Walerian Borowczyk directed some of the most strange, memorable and intense films of the 1970s and early 80s, all of them concerned with the trials and tribulations of human desire in periods and environments of repression. In 1968 he had begun his live-action feature film making career (after a beginning in animation) with the quite extraordinary Goto, Island of Love.
A film unlike any other, Goto tells the story of an island community which has been cut off from the rest of the world after a natural cataclysm. The island is rules by an avuncular despot, Goto, who presides over a ritualistic society in which felons are tested through trial by combat (to the death) and everyone is obsequiously serving his whims. One of the combatants, Grozo, is freed after fighting a huge bully at the request of Goto's beautiful wife Gonasta. Then, like Melvyn Peake's Steerpike in the Gormenghast books, Grozo begins a murderous climb from palace servant to become governor himself. Unfortunately for Grozo, his impulse for this social climbing - the love of Gonasta - is forever unfulfilled as she kills herself after he machinates the death of her lover, the handsome equestrian officer Gono.
Where is this island? It's a kind of Grimm's fairy tale land crossed with a dreamscape based on eastern European culture circa the 1890s. Yet whilst the world the story inhabits is pure invention, the emotional story re-enacted is universal in its application. It is as if Borowczyck has stripped human life to its bare essentials - impulse leads to action but action is frustrated. Sometimes this frustration is highly comic (the film is funny like a classic silent clown show, and owes some debt to the absurdist theatre of Beckett, Genet and Ionesco); sometimes the frustration is deeply moving, as when Gonasta watches the small boat she'd planned to escape the island with her lover in sinking slowly beneath the waves. Here as elsewhere the film is back-scored with Handel, the yearning sound of which adds to the eternal feelings of the story on display.
The film has obviously been done on a tight budget, with some kind of dilapidated factory building dressed as Goto's palace. As in later Borowczyck, old ornaments and collected antiques crowd the walls and tables, abandoned by their departed owners and maintaining a steadfast existence in materiality which is denied those miserable creatures the humans who made them. Despite the obvious theatricality and artifice of the world on display, Borowczyck manages to suck the viewer into the very raw emotions of the tale.
Goto, Island of Love, title aside, isn't as erotic as Borowczyck's later, more notorious, masterpieces. Yet like them it affirms that behind every act is a desire for either sex or power, shows a terrible yearning reaching for impossible satisfaction and shows that the mechanisms we create, our societies and their bric-a-brac, have a curious and somewhat terrifying tendency to imprison and outlast our frail but full of desire human bodies.
A film unlike any other, Goto tells the story of an island community which has been cut off from the rest of the world after a natural cataclysm. The island is rules by an avuncular despot, Goto, who presides over a ritualistic society in which felons are tested through trial by combat (to the death) and everyone is obsequiously serving his whims. One of the combatants, Grozo, is freed after fighting a huge bully at the request of Goto's beautiful wife Gonasta. Then, like Melvyn Peake's Steerpike in the Gormenghast books, Grozo begins a murderous climb from palace servant to become governor himself. Unfortunately for Grozo, his impulse for this social climbing - the love of Gonasta - is forever unfulfilled as she kills herself after he machinates the death of her lover, the handsome equestrian officer Gono.
Where is this island? It's a kind of Grimm's fairy tale land crossed with a dreamscape based on eastern European culture circa the 1890s. Yet whilst the world the story inhabits is pure invention, the emotional story re-enacted is universal in its application. It is as if Borowczyck has stripped human life to its bare essentials - impulse leads to action but action is frustrated. Sometimes this frustration is highly comic (the film is funny like a classic silent clown show, and owes some debt to the absurdist theatre of Beckett, Genet and Ionesco); sometimes the frustration is deeply moving, as when Gonasta watches the small boat she'd planned to escape the island with her lover in sinking slowly beneath the waves. Here as elsewhere the film is back-scored with Handel, the yearning sound of which adds to the eternal feelings of the story on display.
The film has obviously been done on a tight budget, with some kind of dilapidated factory building dressed as Goto's palace. As in later Borowczyck, old ornaments and collected antiques crowd the walls and tables, abandoned by their departed owners and maintaining a steadfast existence in materiality which is denied those miserable creatures the humans who made them. Despite the obvious theatricality and artifice of the world on display, Borowczyck manages to suck the viewer into the very raw emotions of the tale.
Goto, Island of Love, title aside, isn't as erotic as Borowczyck's later, more notorious, masterpieces. Yet like them it affirms that behind every act is a desire for either sex or power, shows a terrible yearning reaching for impossible satisfaction and shows that the mechanisms we create, our societies and their bric-a-brac, have a curious and somewhat terrifying tendency to imprison and outlast our frail but full of desire human bodies.