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.

United Passions: FIFA’s Self-Financed Creation Myth

Last year’s Cannes Film Festival was rough for Tim Roth. First Grace of Monaco was roundly booed when it opened the festival and then FIFA’s self-funded film was even more harshly received. The timing for what has been universally described as a “propaganda film” continues to be so awkwardly bad, you have to wonder if a higher power is out to sabotage it. Mere days after fourteen high-ranking FIFA officials were indicted, Frédéric Auburtin’s United Passions (trailer here) opens this Friday in New York.

It all started innocently enough. A group of European football association presidents joined forces, in hopes of codifying standardized rules for international matches. Much to their regret, the mean old English initially refused to join out of elitist snobbery, or so Auburtin suggests. At least for a few years, it was run without controversy by first president Robert Guérin and general secretary Carl Hirschmann, but the fast and loose dealings commenced with the election of Jules Rimet. Uruguay had pledged to spend liberally on the inaugural World Cup, and ever so conveniently the member associations voted accordingly.

To an extent, United Passions (a title that sounds like it was the ill-conceived product of a marketing brainstorming session) throws long time FIFA president João Havelange under the bus. He is constantly apologizing to his long suffering general secretary Sepp Blatter for mistakes that were made and the mysterious emptiness of FIFA’s coffers, but the film never explains what’s, why’s, or how’s. Instead, the altruistic Blatter simply cuts a personal check to cover FIFA’s payroll.

There is a certain degree of irony whenever Russia’s favorite son, Gérard Depardieu appears in a sports film, but that is least of Passions’ problems. In fact, he is perfectly presentable as the reportedly not so athletic Rimet. On the other hand, Sam Neill would probably prefer to forget the baffling, vaguely South African accent he uncorks for the Brazilian Havelange. Looking visibly embarrassed, poor Tim Roth tries to call as little attention to himself as possible as Blatter, the unassuming crusader against corruption. At one point, St. Sepp (who Havelange praises for “being good at finding money”) stands accused of his predecessor’s misdeeds, but defends himself with what must be the dullest, drabbest climatic speech in the history of cinema. It doesn’t matter, the fix was in.

Passions commits enormous sins of omission, but its worst oversight is the lack of dramatic development. We see little more than vignettes illustrating “great” moments in FIFA history, interspersed with World Cup montages and hackneyed scenes of a pick-up game in some racially balanced third world slum designed to clumsily illustrate the game’s unifying global significance. However, there is not a lot in terms of character or plot for viewers to sink their teeth into. Instead, we hear Blatter identify a problem, which he then presumably solves since we hear nothing about it four years later.

As if the weak narrative and conspicuous white-washing of FIFA’s corruption were not bad enough, the film displays an outrageous bias against the English, time and again featuring British characters making ridiculously racist statements. This simply is not a film that deserves to be taken seriously on any level. However, it is precisely the big screen treatment Blatter and FIFA deserve. Hopefully, they are happy with it, since they paid for it. 

Indeed, this is truly a Blatter production. It is a staggeringly arrogant, insular, and tone-deaf work that assumes the rest of the world is stupid. Compared to Passions, See You in Montevideo and Montevideo—Taste of a Dream, the unapologetically sentimental, patriotic, and generally pleasant Serbian films about the first Yugoslavian World Cup teams are like the best of Rocky, Bull Durham, and Chariots of Fire all rolled together. Not recommended, United Passions opens this Friday (6/5) in New York, at the Cinema Village.

Viktor: Depardieu: Art Thief, Action Hero, Friend of Putin

Perhaps for his next action picture, Gérard Depardieu could team up with fellow friend-of-Putin Steven Seagal to fight for lies, injustice, and the Neo-Soviet way. Best of all, he would not pay any French taxes on his earnings. Another strange chapter in the Depardieu saga opens with Philippe Martinez’s bizarrely watchable Russian payback thriller, Viktor (trailer here), which opens tomorrow in New York.

After doing a seven year stretch in his native France, expatriate art thief Viktor Lambert has returned to Russian to get to the bottom of his son Jeremy’s murder. Plutova, a hot Russian copper, immediately puts him on notice not to try any gangster stuff. She also requests his “assistance” tracking down a still missing masterwork heisted from the modern art museum. Of course, Lambert has different ideas.

With the help of his old art thief-choreographer crony Souliman, Lambert figures out his son was killed by an elite gang of gem smugglers, in about fifteen minutes of highly motivated asking-around. However, before he can go on the offensive, Lambert will need a place to stash his son’s pregnant girlfriend. Fortunately, his old flame Alexandra Ivanov has a country home and a couple of loyal retainers to spare. There will also be a day trip to Chechnya, where Jeremy Lambert is inexplicably buried.

Granted, Martinez rather forthrightly presents the gangsterism running rampant in Putin’s Russia, but watching Depardieu stomp through the streets of Moscow just makes the head spin. Wisely, most of his action scenes have him hunkered down behind the wheel of a speeding car or trading gun shots from a fixed cover position. At least we cannot hear him audibly wheeze, like in Chabrol’s Inspector Bellamy.

Regardless, nobody should ever doubt Elizabeth Hurley’s acting chops ever again, because as the sultry Ivanov, she never busts up laughing during her romantic afterglow scenes with Depardieu. In fact, she brings some spark and presence to the proceedings. Likewise, Eli Danker’s Souliman is hardly shy when it comes to fretfully chewing the scenery and Evgeniya Akhremenko is appealingly cool and severe as Plutova. Unfortunately, the villains are a rather dull, forgettable lot.

Technically, Viktor is perfectly presentable, sporting a suitably noir sheen thanks to cinematographer Jean-François Hensgens (whose credits include the super-charged District 13: Ultimatum). Still, it is awfully hard to get one’s head around Depardieu, the action hero, in Chechnya. Recommended for members of the U.S.-Putin Friendship Society, Viktor opens tomorrow (10/24) in New York at the Cinema Village.

On the Job, En Français: 36th Precinct

It’s a case of bad cop-really darn bad cop. That might sound hard on the criminals, but these Parisian policemen are more concerned with doing unto each other in former copper turned actor-director Olivier Marchal’s hard-boiled and hard-bitten 36th Precinct, now available on DVD and Blue-Ray from Palisades Tartan.

There is a crew taking down armored cars in Paris. There are good at what they do and frequently lethal. Neither the BRI or the BRB divisions of the Police judicaire have any leads. Even if they did, they are not inclined to cooperate. Léo Vrinks is definitely a paperwork flaunting corner cutter in the tradition of Dirty Harry. He is the good guy. The borderline incompetent CYA-ing Denis Klein is the bad guy. Unfortunately, he plays politics far better than his BRI counterpart.

Vrinks appears to gain the upper hand when an informant calls him with information. Naturally, it comes with a wicked catch. Out on a two day prison leave, Hugo Silien manipulates the mostly straight Vrinks into abetting the murder of the underworld figure who ratted him out. The intel is still good though. Of course, you know there has to be a witness out there somewhere and guess who takes on the case. As it turns out, it was Klein’s snitch that got whacked.

Klein is a transparent stand-in BRB head Raymond Mertz, who was protected and promoted by the police bureaucracy despite erratic actions which reportedly led to the death of a fellow officer during a shootout with the so-called Wig Gang. It is safe to assume Mertz did offer publicity support for 36th Precinct or 36 Quai des Orfèvres as it was known in France (sort of the Parisian equivalent of One Police Plaza). Well known for a series of French cop shows, Marchal has probably burned a few bridges with 36 as well, though he most likely represents the views of many rank-and-file on the job at the time. Indeed, there are scenes in 36 that crackle with visceral outrage at Klein/Mertz’s charmed ascent.

As Vrinks, Daniel Auteuil is so intense he looks brittle enough to snap in two. Gérard Depardieu, not yet as ballooned-up and wheezy as he is in the more recent Inspector Bellamy, radiates a sense of calculating villainy as Klein. As usual though, nobody can out do Roschdy Zem’s Silien for stone cold badness. A truly all-star French cast, André Dussollier also has some memorable moments as the patrician police chief Robert Mancini, while the director himself notably plays against type as the ailing ex-con Christo.

36 is quite well constructed, tying together what first appear to be episodic subplots into a rather tidy package. It also has armored carload of guns. An entertaining fix of shootouts and police corruption, 36 is far better than many French imports released theatrically over the last few years, very definitely worth checking out on DVD.

Ozon’s Potiche

There have not been a lot of films made about umbrellas, but it makes sense to cast Catherine Deneuve in each and every one of them. Indeed, François Ozon tries to recreate some of the spirit of Jacques Demy’s The Umbrellas of Cherbourg (right, good luck with that). Still, he achieves an engaging retro-1970’s vibe in his period battle of the sexes and classes, Potiche (trailer here), which opens this Friday in New York.

Deneuve’s Suzanne Pujol is the “Potiche,” or trophy wife in American parlance. As the daughter of her husband’s umbrella factory owner boss, she was also something of the brass ring for Robert. Now he runs the factory with an iron fist. If he wants an opinion from his workers, he’ll give it to them. All Robert Pujol is missing is the big Monopoly Man cigar.

Not surprisingly, Pujol clashes frequently with Babin, the Communist mayor and MP for the district. It is not just a matter of ideology though. Babin has a bit of history with his wife. Wound way too tight, Pujol finally has that big Fred Sanford heart attack. With hubby laid up, Madame Pujol takes the factory reins, using the more cooperative methods of her fondly remembered father. She also has an in for dealing with the workers’ unofficial rep, Babin. Frankly, it all works much too well for her husband’s liking. Family drama ensues.

Potiche is probably the lightest, frothiest excursion into class warfare one will see on-screen for foreseeable future. The film nails the disco-dancing tracksuit-wearing 1970’s ambiance and it is always worth the price of admission to watch to legendary pros like Deneuve and Gérard Depardieu circle each other flirtatiously (but if you’ve seen him lately, you know she has her work cut out for her). Unfortunately, Fabrice Luchini is not able to counterbalance (don’t go there) Depardieu, as the rather clichéd and deliberately unlikable Pujol. By playing favorites on behalf of the leftist mayor, Ozon’s skews the film a bit too much for its own good. After all, the whole point seems to be only Suzanne Pujol has the wisdom and grace to chart a Harold Macmillan-esque middle way between the extremes represented by both men.

Still, Deneuve and Depardieu are not legends for nothing. Their “if only” romantic chemistry works on a smartly adult level. You also have to love the groovy umbrellas designed by Pujol’s searching-for-himself son Laurent (these are for you Cherbourg fans). A light and pleasant outing for two of France’s biggest stars (but hardly a treatise on industrial organization), Potiche should satisfy Francophiles when it opens this Friday (3/25) in New York at the Angelika Film Center.

Chabrol’s Inspector Bellamy

Conceived as a tip of the cap to Belgian crime novelist Georges Simenon and his best known sleuth Jules Maigret, the rumpled Inspector Paul Bellamy is renowned for his intuitive insight into the criminal mind. That’s his job and he’s good at it. However, he is somewhat distracted by family issues of late, not that he is supposed to be working while on holiday. Yet, as often happens in the paperback mysteries he reads, a new case finds him anyway in Inspector Bellamy (trailer here), the fiftieth and final film of Nouvelle Vague suspense auteur Claude Chabrol, which opens this Friday in New York at the IFC Center.

Bellamy is whole-heartedly devoted to his wife Françoise, keenly aware he married quite a bit out of his league. His mind might be sharp, but Bellamy is doughy and pear-shaped, often reduced to audible wheezing by the stairs of her family’s vacation house in Nîmes. Openly contemptuous of the local inspector, Bellamy cannot resist getting involved in a sensational crime dominating the regional news, especially considering one of the principals has trampled his wife’s flower beds while loitering outside their cottage.

Seeking the detective’s help, Noël Gentil has a convoluted tale of murder, fraud, and adultery to tell, but Bellamy’s attentions are somewhat divided. His self-destructive half-brother Jacques Lebas has unexpectedly appeared, predictably antagonizing Bellamy and adding stress to his marriage. While the case of the mysterious Gentil (or whoever he is) largely plays out off-screen, Bellamy struggles with his domestic front—not his strong suit.

The supposedly retired Gérard Depardieu might be the Brett Favre of French cinema, but he is a perfect fit for Bellamy. He certainly looks like an out of shape middle-aged man, while also projecting a shrewd intelligence and a deep-seated insecurity. Indeed, jealousy and resentment arguably play a greater role in the film than old-fashioned greed, with Bellamy turning out to be one of the primary offenders, along with his prodigal half-brother. As the bitter Lebas, Clovis Cornillac holds his own quite well, convincingly suggesting the years of contentious history shared between them.

Chabrol, who only recently passed-away last month, was a master of the cerebral thriller. Especially in his later films, he often relegates the nefarious skullduggery to the deep background, only dropping hints amid the ostensibly benign action on-screen (his subtly sly The Flower of Evil is a near perfect example). While we do see Bellamy pursue his investigation, Chabrol once again engages in some artful sleight of hand. As usual, Chabrol’s longtime collaborators cinematographer Eduardo Serra and composer-son Matthieu Chabrol also give Bellamy a rich, classy luster befitting his final cinematic statement.

Productive to the end, Chabrol was a giant of cinema, who will be missed. Even his misfires like A Girl Cut in Two still make for interesting viewing. Though Bellamy is a small, intimate work compared to some of his signature suspensers, it certainly features a huge star in Depardieu. Watching their first and final collaboration is definitely worth the wait when Bellamy opens this Friday (10/29) at the IFC Center in New York.

Bornedal’s I Am Dina

I Am Dina
Directed by Ole Bornedal
Vanguard Cinema

Reportedly, Gérard Depardieu shipped 500 bottles of his vineyard’s wine to Kjerringøy, Norway during the filming of Ole Bornedal’s I Am Dina (trailer here). One can see why he might need the fortification. His character has a very difficult time adjusting to married life with Dina, the title character of Bornedal’s tempestuous historical drama, now on DVD.

Dina is not a traditional Nineteenth Century Norwegian homemaker. She has issues stemming from a traumatic childhood. After setting in motion the accident that would kill her mother, she is violently spurned by her father. Dina grows up as a wild child, almost completely lacking parental love, except when visited by her mother’s silent ghost. However, Lorch, the tutor reluctantly hired by her father, finds he can reach the nearly feral Dina through the music of his cello.

As Dina grows into womanhood, her passionate spirit captures the eye of Jacob, a prosperous businessman played by Depardieu. When he asks for her hand in marriage, her estranged father is only too happy to be rid of her. After a rocky start, Dina actually acclimates quite well to marriage essentially taking control of Jacob’s business and household. However, her forceful nature eventually pushes him away, indirectly leading to his death as well.

As one character remarks, when visiting Dina, he “always feels death close by.” Like the Mills Brothers song, she always kills the ones she loves. She has fallen into a pernicious cycle that complicates every one of her personal and familial relationships, including her problematic romance with the mysterious Leo Zhukovsky, an anarchist revolutionary or perhaps just a con man.

Bornedal is one of the most visually exciting directors working in film today. Together with his frequent collaborator, cinematographer Dan Laustsen, he has crafted a stylish looking film that makes particularly effective use of the striking but lonely natural backdrop of Norway’s fjords. It is easy to see how an emotionally vulnerable person could lose their sense of self in such an environment.

As an English language Dutch-Norwegian co-production with Scandinavian, French, and British actors, Dina is sort of a European mélange. There are some excellent supporting performances though, particularly from Søren Sætter-Lassen as the kindly but haunted Lorch, who has an unforgettable posthumous voice-over. Christopher Eccleston, of Doctor Who fame, also conveys a certain dangerous charm as Zhukovsky. As Dina, Marie Bonnevie is totally convincing in her scenes of wild fury, but conversely, it is difficult to understand her magical allure.

Bornedal seems to be incapable of making a dull movie. While his style might ultimately prove better suited to a tricky noir thriller like Just Another Love Story, it is still fascinating to see him take on a sweeping period drama like Dina. Decidedly adult in its sensibilities, Dina is darkly compelling cinema from one of Europe’s best contemporary directors.