Hong Sang-soo’s A Traveler’s Needs

Hong Sang-soo’s films with French actress Isabelle Huppert have all arisen out of chance meetings and commenced without finished scripts. For their latest film, it really shows. Hong’s films are always lightweight, but this one could blow away with a gentle breeze. The film follows a French tutor, who like the director, somehow gets away with never preparing for her students in Hong’s A Traveler’s Needs, which just opened in additional cities.

Iris supposedly teaches French by prodding her students to rcall their deepest emotional memories and then translating them into French and recording them on audio cassettes for them to listen to. This way, their lessons will resonate for them, unlike that rote Dick-and-Jane stuff.

Okay, maybe. Not all of her clients are convinced, but her loyal student Isong buys in. She obediently discusses the thoughts that went through her head while playing piano (during which time, Iris boorishly steps outside for a smoke). Then, she refers her tutor to a married couple she knows.

Wonju clearly suspects Iris is a lazy scammer, but her husband Haesoon is impressed by her ability drink makgeolli without any signs of inebriation. Eventually, Wonju plays guitar, prompting a conversation almost identical to the one Iris had with Isong, which constitutes the film’s clearest manifestation of Hong’s regular doubling or repeating motif.

Then Iris returns home to spend time with her much younger roommate-slash-ambiguous boyfriend, Inguk, until his mother (who is about her age) pops in unexpectedly. Then, she is off like a rocket, leaving him to mother’s third-degree.

Honestly, Traveler’s Needs must be Hong’s dullest film to-date, which is saying something. Even by his generous standards, it is aimless in direction and decidedly sleight. Even Huppert, his buddy at Cannes, appears to struggle with her halting, minimalist dialogue. Hong’s regular player, Kwon Hae-hyo, just falls back on tried-and-true Hong-isms, mostly by drinking like a fish. There is simply no meat on his bony screenplay for them to sink their teeth into. Only Cho Yunhee successfully gets into any sort of rhythm as Inguk’s mom, who really is quite a formidable interrogator.

Ozon’s The Crime is Mine

In 1937, Will Hayes of the MPA (as it is now known) approved Wesley Ruggles’ True Confession for release despite its “flippant portrayal of the courts of justice.” If only they could have seen Judge Gustav Rabusett, the dumbest investigating magistrate in all of Paris. He appears in the first French [super-loose] adaptation of George Berr & Louis Verneuil’s play after True Confession and the subsequent American remake Cross My Heart. Rabusett does little to inspire confidence in the French justice system. However, like Roxie Hart in Chicago, Madeleine Verdier knows you cannot buy the kind of publicity a murder trial produces, so when he tries to railroad her for the fatal shooting of a producer, she goes along for the sensationalistic ride in Francois Ozon’s The Crime is Mine, which opens today in New York.

Verdier is a struggling actress. Her roommate Pauline Mauleon is a struggling attorney. When Rabusett fits her for the murder of Montferrand, a dirtbag producer with a notorious casting couch, it serves both their purposes. Verdier had indeed fought off Montferrand’s unwanted advances that fateful day, but she left before he was killed. Like any sensible women living alone in a big city, Verdier and Mauleon keep a gun in their apartment. It happens to be the same caliber that killed Montferrand. Since ballistic science was limited in the 1930s, that was more than good enough for Rabusett.

It works out pretty well for Verdier and Mauleon too. Both become newsreel stars and tabloid sensations when the actress explains how she shot Montferrand to “defend her honor.” Cannily, Mauleon turns the trial into a feminist drama, starring Verdier. Fame soon follows, as well as a fortune (on credit). Yet, the real murderer is still out there, watching as the women reap the rewards of the crime Verdier did not commit.

The source material might be dated, but the way Ozon and co-screenwriter Philippe Piazzo skewer the tabloid media still feels fresh and relevant. The adoring media act more like Verdier and Mauleon’s press agents than investigative journalists. They are not reporting the news, they are picking sides.

Yet, Ozon never blames them for playing the press or the system. In fact, he invites viewers to enjoy watching Verdier and Mauleon get one over. Indeed, it is rather subversively entertaining, thanks to energy and vitality of Nadia Tereszkiewicz and Rebecca Marder as the thesp and the mouthpiece. They are having fun getting away with it and so do viewers—at least until the regally flamboyant Isabelle Huppert throws a monkey wrench in the works, portraying Odette Chaumette, a past-her-prime actress transparently inspired by Sarah Bernhardt.

Hong Sang-soo’s Claire’s Camera

It is a film about random café encounters in Cannes, partly made possible by a random café encounter in Cannes. Architect Shahira Fahmy happened to tell Hong Sang-soo about her acting ambitions when they struck up a conversation in a café during the Cannes Film Festival. A few hours later, she was shooting a scene with Isabelle Huppert. It wasn’t a hugely consequential scene, but it is still a good start. It is also very Hong Sang-soo. Indeed, a chance encounter of that nature would not be out of place in the film in question, Hong’s Claire’s Camera (trailer here), which opens this Friday in New York.

Camera could be considered the third film in the awkward trilogy of films helmed by Hong and starring Kim Min-hee, addressing unfaithfulness and released after news of their affair went public. This is the best of the three. The explicit reference to Eric Rohmer (director of Claire’s Knee) is no accident. Camera is very Rohmeresque. His characters wander incessantly, but this is a Hong film, so they also drink, especially, So Hansoo, the Hong-esque director.

Jeon Manhee is about to be fired by her boss, producer-sales agent Nam Yanghye, soon after their arrival in Cannes, because she ill-advisedly let So sleep with her. So isn’t just talent they are handling. He is also Nam’s lover—or at least he was. He intends to break it off once their French guest at lunch takes her leave. That would be Claire, a charming music teacher, who also writes poetry and compulsively takes pictures. She came down from Paris for the premiere of her friend’s film (played by Fahmy), but while strolling through town, she makes the chance acquaintances of both Jeon and So, who are quite struck by the coincidence when they see the photographic evidence of Claire’s encounters.

At a mere sixty-nine minutes, Camera feels light and brief, but there are some heady themes lurking under the surface and some heavy emotions bubbling over. While there is little of Hong’s previous narrative gamesmanship, he rather subtly and slyly proves Claire’s vaguely postmodern contention that the act of taking someone’s picture changes them. This is definitely true in the case of Jeon and So.

Claire is a nice change of pace for Huppert (reuniting with Hong after In Another Country), but she still commands the screen utterly and completely. After watching Camera, everyone should be convinced it would be great fun to café-hop your way across Cannes with her. Kim’s work as Jeon is just as sensitively rendered as her award-winning performance in On the Beach at Night Alone, but she also shows a bit of goofy humor that is wonderfully sweet and endearing. Jung Jin-young’s So is basically an amalgamation of every unpleasant Hong Sang-soo cliché, but Chang Mi-hee is surprisingly human and vulnerable as the ragingly insecure Nam. Plus, there is a big gray dog who steals several scenes, even though he literally sleeps through them.

Claire’s Camera is vintage Hong and a lovely showcase for Huppert and Kim. It just captures that indescribable late-night vibe. Surely, Rohmer would have approved. Very highly recommended, Claire’s Camera opens this Friday (3/9) in New York, at the Film Society of Lincoln Center.

NYFF ’17: Mrs. Hyde

Despite her titular surname, the nocturnal alter-ego of Marie Géquil (sound it out) is more like an impersonal, fiery monster in the tradition of the H-Man than a down-and-dirty Victorian ripper. She doesn’t get a lot of breaks, but her mutation still has transformative effects for her Jekyll persona in Serge Bozon’s Mrs. Hyde, which screens as a Main Slate selection of the 55^th New York Film Festival.

For most festival patrons, the casting of Isabelle Huppert as Madame Géquil is all they need to know. The fact that it is also a loose reworking of Robert Louis Stevenson is hopefully a bonus, but we are really talking loose here—like those pants need a belt and suspenders, plus some gathers round the cuffs.

Despite thirty years of experience, Madame Géquil finds herself on probation due to her ineffectual classroom manner. Teaching physics in a distressed urban technical school is not an easy task—and her openly hostile students do not make it any easier. Unlike the hypocritically unctuous principal, she has no truck with the soft bigotry of low expectations, but her refusal to dumb it down only increases her class’s antipathy. Than one fateful day, while Madame Géquil is performing an experiment, a lightning bolt from out of the blue strikes the school’s laboratory (a refurbished shipping container).

Suddenly, Madame Géquil has more confidence and appetite by day, but she sleepwalks by night. Eventually, she starts transforming into a Human Torch like figure that preys on the thugs running wild in the nearby projects. This two-pronged attack will help her finally reach Malik, her worst tormentor in class, who turns out to have an unsuspected aptitude for electrical engineering.

Although there is a thimble full of genre business in Mrs. Hyde, it is more an educator’s trials and tribulations, much in the tradition of The Class or Dangerous Minds, but it is darker and more fatalistic. It also has Huppert, who is terrific. Everyone seems to think she is playing against type here, but the truth is, you can see all the too-quiet intensity and barely contained resentment she has always conveyed so vividly. If you tipped her Géquil over, she might shatter.

As Malik, Adda Senani is a natural who looks like he really attends Arthur Rimbaud Technical School and hates every minute of it. He is a genuine discovery, but Romain Duris’s outrageously flamboyant, bang-flipping turn as the serpentine principal will really burn itself onto your corneas. Unfortunately, José Garcia’s Pierre Géquil is rather lightweight and inconsequential.

Mrs. Hyde is probably just good enough to satisfy Huppert’s admirers, but not chaotic enough to satiate Jekyll and Hyde buffs. Huppert and Duris certainly strut their stuff, even while pointedly critiquing French public education. It is an interesting, sometimes ironically amusing film, but not a knock-out punch. Recommended for fans of Huppert and patrons of French cinema, Mrs. Hyde screens this Friday (9/29) at Alice Tully Hall and Sunday (10/1) at the Walter Reade, as part of this year’s NYFF.

Luc Bondy Reinvents Marivaux: False Confessions

Pierre de Marivaux’s plays are still frequently revived in France, but they have never been widely read in English translation. At least he was popular within his lifetime. Frankly, he needed his royalties, having lost his shirt in the Mississippi land bubble. As a result, he should have identified with the well-bred but financially destitute hero of one of his best-known plays. Dorante is now just a plebeian secretary, but he will still sneakily woo his wealthy widowed mistress in the late Luc Bondy’s modern-day adaptation of False Confessions (trailer here), which opens tomorrow in Los Angeles.

It is all crafty Dubois’s fault. Dorante’s former valet now works in the household of the somewhat older but still alluring Araminte. Knowing his master was smitten after merely spying the wealthy widow at the opera, the servant hatches a scheme to bring them together. Through the influence of his uncle, Dorante lands a job as Araminte’s secretary, beating out the candidate put forward by the Comte Dorimont, an unwelcome suitor Araminte will either marry or sue in court to resolve a long-standing land dispute.

Dorante immediately wins her confidence by spurning her Dowager Countess-like mother’s request to help convince Araminte to see things her way. Since that would have included marrying the Comte, Dorante is definitely not on-board. As she starts to appreciate his charms, Dubois stokes her servant Marton’s romantic interest in Dorante, stimulating Araminte’s jealousy, which in turn clouds her rigid class-based sensibilities and judgement.

Bondy’s False Confessions is an unfortunate case of one or two high-profile critics causing a domino effect among other critics and bloggers who are incapable or unwilling to think for themselves. It has a bizarrely low RT score, but it is really quite spritely and sophisticated. Somewhat controversially, Bondy opted to keep Marivaux’s original language (more or less), but frankly, as experienced in English subtitles, it only sounds elevated rather than forbidding or distancing. Sadly, he also passed away during the final days of shooting, but it is never obvious at what point his freshly widowed wife took over the helm.

It almost goes without saying, but Isabelle Huppert really is terrific portraying Araminte. We don’t often think of her in comedic contexts, but her timing and delivery are impeccable. Bulle Ogier is also quite a stitch unleashing her inner Dame Maggie Smith as Araminte’s tart-tongued mother. In contrast, Louis Garrel underwhelms, largely playing Dorante on sullen auto-pilot. However, Manon Combes really seems earnest and genuine as the out-classed Marton.

Cinematographer Luciano Tovoli (best-known for Suspiria and Tenebre) gives it a warmly welcoming, bright and airy look. Bondy opted to shoot the film version during the day at the very Odeon Theater where the cast was simultaneously performing his more traditional staging at night. That concentrated focus somehow produced a consistently witty and charming film, like a lighter, more laidback version of Alain Resnais’s You Ain’t Seen Nothing Yet. Highly recommended, False Confessions opens tomorrow (7/21) in Los Angeles at the Laemmle Playhouse 7 and moves to the Village East here in New York.

Rendez-Vous ’17: Right Here Right Now

It is never just business at AB Finance. Sure, the partners want to make pots of money, but it is also always personal for them (and often rather petty). It is an intimidating office culture, but Nora Sator’s elbows might be sharp enough for her to survive in Pascal Bonitzer’s Right Here Right Now (trailer here), which screens during this year’s Rendez-Vous with French Cinema in New York.

Sator has no problem with cutthroat business practices, per se. It is the revelation AB’s partners once knew her failed academic father that disturbs her. Neither the slimy Arnaud Barsac or the eccentrically muddled Prévot-Parédès (PP) want to elaborate, but it is clear their dubious friendship with Serge Sator ended in a manner that caused her father great embarrassment. Barsac’s boozy wife Solveig understands what happened better than anyone, much to her bitter regret.

The notion she might have been hired out of guilt concerns Sator, but it will not stop her from making an ambitious power play, straight out of the gate. She will try to broker a blockbuster merger for a skeptical new “show me” client, with the reluctant help of Xavier, the colleague she just leap-frogged. Of course, an attraction will grow between him and Sator during those long nights pouring over financials, making him regret passive-aggressively putting the moves on her hipster sister, Maya.

As critiques of capitalism go, RHRN is about as effective as the old Dynasty TV show. Bonitzer probably couldn’t explain what a P/E ratio measures, but he gives us plenty of scenes featuring well-manicured characters verbally sawing each other off at the knees, while swilling top-shelf liquor. In other words, it is a lot of fun.

Nobody imbibes more than Solveig Barsac, but the great Isabelle Huppert makes her the most complex, multi-dimensional figure in the entire film. She is a hot mess with killer attitude and an acute conscience. Whenever she is on-screen, she kicks the film up a notch or two, as you wouls probably expect.

Lambert Wilson is no slouch either as the unrepentant Barsac, while Pascal Greggory brings a completely unpredictable element of WTF-ness as PP (he’s obsessed with Banyan trees, just so you know). Julia Faure helps humanize the ruthless melodrama as Maya, the artistic sister, whereas Agathe Bonitzer’s analytical sister is an ice queen with intelligent presence (adding a meta element in this pseudo-Freudian tale, helmed by her father). On the downside, Vincent Lacoste’s Xavier, the caddish co-worker is so shallow and boring, it is impossible to see how either sister could be attracted to him (and his working-class insecurity is the sort of cliché you would find in a 1970s Harold Robbins novel).

So, both Robbins and Dynasty get name-checked in a review of a French Rendez-Vous selection—then you know it must be good. Bonitzer’s dialogue is razor sharp and his ensemble clearly savors every cutting word. Recommended for those who enjoy scandal and naked ambition, Right Here Right Now screens this Friday (3/10) and Sunday (3/12) at the Walter Reade, as part of the 2017 Rendez-Vous with French Cinema.

Sundance ’17: What Tears Us Apart (short)

If Shen Dai had remained in China, there is no way an Isabelle Huppert-like film star ever would have been part of her social circle. In this case, it is probably safe to say “Isabelle” is based on Huppert, since she is played by the screen legend herself. That bit of casting was quite a coup for Hu Wei’s latest short film, but it never overshadows the complicated emotions at the center of What Tears Us Apart, which screens as part of Shorts Program 1 during the 2017 Sundance Film Festival.

There are indeed social-political implications to Shen Dai’s story that viewers might guess (especially if they are cognizant of the government’s strict family planning policies), but they still ought to let Hu reveal everything in his own due time. Initially, we are not sure why an older Chinese couple is visiting Isabelle and her gracious slightly older husband Benoît—nor perhaps are they. Eventually, we figure out they are really there to see Shen Dai and her daughter, but she prefers to have Isabelle and Benoît present to run interference. However, when the three finally sit down just themselves, the older woman’s emotions come gushing out uncontrollably.

As always, Huppert is a force to be reckoned with, but you will be hard pressed to see a more haunting performance than Nai An’s devastating portrayal of Shen Dai, in any film of any length. Clearly, her life in France has thus far been more comfortable than it would have been had she remained in China. Yet, we get a visceral sense of her lingering pain and resentment. Although more active as a producer, Nai An also gave a remarkably sensitive and powerful lead performance in Ying Liang’s When Night Falls, a film of such bold integrity it caused the filmmaker to be declared persona non grata in his Mainland homeland. As an added bonus, veteran French character actor André Wilms (Le Havre) nicely counterbalances the tart Huppert as the easygoing Benoît.

Hu was nominated for an Oscar for his previous short film Butter Lamp, which seems worlds removed from WTUA, at least on paper. However, both shorts are marked by Hu’s carefully rendered visual compositions. This is twenty-minute chamber drama, but he and cinematographer Julien Poupard make it look both delicately intimate and impressively cinematic. Based on Butter Lamp and WTUA, Hu’s first feature should be an event to eagerly anticipate. Very highly recommended, What Tears Us Apart screens with Shorts Program 1 today (1/20) at the Sundance Resort, Wednesday (1/25) at Salt Lake, and tomorrow (1/21) and next Saturday (1/28) here in Park City, as part of this year’s Sundance.

Isabelle Huppert Dominates Elle

The depressing truth is a film like this can no longer get produced in America, because there is no longer popular support for free expression that holds the potential to offend. Paul Verhoeven tried, but no American actress of any prominence would touch the diva-ready lead role with a fifty-foot pole. Instead, he fell back on plan B: filming in France with the great Isabelle Huppert. It is probably only a matter of time before the censorious, censoring social justice warriors justify Hollywood’s fears by forcing the film out of general circulation. Honestly, anyone interested in Verhoeven’s Elle (trailer here), the Dutch filmmaker’s first French-language production, should plan to see it as soon as possible, after it opens tomorrow in New York.

Take heed, there is a lot of tough stuff in Elle. One night, workaholic Michelle LeBlanc is raped inside her tony Parisian townhouse. There is no mistaking the violence of her attack, but it also seems strangely person. Having highly compelling reasons to distrust the police, LeBlanc coolly and systematically increases her personal security, so that when her assailant returns, it is more of a fair fight, but the end result remains the same.

Through sheer force of will, LeBlanc continues going about her daily business, dealing with development issues at the video game company she co-founded (its specialty is sexual violent fantasy games) and breaking off her affair with her business partner’s husband. He will be one of several potential suspects who hover around LeBlanc, sometimes giving the film the vibe of the ultra-provocative Agatha Christie mystery she never dreamed of writing. However, as LeBlanc conducts her own private inquiry, she starts openly inviting further encounters with her attacker, which is clearly intended to make us wonder how willing a participant she was, even from the brutal beginning.

It is important to note Verhoeven is not suggesting all victims have ambivalent feelings regarding their attackers. That simply may or may not be the decidedly extreme case for LeBlanc. However, that distinction is sure to be lost on the professionally offended. Once the SJW set understands the film presents rape in a murky and ambiguous manner, they are sure to demand it be censored for all mature adults.

That is a shame, because despite its admittedly lurid inclinations, Elle is an all too rare example of bold, risk-taking filmmaking. Verhoeven really goes for broke and the results are always fascinating, even when they get messy, credibility-challenged, and downright creepy.

Of course, it is immediately apparent this film could only be made with Huppert. Physically, she is deceptively slight, but her forceful, caustic presence absolutely commands the screen. In many respects, her character is extraordinarily unsympathetic, yet she holds us utterly riveted. Oddly, one could argue this is a women’s film, because the only supporting player who can match her to any extent is Anne Consigny as Anna, her sexually ambiguous friend and co-founder.

Elle sometimes falls flat on its face, but there is so much rich text, sub-text, and meta-text, it demands serious analysis. As a sensationalistic thriller, it is also surprisingly adept, but that has always been Verhoeven’s specialty. This is a film that should inspire debates for years to come, but one fears they will be choked off by the intolerantly hyper-sensitive. Recommended for fully informed, open-minded Huppert and Verhoeven fans, Elle opens tomorrow (11/11) in New York, at the Angelika Film Center.

Louder than Bombs: Trier Directs Huppert, in English

Just like T.E. Lawrence and Buford Pusser before her, it seems cosmically wrong that celebrated war photographer Isabelle Reed died in a motor accident. However, the awkward circumstances surrounding her death are more likely closer to that of Ernest Hemingway. Her widower Gene Reed has tried to shield their youngest, moodiest son from the truth, but an upcoming press tribute is almost certain to broach the inconvenient subject. The father and his two sons will struggle to finally come to terms with her death in Joachim Trier’s first English language feature, Louder than Bombs (trailer here), which opens this Friday in New York.

To mark a round number anniversary of Reed’s passing, her friends and admirers have organized a career retrospective exhibition. To tie-in, her wordsmith partner will write a personal appreciation of her life and work for the Times magazine or something very much like it. He duly warns Gene Reed that he will not duck the eight-hundred-pound gorilla. That only gives the long-suffering father a few days to level with the increasingly surly and anti-social Conrad. His grown brother Jonah seems to have dealt with her loss, but that is only a superficial impression. Deep down, the new father is probably the most dysfunctional member of the family.

For an angst-fueled domestic tragedy, a considerable amount of stuff happens in Bombs. Inevitably, it all boils down to life is not fair. As one might expect of the busy narrative, some of it works and some of it does not. Poor Gene Reed serves as the glue holding it all together, constantly sacrificing his subplots for the sake of others. However, Gabriel Byrne plays him with such profound sorrow, he gives the film a deeply humane core.

Of course, Isabelle Huppert outshines everyone as her namesake. She effectively haunts the film, dominating the ensemble despite her limited flashback screen-time. As the not so mature Jonah, Jesse Eisenberg also surprises with the quality of his work and the character flaws he reveals along the way. However, as the Number Two Son, Devin Druid feels like he is doing a third rate riff on Wes Bentley’s brooding teen in American Beauty. Conversely, David Strathairn dramatically elevates the film during his pivotal confrontation with Byrne as his wife’s suspiciously close colleague.

Indeed, the are moments in Bombs that rings with brutal honesty and forgiving compassion, but there is also a good deal of uncomfortable filler. Those messy interludes are rather surprising given the uniformly Spartan elegance of co-screenwriter Eskil Vogt’s directorial debut Blindness, which is sure to appreciate critically even further as time passes. Still, when Bombs connects, it leaves you smarting.

It might be inconsistent and even derivative with respects to Conrad’s resentments and fixations, but when it finishes, you know you have seen a film. Recommended with all its warts and ragged edges for patrons of mature chamber-dramas, Louder than Bombs opens this Friday (4/8) in New York, at the Lincoln Plaza.

Valley of Love: Depardieu and Huppert, Together Again

It is too bad this grieving French mother was not in Death Valley for the decennial “Desert Bloom.” It would have been just the sort of sign she was hoping for. According to her son’s suicide notes, he promised to visit from beyond if she and his father (her ex) make a pilgrimage through the landmarks of Death Valley at certain appointed times. It seems unlikely, particularly to him, but the guilt they carry compels them to do it anyway in Guillaume Nicloux’s Valley of Love (trailer here), which opens this Friday in New York.

It is one thing to give kids their space, but Isabelle and Gérard had not seen their son Michael in years. Each had later children with subsequent spouses, leaving Michael as a rather awkward reminder of their previous lives. There was also the business of his sexuality. Still, his partner reportedly never saw it coming. According to letters he wrote just before the end, Michael promises to appear to his parents if they stick to the itinerary he enclosed.

Whether it is because she is more inclined towards New Age hokum or she is just desperately grasping at straws, Isabelle is determined to follow Michael’s instructions to the letter. However, Gérard is planning to leave on the seventh day. That would seem like the most likely day for an appearance, but it was the only date he could book an appointment with a highly regarded oncology specialist. It is hard to argue with that, but Isabelle will try.

Ladies, this is a film for you, because there is an awful lot of man flesh to be seen within. Unfortunately, almost all of it is the shirtless Gérard Depardieu. Words fail to describe the spectacle. Still, he deserves credit for baring himself. At one point, he says to Isabelle: “how can I be happy looking like this?” (Maybe he could refrain from gorging himself on Putin’s caviar?)

Although Valley is nowhere near as self-referential as Nicloux’s previous film, The Kidnapping of Michel Houellebecq, it is clearly no accident Depardieu and Huppert (who appeared together in Maurice Pialat’s Loulou and Bertrand Blier’s Going Places) are playing their namesakes. While Nicloux might rely on their on-screen and off-screen reputations as a bit of character-establishing shorthand, they are largely able to transcend public personas and become credibly confused and bereaved parents. We really believe they really resent each other, yet still have some of the old feelings. Indeed, there is a reason why they are two of the most recognizable movie stars on the globe, regardless of the wear-and-tear they might show to varying degrees.

At the helm, Nicloux manages to walk a real tightrope, including enough supernatural elements to earn the film a berth at Sitges, yet never resorting to a traditional genre payoff. He maintains a mysteriously suggestive atmosphere that helps us buy into the dramatic possibilities. The desert is a mystical place, so why not?

Even without a wild flower explosion, cinematographer Christophe Offenstein makes the Death Valley vistas look spectacular (but also hot and dry). It is an indefinably odd film, but that is a good thing. Recommended for patrons of French cinema and fans of the two stars, Valley of Love opens this Friday (3/25) in New York, at the Elinor Bunin Monroe Film Center.

Haneke’s Amour

Death is the ultimate leveler.  It comes for all and unless the pharaohs were right, you cannot take it with you.  For years, one French couple lived a life of privilege and refinement.  However, the diseases of old age will rob them of their dignity and comfort in Michael Haneke’s Amour (trailer here), which opens this Wednesday in New York at Film Forum.

Selected by Austria as their official foreign language Academy Award submission, the Palme d’Or winning Amour is a French language film, set almost entirely in a Parisian flat, featuring two of the most acclaimed French actors of their generation: Jean-Louis Trintignant and Emmanuelle Riva.  At least, Haneke is Austrian.  Nevertheless, it qualifies under the Academy’s stringent rules for best foreign language features.  In fact, it is an acknowledged frontrunner.

Indeed, Amour’s themes and big name cast are distinctly Oscar-friendly, but this is a Haneke film, not On Golden Pond.  The emotions are darker and the sentiment will be hard earned.  Viewers initially meet Anne and Georges during a moment of triumph.  They have returned from a high profile concert given by Anne’s last and greatest music student, Alexandre, which they attended as his guests.  Unfortunately, soon after they return, Anne’s health begins to fail in a dramatic but protracted manner.

The slightly forgetful Georges is rather stunned to find himself in the caregiver role, but he does his best.  It is difficult though, both for him and Anne, as Haneke illustrates in a series of small but punishing scenes.  Of course, the framing device forewarns the audience Amour will end in tragedy, but how the couple reaches that point is the whole point of the film.

They say a good film can never be a downer and that is true, but as accomplished as Amour’s performances are, it probably should be avoided by those prone to depression.  The human frailty displayed by Trintignant and Riva is rather shocking, especially given their indelible cinematic images from classics like A Man and a Woman and Hiroshima mon amour.  Riva’s work is particularly brave, revealing her character’s pain and degradation, both physically and emotionally. 

While it is a less showy a performance, the bitter honesty of Trintignant’s Georges arguably represents the film’s true essence.  Though it is a thankless supporting role, Isabelle Huppert is still perfectly cast as their icily detached grown child Eva.  Classical pianist Alexandre Tharaud also has some touching moments as his namesake, who might be a better son-like figure than Eva ever was as their legitimate daughter.

Compared to some of Haneke’s previous work, Amour is distinctly sympathetic to his characters, but considering the unflinching focus he trains on them, “sensitive” might not be the most apt descriptive term for the film.  Aesthetically, it is also quite distinctive.  Production designer Jean-Vincent Puzos’s flat is elegantly photogenic and cinematographer Darius Khondji gives it all a gauzy, sophisticated look.  Yet, forcing us to bear witness to Georges and Anne’s intimate misery seems to be the extent of Haneke’s agenda.  Recommended with respect (rather than affection) for emotionally robust Francophiles and those who appreciate dramatic showcases, Amour opens this Wednesday (12/19) at Film Forum.

Hong Sang-soo’s In Another Country

In the working class seaside village of Mohang, there is not a lot to do except drink.  Fortunately, that is what Hong Sang-soo’s characters do best.  Intimacy on the other hand is a problem, especially for a trio of French women stumbling through cultural and linguistic barriers.  Isabelle Huppert plays all three of them in Hong’s sort of English language debut, In Another Country (trailer here), which opens this Friday in New York.

Dodging debt collectors, film student Wonju and her mother are laying low in a sleepy Mohang inn.  To pass the time, she starts writing a screenplay very much in the style of Hong Sang-soo.  It is a triptych in which the French expat Anne comes to the very same hotel under different circumstances, yet has similar experiences each time.

The first Anne is an accomplished filmmaker, who tries to discourage the attentions of a drunken colleague with a very pregnant wife.  The second Anne is cheating on her wealthy husband with an almost famous film director.  The third Anne bitterly resents her ex-husband leaving her for a Korean woman, but it is not hard to understand why he dumped her.  In each case, she flirts with the meathead lifeguard with varying degrees of ambiguity, half communicating through their broken English.

Country is just so Hong Sang-soo, but the tone is a bit lighter than Oki’s Movie or The Day He Arrives.  Nor is it as self consciously post-modern in its approach to narrative.  Each of the three Annes’ stories are discrete and completely self contained (though take 2 includes a dream sequence that could almost count as a fourth strand).  In fact, it is a rather sunny film, taking long walks on the beach and chatting amiably with the cute but shy Wonju, who also appears in each arc as the daughter of the hotel proprietor.

Still, it is rather fascinating to watch Huppert brings successively darker shades to each Anne.  Frankly, the third is a bit of a pill, whereas the flawed but self-aware second is the most fully developed.  Yu Junsang, the only other constant besides Jung Yumi’s pleasant but rather inconsequential Wonju, is a perfectly believable lunk, but his best dramatic moments come during the first go-round.  However, Youn Yuh-jung, the veteran leading lady of Korean television and cinema, is absolutely perfect as Anne #3’s academic friend Park Sook (and appearing as Wonju’s mother in the opening segmentas well).  Smart, somewhat tart tongued, and likably world weary, she brings some real verve to the talking and drinking.

Indeed, Country is a chatty film, utilizing English as a second language, so communication is always an issue.  The manner in which Hong repeats certain key phrases is often very droll, but there are no great profundities to be found here.  That is not necessarily a bad thing.  Watching Hong’s latest is like falling in with a group of strangers at a party who are amusing for an evening, but you don’t really want to make a habit of seeing afterward.  Again, if they are good for some laughs, that is not so terrible.  For Hong and Huppert’s fans, it works quite well.  Recommended accordingly, In Another Country opens this Friday (11/9) at the Lincoln Plaza Cinema.

Referrals Required: Special Treatment

Both Alice Bergerac and Xavier Demestre charge their clients by the hour. Get the irony? You see, he is an analyst and she is an older kind of specialist. Indeed, Bergerac and Demestre’s professional livelihoods are similarly dependent on sexual dysfunction and both are raging neurotics in Jeanne Labrune’s psychologically charged drama Special Treatment (trailer here), which opens this Friday in New York.

Demestre’s marriage is profoundly on the rocks, which is awkward considering he shares a suite of offices with his wife Hélène, a psychiatrist herself and probably a better one. Even his patients seem to keep their appointments only to shower him in contempt. His colleague refers him to Bergerac, whom he aptly describes as a “specialist.” Yet, the anxious and increasingly depressed Demestre is not sure what he wants from the transaction.

Meanwhile, Bergerac is suffering from her own crisis of confidence. An educated woman of sophisticated taste, she is not getting any younger. Though still desirable to men of a certain age, Bergerac is starting to press her luck in an exploitative business. Yet, the prospect of making life-altering decisions paralyzes her.

The affinity between shrinks and the more scandalous hourly professionals is fairly path-worn territory, having been previously mined for Hitchcockian suspense and lurid fascination. Frankly, Treatment never puts any sort of fresh spin on the material, but the accomplished cast still digs into it quite impressively.

Isabelle Huppert is perfectly cast as Bergerac, outwardly fitting the part to a tee, while viscerally capturing all the character’s neuroses and simmering hostilities. Bouli Lanners also brings surprising depth and humanity to Demestre, making a character all too easy to dismiss as pompous perv the sympathetic center of the film. Co-writer Richard Debuisne’s turn as the apparently principled Dr. Pierre Cassagne is also quite intriguing and rather unpredictable. On a fundamental level, he is just an interesting screen presence to watch.

To her credit, Labrune deftly handles her cast, guiding them through some provocative scenes with their dignity intact. However, her story often lacks focus, at one point taking a detour into a sequence that could have been lifted straight out of Eyes Wide Shut, which ultimately leads nowhere and signifies nothing. A fine acting showcase that is definitely mature but not nearly as explicit as one might expect, Treatment is mostly recommended for dedicated Francophiles and Huppert fans when it opens this Friday (8/26) in New York at the Cinema Village.

Denis’ White Material

It is a term of disinterested contempt for the items left behind by the former French colonial remnant. It is not just their Johnny Hallyday CDs and whatnot. Maria Vial and her dysfunctional family also constitute “white material.” Whether or not they can ride out the civil war engulfing their unnamed African nation solely on the strength of her iron will be determined in Claire Denis’ White Material (trailer here), which opens this Friday in New York.

Vial cannot say she was not warned. As a last ditch effort, the French send choppers to implore her to leave the country while she can. However, Vial is made of sterner stuff than the French army. She refuses to evacuate until she has completed the annual coffee harvest. The rest of her family’s resolve is a very different story.

Her ex-husband Andre Vial believes he has cut a deal for their safety with the local mayor and aspiring warlord, the terms of which might even involve ownership of the plantation she is struggling to save. Following a humiliating brush with a rebel unit, her slacker son Manuel has adopted the skinhead look and a revolutionary persona. Meanwhile, her father-in-law wanders about like King Lear, apparently oblivious to the violent storm brewing. Increasing the precariousness of their position, the so-called “Boxer,” a symbolic leader and cooler head among the rebels, has taken refuge on the Vial plantation.

Clearly, Vial is operating under a form of denial as well, but at least she is action-oriented, recruiting workers amongst those stranded in-country with no means of escape. Anarchy is literally breaking down around her, yet she will not abandon her crop. Of course, there will come a point of metaphoric no return.

It is difficult to imagine a less hospitable environment than the Africa Vial calls home. The climate is harsh, the soil is infertile, and the factionalism is dangerously bitter. In fact, it is difficult to tell the rebels from the militias. One thing is clear though, with the exception of Andre’s son from his second wife, the Vials are white. As the Mayor ominously warns her, they stand out.

Given the revolutionary exhortations heard on the local reggae station, it is hard not to hear echoes of the violent hate radio that fueled the Rwandan genocide, though Denis keeps the exact nature of the conflict and combatants obscure. Unfortunately, that extends to the Boxer, whose reason for seeking shelter at the Vial estate is never adequately explained. Still, Denis viscerally depicts the chaos and confusion of the Civil War, fueling an ever mounting sense of impending doom.

There are a lot of ragged edges to Material, but Isabelle Huppert stands out as an indomitable (if perhaps foolhardy) spirit, a post-Colonial Scarlett O’Hara with a thousand times the guts of the weak willed men surrounding her. It is fascinating to watch her inter-family relationships, particularly with Andre’s second son with whom she shares no blood relation. Yet she accepts responsibility for this shattered family unit, even though she risks destroying it in her determination to save their Tara. In a departure from the genre programmers American audiences typically see him in, Christopher Lambert is also quite convincing as the undependable Andre.

Based on a novel by Doris Lessing, the implications of Material are fearlessly politically incorrect. Regardless of the fictional country’s colonial past, it is clear Vial belongs there. Indeed, the sight of the petite Huppert against the sweltering landscape is the defining image of the film, stark in its beauty. Though the ideological knee-jerks might have difficulty with its all-too realistic portrayal of post-Independence violence and anti-white racism, it is a smart, bracing film. Well recommended, it opens this Friday (11/19) in New York at the IFC Center.