographer who aspires to work in social realism. While shooting in a park he appears to capture a murder in the grainy background of his snapshots.

Or does he? He is an unreliable observer; everything he says in the film is arguably a lie. He soon loses interest and moves on to other diversions. The film is a riddle and each viewer will bring their own meaning. But there are recurrent Antonioni themes, of alienation, failure of communication and existential fatigue/apathy. 

Behind the vogue of swinging London, these are superficial and capricious people. We get to observe the scene, with a live performance by the Yardbirds, the Mary Quant style frocks, and the youth subcultures. Plus appearances by sixties ace-faces like Jane Birkin and Veruschka. But this is a satire not a celebration. And the scene is pretty dead.

Hemmings is on screen every minute, supported by cameo performances. And he's convincing as the indulged, exploitative antihero. The plot slowly meanders. The mystery of the possible killing is only a brief deviation which isn't resolved. It's a hallucinatory head-movie, but the director has a gift for making the obscure accessible.