Picnic at Hanging Rock

The first and most important thing film must do is entertain. Whatever its insights, whatever its contribution to the art form, a given film must hook and hold the viewer throughout its running time. Granted, this prerequisite assumes a degree of subjectivity, as that which hooks and holds one viewer may distract and bore another. I can live with that.

Roger Ebert talked me into viewing PICNIC AT HANGING ROCK. In one of his Great Movies columns, the critic paints a portrait of a mysterious, haunting, perceptive film that both hypnotizes and engages the viewer. I found it tedious and uninvolving. I simply did not care about its characters, it milieu, its insights, or much else about it. Perhaps it's the class warrior in me: why should I care about rich Victorians? Perhaps its the chronological ethnocentrist in me: why should I care about the geographically and chronologically limited ramifications of Victorian sexual and sociological norms? Perhaps it's the animal in me: I saw the movie at five in the morning, while waiting for an airplane to get fixed so I could take it flying - I didn't care much about anything other than getting another cup of coffee. And another. And another. Oh, and maybe a donut.

PICNIC AT HANGING ROCK may well be a stunning masterpiece, but it didn't hook me and it definitely didn't hold me. Ah, well.