Final Cut: Michel Hazanavicius Remakes One Cut of the Dead

Ironically, a zombie apocalypse breaks out while a film crew is shooting a zombie movie. But wait, there’s more—as those who have seen Shinichiro Ueda’s One Cut of the Dead already know. However, this is sort of a remake and also sort of a sequel. Apparently, it all transpires in a universe where One Cut exists, but the production is plagued (so to speak) by similar problems. It isn’t easy directing zombies in Michel Hazanavicius’s Final Cut, which opens today in New York.

This time around Higurashi doesn’t look like a Higurashi, but he is just as deranged. Quite irresponsibly, he has invoked a WWII-era zombie curse to illicit more convincing performances from his beleaguered cast. They too have distinctly Japanese names, despite speaking French. All will be explained eventually.

It is interesting to watch Final Cut, for the “first time,” while knowing the big twists. It allows fans of One Cut to appreciate the ways Hazanavicius tweaked the material and how he stayed faithful to the spirit of the original film. Reviewing three similar takes on Invisible Guest was probably one too many, but Hazanavicius’s clever in-film references to One Cut help differentiate Final Cut. In some ways, they also make the French remake/sequel/side-film even nuttier.

Romain Duris and Berenice Bejo are terrific as the Higurashi the director and Natsumi the make-up artist. They sort of play against type—and then they don’t—but they both use their winning screen charismas to full effect. Lyes Salem and Jean-Pascal Zadi are also very funny as the producer and composer-sound designer.

The Man in the Basement

It is worth remembering Kipling’s advice to “keep your head when all about you are losing their and blaming it on you,” when considering this film. The Sandbergs’ nasty new neighbor is a master at provoking their anger, so he can pose as the victim. Unfortunately, Simon Sandberg invited the Holocaust-denying internet troll Jacques Fonzic into his building, by selling him his basement (a stand-alone entrance storage unit) in Philippe Le Guay’s The Man in the Basement, which opens today in New York.

It helps to have a sense of the Sandberg’s building. The apartments (administered under condo terms) face a courtyard, with stand-alone cellar storage available in the basement level. Due to subdividing over the years, the Sandberg family (including Simon’s mother and brother David) wound up owning two “basements,” so they decided to sell one.

Fonzic stepped forward to buy it. Supposedly, he would only use it as intended, but he started living there, much to the building’s alarm. Rather belatedly, Sanberg started to dig into Fonzic’s past, learning he had been dismissed from his high school position for teaching Holocaust denialism. Even though they had not finalized the transfer of title, they are still stuck with him under French law, because they cashed his check and gave him the key. Alarmed by his vitriol, they hire lawyers to void the sale. However, they are not prepared for Fonzic’s psychological warfare. Soon, his manipulations turn their neighbors against Sandberg and sow divisions with his wife Helene and daughter Justine.

Le Guay and co-screenwriters Gilles Taurand and Marc Weitzmann chillingly depict the ways Fonzic uses the Sandbergs’ emotions against them. It is truly painful to watch the mixed Jewish-Catholic family keep walking into his traps. This film has real insights into how extremists seed doubt among ostensibly decent people and stimulate dissension. Le Guay also vividly and viscerally illustrates the dire consequences of losing one’s cool. However, his command of tone is uncertain, vacillating from thriller, to Polanski-ish horror film, and over to a social issue drama, in the tradition of Skokie and Denial, never permanently settling on one.

Three Peaks: Frosty Family Time

There are long-held historical antagonisms between the French and Germans, but Lea and Aaron believe they are past all that. They are new Europeans. The only thing standing in the way of their prospective union is her son, Tristan. He speaks English, the language of his father and Euro-skepticism. The vacation intended to forge a new family unit will take a tense turn in Jan Zabeil’s Three Peaks, which opens today in New York.

Aaron is a lumberjack-looking architect, who would ordinarily be considered prime husband and fatherhood material. That is how Lea sees him, but Tristan will need more convincing. That was the whole purpose of this trip, but Tristan is proving difficult. Lea tries to walk on tight-rope, respecting the place of her son’s very-present (but not in this movie) biological father, while still promoting Aaron’s merits. Yet, that often leads to frustration for both of her male companions.

In fact, Tristan’s needy, attention-seeking behavior and sometimes alarmingly dangerous practical jokes start to put a strain on their romantic relationship. Frankly, little “Tris” seems to be making progress in his cold war to undermine Aaron. The question is whether he is a bad seed acting intentionally or just a naïve innocent with a talent for stirring up trouble. Naturally, things will come to a head on the titular Dolomite Mountains.

Three Peaks is a carefully calibrated work, featuring three very impressive performances, but sometimes it is too airless and posed, like we are looking at a series of Ingmar Bergmanesque dioramas. Zabeil’s disciplined approach shuns melodrama and histrionics, but its austerity will make some viewers want to scream.

Still, Alexander Fehling gives probably the best performance of his career as Aaron. It is slow burning work that builds and compounds. Young Arian Montgomery constantly causes viewers to rethink and reconsider just how evil Tristan, the little monster, really is. Arguably, Berenice Bejo has the least developed role, but she easily convinces us in the power of a mother’s love to ignore or excuse some unsettling actions.

It is a bit of a stretch to call Three Peaks a thriller, but it is far darker and murkier than any healthy conventional family drama. Cinematographer Axel Schneppat feasts on the harsh but striking landscape, doubling down on the film’s chilly vibe. This is a film you will respect, but it is hard to love, just like sulky Tristan. Recommended for moody Euro cineastes, Three Peaks opens today (6/28) in New York, at the IFC Center.

Farhadi’s The Past

It is hard to define Ahmad’s role in the family drama he re-submerges himself in.  As Marie’s soon to be ex-husband, he is intimately familiar with her and her two daughters from a previous relationship.  Of course, he is a complete stranger to Samir, her next intended husband, and his young son. That ambiguity provides rich fodder for Asghar Farhadi’s French language, Iranian Oscar submission, The Past (trailer here), which opens this Friday at Film Forum.

Ahmad, the former Iranian expat, has returned to Paris to finalize his divorce with his French wife, Marie.  One might wonder why he should travel such a long way for a bit of paperwork.  Frankly, the same question crosses Ahmad’s mind as well.  Regardless, here he is.  Much to his surprise, he learns he will be staying with Marie and Samir in their distinctly unfashionable suburban Paris home.

Viewers quickly deduce Ahmad has a history of mental instability, whereas Marie is a bit of game-player. The now stoic Ahmad tries to take the high road, but he is soon drawn into his eldest former step-daughter’s cold war with Marie.  Lucie is dead set against her mother’s engagement to Samir, because she believes their love affair drove his comatose wife to her suicide attempt.  As Ahmad tries to counsel Lucie, he discovers the truth is considerably more complicated than anyone suspected.

Despite having no formal position in the family, Ahmad becomes the closest thing to a referee they have.  Yet, it is clear the feelings he and Marie once had for each other remain unresolved.  It is fascinating to watch him navigate this tortuous emotional terrain, acting as an honest broker and peace-maker, while keenly aware of his own destabilizing influence.  Ahmad is a tricky role to pull off, considering he often serves as an audience proxy as well as an independent actor in his own right, but Ali Mosaffa pulls it off masterfully.  It is an exquisitely humane turn that darkly suggests volumes of unspoken back-story.

Although Ahmad is central to the narrative, he is still a supporting player in the overall scheme of things.  This is Marie’s story, driven by her problematic relationships with Samir and Lucie.  The thoroughly de-glamorized Bérénice Bejo’s lead performance is earthy and passionate, constantly approaching the overwrought, put always pulling back just in time (because the working class cannot afford such indulgences).  Pauline Burlet is also quite remarkable, making Lucie’s inner turmoil vivid and believable in an angsty teen-aged sort of way.  She could be this year’s equivalent of Shailene Woodley in The Descendants.

The opening of The Past essentially closes the year in film.  Granted, there are some presumptive Oscar candidates slated to open Christmas week, but they do not deserve their buzz.  In contrast, The Past should be a contender in multiple categories.  It might not have quite the same visceral intensity of Farhadi’s A Separation and About Elly, but those films set the bar awfully high, making comparisons decidedly unfair.  The Past is a gripping film that embraces the messy humanity of its characters. It is a bracing yet forgiving film, much in keeping with the rest of Farhadi’s filmography.  Highly recommended, The Past opens this Friday (12/20) at New York’s Film Forum.

Populaire: Love in the Time of Typewriters

It was a simpler, analog time when assistants were called secretaries.  They were always women, but they were considered “modern” women.  Régis Roinsard pays tribute to the women in the late 1950’s workforce and the romantic comedies of their era with Populaire (trailer here), which opens today in New York.

Rose Pamphyle longs to leave her sleepy provincial village for a big city job as a sophisticated secretary.  She makes it as far as Lisieux, the nearest sizable city for any interview with Louis Échard’s small but respectable insurance company.  Frankly, she lacks most of the skills required for the position, except typing—sort of.  Even with two fingers she is a speed demon.

Recognizing Pamphyle’s raw talent, Échard decides to forgo her dubious clerical assistance so he can train her full time as a competitive speed typist.  Échard is considerably more intense as a coach than Pamphyle is as his protégée.  She has other concerns, inevitably developing strong feelings of attraction for the suave former resistance fighter.  Of course, he seems to have a hard time recognizing his perfect rom-com match.

Fully stocked with stylish circa-1959 trappings, Populaire is bound to be compared to Mad Men, but it largely replaces the zeitgeisty angst with old fashioned romance.  Still, it also provides a mostly affectionate time capsule look at a time when Pamphyle was considered rather bold for pursuing an office career and smoking in the office was no big deal.  Just seeing the cross-the-body manual return is a vivid reminder how much has changed in the last fifty-some years.  Frankly, for some younger viewers, Pamphyle might as well be chiseling in stone.

While Populaire is a bright and colorful period piece (thanks to first rate contributions from cinematographer Guilaume Schiffman, production designer Sylvie Olivé, and costume designer Charlotte David), but it has some real heart beneath the froth.  Déborah François brings an acute sensitivity to Pamphye.  Her romantic chemistry with Romain Duris’s Échard is believably awkward but still smolders.  Yet, perhaps the most emotionally resonate moments involve his scenes with The Artist’s Bérénice Béjo as Marie Taylor, the lover he pushed away during the war for reasons of self denial.  She is an unexpectedly deep character, fully brought to life by Béjo in her comparatively limited screen time.

Populaire is pleasing to the eye and the ear, including some charming cha-cha-chas about typing, as well as timeless standards, from the likes of Ella Fitzgerald.   It is not a big picture in any sense, but it goes down smooth and leaves audiences satisfied.  Recommended for a fans of French cinema and retro romantic comedies, Populaire opens today (9/6) in New York at the Village East.

A Silent Contender: The Artist

Talking pictures were a truly Schumpeterian phenomenon for Hollywood. As any film lover knows from Singin’ in the Rain, some silent movie stars could weather the creative destruction wrought by the transition to sound, whereas some could not. Matinee idol George Valentin was one of those who could not “talk.” Fittingly, his story is a told silently (or nearly so) in The Artist (trailer here), Michel Hazanavicius’s glorious black-and-white homage to the golden age of Hollywood, which opens this Friday in New York.

It is 1927. George Valentin is at the height of his popularity as a Douglas Fairbanks style swashbuckler. He has just fought the red menace as an agent of free Georgia in The Russian Affair. However, studio mogul Al Zimmer has something disturbing to show him: synchronized sound. Dismissing the future, Valentin returns to work on his next picture, which will be only remembered as the brief screen debut of future superstar Peppy Miller. Obviously thrilled to have any screen time, Miller is particularly excited to share a scene with her favorite star, George Valentin.

When talkies become the standard, Miller’s career takes off like a rocket with frothy romantic comedies. Meanwhile, Valentin’s attempt to finance his own silent comeback vehicle proves disastrous. Yet, Miller’s feelings for yesterday’s leading man remain unchanged.

Hazanavicius consciously draws from dozens of classic films (both pre- and post-Jazz Singer), as well as numerous real larger-than-life Hollywood figures. What follows incorporates elements of A Star is Born, Sunset Boulevard, and Greta Garbo’s relationship with John Gilbert. (Sadly, many modern movie-goers will miss the allusions, but perhaps the notion of a film without diegetic sound might be a brand new novelty item for them.)

As the product of many artists’ work, the film is a visual splendor, beginning with Guillaume Schiffman’s lush and moody black-and-white cinematography (shot in color, but printed in fabulous shades of gray, as per today’s standard practice), which makes the elegant sets and costumes softly glow like a Cecil Beaton portrait. Still, it is the depth of Hazanavicius’s screenplay that really distinguishes The Artist.

Not merely a series of winks at TCM watchers, the film is quite a touching love story, completely free of irony. On the two occasions it breaks format, sound is used in creative ways that cleverly advance the film. Periodically, Hazanavicius also appears to indulge in a witty in-joke, yet in each case, their unexpected dramatic logic catches us by surprise. Likewise, while his inter-titles have a simplicity befitting the period, they convey a surprising richness of meaning.

Familiar to American audiences from Hazanavicius’s French OSS 117 spy spoofs, Jean Dujardin gives another very physical performance here, but the complexity and pathos of his Valentin is in a whole different league. Indeed, it is a tricky proposition to play a mugging actor without ever mugging for the camera, yet he is never overly broad or over the top, keeping the faded movie star acutely human throughout. He also develops some endearing romantic chemistry with Bérénice Bejo as Miller.

Frankly, the Argentine-French Bejo is about the only person working in film today who can approximate the glamorous look of Hollywood in its heyday (yes, this definitely includes Michelle Williams). Exquisite and vulnerable, she deserves a bit of award attention along with Dujardin, the best actor winner at this year’s Cannes. In contrast, the American supporting cast does not have much to do, but John Goodman’s cigar-chomping shtick works perfectly for Zimmer, even without sound.

After winning over all but the most jaded critics at this year’s New York Film Festival, The Artist has emerged as a major Oscar contender. Frankly, this is the film for the Weinsteins to put their chips on, not the Marilyn story or Madonna’s vanity project. It is a beautifully rendered valentine to movie-making, featuring two wildly charismatic romantic leads. Highly recommended, The Artist opens this Friday (11/25) in New York at the Paris Theater and Angelika Film Center.