La Moustache
France, 2005
Directed and co-written (with Jérôme Beaujour) by Emmanuel Carrère
Imagine a Twilight Zone concept that Rod Serling might have dreamed up on his most creatively-drained day, filter it through the cold, calculating perspective of Claude Chabrol, then add a healthy dose of French existentialism, and you might have something close to La Moustache. This bizarre psychodrama starts in the most innocent of places: As Marc (Vincent Lindon) readies for a party, he asks his wife Agnès (Emmanuelle Devos) if he should shave off the mustache he's sported for most of his life. She demurs, but he shaves it anyway and, expecting a reaction, attempts to play coy. But Agnès one-ups his coyness by not reacting; in fact, she acts as though he's never had a mustache in the first place. The people at the party (including blog favorite Mathieu Amalric) don't notice the change either, though Amalric's character (Agnès's ex) suggests strong-willed Agnès likes stretching psychological games past their breaking point. But is she playing a game? Or is Marc having a breakdown? Is he forgetting years of his life, perhaps burying some kind of trauma? Or is Agnès manipulating him for some unknown reason?
The film's psychological games go beyond the characters. We see Marc shave, in great detail. We see the photographic and documentary proof of his wearing a mustache. From early on, we're made complicit in Marc's perspective, such that its unreliability calls into question everything that we see or hear. In that way, La Moustache takes a tiny event and spirals off from it to a degree that far exceeds what the premise might lead you to believe. Emmanuel Carrère and Jérôme Beaujour's script places us squarely in Marc's potentially fragmented mind, so we share in his distress and distrust of everyone around him. Carrère's direction emphasizes time lapses and ellipses, often focusing on Marc's distraught face or Agnès's enigmatic, mischievous eyes. It's all about creating a sense of suggestion, unease, and impending dread. As far as that goes, the film works.
The major problem with La Moustache is that, for all its mystery and all of its commentary on identity, self-perception, and doubt, it never quite comes together as a film story. Its first two acts are interesting enough, setting the stage for this puzzle and making us wonder which, if any, of the potential solutions is the correct one. But going into a film like this and anticipating a solution is sort of a fool's errand. As if to prove that point, the third act is even harder to pin down. Marc's choices become more cryptic, the script less "real," and it's even more difficult to know what to make of things. I'm not saying it's abstract—there are clues and suggestions about what's happening and why. But by that point I had mostly checked out, which is a shame because there's a lot of good, moody atmosphere and I really wanted to enjoy it more. Lindon and Devos do very well in their roles and earn their characters (and the film) a lot of sympathy, but overall I needed either more meat on the story's bones, or a slightly less fragmented point of view. Without either, La Moustache falls a little flat.
Showing posts with label French. Show all posts
Showing posts with label French. Show all posts
Wednesday, November 6, 2013
Thursday, October 10, 2013
FI: Murmur of the Heart
Murmur of the Heart / Le souffle au cœur
France/Italy/W. Germany, 1971
Written and directed by Louis Malle
Though Louis Malle's career took him through many phases and across several genres, even spanning the divide between fiction and documentary, his sensitivity towards youth was one of his most enduring and endearing traits. He pushes Benoît Ferreux, the lead in the bourgeois coming-of-age tale Murmur of the Heart, to heights of insouciance that far eclipse the rambunctious youths depicted in most of his other work, but never loses sight of his childish nature. Ferreux's Laurent is a boy without a country, so to speak. He attends a religious school but doesn't believe in God. He's smarter than either of the troublemaking older brothers (Fabien Ferreux, Marc Winocour) who give him a hard time, but still idealizes their prankish, partying ways and copies their derisive treatment of the servants who have fawned over him for his entire life. He is similarly babied and favored by his attractive, youthful Italian mother (Lea Massari), for which he alternately disdains and lusts after her, but ignored (or worse) by his aloof gynecologist father (Daniel Gélin). He is, in short, a typical conflicted teenage boy, with all of the attendant inappropriate desires and psychological scars that come with that territory, and Malle's script seems to have a near-perfect grasp of when to shift Laurent from one register to another to avoid wearying the audience. Even when they try our patience, his actions never beggar belief.
Laurent's family lives in 1950's Dijon during the waning days of the conflict in French Indochina, an interesting period for Malle to revisit with foreknowledge of the oncoming counter-cultural turmoil of 1960s France. Malle seems to be setting up the death of the paternalistic French empire as an analogue for Laurent's coming of age and his family's willingness to ignore their own fusty patriarch, but such a reading doesn't lend enough credence to the film's jazzy, light tone. The film is a bit episodic, especially its first half, though it settles down after an illness—a fever that results in the titular heart murmur—separates Laurent and his mother from the rest of the characters by moving them to a sanitarium. Earlier episodes are hit-or-miss, often driven largely by how much you can tolerate Laurent's brothers. One well-executed sequence, however, shows Laurent confessing his sins to an ever-so-slightly creepy priest played deftly by Michael Lonsdale (Moonraker's Hugo Drax), where Malle holds us in uncomfortable close-ups that highlight the priest's mild inappropriateness.
Aside from anything else, I would say that the film is one about longing and loneliness, about not understanding our desires or those of others. As Laurent, Ferreux often looks lost or expressionless, and I don't think it's because he's a bad performer. Malle sees something in his gangling, adolescent body and his enigmatic features: the face of a boy who wants something and doesn't know what it is. In that way, he's like his unfulfilled mother, his philandering brothers, his closed-off father, and even his touchy priest. They're all navigating their days with a heart whose guidance they can't understand, with all the strain and tension that incomprehension suggests. As such, thanks to Malle's awareness and sensitivity, many of Murmur of the Heart's best scenes come when that tension breaks.
As a Criterion Collection title, Murmur of the Heart is available to stream here on HuluPlus.
France/Italy/W. Germany, 1971
Written and directed by Louis Malle
Though Louis Malle's career took him through many phases and across several genres, even spanning the divide between fiction and documentary, his sensitivity towards youth was one of his most enduring and endearing traits. He pushes Benoît Ferreux, the lead in the bourgeois coming-of-age tale Murmur of the Heart, to heights of insouciance that far eclipse the rambunctious youths depicted in most of his other work, but never loses sight of his childish nature. Ferreux's Laurent is a boy without a country, so to speak. He attends a religious school but doesn't believe in God. He's smarter than either of the troublemaking older brothers (Fabien Ferreux, Marc Winocour) who give him a hard time, but still idealizes their prankish, partying ways and copies their derisive treatment of the servants who have fawned over him for his entire life. He is similarly babied and favored by his attractive, youthful Italian mother (Lea Massari), for which he alternately disdains and lusts after her, but ignored (or worse) by his aloof gynecologist father (Daniel Gélin). He is, in short, a typical conflicted teenage boy, with all of the attendant inappropriate desires and psychological scars that come with that territory, and Malle's script seems to have a near-perfect grasp of when to shift Laurent from one register to another to avoid wearying the audience. Even when they try our patience, his actions never beggar belief.
Laurent's family lives in 1950's Dijon during the waning days of the conflict in French Indochina, an interesting period for Malle to revisit with foreknowledge of the oncoming counter-cultural turmoil of 1960s France. Malle seems to be setting up the death of the paternalistic French empire as an analogue for Laurent's coming of age and his family's willingness to ignore their own fusty patriarch, but such a reading doesn't lend enough credence to the film's jazzy, light tone. The film is a bit episodic, especially its first half, though it settles down after an illness—a fever that results in the titular heart murmur—separates Laurent and his mother from the rest of the characters by moving them to a sanitarium. Earlier episodes are hit-or-miss, often driven largely by how much you can tolerate Laurent's brothers. One well-executed sequence, however, shows Laurent confessing his sins to an ever-so-slightly creepy priest played deftly by Michael Lonsdale (Moonraker's Hugo Drax), where Malle holds us in uncomfortable close-ups that highlight the priest's mild inappropriateness.
Aside from anything else, I would say that the film is one about longing and loneliness, about not understanding our desires or those of others. As Laurent, Ferreux often looks lost or expressionless, and I don't think it's because he's a bad performer. Malle sees something in his gangling, adolescent body and his enigmatic features: the face of a boy who wants something and doesn't know what it is. In that way, he's like his unfulfilled mother, his philandering brothers, his closed-off father, and even his touchy priest. They're all navigating their days with a heart whose guidance they can't understand, with all the strain and tension that incomprehension suggests. As such, thanks to Malle's awareness and sensitivity, many of Murmur of the Heart's best scenes come when that tension breaks.
As a Criterion Collection title, Murmur of the Heart is available to stream here on HuluPlus.
Monday, September 16, 2013
FI: A Tale of Springtime
A Tale of Springtime / Conte de Printemps
France, 1990
Written and directed by Éric Rohmer
As we saw a few weeks ago in our Criteritron entry about his Six Moral Tales, Éric Rohmer often made films in groups, connected by common themes explored via different, unrelated characters. In this case, A Tale of Springtime is the first in a series of films relating to and set during each of the four seasons. Here, Rohmer relates the story of Jeanne (Anne Teyssèdre) a high school philosophy teacher in her late twenties. Unwilling to stay alone in her traveling fiancé's messy apartment, and unable to stay in her own apartment when her subletting cousin's studies run long, Jeanne takes up with Natacha (Florence Darel), a piano student in her late teens whom Jeanne meets at a party. The two seem to become fast friends, but Natacha may have her own motivations in her ongoing attempts to set her divorced father Igor (Hugues Quester) up with Jeanne in place of Ève, his current girlfriend with whom Natacha has a rocky, jealous relationship.
Like most of Rohmer's films, A Tale of Springtime is chatty and dialogue-heavy. His characters use speech like a carefully-wielded instrument, probing and testing each other's intellects and emotions while revealing their thoughts in a way not often seen in film (outside of Woody Allen or Richard Linklater, both of whom Rohmer clearly influenced). Here, the script's focus on philosophy makes for heady discussions, yet the characters' motivations remain opaque. Why does Jeanne stay with Natacha? Is it an attempt to teach the younger girl, or a chance to relive a youth she may have missed? Is Natacha a manipulator, or does she act in earnest? Who, if anybody, is happy with the current status quo? There are depths to be plumbed here, should you have the patience, and Rohmer gets solid performances from all the actors, which helps a lot.
In fitting with the series's themes, this film takes place in the spring, flitting back and forth from the apartments of Paris to the garden of Natacha's family's house in the countryside. Luc Pagès's cinematography captures both environments well, showcasing the low white light that comes as spring begins to break. Traditionally, spring is a time of rebirth, rejuvenation, and of starting over. It would be easy for this conceit to be trite if improperly deployed, but Rohmer proceeds with subtlety and never overplays his hand. Still, there are issues, here, as regards pacing and plot. This is a slow film, and one focused almost entirely on character interactions and dialogue. What story there is may prove too loose for some audiences. For me, I was engaged enough by the conversations not to notice the pacing problems or sparseness of story, and although I did leave the film feeling strangely unresolved, the lack of resolution seemed somewhat intentional. Spring is, after all, a time of beginnings, not endings. Just what has begun in A Tale of Springtime, however, remains unclear.
France, 1990
Written and directed by Éric Rohmer
As we saw a few weeks ago in our Criteritron entry about his Six Moral Tales, Éric Rohmer often made films in groups, connected by common themes explored via different, unrelated characters. In this case, A Tale of Springtime is the first in a series of films relating to and set during each of the four seasons. Here, Rohmer relates the story of Jeanne (Anne Teyssèdre) a high school philosophy teacher in her late twenties. Unwilling to stay alone in her traveling fiancé's messy apartment, and unable to stay in her own apartment when her subletting cousin's studies run long, Jeanne takes up with Natacha (Florence Darel), a piano student in her late teens whom Jeanne meets at a party. The two seem to become fast friends, but Natacha may have her own motivations in her ongoing attempts to set her divorced father Igor (Hugues Quester) up with Jeanne in place of Ève, his current girlfriend with whom Natacha has a rocky, jealous relationship.
Like most of Rohmer's films, A Tale of Springtime is chatty and dialogue-heavy. His characters use speech like a carefully-wielded instrument, probing and testing each other's intellects and emotions while revealing their thoughts in a way not often seen in film (outside of Woody Allen or Richard Linklater, both of whom Rohmer clearly influenced). Here, the script's focus on philosophy makes for heady discussions, yet the characters' motivations remain opaque. Why does Jeanne stay with Natacha? Is it an attempt to teach the younger girl, or a chance to relive a youth she may have missed? Is Natacha a manipulator, or does she act in earnest? Who, if anybody, is happy with the current status quo? There are depths to be plumbed here, should you have the patience, and Rohmer gets solid performances from all the actors, which helps a lot.
In fitting with the series's themes, this film takes place in the spring, flitting back and forth from the apartments of Paris to the garden of Natacha's family's house in the countryside. Luc Pagès's cinematography captures both environments well, showcasing the low white light that comes as spring begins to break. Traditionally, spring is a time of rebirth, rejuvenation, and of starting over. It would be easy for this conceit to be trite if improperly deployed, but Rohmer proceeds with subtlety and never overplays his hand. Still, there are issues, here, as regards pacing and plot. This is a slow film, and one focused almost entirely on character interactions and dialogue. What story there is may prove too loose for some audiences. For me, I was engaged enough by the conversations not to notice the pacing problems or sparseness of story, and although I did leave the film feeling strangely unresolved, the lack of resolution seemed somewhat intentional. Spring is, after all, a time of beginnings, not endings. Just what has begun in A Tale of Springtime, however, remains unclear.
Friday, August 23, 2013
Amour: Real Love
Amour
Austria/France/Germany, 2012
Written and directed by Michael Haneke
Michael Haneke can be a difficult director to like. His work is challenging, often provocative, and occasionally confrontational to the point of feeling like a lecture. But Amour, which won Haneke his second Palme D'Or at Cannes, might be his most tender and accessible work yet. It's not all light and rainbows, by any means, but the film is less concerned with audience-baiting and social problems, and more interested in painting an intimate, unsentimental portrait of what it means to follow the standard vows "in sickness and in health [...] 'til death do us part" to their logical conclusion. It is a love story, as the title suggests, but one set in neither the demographic nor the mode of Hollywood romance, where love is a product to sell or a quirk looking for its complement. This is the maturity of love, when the word itself becomes synonymous with coexistence, commitment, and mutual responsibility. This love hurts, but in a very different way than the songs tell us.
Austria/France/Germany, 2012
Written and directed by Michael Haneke
Michael Haneke can be a difficult director to like. His work is challenging, often provocative, and occasionally confrontational to the point of feeling like a lecture. But Amour, which won Haneke his second Palme D'Or at Cannes, might be his most tender and accessible work yet. It's not all light and rainbows, by any means, but the film is less concerned with audience-baiting and social problems, and more interested in painting an intimate, unsentimental portrait of what it means to follow the standard vows "in sickness and in health [...] 'til death do us part" to their logical conclusion. It is a love story, as the title suggests, but one set in neither the demographic nor the mode of Hollywood romance, where love is a product to sell or a quirk looking for its complement. This is the maturity of love, when the word itself becomes synonymous with coexistence, commitment, and mutual responsibility. This love hurts, but in a very different way than the songs tell us.
Tuesday, August 13, 2013
FI: Touchez pas au grisbi
Touchez pas au grisbi
France, 1954
Directed and co-written by Jacques Becker
A great sense of atmosphere suffuses the methodical, noir-tinged gangster movie Touchez pas au grisbi. Most of this atmosphere is conveyed by the combination of director Jacques Becker's stark compositions and deliberate pacing, and Pierre Montazel's low-key cinematography. But so much of the film's tone is set solely by star Jean Gabin's face. Gabin had been one of France's biggest stars in the '30s, but by 1954 that star had waned somewhat, and his hard-lived years had begun to show. Here, however, Gabin uses his wrinkled, puffy visage as an asset in conveying old-school gangster Max's slow, weary detachment from the lifestyle that used to thrill him. Touchez pas au grisbi is less about dashing gangsters committing crimes and plotting heists, and more about attempting to age with dignity and class while protecting and caring for what's yours—whether friendships, relationships, ill-gotten gains, or even your self image.
Prior to the film, Max and his friend Riton (René Dary) have committed a daring "last heist" of eight massive gold bars, keeping their own involvement hidden from everyone, including associates Angelo (Lino Ventura) and Pierrot (Paul Frankeur). But the impulsive Riton blabs to his showgirl girlfriend Josy (a young Jeanne Moreau), unaware that she's having an affair with Angelo. Once Angelo finds out about the gold, Max is again forced to cover for his friend while protecting their retirement nest egg at any cost. The film's central conflict then becomes one of the old school—Max, Riton, Pierrot— who prefer loyalty and due diligence, versus the youthful Angelo and his disrespectful, corner-cutting crew.
The film's slower moments might throw you off, but they are used to establish Max's thoroughness and love of doing things properly, contrasting his patience with the younger characters' poor planning and impulsive violence. The film is also concerned with image and perception: Max wants to seem benevolent and legitimate, Riton wants to seem younger and flashier, and Angelo wants to be the baddest guy in town, and their conflict brings out the distance between each man's image and reality. In spite of his image, Max is no angel, and the film demonstrates how even your meticulously-planned "retirement" can be thrown off track by the same violent methods you previously employed. Violence is fact of life for gangsters; the things that motivate its use may change, but it never goes away. It's this fatalism, rooted in the noble futility of doing the right thing, that makes Touchez pas au grisbi special.
France, 1954
Directed and co-written by Jacques Becker
A great sense of atmosphere suffuses the methodical, noir-tinged gangster movie Touchez pas au grisbi. Most of this atmosphere is conveyed by the combination of director Jacques Becker's stark compositions and deliberate pacing, and Pierre Montazel's low-key cinematography. But so much of the film's tone is set solely by star Jean Gabin's face. Gabin had been one of France's biggest stars in the '30s, but by 1954 that star had waned somewhat, and his hard-lived years had begun to show. Here, however, Gabin uses his wrinkled, puffy visage as an asset in conveying old-school gangster Max's slow, weary detachment from the lifestyle that used to thrill him. Touchez pas au grisbi is less about dashing gangsters committing crimes and plotting heists, and more about attempting to age with dignity and class while protecting and caring for what's yours—whether friendships, relationships, ill-gotten gains, or even your self image.
Prior to the film, Max and his friend Riton (René Dary) have committed a daring "last heist" of eight massive gold bars, keeping their own involvement hidden from everyone, including associates Angelo (Lino Ventura) and Pierrot (Paul Frankeur). But the impulsive Riton blabs to his showgirl girlfriend Josy (a young Jeanne Moreau), unaware that she's having an affair with Angelo. Once Angelo finds out about the gold, Max is again forced to cover for his friend while protecting their retirement nest egg at any cost. The film's central conflict then becomes one of the old school—Max, Riton, Pierrot— who prefer loyalty and due diligence, versus the youthful Angelo and his disrespectful, corner-cutting crew.
The film's slower moments might throw you off, but they are used to establish Max's thoroughness and love of doing things properly, contrasting his patience with the younger characters' poor planning and impulsive violence. The film is also concerned with image and perception: Max wants to seem benevolent and legitimate, Riton wants to seem younger and flashier, and Angelo wants to be the baddest guy in town, and their conflict brings out the distance between each man's image and reality. In spite of his image, Max is no angel, and the film demonstrates how even your meticulously-planned "retirement" can be thrown off track by the same violent methods you previously employed. Violence is fact of life for gangsters; the things that motivate its use may change, but it never goes away. It's this fatalism, rooted in the noble futility of doing the right thing, that makes Touchez pas au grisbi special.
Tuesday, August 6, 2013
FI: Starbuck
Starbuck
Canada, 2011
Directed and Co-written (with Martin Petit) by Ken Scott
Perhaps its a reflection of our recession-struck times, but American comedies today largely focus on 30/40-something manchildren facing crises that force them to grow up over the course of the film. It's interesting, then, to see this arrested development trope translated to other cultures. With Starbuck, we get a chance to see a French-Canadian take on these themes, which lends a slightly new, charming flavor to a concept that's largely gone stale here at home.
Starbuck is about David Wozniak (Patrick Huard), a kind but ambition-free fellow who ineptly toils as the delivery man at his family's butcher shop, a job which he'd almost certainly have lost if he weren't in the family. David is deeply in debt to some gangster-types, and it seems unlikely that his dull schemes will ever solve his problems. His girlfriend Valérie (Julie LeBreton) is pregnant, and she isn't sure David is mature and stable enough to be a parent, which is where the film's gimmick kicks in: some 20-odd years earlier, David lived next to a sperm bank and made frequent donations for cash under the codename "Starbuck." Now, a lawyer from the clinic informs David that his sperm was somehow given to every client, resulting in over five hundred children, a sizable portion of whom are suing to discover Starbuck's identity. At first apprehensive, David begins reading the files of the class action kids and anonymously insinuating himself into their lives like some sort of guardian angel, believing this to be his true calling. Though we (obviously) only have time to meet a handful of the children, David's encounters with them range from sentimental and cutesy to genuinely touching. He continues protecting his identity in the hopes of winning enough in a counter-suit to cover his debts, but it's clear from the glow on his face that David enjoys his progeny and wants the connection to be mutual.
Scott and co-writer Martin Petit's script relies a little too much on narrative convenience, hitting extremely familiar beats, and the end result of each story thread is fairly predictable from early on in the film. But even as I ticked off the requisite manchild-to-man boxes, Huard's goofy charm and the occasionally quite witty dialogue helped keep the endeavor afloat. Scott keeps the tone light and brisk, even if the film could stand to lose maybe 20 minutes without sacrificing much. Still, Starbuck is an unapologetic crowdpleaser, and its enthusiasm is contagious. Your mileage may vary, of course, but I found myself won over in the end. As a final note, I would recommend watching it now before the forthcoming, Vince Vaughn-starring American remake The Delivery Man buries the original's charms under Vaughn's lazy shtick.
Canada, 2011
Directed and Co-written (with Martin Petit) by Ken Scott
Perhaps its a reflection of our recession-struck times, but American comedies today largely focus on 30/40-something manchildren facing crises that force them to grow up over the course of the film. It's interesting, then, to see this arrested development trope translated to other cultures. With Starbuck, we get a chance to see a French-Canadian take on these themes, which lends a slightly new, charming flavor to a concept that's largely gone stale here at home.
Starbuck is about David Wozniak (Patrick Huard), a kind but ambition-free fellow who ineptly toils as the delivery man at his family's butcher shop, a job which he'd almost certainly have lost if he weren't in the family. David is deeply in debt to some gangster-types, and it seems unlikely that his dull schemes will ever solve his problems. His girlfriend Valérie (Julie LeBreton) is pregnant, and she isn't sure David is mature and stable enough to be a parent, which is where the film's gimmick kicks in: some 20-odd years earlier, David lived next to a sperm bank and made frequent donations for cash under the codename "Starbuck." Now, a lawyer from the clinic informs David that his sperm was somehow given to every client, resulting in over five hundred children, a sizable portion of whom are suing to discover Starbuck's identity. At first apprehensive, David begins reading the files of the class action kids and anonymously insinuating himself into their lives like some sort of guardian angel, believing this to be his true calling. Though we (obviously) only have time to meet a handful of the children, David's encounters with them range from sentimental and cutesy to genuinely touching. He continues protecting his identity in the hopes of winning enough in a counter-suit to cover his debts, but it's clear from the glow on his face that David enjoys his progeny and wants the connection to be mutual.
Scott and co-writer Martin Petit's script relies a little too much on narrative convenience, hitting extremely familiar beats, and the end result of each story thread is fairly predictable from early on in the film. But even as I ticked off the requisite manchild-to-man boxes, Huard's goofy charm and the occasionally quite witty dialogue helped keep the endeavor afloat. Scott keeps the tone light and brisk, even if the film could stand to lose maybe 20 minutes without sacrificing much. Still, Starbuck is an unapologetic crowdpleaser, and its enthusiasm is contagious. Your mileage may vary, of course, but I found myself won over in the end. As a final note, I would recommend watching it now before the forthcoming, Vince Vaughn-starring American remake The Delivery Man buries the original's charms under Vaughn's lazy shtick.
Friday, July 12, 2013
FI: The Gatekeepers
The Gatekeepers
Israel/France/Belgium/Germany, 2012
Directed by Dror Moreh
The thing about secret intelligence services is that they usually wish to remain secretive, so that the public they ostensibly protect, and the enemies they fight, know as little about their operations as possible. That's why The Gatekeepers is so fascinating; its director, Dror Moreh, has managed to get six former directors of the Israeli internal secret service agency, Shin Bet, to candidly discuss the nature of their work, their views on the Palestinian situation, and their opinions on Israel's successes and failures in dealing with life as an occupying power. The result is, at turns, riveting, disturbing, and frustrating.
The most intriguing thing about the film is its morality. None of the men comes across as wholly benevolent or malevolent. Neither do the Israelis or the Palestinians; there are shades of grey throughout. Similarly, the film presents no clear "correct" answer to the region's woes. Instead, it depicts the conditions and history that shape a process that simultaneously paves the way to peace and undermines that peace at every turn. Photos and news/documentary footage are combined with hyper-realistic CGI recreations of events and locations, placing the audience on the ground for several of the events discussed. This heightens our emotional engagement, bringing tinges of immediate horror and disgust where photos alone might leave room for detachment.
There are no talking heads or "experts," here, and no-one from the Palestinian side to provide context. There are only these six men with clear knowledge but varying degrees of moral compromise. Moreh's questioning only occasionally makes the final cut, which allows the men to speak at length without interruption or hectoring, leaving them free to contradict themselves or reveal their feelings through looks and tone of voice. These aren't "gotcha" interviews, like those in Michael Moore's work or even Inside Job; Moreh's intent is not to skewer, but to elucidate. And the picture his film reveals is one of a solvable problem where trust and respect have been so eroded by both sides' choices, the solution will always remain just out of sight.
Israel/France/Belgium/Germany, 2012
Directed by Dror Moreh
The thing about secret intelligence services is that they usually wish to remain secretive, so that the public they ostensibly protect, and the enemies they fight, know as little about their operations as possible. That's why The Gatekeepers is so fascinating; its director, Dror Moreh, has managed to get six former directors of the Israeli internal secret service agency, Shin Bet, to candidly discuss the nature of their work, their views on the Palestinian situation, and their opinions on Israel's successes and failures in dealing with life as an occupying power. The result is, at turns, riveting, disturbing, and frustrating.
The most intriguing thing about the film is its morality. None of the men comes across as wholly benevolent or malevolent. Neither do the Israelis or the Palestinians; there are shades of grey throughout. Similarly, the film presents no clear "correct" answer to the region's woes. Instead, it depicts the conditions and history that shape a process that simultaneously paves the way to peace and undermines that peace at every turn. Photos and news/documentary footage are combined with hyper-realistic CGI recreations of events and locations, placing the audience on the ground for several of the events discussed. This heightens our emotional engagement, bringing tinges of immediate horror and disgust where photos alone might leave room for detachment.
There are no talking heads or "experts," here, and no-one from the Palestinian side to provide context. There are only these six men with clear knowledge but varying degrees of moral compromise. Moreh's questioning only occasionally makes the final cut, which allows the men to speak at length without interruption or hectoring, leaving them free to contradict themselves or reveal their feelings through looks and tone of voice. These aren't "gotcha" interviews, like those in Michael Moore's work or even Inside Job; Moreh's intent is not to skewer, but to elucidate. And the picture his film reveals is one of a solvable problem where trust and respect have been so eroded by both sides' choices, the solution will always remain just out of sight.
Friday, April 22, 2011
FI: The Aristocrats
The Aristocrats
US, 2005
Directed by Paul Provenza and Penn Jillette
The Aristocrats is a documentary about a single joke and the infinite jazz-like interpretations comedians have given that joke over the decades. The joke begins with a man walking into a talent agency to pitch a family act, and it ends with the agent asking what the act is called, prompting the two-word punchline "The Aristocrats!" In the middle, we find a depth and breadth of hilarious, transgressive smut unlikely to be matched by any joke, running the gamut from bestiality to coprophagia.
Jillette and Provenza's documentary is obviously a labor of love. The footage was collected from hundreds of on-the-fly interviews over the course of years, it seems, and has been edited together into a semi-cohesive whole, though there are a few mildly-irritating stylistic choices. Sometimes the film cuts away from an interview in the middle of a funny bit, or covers too much of the same ground from multiple interviewees. Constraints on the amount of time some subjects could give to the filmmakers mean that we get too little of some interviewees and too much of others. And, although I recognized the majority of the people in the film, there's no identifying text for each subject—as the filmmakers chose to do a video credit sequence at the end—which means that sometimes you're left to ponder who someone is or how to contextualize their thoughts.
Still, for what could easily have felt like beating a dead horse—which, incidentally, would not be at all out of place in The Aristocrats' act—the film works because the filmmakers were smart enough to let the performers' enthusiasm and energy carry the show. It provides a perspective on comedy writing that the audience isn't generally privy to seeing, peeling back the "process" of humor just enough to generate insight without "explaining" the joke into submission. It's worth seeing, whether you're interested in the craft of comedy, or just in need of a good laugh.
US, 2005
Directed by Paul Provenza and Penn Jillette
The Aristocrats is a documentary about a single joke and the infinite jazz-like interpretations comedians have given that joke over the decades. The joke begins with a man walking into a talent agency to pitch a family act, and it ends with the agent asking what the act is called, prompting the two-word punchline "The Aristocrats!" In the middle, we find a depth and breadth of hilarious, transgressive smut unlikely to be matched by any joke, running the gamut from bestiality to coprophagia.
Jillette and Provenza's documentary is obviously a labor of love. The footage was collected from hundreds of on-the-fly interviews over the course of years, it seems, and has been edited together into a semi-cohesive whole, though there are a few mildly-irritating stylistic choices. Sometimes the film cuts away from an interview in the middle of a funny bit, or covers too much of the same ground from multiple interviewees. Constraints on the amount of time some subjects could give to the filmmakers mean that we get too little of some interviewees and too much of others. And, although I recognized the majority of the people in the film, there's no identifying text for each subject—as the filmmakers chose to do a video credit sequence at the end—which means that sometimes you're left to ponder who someone is or how to contextualize their thoughts.
Still, for what could easily have felt like beating a dead horse—which, incidentally, would not be at all out of place in The Aristocrats' act—the film works because the filmmakers were smart enough to let the performers' enthusiasm and energy carry the show. It provides a perspective on comedy writing that the audience isn't generally privy to seeing, peeling back the "process" of humor just enough to generate insight without "explaining" the joke into submission. It's worth seeing, whether you're interested in the craft of comedy, or just in need of a good laugh.
Thursday, April 14, 2011
Marwencol: Trauma in Miniature
Marwencol
US, 2010
Directed by Jeff Malmberg
When I was in grad school, one en vogue topic in the film studies academy was "traumatic memory." This is an interdisciplinary research area that uses elements of psychology, history, and film to examine the holes trauma can leave in a person's memory, and the ways people process and make sense out of trauma. Academics interested in this topic would have a field day with Marwencol.
US, 2010
Directed by Jeff Malmberg
When I was in grad school, one en vogue topic in the film studies academy was "traumatic memory." This is an interdisciplinary research area that uses elements of psychology, history, and film to examine the holes trauma can leave in a person's memory, and the ways people process and make sense out of trauma. Academics interested in this topic would have a field day with Marwencol.
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