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Alphaville: Une étrange aventure de Lemmy Caution (1965)
New Wave meets Sci-Fi
In Alphaville, French New Wave 'auteur' Jean-Luc Godard visits a bleak, dreary totalitarian world with journalist Lemmy Caution. Lemmy has arrived from the Outlands, and he must first register with an agency as a temporary visitor. Alphaville resembles any city in the Soviet bloc except that it is run by an AI-equipped supercomputer. This unit—gently termed Alpha 60—evokes for me sci-fi classic "2001: A Space Odyssey." It can talk, communicate, and seemingly understand the thought processes of its subjects.
In the first scene, women in a hotel lobby bore their eyes into Lemmy like robots. One escort who accompanies Lemmy to his room proceeds to disrobe and offer herself to him. He asks, "Are you drugged?" She replies, "It's normal, sir." The collective hallucination of Alphaville citizens is a byproduct of Alpha 60's clenched fist approach to governing. He computes the actions and reactions of Alphaville's citizens. His voice—one of the better aspects of the film, if not a bit chilling at first—is that of Big Brother: harsh, grating computer-speak intonation. The distortion in his voice mirrors the distorted world that Lemmy has suddenly found himself in. What is Alpha 60? We have occasional snippets of electric substations in the middle of nowhere. Through these 1.6 billion nerve centers that function as Alpha 60's brain, Alpha 60 issues directives and maintains control (without forgetting the anti-industrialist tendencies of Godard).
The plot revolves around interactions between Natacha von Braun and Lemmy. Across the city, "les grandes fetes" (Grand Festivals) are happening. After meeting in the hotel, Lemmy, it seems, wants to have an affair with Natacha. After Natacha admits she doesn't have the concept of love ("In love, what's that?"), the two take a taxi. For the first time, we see a New Wave technique—man and woman have an existential conversation about love while driving through big, dark city. She is worse than frigid: she doesn't have a concept of sex or intimacy. We learn that she was raised her whole life in this dystopia, though her father lived in a time before Alpha 60. This film is about imagination. Godard has dreamed up a totalitarian world in which characters lack imagination. A world devoid of actors or novelists. Godard then guides us to imagine what would happen when their fragile world falls apart.
Over the course of their adventures, Lemmy becomes obsessed by the idea of destroying Alpha 60. Alpha 60 interrogates Lemmy, trying to understand his motives. What does Lemmy love? Gold and women. Throughout the terse, choppy dialogue, we see neon tubes that spell out e = mc^2. Science has become the religion in Alphaville.
The film's strengths include the references of Soviet-era architecture and particular flavor of communism. One scene that is disgusting yet beautiful depicts an execution set in an Olympic-sized swimming pool. Men are lined up against one wall, guilty for acting in an "illogical" fashion. One by one, they are called to stand at the edge of the diving board. They issue final, terse declarations before being shot by a firing squad. As the victims sink to the bottom of a pool, women dive in one after the other, swim to the corpse, and stab it with their knives. They then return to their diving boards and restart, all with blank faces.
This film is designed to shock us and yet inspire us at the same time. We learn to resent the heavy handed control and absolute logic of Alpha 60, and we cheer for Natacha at the end when she breaks free of Alpha 60's control as all other beings malfunction, wander aimlessly, and claw at the wall. Godard is at his peak as a creative 'auteur' here, and his debut in the dystopia-film genre isn't to go unnoticed. While not a pure New Wave film in the traditional sense, this film is experimental without seeming too forced.
Le mépris (1963)
Flat and uninspired
Jean-Luc Godard's ambitious take on an earlier film by Roger Vadim called "And God Created Woman" fails completely and unmercifully. If you are expecting "Breathless" or "Vivre Sa Vie," look elsewhere. Godard is unapologetic, lengthy, and spiritless in his sell-out production of a failed relationship.
The plot isn't a complete flop. A love triangle emerges when American producer Jerry Prokosch (Jack Palance) and French writer Paul Javal (Michel Piccoli) collaborate on a film by famed German director of the silent film era Fritz Lang (played by himself). This "liaison dangereuse" is touched off by Camille, the wife of Paul, who sees in Jerry everything that Paul lacks (manliness). But Camille, we learn, has Paul on the end of a string. Piccoli is almost comical in his portrayal of the reflective intellectual who lives inside the walls of his head. Camille and Paul fight: we see them in their bohemian pad (complete with red sofas and blue chairs). They fight about trivial, yet domestic matters that signify their relationship: shallow and destructive—for both parties.
Are we supposed to sympathize with Paul? I don't. Godard made this film in part as an self-explanation to his wife (concerns about his failure to communicate effectively aside), so one imagines that Paul is misunderstood and just. But he isn't. He is far too interested in the ideal (feminine, artistic, etc.) than his failure to love his wife. Is Godard admitting his shortcomings on screen for us to scrutinize? In any event, Godard sides with Camille.
Another sticking point in this film is the role of New Wave starlet and sex icon Brigitte Bardot (Camille). On screen, she is so flat you can practically use her as wallpaper. Apart from beaming at the screen and parading her butt (you don't have to wait too long to see her in the nude). Rumor has it that Godard delivered the first cut of the film to the producers, who were stunned that he could make a film with Bardot and not disrobe her. Never one to refuse those who pay his checks, Godard dutifully added certain scenes. (Ironically, Fritz fights with Jerry about making a film that's true to his own artistic vision.) With Bardot, we are reminded of a line in the film: God's didn't create humans; humans created Gods. Bardot, it seems, is the Odysseys' Penelope and Paul and Jerry must win her love.
The film is shot in Technicolor, which adds life and youthfulness to Godard's oeuvre. The film's lush landscapes and full-palette use of colors is nothing short of marvelous. If you watch this film, pay attention to the yellowness of the Turkish bath robes or the blueness of the Mediterranean. Also watch for Camille diving into the sea and swimming away while Paul drifts off leaning against a cliff wall. But the sound is unforgivable, especially comparing the efficient use of sound by Hitchcock and others and Godard's access to an ample budget. In one scene in which the trio are in a music hall, noise from the dancers on stage chops the dialogue up. It was as if Godard wanted to get the best of both worlds: splice dialogue and music to prevent one from dominating the other. The result is utter garbage that serves to draw us out of the scene and make us wonder if something's wrong with the sound system. The scene on stage as background noise would've been more appropriate, and been a non-event rather than an experiment.
Ultimately, Camille embraces Jerry and they kiss in Capri. Unlike Francois Truffaut's "Jules and Jim," in which a kiss seen by a spouse was almost a non-event, theirs marks the end of Paul and Camille. Still, it has, as one film critic said of a Paul Verhoeven film, "all the sexuality of a dead battery." Like Ulysses' voyage, this film is long and seemingly endless, with occasional hurrahs and some real dead spells. The film succeeds on one level—Godard proves he isn't a one-trick pony and can make a big budget film. But for those expecting the sentimentality and even the depth of other New Wave flicks, you'll be disappointed here. Perhaps for those who have experienced a marriage come unraveled, this film will pack a punch and a clear message.
Was Martin Scorsese right when he wrote that "Contempt" was "cinematically sublime"? Probably not. Nor is this film, as critic Colin McCabe in "Sight and Sound" announced, "the greatest work of art produced in post-war Europe." But for New Wave buffs and Godard fans, you should go through the motions and feign interest in the bored bohemian existence of Camille, Paul, and Jerry. I couldn't.
Cléo de 5 à 7 (1962)
Varda's Chef d'oeuvre
Cleo de 5 a 7
A popular trend in films is discreetly shadowing the lives of people. In this film from Rive Gauche director Agnes Varda, we are given an amuse-bouche of the life of Cleo.
Cleo is a singer who is successful enough to live in a cavernous Parisian apartment with a doting housekeeper. But after she visits a fortune teller who dispenses shocking news, Cleo's balance is thrown off. She is an emotional wreck. Not a white fedora or a visit from her lover can erase her cloud of doom. The film follows Cleo in real-time from 5 pm to 7 pm (not exactly: the film runs a little over 90 min). By never separating us from Cleo, we are forced to witness her moments of triumph and brief moments of reprieve. In one scene, she is singing in her apartment and the camera pans until we see only her face and a black background. We are suspended in her life as she occupies the whole screen and holds our undivided attention. Her tears, combined with the orchestration, have a powerful effect. We are supposed to sympathize with her at the end, and we do.
The pacing, lighting, and acting are first-rate. The camera deserves a nod for best supporting actor by showing us sympathetic or harsh shots of Cleo. Varda—born in Belgium and considered an icon of the Nouvelle Vague cinematic movement—is superb in the way she plays with the idea of fate and chance. Cleo's fate is certain and macabre. She thinks her fate is inevitable, and acts miserable. Further, a chance encounter with a soldier (Antoine) who is going off to fight in the Algerian War (unabashed political commentary on Varda's part) in which he will most certainly die, causes Cleo to realize at last the importance of nature, beauty, spontaneity, love, and life. After two hours of moping around with the soldier, Cleo goes to the hospital for her regularly scheduled appointment. Unmoved by the news that her doctor is away, she strolls the grounds of the hospital when her doctor pulls up to her in his convertible. She learns that her cancer is benign from his off-hand comment delivered by her doctor. Her worst fear didn't materialize after all.
Cleo from 5 to 7 is undeniably voyeuristic. We are privy to the essence of a human being. But this realistic technique is not journalistic or precious, which are potential pitfalls. The ambiguity of death—introduced with a Tarot card (in Technicolor no less) and alluded to throughout—is a prime storytelling technique. Varda also conveys Cleo's character being altered by the street performers as she strolls the streets of Paris (a city which can evoke emotions, tone, and energy as well as any on-screen character). But while we are watching Cleo's life in particular, something more universal and personal emerges: our own hopes, experiences, and fears projected onto this woman.
The storyline isn't the central focus of the film, and never causes more than a passing interest in the viewer. But Cleo's melancholy and almost martyrdom is rather appealing. Some film techniques (such as the switch from color to b/w after the pivotal opening scene) and the use of a hand-held quick camera are fresh and innovative. The film is sweet without being saccharine, optimistic without sounding false, and young without being naïve, airy without being blithe.
Jules et Jim (1962)
Nostalgia for silent films abounds, but still worth a watch
Jules and Jim Although lumped in with the New Wave group of films ("The 400 Blows," "Breathless," et al) of the early 1960s, "Jules and Jim" shares few of their characteristics. François Truffaut—considered the "grandfather" of the French cinema movement la nouvelle vague—once again looks to his childhood. But the result is less nostalgic and much more lyrical and moody than "400 Blows," about a naughty Parisian school boy and the system that represses his childish impulses.
The film is set in bohemian France just before the breakout of the Great War. Two men meet by accident, and become best friends. As the title of the movie suggests, Jules (a sandy-haired German) and Jim (a dark-haired Frenchman) are inseparable: they box each other à la française and go to cramped corner cafés the likes of which are sought-after in Paris. For students of French literature, the plot resembles the story of Pierre et Jean, the two brothers of a petite bourgeoise family who get into trouble when a woman enters their lives. Enter Catherine (once again, by accident). She runs into the two as they walk down a street late one night. Jules becomes infatuated with her almost at once. He loves in particular her calm visage (which reminds him of an ancient stone sculpture he found on an island excursion with Jim after seeing a slideshow).
Catherine, it turns out, is more of an adventurous bohemian than Jules or Jim. In one lovely scene, the trio arrive at the end of an overpass. Catherine challenges them to a race dressed as a boy, and takes off before Jim has given the commands. The course à pied evokes not so much frivolity, but a certain carefree, bohemian demeanor that soon thereafter went into hibernation in capitals across Europe. The expansive camera work does not seem cramped despite the claustrophobic space, and demonstrates the skill, even ingenuity, of New Wave directors such as Truffaut. But Catherine tires of Paris, and desires to take an overnight trip to Provence.
To achieve historic authenticity (whatever that may be), Truffaut employed stock footage of Paris from that period. Although grainy (though much cleaned up and improved by the Criterion remastering), the clips do almost serve as sketches of inspiration for Truffaut. Moreover, one can almost perceive Truffaut shaking his head over the Dark Ages of film-making. But they do provide context (at the expense of seeming somewhat out of place and jarring).
Other elements work more cohesively. The sound—per the New Wave standard of excellence—is first-rate. The fanfare is sweeping and doesn't upstage either the acting or camera work.
But Catherine is the more complicated and troubled of the characters. One night out, reminiscent of their first meeting, Jules goes off and quotes an uncouth Baudelaire verse, which upsets Catherine. Distraught and hopeless, she tosses herself into the Seine. Her fedora floats away, but Jules and Jim manage to pull her from the water. Death is a constant specter in this film, and her attempt (if not attention-getting act) marks an evolution in the mood of the film.
Jules and Jim spend much of the time in the film together, but when the First World War breaks out, they become soldiers in opposing armies. Jules writes a letter to Catherine (who has since become his wife) that he worries constantly that he will "kill his friend Jim." This sentiment only underscores the psychological trauma of the "lost generation." He writes more letters home. Eventually, Jules is positioned on the Eastern Front, where the fighting is worse and the weather colder, but he finds new hope in knowing that he won't inadvertently shoot Jim. Truffaut dabbles in the stock footage again here. This time, it is excellent—and serves a useful purpose: i.e., keeping the film budget low by eliminating battle scenes. The shots are gritty, and more importantly non-fictive.
The war ends, and both Jules and Jim count themselves among the survivors. Jules survived the war, but he isn't the same. He has relocated the family to the bucolic foothills of Austria. No longer youthful and energetic, he has discovered a new passion: tending his garden. When Jim visits, the two seem older, more rooted. Catherine is in the inscrutable words of Jim "less grasshopper, more ant." She makes less music, and she works more to keep the household intact and functioning. Jules and Catherine have had a baby, a stark change from their pre-war days. Their daughter is a larger theme: she is joy and hope for the future, but also a tie-down, who is conspicuously absent in the last act.
Though it is called Jules and Jim, the film is really about the whims and emotional states of its heroine Catherine. Catherine feels isolated living in Germany. She longs for a different life—her former one in France. She is not entirely domesticated, but she has clearly lost some of her youthful air. She is married to Jules, but toward the end she professes her love for Jim. This ménange à trois is a central element of the film. Only when the three are united does some sort harmony and balance dominate. But Catherine is the pivot of this trio, and its soul.
My only gripe with the film is its length. It could be ten, maybe fifteen minutes slimmer. But when a gifted director like Truffaut is telling the story, perhaps too long is never enough.
À bout de souffle (1960)
Breathless, but not exasperated
This classic from the New Wave has aged like a subtle Bordeaux—perhaps a bit brackish at times, but still potent and sublime. It is memorable but not for everyone's taste. A joyride in the country turns into a getaway when Michel, the antihero gangster, turns his gun loose on a cop after a traffic violation. We don't have enough time to question his motives because in the next breath we are in Paris. We see Paris from the point of view of a passenger whose face is pressed against the car's window. In Paris, he finds his former lover (Patricia) selling New York Herald Tribune newspapers on the Champs-Elysees.
We sense that Michel knows his days are numbered. He has killed a cop in cold blood, and all of Paris wants him caught. His nonchalance is gripping yet frustrating. The plot (as in other New Wave films) is forgettable. Michel's character is part Humphrey Bogart (a poster of whom Michel stares at in Breathless), part nouveau roman antihero. He's the bad guy we're supposed to like.
Michel's character is the spine of this film. He lacks the sort of remorse and softness that characterize movie heroes. That's the point. He is insistent in making love to Patricia. A cigarette is never far from his lip. He apes other people's facial expressions. Those who argue that his character is bad are falling prey to the sort of gut reactions that Godard explores and rejects. Godard introduces a then-revolutionary technique in Breathless: the jump-cut. This method breaks up the action and gives the film an energetic, fresher feel. Godard is a master at playing with the length of each cut, restricting what we can see and leaving the rest ambiguous.
The film feels young like the director himself and the characters. Patricia sleeps with a teddy bear and has a tom-boy haircut. Michel is fearless and carefree, like many adolescents. This film is Godard's first feature film (he made at the age of thirty, after a Swiss documentary).
The film is also important for its references to American films and cinematography. Godard loved American cinema, and was influenced by Hollywood directors. The references to the Cahiers du Cinema (a film critique magazine) and other films are a noble homage to his influences.
Watch this film. It isn't long (about 87 minutes). Criterion Collection's translation is intended for North American audiences, but its re-mastering is top-notch. The film's score is marvelous. It's a classic, but not a tedious one.
Et Dieu... créa la femme (1956)
Let Your Guard Down
Set in the gorgeous seaside town of St. Tropez, French New Wave director Roger Vadim's retelling of the Garden of Eden bears watching (and rewatching). Monsieur Carradine (a GermanCurd Jürgens) is an older gentleman who flirts with Juliette (the beautiful Brigitte Bardot, a French Audrey Hepburn). His goal: to build a casino. Hers?well, we're not quite sure. To live a carefree life. Here comes the heart of the filmwhat is her motive? What makes her happiest? Is it pursuing or being pursued? How innocent is Julietteand how deeply can we look into her character? Juliette is a naïve but driven. She must be aware of her stunning beauty. She bikes around town barefoot, and holds a steady but boring job as a bookseller. Eighteen, she lives with a foster family on the condition that she holds down her job and behaves. A spontaneous, young girl, Juliette has trouble sitting down or doing anything steadily. But she takes care of a rabbit (thoughtfully named Socrates). She decides to release Socrates into nature, but when he scampers off she has a change of heart and runs right after him. While she moves from one man to another in the space of an hour, she resents overhearing Antoine's (Christian Marquand's) flippant one-night-stand remark. Yet Juliettewho in no ambiguity represents the forbidden fruit, perhaps temptation itselfends up hitched with Antoine's brother, Michel (Jean-Louis Trintignant). But when Bardot takes off on a sailboat and the engine catches fire (symbolizing Bardot's nascent marriage going up in smoke), Antoine rescues and drags Bardot ashore. They make love on the beach (off-screen, of course). But is Bardot sheepishly immature or an adulteress? The crux of the plot is that Carradine wants to build a casino. He has acquired all the land except for a property on the water. Enter the Tardieu clan. The mother is a stubborn widow who wants to keep the family businessshipbuildingintact. Antoine is a pragmatist, and thinks now is the time to cash in. And the other two brothersChristian, the younger; Michel, the middleare indifferent. But the plot is thin. The real attraction here is the hypnotic presence of Bardot.
It is a mystery how this film passed the French censors in 1956. While mild by today's standards, the film does tastefully leave most of Bardot's bits up to the imagination. But audiences' reaction? Think Elvis' pelvis.
So Bardot is a thrill to watch on screen. A must-watch scene towards the end (be prepared: the film drags on) is with Juliette, intoxicated, dancing uncontrollably to an Afro-Cuban big band in the basement of a local watering hole. Wild, dynamic camera work. This film is also superb just for the breathtaking, unspoiled landscape scenes of the Cote d'Azur.
If the film is a retelling of the Garden of Eden, then we are left to assume man has come from Bardot's rib. In fact, all of the energy and spirit of
And God Created Woman radiates from her youthful vibrancy. The writers of the Cahiers du Cinéma were "knocked out" by it, and the film's dazzling quality is not lost over time. A must watch for New Wave enthusiasts or those looking for an early 400 Blows inspiration.
Les quatre cents coups (1959)
A mesmerizing début for Truffaut
Voilàthe New Wave has reached the shore. At times dazzling and tragic, Francois Truffaut's bleak look at French society and juvenile delinquents is markedly different than other films of the era. While some directors were looking outward at America or making edgy films, Truffaut explores the interior life of Antoine Doinel. Antoine Doinelplayed by Jean-Pierre Léaud, who reprises this role in later Truffaut filmsis a misbehaving boy. At school, he is caught passing a lewd photo of a woman. He is without remorse, playing tricks behind the teacher's class (played by Guy Decomble from Melville's "Bob le Flambeur"). He is the class clown in a rigid school where any malfeasance is not tolerated. The schoolteacher pauses his lesson and says, "Poor France, what a future!" When he skips school one day with co-conspirator and sidekick René, he sees his mother kissing a man. This man is not her husband. She sees him, he definitely sees her, and the two scurry away. A jazzy score quickens the melancholy pace of the film, matching the mood and pulse of Paris quite nicely. It's not a stretch to assign this film social critique status. At two points in the film, teachers lead children on forced exercise walks on the streets. In pairs of two, the children break apart from the group unbeknownst to the teacher until none remain. Truffauta rebel who created Doinel as a two parts himself one part his friendsis poking fun at the establishment. The nation's futureits childrenare rebelling against the rigidity and discipline of their elders, the teachers. It's not loud, it's not overt, but it is happening steadily. This tension between the older generation and the younger generation defined the New Wave directors and drives this film. Understandably, many critics think this film champions cause célèbre of sortsthe severity with which juvenile delinquents are treated. I tend to agree. Doinel is sent away without so much as a fair seat at the table. He is mixed in with petty thieves and worse. The plot of the film is irrelevant. Doinel cannot sit still because he yearns for adventure and cheap thrillsarcade, movies, 'Gravitron' rideand his truant behavior catches up with him. Eventually, he is shipped away to a reform school where he is to straighten up. Doinel is the soul of the film. He is not a bad boy. He is a real boy. Marcel Moussy and Truffaut wanted to paint a more realistic, complex portrait of a boy (with a mind, a heart, and often conflicting emotions), and they have succeeded brilliantly. He knows right from wrong. He just can't be bothered. He sets the table for dinner, then steals money. He gets a thrill out of breaking the rules. But he has a consciencehe can't get the professor's harsh voice out of his head. When Doinel plays hooky, he overhears another woman talking at the bakery about an unwanted child. Doinel pauses to listen, then winces. In some ways, Doinel is the product of his parents. His mother is strict, serious, unwavering. But his fatherwith whom we emphasizeis funny, loose, and proud of Doinel. He knows Doinel stole his Michelin guide, but he would rather hope for the best than outright accuse him. Truffaut has an eye for domesticities and quotidian life. The relationship between his mother and father is similarly strained. Their marriage is so familiar, they are both weary of it. When disputes arise, we see Doinel wrapped in his sleeping blanket on his mattress, listening. The plot quickens when Doinel admits to a shrink that his mother wanted an abortion, and it was his grandmother who convinced her otherwise. The catch: he made up that last bit, and ad-libbed the whole interview. This powerful scenein which Doinel is speaking actually to Truffaut because the actress wasn't availablehas outlived 400 Blows. He fidgets, he shrugs, he uhhsLéaud *is* Doinel. Chilling. Like other films of this era, all shots are taken at real locations. Henri Decea, the cinematographer who is as much of a staple of the New Wave as Truffaut and Godard, provides a revealing capture of a child without seeming condescending, too close, or too far. We are invited into Doinel's world like a silent co-conspirator, a witness to his every act, capture, and punishment. This film is at once marvelous and poignant. Even if you elect not to see the movie (a mistake), you must catch the last scene on YouTube. Doinel has escaped the confines of his reform school, and runs to the sea. The final shot of Doinel is "as famous as the Odessa steps in Battleship Potempkin, or the snow globe from Citizen Kane" according to critic Richard Neupart. A must-see for any film major, buff, or appreciator. If you liked this film, you should consider Truffaut's earlier work Les mistons.
Bob le flambeur (1956)
Precursor to Casino Royale, et al
The setting is Pigalle, the red light district of Paris. We are in nostalgic prewar France, where automobiles jam the streets and life is bursting. Sailors pick up girls for a "promenade sur le moto." Montmartre, the Greenwich Village of Paris, is heaven. It is also hell.
And home to our hero, Bob. Bob is a Mafioso who goes from one watering hole to another playing games of chance. He is nocturnal: he stays up all night and returns at dawn, only sleeping when the sun has risen. Sometimes he wins, sometimes he loses, but he always carries himself with a certain swagger. We learn that he robbed the Rimbaud bank twenty years ago, a bankrolling heist. But Bob is not like Al Capone. Bob is of the old sort of gangster, the debonair romantic who wears a tux and is retired from robbing banks by cunning and not by force. Bob is friends with the police not as a snitch, but as a life saver (he pushed the inspector, played by Guy Decomble, out of a bullet's path). He says, "The mob isn't what it used to be. They're all swine."
This classic"Bob the High Roller" in Englishis a film noir look at gangster life in prewar France. Bob is Robert Montagné, played by the wonderful Roger Duchesne, a suave night owl who plays cards and robs banks. But Bob is not a typical gangster, and this film is not a typical cops-contre-robbers shoot 'em up film. On the contrary, Duchesne is a sultry, world-weary type. More to the point, he earns our sympathy. Rarely do characters on the wrong side of the law evoke such affection. He respects women. At one point, he lets Anne, a recently evicted woman, stay at his flat. Women give Bob humanity. He doesn't like pimps, and stops females from becoming lowly street crawlers. He has a sense of humor, too. When asked his profession, Bob replies with a smirk that he works at the Ministry of Agriculture, in the Equestrian Section. Bob loves horses.
Bob, recently broke after losing his last 200 francs at the racetrack learns that a vault in a casino at Deauville, a seaside town in Normandy, contains 800 million francs. He assembles the team to crack the safe and escape without firing a shot. Bob plans out the heist in a junkyard with chalk lines to mark out the walls and safe location. In an amusing twist, Melville plays with reality by shooting a scene "what Bob imagined"in which the casino is held up, only it is empty except for Bob's crew.
Score & set. One outstanding aspect of this film (apart from the superb writing, directing, lighting, etc..) is the setting. Every setting in "Flambeur" is shot on-site. We see the stone facades of apartment buildings, the natural beauty of Normandy, and the seedy nightlife of Paris. This technique allows for a more realistic, personal glimpse into French life. We see real people in real places doing real things. We are submerged in Bob's world like nothing else. Another strong trait of the film is its score. Eddie Barclay and Jo Boyer did a fantastic job setting the mood of scenes with soft, reflective music or trumpet-blaring adrenaline pieces.
Jean-Pierre Melville is not a conventional film noir auteur like fellow Frenchmen Henri-Georges Clouzot or Jacques Becker. Untrained, young (he was 39 when the "Flambeur" was released), and minimalist, Melville tried to bring a big movie feel to small-scale productions. "Le Flambeur" was shot and edited with a budget of ten and a half times less than the average film at that time. This small budget stands as a stark contrast to the high budget look and feel we find in his film. It is truly a gem, and worth watching for any film buff or fan of the "Oceans" series with Clooney, et al. According to Roger Ebert, it is the first film of the French New Wave. In part, he inspired the New Wavers of the 60s with his real-life settings, low budget, and independent mise-en-scène. Melville's classic has withstood the test of time, particularly since bad guys today almost never have any redeeming traits.
Hiroshima mon amour (1959)
An Under-appreciated Masterpiece
Hiroshima Mon amour
"Why deny the obvious necessity of remembering," asks Emmanuelle Riva who plays the estranged actress in Alain Resnais' grave look at human relationships. She is talking about her own experience as a Frenchwoman involved romantically with a German officer during the war. Her humiliating punishment by her fellow countrymen after France was liberated drove her mad. Now, fourteen years later, she is in Hiroshima, Japan, an actress in a film about peace after the A-bomb. But her question is perhaps a personal acknowledgment of the difficulty coming to terms with the past, and understanding a post-Hiroshima world.
Marguerite Duras has crafted a beautiful screenplay that shatters linear time and reality. Like William Faulkner's The Sound and the Fury, Hiroshima progresses as a series of periodic flashbacks—punctuation for the short, choppy sentences of the dialogue between Riva and Eiji Okada. He is Japanese. His one-night-stand with Riva's character lingers until the following night. The two are opposites: she is the Westerner, drawn to the grief of Hiroshima that also repels her. He is the "foreigner" (to non-Japanese audiences, anyway), seduced by her mysterious past and beauty.
Resnais has an eye for human behavior, but also a respect for the world they inhabit. Hiroshima, whose total destruction is seen in some shots taken from documentaries, is eerily devoid of humans. It is a landscape reduced to ashes. Fourteen years later, the streets are long and empty; the museums, well-lit but vacant. In fact, Resnais does a particularly artful job of juxtaposing the in-your-face lovemaking scenes with gritty shots of the barren city. His cameras are always close, except when they are far away. Distance is a metaphor not only for love but also for time itself. In the present, the two lovers lie enmeshed in bed at the New Hiroshima Hotel. In Nevers, where Riva had the affair with the German soldier, we see sweeping shots of a girl riding her bike on a road and running through a meadow—all from afar. It seems that time, as it passes, shrinks away into oblivion (l'oublie ) and risks being forgotten altogether.
This is a film about love, not war. The instruments of war are viewed as awesome in might, but this thought is not the central theme of the film. In one scene, a parade of children carry signs decrying the nuclear arsenal. Scientific intelligence, we are told after the third sign written in French (owing to the Hiroshima's existence as a French-Japanese collaboration) that scientific intelligence is one-hundred times political intelligence. Though originally conceived as a one-hour documentary, Resnais in his own words said he used the Atomic bomb as a background element rather than the focus of Hiroshima. Riva's relationship, however, bears some of the same tendencies as the bomb itself. After the thrilling climax of the previous night, the two survivors are left to sort out the remaining bits and pieces. Like the fallout from the nuclear blast around them, the two must come to terms with their own pasts and agree on how to proceed. But while Riva tells her story of her folly with the German officer and subsequent public shaving of her head by Resistance fighters and her imprisonment in her cellar following Liberation, little of Eiji's character is revealed. Riva is recalcitrant when talking to Eiji, her eyes glaze over and she speaks to Eiji as if he were the officer. Escaped from her former life, she realizes she is doomed to repeat it until she comes to terms with it. They are both married, and this extramarital affair seems all-too-common for Riva's character, but something novel for Eiji's. He has a wife and two children, and perhaps does not normally condone such behavior. Maybe this rare foray explains his mildly obsessive feelings for Riva, whom he cannot bear to leave.
How can we deal with the horrors of the past? In Hiroshima's case, it is by rebuilding and moving on. Life must continue. But for her, the unspeakable horror and suffering of the fallout from the bomb that she insists on having seen defies reasonable reaction. She can only cry, replaying the images in her head. We are left to conclude—like her—that the problems of the war are so vast, so heavy, that we must forget them or suffocate. Although she was not a witness, she insists that she saw the aftermath. Vision is an element of Resnais' lyrical cinematography: Riva loses her vision after her shaving, her eyes open but blank and soulless. To lose vision, one can only conclude, is to be devoid of love and humanness. Are we, at least in part, products of our environments? The two characters wake up in the New Hiroshima Hotel, a symbol of a rebuilt but not entirely healed city. Like citizens of the world, they must—metaphysically, internally—grapple with the awesome power of the Atomic bomb and the consequences of the Atomic age. No less importantly, they must come to terms with their past. At the end, she cannot help but visually flashback to Nevers. She is torn between the past and the present, between her first lover and current lover, her childhood and adulthood. Walking down a street lit by neon lights from shops and advertisements and pursued by Eiji, Riva's character is simultaneously repelled from and fascinated by this new world. Riva insists that she will stay with him, but then flirts with another man in a bar. And so the cycle begins again. The film the studios wanted and the film they got were starkly different. Resnais was hired to shoot an hour-long documentary, and the result is Hiroshima, an allegorical story that does not address the A-bomb head-on but rather discreetly. This ambiguity is perhaps more suitable—and certainly more artistic—by using story to convey horror and revulsion, love to express terror. Winner of the International Critics Award and the Film Writer's Award at the 1959 Cannes Film Festival.