LOULOU (Maurice Pialat, 1980).
Middle class Nelly (Isabelle Huppert), tired of her selfish, abusive
boyfriend (Guy Marchand) leaves him to be with an unemployed ex-con
nicknamed Loulou (Gérard Depardieu). The sex is great, but the
difference in class poses problems.
Pialat, who died recently, was a perfectionist whose mastery of the
naturalistic style gives the lie to the notion that realism has to be
dull. The pacing in Loulou is never too slow or fast - Pialat's
respect for the complexities of character allows the actors to fill
their roles, and the characters' actions to flow, with a conviction
and clarity that seems inevitable. He always cuts on movement, lending
the transitions an ease that blends with the viewer's thought. A striking
example of this technique is a lengthy backyard picnic scene in which
Nelly is introduced to Loulou's relatives. Rarely does one witness a
scene so natural and yet so rich in detail. The fly-on-the-wall effect,
as if we were simply observing people behave, disguises the vibrant
energy and gentle humanism of the style.
Since moralism is not imposed on the characters, we are allowed to
see them in their varied aspects. Marchand's character can be infuriating,
but his sadness, need, and genuine concern for Nelly also comes through.
In the title role, Depardieu expertly conveys the heedless and inarticulate
attitude of a man with little regard for the future. It's a tribute
to his skill as a performer, as well as to the intelligence of the direction,
that Loulou isn't a mere symbol of Nelly's desire, but resists the easy
judgments that we are tempted to make of him. Finally, it is Huppert
who centers the film - at 25 she was already a powerful presence - with
her shifting moods, laughter, confused impulses and mental sharpness.
Not a victim, villain, or saint, Nelly is very much the author of her
own decisions and mistakes.
Apparently autobiographical in content (it was co-written by Pialat
and his ex-lover Arlette Langmann), the film has the reputation of being
extremely sexual. It seems to me that it merely gives sex its due as
a vital need and a necessary aspect of a relationship. It's not exaggerated
or invested with undue significance. Overall, the honesty of Pialat's
approach to narrative, his careful avoidance of dramatic convention,
gives his work a freshness that invigorates and delights the mind. Loulou
doesn't evoke facile emotional responses. It feels neither joyous nor
depressing, but simply and satisfyingly real.
LET US BE GAY (Robert Z. Leonard, 1930).
Kitty, a naive, devoted housewife (Norma Shearer) leaves her husband
(Rod La Rocque) when she discovers his infidelity. After going to Paris,
she transforms into a ravishing socialite. Then an irascible old lady
(Marie Dressler) asks her to try to seduce a man away from her granddaughter
during a weekend gathering - the man turns out to be Kitty's ex-husband.
Hollywood has been in the habit of imitating previous hit movies since
the beginning. This film seems to be an attempt to duplicate the success
of The
Divorcée, released earlier the same year, which
also starred Shearer and was directed by Leonard. The plot is similar
- a divorcée becomes a free spirited and sexually liberated woman
(as far as that went in 1930, of course), only to be faced with the
choice of reuniting with her husband. Whereas the previous film explored
the idea of the double standard, here it is only the man who has been
unfaithful, and so the advantage in the playful war between the sexes
lies wholly with the woman. Unfortunately, that's as far as it goes.
Although scripted by the redoubtable Frances Marion (from a stage play),
Let Us Be Gay is in every respect less witty and less interesting,
and with lower production values as well.
The best thing about the film is Shearer herself, one of the most charming
screen presences of classic Hollywood. She almost rescues the picture
with her charisma (and her Adrian gowns are luscious). However, her
love interest is Rod La Rocque, a star from the silent era who has the
personality of a stick, and a monotone delivery that could cure insomnia.
(The studios seemed to have trouble finding leading men to match the
sophistication of their leading ladies in the early sound era.)
Dressler overplays her patented comic Medusa bit, desperately trying
to compensate for the film's listlessness. Hedda Hopper brings a bit
of sparkle to the role of a conceited harpy (no stretch for her), but
the film just hobbles along most of the time, trying hard to be amusing
and sophisticated, and failing. Yet Shearer's energy and intelligence
keep the picture from being terrible. In fact, viewed in the context
of its time, Let Us Be Gay is a serviceable bit of fluff, and
only disappoints because one hopes for so much more from a Norma Shearer
film.
BEGGARS OF LIFE
(William A. Wellman, 1928).
A hobo (Richard Arlen) comes begging to a house, where he meets a girl
(Louise Brooks) who has just killed her foster father as he attempted
to rape her. The hobo takes her under his wing, and they go on the run
together, with the girl disguised in men's clothes. Their troubles multiply
when they run into a gang of hobos led by a menacing crook (Wallace
Beery).
One of Paramount's rare forays into working class social drama, Beggars
showcases Wellman's skill at depicting movement - a long action
sequence involving a train is a masterful piece of editing and camera
placement, and the film as a whole conveys a feeling of restless forward
propulsion. The atmosphere is stark and gripping. Poverty is not softened
or romanticized; the real hardships of life on the road are vividly
felt. It's interesting that the phenomenon of homeless train-hoppers
was already a newsworthy topic, since we now tend to believe that the
Depression started in 1929. Apparently the lower classes were feeling
the pinch a lot sooner.
The film's force is blunted only by the melodramatic plot involving
Beery, whose contradictory antihero ends up hijacking the movie. Louise
Brooks shines, as usual, although her appeal is underutilized, hidden
as she is by male clothing, and by a role that is mostly just an object
of contention for the male characters. The picture includes a brief
sound sequence in which Beery sings a song, but this was missing from
the print I saw, which was rather poor. Add this to the list of great
films crying out for restoration and a DVD release.
THE FARM: ANGOLA, USA
(Liz Garbus, Wilbert Rideau & Jonathan Stack, 1998).
A documentary on the Lousiana State Penitentiary at Angola, the largest
maximum security prison in the U.S., focuses on six prisoners - five
with life sentences (or what amounts to that) and one on Death Row -
in order to convey what it's like to live behind bars with little chance
of release. The filmmakers take a traditional objective stance towards
their subject - the prisoners and prison officials speak for themselves,
and the occasional voice-over narration presents facts rather than editorializing.
Although the social, political, and economic background of Angola is
thus given short shrift, the film's approach allows the viewer to experience
the material in its human complexity, its different aspects and emphases.
Louisiana has the toughest sentencing and parole policies in the nation.
The Farm shows examples of people who have completely remade
their lives in prison. A man serving 75 years for armed robbery has
become, after more than 20 years served, a mature, self-educated spokesman
for personal improvement, involved in numerous programs to help fellow
inmates and to prevent others on the outside from making the mistakes
he did. The parole board continues to reject him. Another man, sentenced
to life for murder, has served 38 years and is now a Christian preacher.
He's received a pardon from the legislature, but the Governor won't
sign it. The sequences involving the Death Row inmate, who goes through
a series of appeals trying to stay his execution, are a model of objectivity.
The film doesn't make excuses for these men's criminal actions. It
does raise troubling questions about the prison system, including the
idea of rehabilitation versus punishment, the inequality of sentencing
based on class, and the exploitation of prisoners for economic reasons
(the prison turns large profits while working the inmates in the field
at four cents an hour). You can believe that some people are just monsters,
and that crime is due to a sort of innate wickedness. That seems to
be the established way of thinking of our politicians. Or you can recognize
that crime is a part of a web of social realities, and can only be fully
understood in that context.
Some three-quarters of the inmates in Angola are black. To ignore the
social implications of this fact is to essentially attribute crime to
race, or as some euphemistically choose to call it, "culture." Hiding
our head in the sand has led to the U.S. having the highest percentage
of its residents incarcerated of any nation in the world. The Farm,
by just showing us the human faces behind the statistics, helps increase
the awareness we need if we are ever to improve our situation.
HENRY V (Kenneth Branagh, 1989).
Shakespeare's play about the 15th century English king's campaign against
the French receives an interesting treatment from Branagh, who succeeds
in making one of the best and most accessible Shakespeare films of recent
times. The Bard seems to have glorified the House of Lancaster as a
way to inspire patriotic feeling in his own day, but as usual, his complex
characterizations transcend the apparent simplicities of his politics.
Henry is a difficult character to admire, in a modern age where war
has been divested of its glory by most thinking people. Shakespeare
emphasizes the elements of ruthlessness needed in order for Henry to
be an effective ruler, while at the same highlighting the king's eloquence,
charm, and love of camaraderie. Branagh, playing the title role, wisely
lets the man be all these things at once, not downplaying the king's
brutal side, as one might be tempted to do.
The tone and production designs aims for a kind of gritty realism (within
limits), in contrast to the deliberate artifice of Olivier's 1944 version.
There's plenty of mud, and blood; the Battle of Agincourt is astonishingly
brutal - one of the most effective medieval battle scenes ever filmed.
There are many traps that Shakespeare film adaptors can fall into -
too noisy, too simplified, too much emoting, acting that fails to convey
the words with meaning. Branagh's Henry V avoids all of this
for the most part - his performance is vigorous and engaging; the supporting
players (Paul Scofield's French king is a standout) are fine; and most
importantly, one can understand what the actors are saying much of the
time. The direction falters a bit towards the end - a sequence after
the battle, in which the survivors sing a hymn, becomes too grandiose
- but overall the picture avoids the self-indulgence that mars Branagh's
later Shakespeare adaptations. What discomfort there is arises mainly
from the ambivalent nature of the play itself - the film is not afraid
of the source's more uncomfortable qualities, and I find that admirable.
©2003 Chris Dashiell
CineScene
