The Soft Skin

“I don't think you can be dealing
With the situation very well
You take a lover for a dirty weekend, that's ok
But when it's over
You are looking at the working week through the eyes of a gigolo”

Stuart Murdoch of Belle and Sebastian sang these lyrics on their 1996 album “If You’re Feeling Sinister”, and I thought of them as I watched Francois Truffaut’s 1964 film “The Soft Skin”, which is also about someone, married, who takes up a lover, and even attempts a dirty weekend with said lover, although only the most forgiving of people wouldn’t call it an unmitigated disaster.

But while these lyrics describe the film, they are also a tip-off to its problems, because whilst Murdoch lyrically describes the guilt and shame that can often follow a sordid tryst, when we try and zero in on protagonist Pierre Lechenay (Jean Desailly)’s emotions, we find ourselves drawing a blank. The same, too, can be said for the object of his desires Nicole (Francoise Dorléac), an air hostess whom he spots on a flight to Lisbon to deliver a talk on Balzac. And the less said about his wife Franca (Nelly Belledetti) the better; if Pierre and Nicole can at generously be described as wilfully enigmatic, Franca is a blank slate you can’t even draw anything on.

The central issue is that we cannot genuinely conceive of a single concrete reason why Nicole and Pierre go together. Well, I can on Pierre’s part; Nicole is an exceptionally beautiful woman, with a gentle voice that is at once caring and striking, and yes, she does appear to have exceptionally supple skin, or we must gather as much, from the sequence where she is lying supine in a little bed and breakfast, and Pierre undoes her stockings with all the care and precision of a technician rewiring a motherboard. But Pierre, unfortunately, seems like a stuffy bore, scared, imprecise, and not as though he’d make the most exciting lover.

Perhaps this is unfair speculation on my part, but the film gives us regrettably little to go on. A film like this lives and dies on the strength of the conveyance of the mental states of the central characters, and it seems to fail in that regard. It occasionally felt a little bit like certain scenes were missing or dropped; we just accept that Nicole loves Pierre, after a night where he talks about his work almost non-stop (he’s a literature professor), when I was wondering how she managed to stay awake. I was genuinely expecting the film to reveal her to be a femme fatale, but alas (although you could argue that the final scene of the pair in an apartment is an inversion of that trope). And the ending, perhaps startling for its days, is overwrought nonsense.

The film even gives us clues, to no avail; for example, a fair portion of the film concerns Pierre giving a talk on Andre Gides, which is acting as cover for the aforementioned dirty weekend. I believe this was no accident or random author, since Gides famously wrote “The Immoralist”, about a young man slowly doing away with conventional morality and succumbing to his most base desires; it cleverly frames the regression into incumbent ethical murk as the climactic victory for the protagonist.

If this theme is meant to be a counterpoint to the film, then it is ill-defined; if the book is meant to be a thematic bedfellow, then it is unconvincing because we do not know what Pierre is really thinking, whether he is enjoying his descent into immorality.

I realise now that I have spoken negatively throughout this entire review, and yet if pushed, I would recommend the film without question. Why is that, since it fails at everything it tries to do, and what it is trying to do is questionable? Truffaut, even when his canvas is half-baked, is a master of cinematic form. His innate sense of the frame and what to put in it is second to none. Even when we cannot buy into what is going on under the hood, on a scene by scene basis and from a cinematographic level, the film is compelling enough as it is. The film would work well watched alongside Shoot The Pianist, Truffaut’s unequivocal masterpiece, where emotional content and cinematic form coexist harmoniously, and The Man Who Loved Women, where Truffaut’s thematic motives are questionable, but nowhere near as muddled as here. In all three films, Truffaut shows a preternatural ability for what should be on screen and what shouldn’t, and how to edit in rhythm to a music that the audience just feels as the film goes along.

It’s just a shame he couldn’t conceive of an emotional base to match his stunning filmmaking. 

The Duke of Burgundy

Peter Strickland's "The Duke of Burgundy" is a surprisingly linear, straightforward love story that explores an element of BDSM that has remained relatively unexplored in the movies up until this point; the perspective of the person who desires to be dominated. We've had (most famously) the man who desires to dominate (although most people would rightly discredit that), and we've also had the union of one who must serve, and one who must dominate (Steven Shainberg's "Secretary"). Here we have someone for whom the desire to be dominated is an all-encompassing hole in her very being; she can't live without it.

The film begins in the expected manner; Cynthia (Sidse Babett Knudsen) arrives at the house of her lover, Evelyn (Chiara D'Anna), who in a series of stilted and terse conversations, orders her to perform actions of servitude, such as cleaning her study, rubbing her feet, washing her lingerie, and so on. Cynthia is young, impish, somewhat reminiscent of a young Audrey Tautou; we can't initially tell if she's enjoying this treatment, but she complies nevertheless. Evelyn is stern, approaching the stereotypically cross schoolteacher.

We find out a little about the pair; they live in the countryside, and Evelyn is a lepidopterist who gives talks at a local institute. Then, we see the opening sequence again, but bookended  by Evelyn's preparation; she is wearing a wig, and is following orders written on a piece of card, given to her by Cynthia. Evelyn is, in fact, much more nervous than she appears to let on. Her face is a picture of the concealment of panic and discomfort, her eyes flit, her mouth is drawn.

From here the film explores the true nature of their relationship, with Evelyn doing her very best to accommodate all of Cynthia's desires. Where the film is a triumph is in its refusal to shy away from the true nature of their union, and the way Cynthia's need to be dominated seems to come from an insatiable place deep inside her. To this end, this is the most honest film yet made about BDSM, and anybody who finds themselves with a lover into kink, or who is into kink themselves, should watch it, because it will inspire the right conversations, and it asks just how far you can, or should, go for someone you love. It understands the rituals and routines that people in the lifestyle fall into. To someone who doesn't have the desire for kink inside them, the acts can seem cruel, unusual, and impossible to enjoy. It is this truth that the film understands deeply, and explores with insight and verve.

It helps that the film has a real technical calibre; Peter Strickland, who impressed with Berberian Sound Studio, here cements his place as a British director with vision, a more humanistic Ben Wheatley, He creates a world to live in with this film, a spacious house with luscious overgrown greenery adorning the outside, and musty closets and old leatherbound books adorning the inside, and a vast forest surrounding them. Pater Sparrow's production design and Zsuzsa Mihalek's set design are a triumph in themselves. The score from the band "Cat's Eyes" works as though the film was made around it, which is the highest compliment you can give to a film score. And the cinematography is sumptuous, a fantasia of rich colours and stark, moody lighting.

And at the centre are the two performances, from Knudsen and D'Anna, as two people desperate to please, and even more desperate to be pleased. They are, at their core, two people who are deeply in love, much like everyone else. I was not being contrarian when I said the film was a love story; look at the structure, and it becomes apparent how conventional it is, with the exception of the nightmare sequence beginning with the zoom between Evelyn's legs (you'll know it; a little on the nose, but still spellbinding).

More than anything, it understands that just because you're the one with the whip doesn't make you the person in control; people who need to dominate are actually much rarer than the other way around, and reaching some kind of equilibrium on the topic requires negotiating, empathy, and understanding. In turn, the film understands this, and it follows this theme with logic and remorselessness. This is a classical work of great technical and emotional mastery, deeply rewarding, perversely beautiful, and above all, honest.

Review of Kelly + Victor (2012)

Kieran Evan's "Kelly + Victory", based on the book of the same name by Niall Griffiths, opens with a sequence in which the eponymous Kelly (Antonia Campbell Hughes) watches a moth fly against a window. She is passive. does she empathise with the moth? Is she torturing it? Enjoying it suffer? We don't know, and will never know. Already an ambiguous tone is set here, in which we are shown the actions of characters without being told what they symbolise. The next scene, where Kelly meets Victor (Julian Morris) in a night-club on his birthday also highlights perfectly a certain poetic realism the film tries, and succeeds, and juggling throughout. Deep, romantic cello music plays, signalling a romantic union, but it also fades into the thumping 4/4 beat of traditional club music. The scene is also shot in a way that recalls a similar scene in Xavier Dolan's "I Killed My Mother", all red-lighting and smoke. In a sense, we are being given a real view and a romanticised, stylised view.

This, bravely, does not let up throughout the entire film, this expert balance of feeling and description, the simultaneous poeticisation and commitment to realism. It works brilliantly.

We follow Kelly and Victor home. They flirt. Talk. There's a certain spark here, and it's testament to the actors that we feel it ourselves. They are even comfortable enough around each other to take drugs. As sure as night follows day, they are making love, in a wonderful, beautiful scene. And before we know it, in the throes of their love-making, she has slipped her hands around his wrist and is strangling him. Wordlessly. There's something at the outer fringes of communication going on here, a mutual bond happening before us.

I've described up until about ten minutes into the film, and won't describe much more other than to say that, as you have probably guessed, their relationship is charted from this point onwards, and that the film is equal parts dual-character study and wonderfully rendered love story. I was impressed at the length to which Evans allows us to come to know the pair, and as a result the length to which we come to care about them. I have rarely become so invested in the fate of two characters, and a great, quivering, fragile emotional intensity is achieved by the final frame. There's a master's touch at work here, and it surprises me that this is Evan's first feature. This is the kind of masterpiece a director can only really dream of achieving.

What it hinges on, primarily, is its presentation of human sexuality, and whilst you may be thinking from what I have described that this is a document of an S+M relationship, this is no British '50 Shades of Grey'. Look at the scene where Kelly goes to an actual dominatrix's dungeon, and is visibly uncomfortable, where surely she should be in her element from how she's treated Victor. Instead of being about sadism and masochism in the traditional sense, the film is a document of two people who happen to satisfy each other in the most peculiar ways. The film is more of a rumination on the ways we psychologically medicate and express ourselves through sex.

It also, lovingly, describes British life in a way I greatly related to. I loved the scenes set in pubs, pub gardens, art galleries, and the countryside. Victor so adores the countryside is a lovely little touch that draws out his character and inspires awe in the viewer; we almost feel as one with nature as we watch it. Cinematographer Piers McGrail, who had worked in short films before this, has drawn a picture of the world as sensuous as the kind found in a Malick film, and as sensual as the kind found in a Marquez novel. And he has composed two masterful shots which will stay with me for some time; I won't say what they are, but they are climactic scenes in more ways than one, and focus on the solitude of the characters at respective points. Even picturing them in my head stirs deep emotions in my heart.

This is a rare, rare film. It's a cruel, harsh, wonderful, tender piece of work that with skill and precision uses two actors and their bodies to highlight the minutiae and great wonder of human sexuality. I was reminded of a number of other masterpieces of sex; Crash, Secretary, Shortbus, Shame, and in fact this film stands among them. It is a poem, requiem, hymn, soliloquy to the human body and the things we are capable of doing to ourselves and others.

It could even be one of my films of the decade come 2019, and believe me reader, that is not something I say lightly.

Review of Under The Skin (2013)

What is it that makes us human?

I do not mean in a specific sense, but rather in a more general one. What aspect is it, definable or not, that makes us as a species different from the apes, or the dolphins, or perhaps some as-yet undiscovered race lurking out there. I ask this question because Jonathan Glazer's "Under The Skin" has made me consider it. It is a film about an alien, played by Scarlett Johansson, who has come to earth to lure in men and do... Something, we are never quite sure, although it involves reducing them to sacks of skin. Where she has come from, why she is doing this, and what purpose it is serving, are irrelevant. She is both an alien, and alien.

Her other-ness is constantly made an example of. Early on we see her in a shopping centre, buying clothes, trying to fit in. But her face is distant and cold, and there is no doubt that she's going through the motions; how her face can go from expressive and friendly when she's talking to someone, to completely blank when she's left alone, is testament to Johansson's frankly stunning performance.

She carries on going through the motions. She sets about picking up men for the job she is doing. But something happens; as the film goes on, she begins to thaw a little. A chance encounter with a man (Adam Pearson) who has severe neurofibromatosis in his face results in her questioning her goals, Soon, she is experimenting with the typically "human" things, such as eating at a restaurant.

I have now described the plot up until about an hour into the film. I do not normally go as far as this, but this is a unique film. It could not be less concerned with the dynamics of story and motivation; it is predominantly metaphor and allegory. It has done a supremely genius thing in taking the trappings of your standard science-fiction story and turning them into an exposé of an entire species. This is not hyperbole; I have not seen a film with a higher command over the biggest (and, I suppose, smallest) fundamentals of existence, perhaps since I watched Three Colours Blue for the first time four years ago.

This is a film that understands us. It understands lust; look at how the men are drawn into Johannson's black room. It understands human empathy; look at how people help Johansson up after she falls down. It understands that the sound of a baby crying can unite all people to distress. It understands what it is like to be lonely, crucial since this is fundamentally a film about the ultimate loner. From the very first shot, which is a completely black screen slowly giving way to a small white speck, I assume earth, the film engages the viewer by showing them a picture of their existence from the outside, peering in.

It is, of course, opaque, maddeningly styled, and "arty" in a way that would make some people roll their eyes. I was not bothered by these things, because there was a higher purpose there. It is a film alive in all the ways that film can be, gently joyous, hitting notes of unrefined beauty in a number of key scenes. The cinematography by Daniel Landin is a marvel, and the editing by Paul Watts deserves a mention because he has taken what I assume were shards of film and composed them into a symphonic delight. All this is overlaid by the haunting, unsettling and distressing score by Mica Levi, which, punctuated by harsh violins and staccato, electronic sounding beats, is a masterpiece in and of itself.

Perhaps the most baffling thing, to me, is how this film was once a book, written by Michel Faber. It embodies the concept of pure cinema so well that to imagine it in another format seems... Well, alien. I am completely unfamiliar with the book, but I would be very interested to read it to see how it handles the themes that this film lays out so poignantly and thoughtfully, without ever quite spelling them out.

It is a masterwork. That it is one of the best films of the year is without doubt. But it is also miraculous, and highlights the power of film at its' most potent, to detail the human condition and allow an insight into us all. I'm fairly sure that's why we invented the arts in the first place. Yes, this is a film that goes that deep.

Review of Tom At The Farm (2013)

Tom At The Farm, the latest film from the prolific and prodigious Quebecois auteur Xavier Dolan and adapted from Michel Marc Bouchard's play, announces itself with a stillness and tranquillity bordering on the unsettling. This is unlike what we have seen from him before. It is also very effective; we see Tom (Dolan) driving towards the eponymous farm, in an overhead shot that recalls Haneke's "Funny Games". He destroys his sat-nav system in a rage. Then he arrives at his destination, and walks around. The camera follows him with a Kubrickian feel to it; think a rural "The Shining". His phone is out of signal. Nobody is at home. He walks around the farm, getting his bearings. 

In short, Tom is utterly alone, and Dolan's new found restraint has exacerbated this feeling into an almost nightmarish vision of isolation. These are new notes from someone who was teetering on the edge of repeating himself. Gone are the histrionics (mostly), gone is the slow-motion (mostly), and gone are the doe-eyed relationships obfuscated by the characters blinkered self-centredness (definitely). This is Dolan on horror mode, thriller mode, mystery mode, and the result is a confounding, taut and often beautiful tale full of small erotic pulls, subversive whims, and a certain dissonant quality. This is Dolan's artistic maturity.

Tom is at the farm for his recently deceased lover Guillaume's funeral. First he meets Guillaume's mother Agathe (Lise Roy), a widow. Something in her words, and Tom senses that she didn't know about Guillaime and Tom's relationship. That was some intuition; later, Guillaume's brother Francis (Pierre-Yves Cardinal) wakes Tom up in the middle of the night, holds him down by the mouth and tells him that he isn't going to tell Agathe the truth, he's going to say something nice at the funeral, and then quietly leave Francis and Agathe alone forever. 

Quite why Francis is so desperate to conceal the truth from Agathe is never made clear; Agathe gives off no indication of being homophobic or backwards, and seems like the accepting type. She was expecting a girlfriend to turn up, but that's only because Francis lied to her in the first place. The film toys with incestuous overtones, but not too seriously. This is simply the first of many unanswered questions.

After a funny/painful/sad funeral scene, the film consists of the ever-shifting relationship between Tom and Francis, veering from the amorous (such as in a sequence where the pair rapturously dance the tango in a barn) to what feels like Stockholm Syndrome (in a scene where Tom refuses to leave the farm). It remains maddeningly enigmatic. For example, why does Tom feel such an affinity with Francis when he is so cruel to him? Why is Tom so willing to stay in such utterly hellish surroundings? What is Francis even doing? Is he a sociopath, or worse? Is a revelation regarding Tom and Guillaume towards the end to be believed?  

There is a scene, near the end, in a bar, which I suppose could be taken as an explanation for a fair amount of the above, but to me that seems like the easy way out. This is a film that doesn't want to answer any questions in particular, and that languishes in the murkiest depths of human nature. It's never willing to stick with one genre at any given time; the film can go from resembling "Calvaire" in one scene to some kind of hellish Mike Leigh picture in the next. Everything about it seems geared to keep the viewer on their toes. 

Thematically, it does match up with Dolan's previous work in the near-Oedipal overtones and the consistent obsession with the relationship between mothers and sons. But those are just Dolan's backgrounds; such as Fellini made films about women, Bergman about God, Kieslowski about human relationships, so to does Dolan stick with that one core idea. 

But here, we see him start to spin out a new web from this core, and seeing it is as exciting and bold as the films from the masters I have listed above; company in which I have long thought Dolan belongs, sure, but here is a film which would surely prove it to the sceptic. It's a fearsome, bold move and a fearsome, bold movie. 

Review of Me and You and Everyone We Know (2005)

Me and You and Everyone We Know begins with a sense of unease as the male lead, Richard, played by John Hawkes, is collecting his belongings as he separates from his wife, and then goes outside, douses his hand in lighter fluid, and sets it on fire. Played in slow-motion, the scene is an interesting one to start the story with. It sets up the character of Richard very effectively, and the central image is a Lynchian one.

This sense of unease is maintained throughout the film, yet whereas in the beginning we are not aware of director/writer/star Miranda July’s intentions, as we go on the film develops and we come away feeling not so much uneasy as icky. I’m no philistine, and there is a place for controversial themes like the burgeoning sexuality of a child (Todd Solondz’s masterful “Happiness” did that along with a paedophile plot strand), but in this film… I don’t know. The scene where a young child of six sexts on a message forum around the topic of scat-play… I wasn’t feeling it.

It doesn’t help how July chooses to make the film. She plays a digital media artist called Christine, and the film at times resembles the odd visual experiments she makes. There’s a curiously infectious electro-synthy soundtrack, which I liked, and her shot composition is clearly very “arty”, but the overall sense of whimsy I found to be ill-fitting. There’s another scene where two young (14-16) year old girls talk to an older man, who is clearly attracted to them but states, plainly, that he doesn’t believe their claims of being eighteen. Nevertheless, he writes lewd messages on his window for them to read, including one which insinuates he’d like to be fellated by one of the girls more than the other. A little insulted, they go to Richard’s son, and take it in turns to fellate him, to try and prove who is truly the best. If reading that has made you as uncomfortable as it was for me typing it, then you get my point.

Perhaps I’m being unfair. There is more to the film than this, and it is, at heart, a study of paternal anomie and a love story, and most of it concerns Richard’s attempts at juggling being a divorcee, good father and career man (he isn’t very successful at any of them). He’s a shoe salesman, and his character is probably my favourite aspect of the film, or at least the only good one. He’s clearly burdened with self-loathing, and Hawkes genuinely seems to understand his inner machinations.

July’s character I found less convincing, which is odd, given her credits in the film. She falls in love with Richard pretty quickly, and when you watch the film, her motivations seem to come from nowhere abruptly. Her behaviour seems too calculatedly “quirky”, such as when she walks into Richard’s work and starts wearing socks on her head. And she embodies the worst of something that every character in this film is guilty of; vanity, and selfishness. Some of the dialogue between her Richard is choice as well (“you think you deserve that pain but you don’t”, referring to a blister), and their relationship seems irritating and facile.

It doesn’t amount to much. I’m normally very open to films like this, and I adore a close observational style with flawed characters who are nevertheless real. It’s what I go to the cinema for, in fact. And whilst there’s no denying that the film has its moments (two or three), these aren’t enough to salvage it from being a weird, unlikeabless mess. It really does come out the other end. It’s an affectless, dull work which left me feeling crawly at the end, and not in a good way. 

Review of Weekend (2011)

Andrew Haigh’s “Weekend” is a British film about two gay men who meet on a Friday night, have a one-night stand, and try not to fall in love over the eponymous timeframe as they contend with the knowledge that one of them is going away to America in two days to do a two year art course. For ninety-odd minutes we observe the pair, Glen (Chris New) and Russell (Tom Cullen), as they make love, take drugs, pontificate, philosophise, and tease their feelings for each other. They barely know each other, but that spark is there, and it burns ever brighter as the weekend goes on.

It’s a torturous state of affairs, and it’s one that the film understands perfectly. Rooted in the minutiae of British life- think high-rise flats, dodgy nightclubs, and cups of tea and coffee- this film has a certain enchanting aura to it, bolstered by Ula Pontikos’ dreamy photography, the floaty shot composition (one scene seems to echo the apartment sequence in Godard’s Breathless) and the naturalistic acting. The film sticks by Glen, and director Haigh takes time to observe his behaviours; he keeps his trainers in their shoebox, for example, and he is clearly made uncomfortable by crowds of people. He’s quiet, and softly spoken. He takes baths, not showers. His eyes have a warm, dark quality about them. He is not one to talk about his feelings, and we sense a loneliness about him.

Russell is different. He’s loud, excitable, and friendly in that way which comes across as subduing a certain sadness, and as we find out, he is. Glen and Russell go together in that way that opposites tend to, introvert and extrovert; they fill in each other’s gaps. Russell has an ongoing art project interviewing strangers after sex, which Glen is reluctant to be a part of, but he nevertheless gives it a go, in part out of curiosity. His words are mumbled, and forced. He is not a man especially comfortable in his own life and skin, and to an extent the film represents his personal flowering. He does one thing at the end of the film which he would not have done at the beginning; there’s genuine development going on here.

Haigh, who also wrote, is careful to keep one eye open regarding society’s views of homosexuality. Early on, Glen hears homophobic slurs coming from Russell’s window, and he shouts down angrily. It is not the first time we hear homophobic slurs in the film. What I found especially interesting was that the film does not come across as having an axe to grind, and it takes care to present both sides. Glen, being who he is, seems to want more rights for gay people, or at least more recognition. He’s indignant that “the straights” tend to box gay people up. Russell, on the other hand, simply wants what everyone else has; cosiness, comfort, happiness. He’s less concerned with agendas, and more with overcoming his loneliness.

We hear the pair share their stories. One particularly painful moment sees Glen talk about how he got walked in on by a friend when he was masturbating. He wasn’t friends with that person any more, and “I wasn’t friends with anyone else after he told the school”

“That’s awful, Glen”

                   

“It is what it is”

This is ultimately a tender and truthful film with a detached, observant style that really allows us to get under the skin of the characters. It contains moments that are genuinely moving, genuinely sexy, and genuinely tragic, and the film as a whole is genuine. It’s the kind of movie with characters who reference other movies. It takes care to suck the viewer in, and it’s far more than simply being a gay Before Sunrise. It’s a spellbinding experience from beginning to end that has similarities with Lost In Translation in what it says about human connections.

I was moved, plainly and simply, by the plight of the characters in this bewitching love story, which understands that true love isn't easy, it isn't always convenient, and yet is sometimes painfully unavoidable.

Review of I Stand Alone (1998)

Where does one begin with a film such as Gaspar Noé’s “I Stand Alone”? A slim, 90 minute descent into hell, it conveys such images and thoughts of horror that were it played straight, it would be unwatchable. Yet Noé is always there, winking at the viewer, and this just about makes the film bearable. But does this justify the film? I do not know. What I do know is that I have a perverse admiration for this brave and genuinely shocking piece of work, which manages that rare trick of self-awareness that isn’t annoying.

Ostensibly a character study, regarding an unemployed, middle-aged, overweight, sulking and very violent man known only as “The Butcher”, on account of his former profession and also his derogatory attitude towards foreigners, women, gays. Played by Phillipe Nahon, his performance is an act of bravery. Few people would ever want themselves to be associated with this character, and even fewer could muster up the loneliness that The Butcher frequently does. He is a man who blames everyone around him for his woes, and frequently labels himself to be a hypocrite. Take the moment where he muses that sex isn’t for him, yet shortly after decides that anyone who can’t have sex is “past it”. The hell this man is living in is self-created.

There are also moments in the film where Noé simply lets the camera run as The Butcher is walking along the street, and his thoughts fill the screen. The Butcher does not think happy thoughts. “You can live with a guy, or a girl, or have kids, but you’re still alone. You live alone, you’re born alone, you die alone. Even when you fuck, you’re alone.” See also; “Love, friendship, it’s all bullshit.” Noé is careful to frame The Butcher nearly always in complete isolation, and this contributes to a near-palpable sense of fear.

The constant talk of being alone lends itself to a claustrophobic atmosphere which Noé conjures up effortlessly, spurning a traditional approach to the material and flirting with faux-documentary, Kubrickian shot composition, Godardian invention and witty intertitles. It’s a film that’s giddy with the ways in which films can be made, and this probably saves it from being unwatchable. It’s also, crucially, blackly funny in places, although that may be because if I wasn’t laughing, I’d be crying.

It’s an unflinching experience. One early scene, for example, sees The Butcher beating his pregnant lover in the stomach, over and over. It’s right there, in front of us, and I had to look away. What is the purpose of this scene? Noé is portraying such overt misanthropy that one could be tempted to say that the film is misanthropic. Not quite, in my opinion. Noé is careful to make The Butcher the very worst thing in his film, and portray his reactions to the things around him as entirely disproportionate to the things which have spurred on his anger. He keeps getting turned down on jobs, for example, and with each reaction his anger grows. Yet the people he gets rejected by are polite, sympathetic. As I have said, a lot of this anguish is internal. The Butcher is his own worst enemy. The film understands this, and him.

The Butcher also has a daughter, played by a predominantly mute Blandine Lenoir, who is the only thing that The Butcher feels any semblance of a feeling towards that isn’t hate. The final scene is a reconciliation of sorts between the two, as The Butcher weighs up the possibilities of rape and murder, but instead bawls his eyes out and yells “don’t leave me alone”. With Pachelbel’s Canon playing in the background, I found myself moved against myself. Why should I feel sympathy for such a pitiful, evil man? And yet I did, to an extent, because who doesn’t want to be alone? The film represents a depiction of the extremes of our innate fear of loneliness, an even more hellish “Taxi Driver”, if you will.

This is a difficult, problematic film that is ultimately successful because, I think, Noé understands exactly what he is doing and the results he is striving for. Some people may not be able to handle it (although it’s notably less harrowing than the director’s later, more renowned “Irreversible”), but a ready and open mind will pay you back in dividends. 

Review of La Belle Noiseuse (1991)

When I was younger, I had an art teacher called Mr Davies. An aloof, scatterbrained man who fit the absent-minded professor role very well, he often found himself despairing at our classes’ general cluelessness and ineptness at creating art. One day, he decided to show us how it was done. He took a canvas, and some charcoal, and he drew one of the buildings in our school. It took about twenty minutes, and not one of us stirred. We watched, intent, as he shaped the outline, and seemingly at random, drew grooves, alcoves, windows, the ivy, the brick shapes, which resulted in a drawing which was utterly unique, yet conveyed something intimately familiar to us all. His hand seemed possessed by something not inside him, and he carried an air of effortlessness with every stroke. Each one of us was in awe.

I thought of him, and that moment, when I was watching Jacques Rivette’s “La Belle Noiseuse”, a four hour film about an aging artist called Frenhofer (Michel Picolli) who, ten years after abandoning his masterpiece, picks up his tools and attempts it anew with the young Marianne (Emmanuelle Béart) as his subject. This is the cause of much disturbance amongst Marianne’s boyfriend Nicolas (David Bursztein) and Frenhofer’s wife Liz (Jane Birkin), although if you are expecting a straightforward drama around these straightforward themes of jealousy, then you may be disappointed. This is instead a film which asks, what does it mean to bare your soul for the artist? Is allowing yourself to be painted a form of violation? Especially when the nature of the painting is one that is presenting you in your most honest form? To what extent is the artist in control of his material, or subject, or vice versa?

I was absolutely enthralled for every minute of the leisurely runtime. This is a film steeped in beauty, and it blossoms like a flower right in front of our very eyes. It is the first work I have seen from Jacques Rivette, but I am certain it will not be the last, as his directorial voice in this film is one that is as strong as any other masters I have seen the films of. He presents a formal, classical and sumptuous control over his material which leaves the viewer spellbound.

But is he really in control? This is a central paradox which the film itself explores. I read that the film had no script, and was simply made up from day to day based on what came before. In this respect, we must observe that the actors, Rivette’s subject, are as much responsible for what we see as Rivette is. Sure, Rivette arranges his camera around them in the way he does, and edits around them in the way he does (although there isn’t much editing in this film; it plays out mostly in gorgeous long takes), but to what extent is the work his, or the actors?

This arises often in the film. We will see Frenhofer arrange Marianne in one pose or another, and she will move ever so slightly, twist her neck, arrange her back, shift her balance, because that’s simply what humans do. We are not meant to stay still. Positions are not fixed, and they are not permanent, yet surely when the artist is drawing, he is trying to capture something permanently? “La Belle Noiseuse” understands this dilemma.

The performances in this film are all perfect; quiet, subdued and observant. Let us observe Frenhofert; he is an old man, with white fluffy hair adorning the sides of his head, and he has craggy features. He is often expressionless, but never more so when he is painting. We slowly realise that he is a man gripped by a certain fear. He understands the true nature of his artwork, and that scares him. Should human nature be explored that honestly?

Marianne is simpler. At first she doesn’t even want to be the subject of Frenhofer’s painting, but she eventually gives in, I guess because we all like to be made idols of. She and Frenhofer maintain a respectful relationship which is notable for how sexless it is. Marianne is naked in a number of scenes in this film, but any erotic tension is purely invented by the viewer. It is not hard to see that Beart is a beautiful actress, and her character relies on this beauty. Yet Frenhofer manhandles her, pulls her to and fro, and seemingly never sees the sexual potential that lies between the two. The art has gripped him.

This disturbs Marianne’s boyfriend, who can’t quite handle the fact that Frenhofer, through drawing her, knows her more intimately than anyone ever will. Frenhofer’s wife, on the other hand, is not prone to jealousy and at first seems overjoyed that Frenhofer has found the resolve to finish his masterpiece (which was originally to be drawn with her). But even she, as the film goes on, finds one of Frenhofer’s actions hurtful, and we see that sometimes the nature of art can be destructive, as opposed to creative.

Look for little clues. Rivette plays up the sound of the crickets on the soundtrack, and when they are absent (mainly when Frenhofer is in the studio), we focus on the silence. Several scenes play out in silence, such as the spellbinding sequence where Frenhofer draws Marianne for the first time. Frenhofer goes about his studio, picking up and putting down brushes, paints, easels, and when he does settle on his tools, we find ourselves on the edge of our seat, because we have just witnessed the whittling down of innumerable possibilities. This film is as gripping as any thriller.

Finally, what contributes so heavily to the success of this film is the fact that we witness key events in real time. Most films truncate their time-frame, so as to give the illusion of a certain amount of time having passed whilst not actually subjecting the audience to it. This film is four hours long, and it takes place over the course of a week. We live through that week, and all of the key moments happen as they would actually happen. The camerawork, which is beautiful, makes great use of all the space on show. The 4:3 aspect ratio, which could have been stifling, instead allows the actors to appear comfortable in their surroundings, and this comfort seeps into the viewer. Far from being boring, we come to know the characters, their actions, and the film takes on rhythms and movements all to itself. The ending, which is frustrating and delightful in equal measure, is the only one that could have fit, although for the life of me I will always want to know what is behind that wall.

This is a film you settle into, and it’s one of the most immersive I have ever seen. It contains movements and shots which I will likely never forget, and it is one of the very few films I have witnessed which I didn’t want to end, because I grew so accustomed to the tale and its manner of telling. “La Belle Noiseuse” translates to “the beautiful nuisance. This film is “La Belle Masterpiece”. 

Review of The Book of Revelation (2006)

“A lot of men would pay to be in your position.”

“If I paid, this would be my choice. This is not my choice”

This dialogue, between a rapist and her victim, occurs about one third into Australian Ana Kokkinos’ “The Book of Revelation” (based on Rupert Thomson’s novel) a film which is not about the Bible, and to my mind has few Biblical allusions. It is instead about a dancer called Daniel, played by Tom Long, who is out buying cigarettes when he is abducted by three hooded women, taken to a secluded shack, and sexually assaulted for twelve days. Then he is released, and the rest of the film details his attempts at piecing his life together, and re-integrating himself into society following his traumatic experience.

If it sounds like this film might be too harrowing, then it is and it isn’t. This is not an “easy” film, in the sense that people who are sensitive to graphic sex or sexual assault will likely be put off by two or three scenes, yet the scenes of assault largely occur in one ten-minute stretch, and the film is careful to surround them with scenes which are real. This film could not be less exploitative.

No, this film is more difficult because it raises a number of questions about the nature of rape, and the so-called rape culture that is contained within our society.  As David is being assaulted, as a man myself, I found myself aroused, purely as a physiological reaction, in much the same way David was aroused against his will. This echoes Michael Haneke's Funny Games, which made the viewer complicit in the torture of a middle-class suburban family to make you think about the true nature of screen violence; I admired that film for its nobility of purpose, and I feel much the same way about this film. You may note that the film is directed by a woman, but this is not an overtly feminist film, and it does not subvert the rape revenge genre in the way Baise Moi did. The film forgoes the revenge entirely. It instead has a vivid sympathy for all suffering, irrespective of whether it is a man or a woman who is suffering, or whether it is a man or a woman who is inflicting the suffering.

What massively helps the film is the central performance. Tom Long is incredibly adept at conveying mental anguish behind a stony exterior, and whilst there is only one real moment where we see his anguish get on top of him, his emotions appear to be painted on his face. I was surprised at how involved I became in his journey and attempts at piecing his life together following what he went through. His behaviour may not make logical sense at times, but he makes us understand how sometimes we behave illogically under pressure, and that’s a tricky thing. Excellent performances also come from Greta Scacchi as David’s dance tutor, and Deborah Olsen, who plays Julie, the woman David attempts a relationship with following his ordeal. They care for David, and again their performances seem real and convincing; this helps, in a film which could very easily have been highly implausible.

The film also has a clinical detachment, echoing the texture and tone of 90’s Cronenberg, which I came to appreciate. The camerawork has a certain classical quality, placing what we need to see plainly at the centre of the screen, whilst also leaving time for little details (the film is very good at drawing out smaller moments, such as when David traces his finger over objects in extreme close-up; instances like this, far from being amateurish film-school tics, bolster the film’s realism and subtly draw the viewer in). Note also the infrequent symbolism, such as the planes and boats flying away from David. Just because what it symbolises is obvious doesn't make it any less effective. 

I understand that this may not be a film for everyone. It asks difficult questions, and does not pretend to have the answers. It doesn’t explain things that people accustomed to a traditional narrative may expect, such as who the rapists are, and why they are doing what they are doing. The conclusion is far from tidy, and those who are averse to interpretive dance may be advised to stay away. The film to me is more depiction of what would happen if a man was placed in the same scenario women are placed in every single day, as we see and read in the news. It understands socially perceived notions about the male and female libido (one brave scene sees David try and tell the police what has happened; they say he must be a “lucky guy”), yet overlays this with the principle that all forms of violation are bad. The film sticks to its guns with a certain determination, remembers to be emotionally involving, and can genuinely claim to make you think. Here I am.