Frederick is tired. As an artist, he is beholden to a fickle public, yet he has nothing but contempt for those who buy his wares. “I don’t sell my work by the yard,” he sneers, as if he had any right to restrict his product to those who can properly appreciate it. Or maybe he does. He lives comfortably in New York City, so clearly times are good, but if he’s averse to the jet set (or rock stars) buying his art, he’d do little but fill assorted storage spaces in the five-borough area. Art, like anything else in a capitalistic system, is only worth what people are willing to pay, so why get uppity? Simply put, it’s Frederick’s way. Uppity to say the least. Misanthropic, more accurately stated.
As played by the incomparable Max von Sydow, Frederick is both Woody Allen’s ode to the artistic temperament, and its repudiation. Woody can certainly relate to the desire to isolate oneself in unending work, but he’s just as likely to mock the very idea that it is work. Above all, Woody plugs away because, against the odds, he believes that a busy man cannot die. The very idea violates everything he wants to believe about the universe. Remain idle for but a moment, and the Grim Reaper will be knocking at your door. Frederick is similarly positioned. He churns it out not because it brings him even a modicum of pleasure (it does not), but rather out of a sense of obligation to his beating heart. Even if that same heart blackened beyond recognition long ago.
Frederick, you see, hates life and everything in it. If he’s talking, he’s complaining. And if he’s interacting, he’s keeping you at bay. Deliberately, and as long as possible. It’s very likely, in fact, that his art never had meaning beyond an expression of utter contempt. He’s popular, yes, much to his chagrin, and he’d be just as miserable were he to waste away in anonymity. A museum exhibition would only bring despair, as it would mean he’d have to justify the floor space. Even worse, there would be questions. Lots of questions. And if he has to explain his vision one more time, he’ll likely set fire to every canvas within earshot.
If anything keeps Frederick upright, it is Lee (Barbara Hershey). Lee is astoundingly sexy, though Frederick likely hasn’t seen an erection in a generation. Maybe he never did. This isn’t about sex. It’s about control. In a world teeming with illogic, illness, and rampant stupidity, Lee is a project with a beginning, middle, and end. She entered the arrangement a silly, unfocused naif, and she’ll exit a prized pupil. If there is an exit, that is. Lee has been surrendering to Frederick’s authoritarian rule for years, if only out of a duty to her feminine insecurity. When an escape appears (via her sister’s husband, played by Michael Caine), she’ll grab it for all it’s worth. Even then, it’s not love so much as another distraction. Lee is, after all, a woman through and through. Flatter, and she’s yours. Settle in, and she’s fighting for the turbulent air of betrayal. Anything to make her feel alive and centered.
Predictably, and wonderfully, Frederick sees everything clearly. There isn’t a hypocrisy that escapes his steely gaze. But after a long day (or any kind of day, given the hopelessness of life), the last thing anyone wants to hear is a dissertation on religion. Sure, Frederick can be counted on for a wonderful bon mot (“Can you imagine the level of a mind that watches wrestling?”), but after fighting the subway for two hours, might I be able to put my purse down before you spout forth? You’re right, sir, the Holocaust does get trivialized when the discussion is sandwiched between deodorant commercials, but can I at least shower first? Naturally, I’m with Frederick in spirit, but there’s a time and place for everything. The least he could do is see the humor in it. It’s just a guess, but I doubt Frederick has ever found a moment in time to so much as cackle.
So if Frederick is indeed so dreary he seems to have escaped from the Bergman oeuvre, why an Unsung? Isn’t he more Asshole material? A fair point, but as I age, I see Frederick in a new light. Amidst the bluff and buster and Gibraltar-like arrogance, I fully understand his fear. And with Lee being the latest to let him down, I can envision the self-indulgent suicide, likely set to a Mahler record. He hates people yet fears solitude. Life is a burden more than he can bear, but he’d rather live a thousand years than live no more. Art is thankless and obscene, but does he have the stomach for customer service? Women are an intolerable menace, but then again, they are women. Fun to look at, at the very least. So yes, he is Unsung. Proudly so. He is life’s contradictions in one sour shell. Happy being unhappy, living out his days pondering abstractions, lest the chill wind of non-existence creep in.
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