CINEMA
Sporting move .
PENELOPE HOUSTON
Hugs and Kisses (Paris-Pullman, 'X') Arguments on •the more theoretical operations of censorship are liable to break down in out- bursts of moral indignation all round. Argu- ments on its practical workings, on the other hand, are just as likely to dissolve in comicality before they even begin. The latest skirmish in film censorship, the case of Hugs,and Kisses and the Full Frontal Nude (it sounds vaguely archi- tectural, but apparently it's a technical term in the trade) is rather characteristic. Practically no aspect of this tiny dispute inclines one to keep a straight face.
Admittedly, it is hard on a new and promis- ing director, Jonas Cornell, to lose the effect of a fairly key scene in his film: a girl quietly un- dresses, while over the shot we hear her hus- band's voice, from another room, reading aloud an account of a voyage to a mysterious island. Because of this sound overlap, the scene can't be discreetly clipped in the usual way without evident jumps and elisions. But Cornell's pro- duction company might have had the fore- thought to warn him that he could be heading into a censorship taboo: there are precedents, after all, for shooting stand-by 'export' versions.
This quiet, reflective nude- shot, it's generally agreed, is hardly powerful enough to deprave or corrupt a flea. The British Board of Film Censors decides cases on their merits; as do the courts in matters of obscenity and so on. Then why not let the shot through? Because, appar- ently, someone might bring a prosecution, and the BBFC might be found to have condoned or authorised what the courts might regard (in the absence of a previous test case to clear up all these conjectures) as an obscenity. Also cni- ceivably because, in the words of the Board "s secretary. Mr John Trevelyan. 'there's a 'ot more of this sort of thing on the way trcm Scandinavia.' So we censor this thin edge of the nakedness wedge; and Mr Trevelyan, in an original and sporting move, decides to meet the critics to explain his cut.
It's hard to be seen to be standing by a prin- ciple when what is in question is strictly a camera angle; it looks too like censorship by slide rule. And I can't resist a suspicion that one might have more regard for (and of course more consistently argue with) a system based on old stern Reithian principle, than for the present gingerly worldliness about what the traffic at any moment will bear. Mr Trevelyan's dulcet reasonableness, and his evi- dent refusal to be cast as the last puritan, makes for greater all-round ease. But maybe the letting through of a fair amount of money- spinning titillation (presumably because it doesn't infringe technicalities) and the cutting of this unoffending shot (because it does) is the point you reach when you try to censor by per- missiveness and prudence. When the censor makes a cut, surely he at least should believe in the possibility of depravity and corruption—if not he, after all, then who?
To get back, finally, to Hugs and Kisses—in Swedish, endearingly, Puss och Kram. Every- one seems to have decided that Pinterish is the right description : a useful adjective, though a shade circumscribing when it comes to defining the flavour of this very cool, very Scandinavian comedy. The situation, certainly, is a Pinter one: the sudden irruption into a settled but uncertain ménage (husband a hatter, wife a phofographer's model) of the husband's old school friend, a drifting, childish, solemn-faced young man lugging a heavy typewriter. He settles in, playing the part of *child and servant, giving his hosts an audience to help fix their roles as a contented couple. Inevitably—of course Pinterishly—relationships alter, the game of masters and servants shifts: perm, one might say, any two from three.
But Jonas Cornell hits his nails less decisively on the head: the film rambles speculatively, drifts into what look like backwaters, re-emerges sharply back on course. Attractively, the effect is of a director exploring possibilities (and per- haps his own craft) as he goes along. Some scenes are very funny, like the moment when real, monstrous children invade the house for a party, and host and hostess, their own prank- ishness abruptly subdued, beat a terrified adult retreat. Or early scenes which set the balance oscillating between the trio—like one in which the camera is poised owlishly over a breakfast tray, watching the guest beat his docile host to the bread and jam. The performances (by Agneta Ekmanner, Sven-Bertil Taube and Hakan Serner) are very poised, played against hard, critical Scandinavian light. This wry comedy of role-playing is fully aware of its own depths; and intelligent enough to keep its char- acters swimming close to the surface. It deserves the benefit of whatever publicity it may for- tuitously pick up, even if as a cause celebre it's a non-starter.
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