Black and white imagery, an extremely deliberate soundtrack defined mostly by narration, definite but very light plot, and artful shots of very banal places and things: 'Un homme qui dort is' 100% an art film. Those are two very off-putting words for any viewers who aren't already receptive to the type of picture this represents, and I can understand the reticence. For those ready to take in whatever comes their way, however, this is honestly kind of brilliant.
I'm not familiar with the novel that writer Georges Perec himself has adapted for this feature, but I can only assume it's a fine translation into a different medium - and I say without hesitation that its cinematic representation is wonderful. Perec and co-director Bernard Queysanne turn the most ordinary details of a flat or city into found art, while editors Andrée Davanture and Agnès Molinard demonstrate their skill with weirdly riveting sequencing that turns that same mundanity into jolting phantasmagoria. There's swell nuance in the countenance of Jacques Spiesser as the unnamed protagonist, the only person the camera meaningfully focuses on - and still more in the marvelous voicework of Ludmila Mikaël, narrating the very personal yet very universal journey of our "hero" with range and subtlety that's frankly mesmerizing. Why, she's almost more the "star" of this movie than Spiesser is, with a welcome fluidity of speech and channeled energy that makes early monotony all the more draining, the surprisingly dynamic climax invigorating and nigh thrilling - and the denouement, the calm after the storm, peaceful and restorative.
All this, in a picture that from start to finish is almost literally nothing more than the tracing of a person's inner reflections on himself, the world around him, and his place in it. 'Un homme qui dort' is both simple and complex, quiet and turbulent, blase and thoughtful as a meditation on depression, existential despair, detachment, and modern life. One need not have ever set foot in Paris, tasted Nescafe, or lived one moment discretely similar to the what the protagonist has to keenly feel and know every thought and feeling that Spiesser and Mikaël express. The experience of the film is both singular and universal - much like how the title will not find favor with all viewers, yet it's a production that is about, and made for, everyone. There is a magnificent poetry in the words Perec has given Mikaël to imbue with such vibrancy, and if the same is any less true of the imagery before us, it's only because visual art (especially of commonplace lower-case nouns) is more subjectively difficult to pair with lofty, esoteric language and descriptors. The excellent, pointed original score composed by Philippe Drogoz with Eugénie Kuffler - all but absent for a long stretch, before slowly but absolutely growing in import - helps to cement those more abstract notions with stimulating notes, but of course the fact remains that any movie-goer who isn't attuned to the particular style of film-making this represents are perhaps best served by seeking their amusement elsewhere.
When all is said and done, despite its broad representation of ourselves and the intent thereof, 'Un homme qui dort' is a selection for a niche audience. It's more meaningful and emotionally impactful than I could have possibly guessed when I sat to watch it, and therefore satisfying and rewarding - but viscerally thrilling entertainment this is not. Still, there's dazzling artistry on hand, and while this production distills examination of subject matter that has filled countless volumes over many centuries into a mere 77 minutes, it never, ever feels overfull, self-indulgent, or pretentious. The more I think on it after the last image has faded from the screen, ultimately I'm unsure how I can call 'Un homme qui dort' anything other than "masterful." It won't appeal to all, but if there's even a sliver of a chance it may pique one's interest, it's worth seeking out.
I'm not familiar with the novel that writer Georges Perec himself has adapted for this feature, but I can only assume it's a fine translation into a different medium - and I say without hesitation that its cinematic representation is wonderful. Perec and co-director Bernard Queysanne turn the most ordinary details of a flat or city into found art, while editors Andrée Davanture and Agnès Molinard demonstrate their skill with weirdly riveting sequencing that turns that same mundanity into jolting phantasmagoria. There's swell nuance in the countenance of Jacques Spiesser as the unnamed protagonist, the only person the camera meaningfully focuses on - and still more in the marvelous voicework of Ludmila Mikaël, narrating the very personal yet very universal journey of our "hero" with range and subtlety that's frankly mesmerizing. Why, she's almost more the "star" of this movie than Spiesser is, with a welcome fluidity of speech and channeled energy that makes early monotony all the more draining, the surprisingly dynamic climax invigorating and nigh thrilling - and the denouement, the calm after the storm, peaceful and restorative.
All this, in a picture that from start to finish is almost literally nothing more than the tracing of a person's inner reflections on himself, the world around him, and his place in it. 'Un homme qui dort' is both simple and complex, quiet and turbulent, blase and thoughtful as a meditation on depression, existential despair, detachment, and modern life. One need not have ever set foot in Paris, tasted Nescafe, or lived one moment discretely similar to the what the protagonist has to keenly feel and know every thought and feeling that Spiesser and Mikaël express. The experience of the film is both singular and universal - much like how the title will not find favor with all viewers, yet it's a production that is about, and made for, everyone. There is a magnificent poetry in the words Perec has given Mikaël to imbue with such vibrancy, and if the same is any less true of the imagery before us, it's only because visual art (especially of commonplace lower-case nouns) is more subjectively difficult to pair with lofty, esoteric language and descriptors. The excellent, pointed original score composed by Philippe Drogoz with Eugénie Kuffler - all but absent for a long stretch, before slowly but absolutely growing in import - helps to cement those more abstract notions with stimulating notes, but of course the fact remains that any movie-goer who isn't attuned to the particular style of film-making this represents are perhaps best served by seeking their amusement elsewhere.
When all is said and done, despite its broad representation of ourselves and the intent thereof, 'Un homme qui dort' is a selection for a niche audience. It's more meaningful and emotionally impactful than I could have possibly guessed when I sat to watch it, and therefore satisfying and rewarding - but viscerally thrilling entertainment this is not. Still, there's dazzling artistry on hand, and while this production distills examination of subject matter that has filled countless volumes over many centuries into a mere 77 minutes, it never, ever feels overfull, self-indulgent, or pretentious. The more I think on it after the last image has faded from the screen, ultimately I'm unsure how I can call 'Un homme qui dort' anything other than "masterful." It won't appeal to all, but if there's even a sliver of a chance it may pique one's interest, it's worth seeking out.