Napoleon (2023)
Director: Ridley Scott
Screenwriter: David Scarpa
Starring: Joaquin Phoenix, Vanessa Kirby, Tahar Rahim, Rupert Everett, Paul Rhys

Almost a quarter of a century after his swords and sandals epic Gladiator became a critically acclaimed cultural phenomenon and Oscars Best Picture winner, Ridley Scott re-teams with one of its stars – one of this generation’s leading actors and a multi-time Academy Award nominee, Joaquin Phoenix – to revisit another of history’s most written about leaders, Napoleon Bonaparte of France. With more historically accurate locations and just as many period-appropriate costumes as in his turn of the century fable, this life and times of France’s great-then-disgraced general should be a lot more affecting than it actually is. This bullet point journey through Bonaparte’s rise and fall from power doesn’t make powerful comment on the corruption of man, nor does it evaluate the emperor’s influence on war or peace, on Europe or France or the United Kingdom or Russia. In fact, it doesn’t say much at all…

It would be difficult to chronicle Napoleon’s story and fail to capture the imagination in one way or another. This is one of history’s most important figures, an emblem of power and greed. His various roles in post-revolution France took him across continents, saw him as the figurehead of coups, and brought about the deaths of more than one million people. His was a life filled with so many historically significant events, moments, and decisions, that anyone with so much as an Encyclopaedia Britannica could recount his story with at least some drama, shock and awe. The issue with this $200million film is that the script does little more than precisely that, recounting the significant moments of his leadership as if listing them out of a book, with a cheap and at times barely legible love angle tacked on to evoke empathy and provide commentary on the events that come fast and often with little context.

Joaquin Phoenix tries his best. He dominates every scene, embodying a character he clearly sees as more of a creature than a man. Under his spell, Napoleon Bonaparte is worthy of attention, a character whom we are desperate to investigate, to interrogate. But the film doesn’t allow for that. As we depart the beheading of Marie Antoinette in revolution-era France to first meet our subject, Phoenix is not unlike a lion with his jaw clenched, his eyes glazed, his uniform as extravagant and symbolic as a mane. There is so much promise held within this introduction – a potentially world-shifting performance, some spectacular wardrobe work, effective framing and blocking – and instead it sadly becomes emblematic of a film that leaves so much of its potential unfulfilled.

The bullet point journey through Napoleon’s conquests, political manoeuvres, and exiles, requires an emotional core for any potential audience to attach to, and it finds that in the would-be emperor’s marriage to his beloved Josephine. Vanessa Kirby embodies the infamous leader’s muse as if a witch who has cast a spell, and the Oscar-nominated performer’s turn is at times just as beguiling as Phoenix’s. Together, they never hit the highs of some of their other on-screen relationships (Phoenix in Her, Kirby in Pieces of a Woman), nor is their relationship as moving as that presented by Mel Gibson and Catherine McCormack in Braveheart, or as lustful as that presented by Omar Sharif and Julie Christie in Doctor Zhivago. There isn’t even a sense of dangerous plotting as underlined by the incestuous relationship hinted at between Phoenix and Connie Nielsen in Gladiator, which at least provoked a reaction. In Napoleon, Phoenix and Kirby are believably brought together, but they are far from enchanted by one another, and as time passes and events occur, you expect that to become part of the commentary on Napoleon’s lack of humanity, but it doesn’t. Napoleon instead frames this relationship as the beating heart of its subject, as the primary motivating factor, the biggest achievement, the biggest regret. And the film only takes brief moments to dissect this, or even present a valid argument as to how the relationship motivated the man to achieve otherworldly horrors. Theirs is a story that runs parallel to the story of Napoleon’s “achievements”, evolving from time to time but largely suffering from the same “this happens and then this happens and then this happens” that plagues the rest of the tale.

Beyond the limitations of David Scarpa’s screenplay, which was no doubt limited in its potential by the vast period of time it sought to cover (a period of more than 25 years), and the effects this has on Claire Simpson’s editing and pacing of the film, Napoleon does achieve a lot cinematically. First and foremost, the costume work is spectacular. David Crossman and Janty Yates’ work in costuming is nothing short of stellar, and a glimpse at the level of quality many expected a modern Ridley Scott historical epic to achieve. Everyone looks unique and period-appropriate, but the smaller details on the limited selection of main characters are worthy of the biggest screen possible and plenty of critical acclaim. Similarly, the production design by Arthur Max is a significant factor in bringing cinematic qualities to scenes that are otherwise inconsequential or at least far from unmissable. The party and governmental scenes are where the latter shines the brightest, some sequences decked out and presented as if the period’s great paintings.

Ridley Scott must be commended for his role in bringing this to life, too. Some shots are of the highest cinematic calibre, a master clearly touching on the greatness that has been foundational to his visually impressive career to date. His party scenes are filled with life, there are unique physical qualities to many of the major historical figures at play in the story, and he seems intent on ensuring that not a single battle is presented in as bland a fashion as many other director’s have long since settled. His work with cinematographer Dariusz Wolski in the capturing of cold, of fog, of early morning winter sunrises, imbues the piece with a sense of reality and ensures that nobody can be bored by the achievements held within each frame. Some sequences, such as the one in which Napoleon takes Moscow, are worthy even of a highlight reel that includes The Duellists, Alien, Blade Runner, Thelma & Louise and Gladiator.

As has often been the case in more recent Scott movies, there are also shots, scenes and sometimes even entire sequences that seem absent of his once unique and form-topping touch. Early on, it is easy to be removed from the reality of the time period courtesy of poor CGI, such as that showing Joaquin Phoenix riding a horse on a beach or large crowds resembling AI renditions more than actual people. The picture is also so awash with greys that it seems more like a mid-2000s early digital filmmaking release than even Scott’s own from that era. Some night time shots are utterly spectacular, and seem to be of the same school as those celebrated in Jordan Peele’s Nope, but there are vast periods in which everything looks washed out, and it is almost certain that minutes of this film will be barely legible (too dark) to anyone who eventually watches it at home.

Ridley Scott has spoken a lot in the press tour for Napoleon about how his movies do not need to be historically accurate. When a film seeks to explore something thematically, personally, or ideologically, then Scott is most certainly correct. Film is art, and art seeks truth rather than fact. Gladiator worked because of this perspective, because of how it abandoned fact in search of the truth held within the myth. But Napoleon doesn’t do that. It presents moment after moment from the history books, often inaccurately out of negligence as opposed to deeper purpose. There is no doubt that a lot of care and artistry can be seen on screen in Napoleon, but that negligence will be the story of this film: a movie that could have been great, that could have meant something, that could have simply been accurate, and ended up being none of those things. Like Napoleon himself, Napoleon thinks itself as greater than it is. It isn’t insulting like Ridley Scott’s idea of Napoleon firing canons into the Great Pyramid of Giza was to historians the world over, but it does offer only glimmers at its full might. Some individual pieces are greater than the whole in this instance, and what a shame that is. This should have been special.

Score: 15/24

Recommended for you: Ridley Scott Films Ranked

Wingwomen (2023)
Director: Mélanie Laurent
Screenwriters: Cédric Anger, Chris Deslandes
Starring: Mélanie Laurent, Adéle Exarchapoulos, Isabelle Adjani, Manon Bresch

In the early 2000s, just before the big superhero boom, there was a trend of lighthearted, easily digestible action movies that revolved around an endearing central friendship. Charlie’s Angels, Shanghai Noon and Ocean’s Eleven were all a part of it. Now, in 2023, we find ourselves at the other end of the superhero boom. Just as box office returns are diminishing for Marvel and general audiences seem to be moving on from the churn of comic book adaptations, Wingwomen takes a look back at the trend we all left behind.

Wingwomen opens with a simple sequence of our two protagonists in what comes across as a training mission of sorts. For what, we’re never explicitly told. Carole (Mélanie Laurent) is the calmer, more level-headed and focused half of the duo, while Alex (Adéle Exarchapoulos) is the maverick who never misses a beat, even if her mind is preoccupied with the latest man in her life ghosting her. They’re pursued through a forest by an army of military drones – Carole drives a quad bike while Alex shoots from the back, being sure to vent about the instability of her love life throughout.

It’s campy and cheesy, but it’s also very watchable for one good reason…

From the moment Wingwomen starts, it is quite obvious that one aspect of it holds a lot of promise. In Carole and Alex, we have two leads who feel like real people, and who interact with one another in such a way that makes it hard not to succumb to their charms. They’re in some kind of an extraordinary situation, but they could just as easily be painting a wall together and it would be just as compelling to watch.

Their character archetypes go as far back as Laurel and Hardy – one is organised and the other is a mess, essentially. It’s the same dynamic that films like Rush Hour and Lethal Weapon have created such memorable relationships with. Wingwomen takes it in a slightly different direction, one that’s more concerned with subverting expectations and creating a reliance on one another along the way. Carole experiences problems that would feel more natural to Alex, and Alex is the best possible person to help her reason her way through those problems. Carole isn’t going through anything that Alex hasn’t had to learn how to cope with herself, often just to survive the hectic life she leads. The touching element of it all is that it gives Alex a selfless purpose in this relationship too, despite being the messy one. They need each other more than either of them knows, and it’s hard not to feel warmed by it when the characters are so authentic.

Unfortunately, as the narrative unfolds and we learn more about the world that these two find themselves in, it quickly starts to feel like we actually learn less. Quite early on, Carole and Alex decide they want nothing more than to lead normal lives. It’s one of the most exciting parts of the film, because by that point it’s already abundantly clear that these two characters are the heart and soul of Wingwomen. To see them transition into normal lives together would be fascinating.

Instead of diving further into these two characters though, we’re just introduced to more and more plot points that only exist for the sake of facilitating mediocre action sequences. There are super high-tech concepts that are introduced and then immediately abandoned – like a retina-scan secured bunker in the forest that blends into its surroundings because it’s a big mirror that they can see out of but nobody can see into. It’s visually appealing, but it comes and goes without leaving any impression or being given any explanation. That’s true for more or less everything outside of the core story which is just the richness of Carole and Alex’s friendship with one another.

Just as Wingwomen is a film of two halves from a narrative perspective, it is also one from a technical point of view. Some of its cinematography is beautiful, and there are a number of shots that are reminiscent of films like Parasite. In those moments, everything comes together to create a visual image that tells as much of the story as the dialogue filling the scene could hope to. Then there are moments when the screen feels as if it’s filled with disposable clutter instead. One example is during an ad-hoc musical sequence that, again, comes and goes without anything to justify its inclusion.

There is a very strong heart to Wingwomen that is constantly undermined by a tendency to create flamboyant set pieces with poor execution. Carole and Alex are wonderfully written characters with a beautiful dynamic as friends, but it’s hard to truly appreciate how brilliant that is when the bells and whistles attached to them are so loud and pointless. Even so, if this was shown as part of an early-2000s buddy action marathon it would be very difficult to spot the imposter. In fact, the only thing that might give it away is how well the buddy part is written while the rest is on par. If this trend is to make a comeback in the wake of the superhero boom, then hopefully they’ll at least have characters that are as compelling as this early entry into its revival era.

Score: 12/24

Written by Rob Jones

You can support Rob Jones on his website: rbrtjones.com
Twitter: @rbrtjones

Martyrs (2008)
Director: Pascal Laugier
Screenwriter: Pascal Laugier
Starring: Mylène Jampanoï, Morjana Alaoui, Catherine Bégin, Patricia Tulasne, Robert Toupin

To equip a film with repulsive viscera that gushes within its own fleshy and bulbous expositions, wallowing in the sheer cruelty of it all can only be described as barbaric filmmaking that would surely not result in a quintessential piece of genre cinema. Nevertheless, Pascal Laugier’s Martyrs (2008) dares to tread through this contentious territory of moral dilemmas, taboos, and a vicious unease resulting from the innate psychological need to explore pending fates. Martyrs entwines a horrific story so densely impactful that the flagrantly vile imagery and screams of terror are mercilessly clawed onto your mind for long after watching.

Martyrs chronicles the vengeance of Lucie (Mylène Jampanoï) as she vows to destroy those who kept her captive and chained up in a cold, dark warehouse when she was younger. Joining Lucie is Anna (Morjana Alaoui), whom she met during her stay at an orphanage after escaping from the hellish abyss she was held in. After Lucie invades the quaint family home of the Belfonds (her abductors) and commences her slaughter, transforming the occupancy into a bloody abattoir, she discovers that the path to salvation is far from over. The aftermath leaves Lucie a wreck, relying on Anna who hastily rushes over to comfort Lucie in her time of need. Further obstructing their redemption is the ominous secret that Anna unearths: the Belfonds belong to an elitist cult whose mission is to capture young women in a bid to uncover the truth of the afterlife by enacting grossly excessive pain on their subjects until they reach martyrdom status.

The spiteful tone in which extreme cinema is denoted is not only sternly cruel but also rather blemishing to the initial demand for such films as well as the subsequent reception towards the work. The ‘torture-porn’ strain of horror that forcibly infiltrated the market during the mid-2000s has held the disgruntled weight of critical dismay ever since its beginning, with the masses questioning the genre’s need for exploitation in the first place. In opposition to the supposed threat that these films pertain, it could be said that the gory breed of slashers, home invasion feats, and torturous deeds can be seen as a tactical response to the audience’s increasingly hard-to-crack demeanour, primarily in ode to the unavoidable tragedies that the media would widely blast over every news front citing the cataclysmic likes of 9/11, deadly recessions, and the Iraq War. Film has a way of replicating reality in a dramatised form, embodying the socio-political landscape to infiltrate true fears that are masked as monsters and unknown intruders. In other words, theatrical trauma is simply a constructed illusion of the real societal collapses that burden the everyday home and desensitise individuals to the point of no return.

For decades French horror cinema has stuck by the notion that life imitates art. The Nouvelle Vague movement engaged with the societal upholds at the time through the likes of Jean-Luc Godard’s Breathless (1960). Following from this it became common for French cinema to commonly adopt melodramatic tones that still conveyed an air of moral criticism, with L’humanité (1999) – a film handling the aftermath of a sexual assault against a minor – gaining an important place in cinematic history.

When American film dismantled the mainstream with Saw (2004) and Hostel (2005), it became popular to label these films as ‘torture-porn’, demoting them as sadistic filth. The successful chokehold that these graphic features had over audiences flew internationally, popularising France’s already long-established history with disturbing cinema. New French Extremity saw a resurgence and newfound demand that had previously been denied to the subgenre’s earlier works, including the sexually violent Baise-Moi (2000) and the self-cannibalistic tale within In My Skin (2002). As seen, filmmaking is majorly influenced by its want to respond and commentate. One of Laugier’s inspiration points originates from the influx of brutal violence seen in these torture-porn horror spectacles. However, where Martyrs differs and ultimately succeeds is due to Laugier’s self-proclaimed goal of wanting to make a film not surrounding torture itself, but instead a feature focusing on pain and consequential suffering.

Martyrs mobilises our sense of hope from the very first action scene. Minutes into the film, the Belfonds family is introduced in their full nuclear form with a fresh breakfast on display to match the tranquil bourgeois environment where neither money issues nor inner fragilities exist. That is until a knock at the door brutishly shatters the peace. Lucie, armed and loaded, aims at the father’s chest, blowing him back into the staircase, causing a great deal of blood and innards to paint the walls, leaving his now petrified family to run screaming for their lives before Lucie puts each member down with growing severity. After Lucie’s long awaited retribution has ended, she is still haunted by her former demons. Laugier diligently propels the camera around as we witness what has been haunting Lucie this whole time. When she escaped the grip of the Belfonds all those years ago she left a fellow captive in their hold, and ever since then she has been chased by her own mind, manifesting this malformed zombie out of her guilt. The creature tracks her every step, crawling around unclothed and painted with gaping wounds and bloodied limbs. The crutches of torment that Martyrs explores transpires on multiple levels, both in the physical realm of Lucie seeking her revenge and through the various appearances of this creature replicating the entrenched trauma that she will never be able to escape from.

Martyrs appeases on a double-edged sword, meaning that the collaborative prongs that Laugier exposes allow for a quasi-horror tale. The perceived ending is at the 45-minute mark where Lucie’s battle with the scarred demon results in her making a fatal decision, leaving Anna even more alone in the bloodbath. Lucie’s demise, although visually exterior, is very much an inner struggle all engrained in her mind, with every slash the monster dishes out actually being self-inflicted with the embodied figure of guilt only being animated in Lucie’s brittle subconscious. Laugier’s brazen decision to include a manifested titan as a shock-triggering tool may seem rather archetypal to a horror story, but it could be argued that the almost gimmicky placement of a screeching force that grants plenty of loud jump scares is a methodical notch in Laugier’s grand plan to fool each of us, and to make the true nature of the film even more of a surprise.

Deriving from the close bond that eventually ends in tragedy for all parties is the film’s complex myriad that utilises a bold score that plunges heavy rock music over the quick-cut editing and fast-paced combat scenes where every loud strum of the guitar is akin to a blow to the face. Marrying the strategic score symphonies is the demanding camera that refuses to stop fidgeting for the first and second act, continuously bouncing around in an agitated manner leaving no time to relax or to divert the eyes from the sheer terror for just a single second. All of the pungent content, whether that be the stingingly hectic cinematography or the nail-bitingly tense soundscape, is deliberately nihilistic.

Martyrs is a bi-directional piece that both equally surveys the hard price that comes with true bodily emancipation, as well as the hopelessness that trauma provides: no amount of revenge, nor chance of survival equates to happiness in this situation. Candidly, Martyrs depresses, leaving a bleak existence in its wake that interferes with the barest emotions. An aspect that enhances the film’s gut-wrenching existentialism is the ambiguous third act that shifts the straight paradigm that Laugier spent all that time building up to. The apex of suffering initially derived from the unblushing attempts to completely dismantle any emotional stability that we had before watching, is utterly destroyed as the various facets of gore and wounded characters demolish all hope. The constant devastating blows are enough to shield any forms of light from seeping in, yet Laugier dives in further, exploiting the term ‘showing not telling’ to its fullest potential.

When the conclusion breaks and the martyrdom-obsessed cult manifest their full villainous stride, Laugier refuses to simply linger the camera. In avoidance of duplicating similar works of French Extremism such as Irreversible (2002) where Gaspar Noé now holds the camera still for an excruciating nine minutes during one of cinema’s most horrific assault scenes, Laugier floats the camera around, abusing the effects of unbearable closeups. He pans over the treacherous landscape that Anna now knows as home, showing the blood-stained mattress abandoned on the floor, her chopped-off hair and the skin around her lips completely torn and cut. Martyrs certainly aims to displease for every second the film screens.

The continuation of the film is just as, if not more, sombre than the beginning. The violent tendencies of the cult are falsely pursued under a behemoth of wishes, to force their victims to go through so much duress that they remain barely alive in a chance to learn of the afterlife. The neurological displacement of sense is further implied when the group seems to see Anna (and most likely their previous victims) as almost saintly, providing them with their one hope and wish for the good of their souls – whereas in reality, the sufferer has no choice but to comply. It’s this wanton of callousness under the guise of scientific discovery that only adds to the overall piercing tone of the film. These morbid ‘researchers’, for lack of a better term, appear to obtain all of the characteristics that stereotypically paint a pleasant picture to the outside world: they are wealthy, in families (not lone wolves), and they inhabit gorgeous houses with lush surrounding lands. The threatening perspective from an outside point is null and void, masking their seedy underbelly of draconian cruelty.

This clarity of trust is what makes Martyrs so intrepid in wanting us to feel sullied after watching. Anna’s caring nature unintentionally results in her failing. She rushed to the home to help Lucie clean up a crime scene, and then nurses Lucie’s wounds and comforts her even though Anna was uncertain about the accuracy of Lucie’s captors. And in the end, her goodwill is all for nothing, cementing that a person could uphold every contingency of a good person but still be as ill-omened as the rest of them.

Even within the film’s heartbreaking conclusion, Laugier refuses to give a clarifying ending, opting for ambiguity over transparency. The violence and chaotic gore are not cathartic, sensing our inherently dark need for sinister actions to be almost pleasing to some form of inner Freudian-like desires. The lack of titillation bites back and asks us why we would want to continue watching throughout all the dismal displays of pure pain. Martyrs can never be defined as an easy watch. And, throughout the morally twisted leaps and bounds, Laugier still has us held in a tight engrossed grip.

Score: 20/24

Written by Grace Britten

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The 1960s saw the emergence of the French New Wave, and was Godard’s most famous decade of work. During these years, critics dissatisfied with the current state of cinema decided to make their own films that rejected traditional techniques. These new films favoured the use of real locations and experimental editing, holding more artistic merit than what came before. In contrast to the money-printing Hollywood pictures, the New Wave saw artists prove films could simultaneously entertain and challenge audiences, allowing them to connect to characters and themes on a deeper level. These films were personal and built upon the already existing auteur theory, the idea that a director holds sole authorship over their film. 

Godard’s fingerprints can be found throughout his oeuvre with numerous qualities that make his work identifiable and unique. Often credited as disregarding the rulebook, Godard’s editing was initially shocking to people. Typically, cuts were used in film to maintain pace or continuity; editing was kept hidden from an audience. Godard instead drew attention to the editing in his films, introducing a new dimension of filmmaking to moviegoers. Jump cuts intentionally disrupt the flow, sound is manipulated to present the characters’ true feelings, and unusual lighting immerses even the most hardened cinemagoer. His films were demystifying and served as a reminder that we should never have to settle for less. 

He was a towering figure in the film world. His persistent attitude and passion for cinema made him a titan – as feared as he was respected. Even his signature look – the sunglasses, tuft of dark hair, slender demeanour – feels like a pastiche character made to represent a typical pretentious director. But, without Godard, that pastiche wouldn’t exist. He was dedicated to the artform; perhaps too dedicated given the fractured relationships often created by his refusal to back down. His closest friend, François Truffaut, became one of his sworn enemies after the release of Day for Night in 1973, Truffaut’s love letter to cinema. Godard walked out on the film, describing it as a lie. The former allies exchanged numerous spiteful letters and never spoke again.

With such an imposing reputation and dozens of films under his belt, getting into Jean-Luc Godard can seem impossible. That’s why, in this edition of Where to Start With…, we at The Film Magazine are presenting multiple avenues that can make that process easier. In honour of his iconic, legendary and ever-influential career, this is Where to Start with Jean-Luc Godard.

1. Breathless (1960)

The most obvious place to start with an oeuvre so beloved and so large would be at the beginning, with Godard’s debut Breathless.

Released in 1960, Breathless was a fresh approach to film that turned other filmmakers’ mistakes into new rules, introducing a new filmic language. Most noteworthy was its unusual use of jump cuts that broke up the traditional narrative often seen in Hollywood movies. These bold editing choices made the film stand out and suddenly opened people’s eyes to how fluid a film’s form could be. Its uniqueness became influential to several generations of filmmakers in the United States, from Martin Scorsese to Quentin Tarantino, and even spawned an American remake in 1983 starring Richard Gere.

Set on the bustling streets of Paris, Breathless follows the doomed romance of criminal Michel and his American girlfriend Patricia. Michel steals a car and shoots a tailgating police officer, resulting in him spending the rest of the runtime avoiding capture. He turns to Patricia for help and tries to persuade her to escape with him to Italy. This somewhat tired plot is kept alive with the riveting interplay of its two leads and the freeform of the narrative presentation. At no point is the film anything but electric. Breathless is capped off by one of cinema’s most brilliant endings – a shocking yet tragically inevitable one – with its final moments being the perfect blend of realism and French romanticism, something Godard mastered effortlessly.

Jean-Paul Belmondo and Jean Seberg play characters that belong on the big screen. Equal parts tough and charming, they are the quintessential French New Wave protagonists; the moral ambiguity of the characters is what makes them so compelling. Nothing is black and white in Godard’s film (aside from Raoul Coutard’s stunning cinematography) as he challenges us to side with people we would usually cross the street to avoid. The film made Belmondo a star, and it’s clear to see why from the very first frame. He has the swagger of Humphrey Bogart and the presence of Marlon Brando. His counterpart, Seberg, delivers a nuanced performance of a character torn between right and wrong. Her effortless portrayal led to François Truffaut lauding her as the best actress in Europe. 

The natural progression after this film would be to watch Godard’s follow-ups: Une femme est une femme and Bande à part, both continuing the playful spontaneity of Breathless. But it was this first film that really set the world on fire. Breathless, along with other heavy hitters at the time, like Truffaut’s The 400 Blows, became the manifesto of an entire film movement. It’s the rare film that lives up to its legendary reputation, with the spirit of France’s youth pulsating through every line of dialogue and every risky cut.

2. Pierrot le Fou (1965)

Godard’s tenth film feels like a natural step up from his earlier efforts. It is larger in scope and feels like the work of a master who has honed their skill. Like Breathless, Pierrot le Fou is about escape. The Bonnie and Clyde-like story follows Ferdinand and Marianne as they travel from Paris to the Mediterranean Sea. Ferdinand is leaving the mundanity of everyday life, whereas Marianne is on the run from Algerian hitmen.

Their ever-evolving romance is thrilling to watch, as is the dialogue that, if featured in a 2010 romcom, would have been plastered across everyone’s Tumblr feed. “Why do you look so sad?” Ferdinand asks. “Because you speak to me in words and I look at you with feelings,” replies Marianne. Exchanges like this are heartache-inducing and littered throughout the beautiful script. Despite these moments, the film is oddly joyous – there’s a common misconception that European art cinema has to be dull and depressing, but that could not be further from the truth with Pierrot le Fou, which constantly has the fun dial turned up to 11. There’s something so alluring about the free spirit that unifies the characters and story. Even when the darker elements occur, it’s difficult to resist jumping into the frame and enjoying life under Godard’s rule. It’s an inspiring tale, and one that made acclaimed director Chantal Akerman want to make films.

Belmondo returns, now a seasoned professional. He maintains the charm of his Breathless role, but his magnetism has increased tenfold. He brings a jadedness to this character as he escapes a married life, which compliments his newfound freedom. He is nicknamed ‘Pierrot’ by Marianne, from where the film gets its title. Pierrot means sad clown and Belmondo captures that essence perfectly. He can be fun and carefree, but he is ultimately dissatisfied with society, something that haunts his character until the end. Starring opposite him is Anna Karina, in one of her many collaborations with Godard. Karina appeared in eight of his films, becoming his muse and then his wife from 1961 to 1965. Her frequent appearances led to her becoming the poster child of the French New Wave. Every performance from her is stellar, but this might just be her best. She commands each scene and even manages to steal the film away from Belmondo (in a literal sense too as she continuously interrupts his narration).

Godard once again teams up with Raoul Coutard, who this time adds a pop art-influenced gloss over the film, resulting in one of the best-looking films of the 1960s. Godard often said this was a film about France, which is seen in the richness of blues, whites and reds. These colours are accentuated throughout, from the characters’ clothing to props and lighting. The film’s visual DNA is France, making every striking frame carefully calculated. The dominating French imagery is a hint of Godard’s more politically-charged films to come. For that reason, Pierrot le Fou is both a perfect entry point and bridge between phases of Godard’s filmography. It gives you a glimpse of what’s to come and builds on what has already been. 

3. Masculin féminin (1966)

Released one year after Pierrot le Fou, Masculin féminin dives further into Godard’s interest in politics. Arguably this is Godard’s most accessible political film – his later efforts may seem alienating to some with subject matter that is difficult to comprehend unless the viewer has prior knowledge. With Masculin féminin, you are able to get an understanding of Godard’s radical side while still enjoying an engaging story.

Godard successfully utilises New Wave icon Jean-Pierre Léaud, a world class actor who carries as much weight in art cinema circles as Liv Ullman and Toshiro Mifune. He is delightful anytime he graces the screen, but to have him team up with Godard makes this a must-see for any cinephile. Here, Léaud shines as the idealistic and naïve Paul who meets the up-and-coming pop star Madeleine (Chantal Goyer). The pair have notable differences when it comes to music taste and political beliefs, but soon become romantically involved and later move in together. The rest of the film explores their differences in a vignette-like style, with Paul growing increasingly agitated by the political landscape and Madeleine more impassioned by her music career. It’s this wrestling of ideals that makes the film so compelling. When Madeleine confesses her love to Paul, he leaves to graffiti anti-De Galle slogans. It is Paul’s conflict that also represents Godard’s own artistry – the idea that films can entertain and also inform. Yet, post Masculin féminin, Godard’s films skewed more on the informative side as he created the Marxist production group, Dziga Vertov. Would Godard also have walked out on someone confessing their love to him? It’s possible. If Paul is truly a vehicle of Godard’s own morals, then Léaud was a very interesting choice considering he also served as Truffaut’s autobiographical character in the Antoine Doinel series of films. 

Fans of Wes Anderson’s recent feature, The French Dispatch, will notice similarities between the ‘Revisions of a Manifesto’ segment and Godard’s film. Paul seems like the prototype to Timothée Chalamet’s Zeffirelli, and the films even share a song. Anderson uses political themes to paint a general picture of 1960s France, without taking a political stance, whereas Godard is more specific, refusing to shy away from his opinions. Those who were interested by the ideas introduced by Anderson can expand their appreciation with this film. Even aesthetically, there are some scenes that can be seen as a precursor to Anderson’s style. The complex simplicity of the production design and the overall neatness of shots are sure to have inspired Anderson, who has long been vocal about his love of Godard.

While Masculin féminin is political, it is also perhaps the most pop culture-infused film in Godard’s arsenal. The most referenced line from the film comes in the form of an interluding title card that reads: ‘This film could be called The Children of Marx and Coca-Cola,’ which perfectly summarises the aforementioned duality of the characters. Also referenced are pop culture icons such as James Bond and Bob Dylan. Godard’s finger-on-the-pulse ethic paints a clear picture of the social climate of Paris in 1966, from the disillusioned to the inspired. It is backed by an incredibly catchy soundtrack of contemporary French pop hits that tie the film closer to the decade, allowing it to be enjoyed as a snapshot of a different time.

For a while, Masculin féminin was difficult to find, but thankfully a recent UK Criterion Blu-ray has made the film readily accessible. Following this, La Chinoise, also starring Léaud, would be the perfect follow-up due to its similar themes and deeper exploration of politics. 

Godard, like any legacy director, can be intimidating for newcomers. As the king of French counterculture, he was and will remain one of the most discussed filmmakers of all time due to his ongoing influence and prolific workload. The idea of approaching such a rich filmography is quite the task, but this guide provides you with what we believe to be three easy points of entry. After experiencing these three films you can then explore one of cinema’s most radical and true artists; the more you watch, the more you’ll learn about the enigmatic man. Godard’s life was his work and that’s how we’ll remember him. He’ll never truly be gone; his art won’t allow it. Stubborn, even after the end. Oh Godard.

Full Time (2021)
Director: Eric Gravel
Screenwriter: Eric Gravel
Starring: Laure Calamy, Anne Suarez, Geneviève Mnich, Cyril Gueï

Premiering at Venice Film Festival back in September of 2021, Eric Gravel’s critically acclaimed Full Time is at the end of its festival run, with one of its final stops coming at the 2022 edition of the Edinburgh International Film Festival.

Full Time follows Julie (Laure Calamy, fresh off the heels of her role in ‘Call My Agent!’), a single mother of two working as a housemaid at a five star hotel whilst preparing for a job interview that can give her and her children a better life. However, during the week of her interview there is a national transit strike.

In many ways it seems like the type of dry, realist drama you’d come to expect from Ken Loach, and on paper it is. On top of the film’s key plot points, Gravel sets up further situations to show the pressures facing Julie; trying not to lose her current job, getting her husband to pay alimony, trying to find a new babysitter for her kids – it shows just how thin Julie is stretching herself. Yet, although we can see the lengths Julie is going to, a recurring pattern in the film is others telling her that she needs to be a better mother. It is this sad reality that single mothers face which allows Gravel to create such a relatable character, relying on each of our defence mechanisms towards our own parents to allow us to feel the same way toward Julie.

Something that does feel off about the screenplay, however, is the complete lack of stance on the transit strikes themselves. Although a major plot point, it is only ever mentioned as a means of explanation rather than as a focus of debate. Julie explains that she is late due to the strikes but no character ever mentions their thoughts on the strikes themselves; if they agree with the transit workers striking or not. It is an interesting hole in the script and frankly a shame considering that the screenplay does not mind tackling other political issues.

Julie is incredibly well written. Not only do the situations she faces show her as a strong character, but her reaction to the situations do so tenfold. Come the halfway mark of the movie, it would be understandable for Julie to shed a tear but she never does. It is a perfect encapsulation as to just how strong and determined she is, not letting anything break her down and continuing in her mission until the job is done.

A nice touch is that she is not portrayed as a total saint. Julie has flaws and the movie makes them very clear. There are numerous times in which she is dishonest, even blatantly lying. She isn’t perfect, but it also illustrates how she will do whatever it takes to give her children a better life. It is refreshingly honest, and whilst we don’t agree with it, it helps us to better understand the desperation of her predicament.

It is within her determination to give her children a better life that the message of the film really appears. Although we are desperate for Julie to get the new job, Gravel himself describes our feelings as “bittersweet”. If she doesn’t get the job then she cannot afford the life she wishes for her children, if she does get the job she will see them even less than she already does. It is a heavy message to take, one that reminds us that we are dependent on the same often unfair system.

Whilst the screenplay itself is tense, it is the camera work that truly brings the drama of Julie’s situation to new heights, the documentary-realist style turning the film into something more akin to a stylistic thriller. Picture the Safdie Brothers directing a film about a single mother – this is that film.

Almost always handheld and moving, the visuals captured by director of photography Victor Seguin take us directly into the belly of the beast: Paris rush hour. This handheld camera work gets in amongst the crowds of France, placing us into the busy railway stations, effectively casting us as extras in the film itself. This all-access shooting style to the daily morning routine of many Parisians allows us to feel as though we are actually there, using the mass of bodies surrounding the lens to create a feeling of claustrophobia; it is up close, personal and raw. This use of visuals, combined with some excellent editing, is masterful by Gravel and his team, placing us right in the shoes of Julie, allowing us to feel the very tension and pressure that she faces.

Although it is a relatively simple story in scope, Full Time accurately portrays the insane amount of pressure that single mothers must handle, all the while managing to make us feel some of the weight that this single mother does. With Full Time Eric Gravel takes an ordinary story and tackles it in an extraordinary way, delivering a fantastic portrayal of parenthood that will bring you a new found appreciation for your own mother.

Score: 19/24

One Fine Morning (2022)
Director: Mia Hansen-Løve
Screenwriter: Mia Hansen-Løve
Starring: Léa Seydoux, Melvil Poupaud, Pascal Greggory, Camille Leban Martins

When asked about her inspiration for 2022 Cannes International Film Festival entry One Fine Morning, writer-director Mia Hansen-Løve said: “it came from my own observation of sometimes opposite things happening at the same time in one’s own life. Like a strange morning and at the same time a rebirth.”

One Fine Morning presents a realistic depiction of life and relationships, without a rose-tinted Hollywood lens. When Parisian single mother Sandra (Léa Seydoux) bumps into Clément (Melvil Poupaud), she discovers a side to herself that had been closed off since the death of her husband, five years previously. Their passionate love affair sparks a sexual re-awakening in Sandra, offering an outlet of happiness in a time of grief. Clément is sweet with Sandra’s young daughter Linn (Camille Leban Martins) as he initially slots into Sandra’s world. Linn is funny and charming as a child who knows yet doesn’t fully understand her mother’s new relationship with her school friend’s dad.

As with all relationships, it is not always straightforward, and Clément’s marriage inevitably exposes cracks in the lovers’ private bubble. The elation in Sandra’s face at receiving a message from him, and the pain at their goodbyes, reflects the volatility of love and human emotion. Meanwhile, Sandra cares for her father (Pascal Greggory) who has Benson’s syndrome, a neurodegenerative disease affecting both his sight and mental capacity. No longer able to live by himself, Sandra painfully watches him being moved from one care facility to another.

In an interview for Sight & Sound magazine, Hansen-Løve said that “there are films I want to write and the films that I have to write – these films chose me more than I chose them”. The director’s experience of her own father’s illness clearly influenced the film and adds to its realistic portrayal. Greggory plays Sandra’s father with the subtle pain of a man who knows his mind is deteriorating. He told the audience: “it was the first time in my actor’s life that I really lost myself in the character”.

There is a very powerful line when Sandra is sorting through her father’s library, and she tells her daughter that she feels closer to him with his books than at the hospital. “There is his envelope body, here is his soul”. It is so poetically moving, and relatable to many people who have loved someone with a similar illness. The body is simply the outer shell, and when their mind is gone it is the things they once loved which truly reflect who they are, or who they were, and how they might want to be remembered. As a philosopher, language was his life and passion, and so it follows that books more accurately reflect Sandra’s father than his physical presence does. They are his interiority.

The tone of One Fine Morning mirrors Sandra’s fluctuating emotions, frequently interspersing tragedy with moments of humour. One such example is a very funny and charming moment when Sandra and her friends pretend to their children that Santa has arrived – the children giggle in delight in the next room as their parents go to great lengths to create the magic of Christmas.

This juxtaposition is also reflected in the film’s aesthetic, which contrasts sombre care homes and hospitals with the vibrant beauty of a sunny Parisian morning. Like the transience of the seasons, Hansen- Løve contrasts the unpredictable ups and downs of life, and how both can unexpectedly happen at the same time. Hansen-Løve has shot almost all of her films in 35mm, and when asked on her decision to do so with One Fine Morning, explained: “I knew that I was going to shoot in places that were not the prettiest, maybe I thought it would give them more soul”.

During the Cannes Q&A, Léa Seydoux said “it was the first time that [she] had the opportunity to play a normal woman, someone the audience would relate to immediately”. From glamorous Bond girl to the star of Cronenberg’s latest body horror, One Fine Morning certainly feels like a refreshing change and demonstrates her versatility as an actor. Viewers can empathise with Sandra’s character, feeling both her passion and her grief during the most tumultuous time in her life.

One Fine Morning depicts a bittersweet transitional period in a woman’s life, and finding love when you least expect it. While the film is undoubtedly sad, it has an air of life-affirming hopefulness, that with endings come new beginnings.

Score: 22/24

Written by Gala Woolley

You can support Gala Woolley in the following places:

Twitter – @GalaWoolley
Blog – screenqueens.co.uk

The Takedown (2022)
Director: Louis Leterrier
Screenwriters: Stéphanie Kazandijan
Starring: Omar Sy, Laurent Lafitte, Izïa Higelin, Dimitri Storoge, Stéphane Pezerat

Buddy cop movies, when done well, can be awesome. On the other hand, when done slap-dash, they’re the sewer blockage of cinematic hell. The Takedown, a Louis Leterrier (The Incredible Hulk; Now You See Me) follow-up to 2012’s On the Other Side of the Tracks (directed by David Charhon) – which follows Omar Sy and Laurent Lafitte’s two detectives, paired up again after years apart to investigate the murder of a young man found cut in two on a train – takes a third, perhaps even more common route for these films: it is so incredibly average that you’ll forget you watched it five minutes before the credits even roll.

All of the actors do their jobs, with the two leads of Sy and Lafitte providing great chemistry as the detectives battling for dominance over one another whilst tackling contemporarily relevant racial and sexuality issues which dog their investigation. Even when jokes don’t land and dissolve into conversations that are meant to be absurd but just grate because they go on for too long (which happens a lot), the two of them make it just about bearable.

The music is fun and cheesy in places, but always gives that distinct feeling of being in a slightly less serious Bond movie; not quite Austin Powers but not quite Hot Fuzz either.

Speaking of Hot Fuzz, one of the many things that film had in its favour was the incredible editing of Chris Dickens. Dickens, and director Edgar Wright, managed to synchronise their visions so that every transition was well thought through and planned. The same cannot be said of Vincent Tabaillon’s editing of Leterrier’s film. The final product is given so many cuts that it rivals a blizzard of paper snowflakes. For much of the film it refuses to stop camera movements even for basic conversational scenes, and so many of the shots which make the final cut are chosen for seemingly no apparent reason other than to ‘create visual excitement to keep the viewers entertained.’

This attempt to give some excitement to a script which is mind-numbingly by-the-numbers comes off as desperate. Does it not trust that the story will engage us enough? Must it butt in and try to do the story’s job for it? There are moments when the budget – decent but still ‘low’ budget by Hollywood standards – forces them to get fun and inventive with their action sequences (can’t just have wall-to-wall explosions and machine-guns here), but it doesn’t change the fact that you’ve seen this script before. A ‘twist’ near the end feels about as natural as a Boeing 747, and you can easily drink every time you guess what will happen next.

Despite this, you can still switch your brain off and enjoy The Takedown – it’s not going to destroy all your brain cells, and you’ll get a chuckle out of a moment or two. But it is still trying too hard to be liked, and therefore works against itself, overshadowing points where it genuinely has something fun and interesting to do and say. All the positives are matched equally by negatives, like neutralising acids and alkalis in a high-school chemistry classroom. The Takedown is like getting black-out drunk; you’ll have fun whilst doing it, but completely forget what happened the following morning.

Score: 12/24

Juste un mouvement/Just A Movement (2021)
Director: Vincent Meessen

“Cinema can serve to explore the creation of forms, their embryology.”
Jean-Luc Godard

In 1967, French New Wave auteur Jean-Luc Godard (Breathless) released La Chinoise, a film about French university students studying Maoism, filmed in a cinéma vérité style that deliberately blurred the boundaries between film and reality. Senegalese artist and left-wing political activist Omar Blondin Diop played a small part in the film, took part in the May ’68 uprising as a student in France, and went on to be a major player in his home country’s widespread protests against French imperialism, before dying in prison in 1973 under suspicious circumstances. Director Vincent Meessen has taken a leaf or two out of Godard’s book in how he presents a documentary examining the life and times of Diop and his home country’s place in the world.

“It always moves me when I see cinema doing something different” muses Meessen after seeing a retrospective exhibition on Jean-Luc Godard. His film’s hook is something out of the True Crime genre – was Omar Blondin Diop’s death in prison an accident, a suicide, or an assassination? This plot thread soon falls by the wayside in favour of a broader political essay.

Meessen blurs the lines of reality from the beginning just as Godard would have done – staging reconstructions, leaving intact footage of himself interviewing Diop’s family, friends and fellow campaigners, including scenes of him giving actors instructions, even leaving in any outtakes or technical problems – each seemingly to comment on the artifice of documentary filmmaking itself.

The interviewees, the majority whom are family and friends of Diop telling the story of his life and political activity, are filmed in striking profile with Meessen’s camera occasionally drifting away to the side of the screen before the end of the conversation in order to bridge into the next scene. The in-depth, heartfelt discussion of Omar’s beliefs and his acts of rebellion in both France and Senegal from the accounts of those who knew him best, makes for powerful viewing.

Direct references to, and scenes from, La Chinoise are used throughout Juste un mouvement. At one point in possibly the documentary’s most meta scene, we see film of people watching a student film about Godard and La Chinoise within another film about one of the participants in La Chinoise. The two films have a lot in common thematically, examining left-wing thinking and how it could shape the world after drastic revolution, but much like was the case with Godard’s film, it’s the style, the metatextual, embryonic elements that end up getting in the way of, rather than enhancing, Juste un mouvement‘s message.

“When you’re a rebel, you don’t fight for yourself, you fight for a cause. What matters is that the cause prevails, that it triumphs, and not that you’re there to witness victory.” Diop of course did not live to see his cause, a true left-wing revolution, succeed.

Aside from Diop’s worldwide impact on the political stage and his ultimate fate, the film’s chief concern is the uncertainty of Senegalese national identity. Comparisons are made within the documentary between similar student protests in the late 1960s in France and those in China under Chairman Mao, and protests in Senegal in the same period.

If the planned violent protests against French President Pompidou’s state visit to the former French colony’s capital of Dakar had gone ahead as planned, lives may have been lost needlessly instead of the arrests that were made. Omar’s family were taken as political prisoners for their part in planning the protests that did occur, resulting in him abandoning his PHD studies to undergo military training and plan a kidnapping for the French ambassador to Senegal to force a trade. Though the plot was never put into action, Diop’s part in planning radical anti-government violence was enough to imprison him and lead to his eventual death.

“Our country is made up of two types of men: those who live within the orbit of Western Culture or those who are heading there, and those situated outside it.” Western plundering of African culture “has hindered the building of our identity. A people can’t construct itself without an understanding of its cultural heritage”. Even outside of France’s unwanted involvement in their country’s affairs, in more modern times China donated the Museum of Civilisations to Senegal, suggesting a different, more subtle kind of colonisation may still be in the country’s future yet.

Juste un mouvement has much to say about the legacy Omar Blondin Diop left on the world and the colonial legacy that has delayed development of Senegal’s distinct national identity (the latter of which could easily have made up an entire film), but Vincent Meessen’s sharp socio-political perceptiveness and his film’s raw emotional discussion is somewhat dulled by a busy stylisation and aspiration to follow in Jean-Luc Godard’s reality-blurring footsteps.

15/24

Cléo from 5 to 7 (1962)
Director: Agnès Varda
Screenwriter: Agnès Varda
Starring: Corinne Marchand, Antoine Bourseiller, Dominique Davray, Dorothée Blank

If a brief Google search is to be believed, it is not an exaggeration to state that Agnès Varda was the only female film director of the French New Wave, a highly influential film movement that took place from the late 1950s to mid-1960s. Some would even argue that Varda’s first feature film, La Pointe Courte (1955), was a precursor to the French New Wave in its aesthetic, dialogue, and themes. This first film draws from her background as a photographer, playing out more like a series of photographs than a motion picture. La Pointe Courte is interesting and innovative, but to some it can feel fatiguing. It is her next feature, Cléo from 5 to 7 (1962), that cements Varda as one of the greatest filmmakers, not just of the French New Wave, but of all cinema.

Cléo from 5 to 7 follows a young, beautiful, up-and-coming pop star, Cléo, as she wanders aimlessly around Paris for ninety minutes, all the while awaiting a potentially fatal diagnosis of stomach cancer. We are with her as she interacts with friends and strangers and contemplates the rivalry of her inner and outer selves.

Despite its inclusion on many French New Wave ‘best of’ and ‘essential viewing’ lists, Cléo from 5 to 7 would be more appropriately labeled as an anti-New Wave film. Varda’s work has the outer trappings of a French New Wave piece: intrusive editing that grabs the audience’s attention, Paris as a setting that combines the modern and the traditional, a refusal to stay within any single film genre, and a beautiful woman at its centre. However, there is an essential ingredient missing that was emblematic of the French New Wave: cynicism. At the time of the film’s release, France was at the tail-end of a war with Algeria that saw thousands of young men exposed to violence and cruelty. This brutality, that became so familiar to young French people, was a major contributor to the influx of delinquent lead characters in their national cinema, such as Jean-Paul Belmondo in several works of Jean-Luc Godard, or the young Jean-Pierre Léaud in François Truffaut’s The 400 Blows (1959). The films of Godard and other New Wave directors present violence nonchalantly and without consequence. Often, these films end with the unceremonious death of the main character, deaths which are so abrupt that they are almost funny. The sarcasm and pessimism that runs through these films is so strong that the audience may wonder if the filmmaker holds contempt towards them, as if criticizing them for watching the movie in the first place. Godard and Truffaut are undeniably great filmmakers, but this kind of attitude that permeates through their bodies of work can make them unapproachable and difficult to enjoy (and perhaps that’s the point).

Agnès Varda is different, her work displaying a palpable love and affection for both her characters and audience. It is very possible that Varda observed the cynicism portrayed in the films of her colleagues and consciously decided to not follow suit. In later interviews, Varda said as much:

“Nothing is banal if you film people with empathy and love,”
“Everybody is so full of mystery, so full of beauty, so full of tenderness”
“I’m intrigued by people, and I love them, to be honest”
“I don’t want to be a spy of the person I film, I want to be a friend”

Such care and affection can be felt in viewing her films, which depict subjects honestly and without judgment. Cléo, the film’s protagonist, is far from perfect. She is narcissistic, selfish, overly dramatic, and sensitive. Yet by the end of the film, one cannot help but love her. We grow to understand her anxieties and her fears, and wish that someone was there to comfort her. Cléo is played by Corinne Marchand, a statuesque blonde who lights up the screen from beginning to end. Marchand leaves each of us wondering why she did not have a career as prolific as other captivating women of the New Wave, such as Anna Karina, Brigette Bardot, Jeanne Moreau, Anouk Aimée, or Catherine Deneuve. Her perfect performance in this film as an egotistical hypochondriac burns brighter than many other actors’ entire careers.

Like other films of the New Wave, Cléo from 5 to 7 uses conspicuous editing to emphasize the uncertainty taking place within Cléo’s head and the anxiety of living in a major, bustling metropolis. Beyond the editing, the film is full of imagery that further accentuates such themes. The conflict at the film’s centre – whether or not Cléo has a life-threatening illness – is one of many allusions to the complicated relationship one has with one’s body, particularly as a woman. Cleo is constantly looking at herself in mirrors; mirrors that are broken, fragmented, and multifaceted. She is unable to see a clear reflection of herself. Just as her exterior is seemingly fractured, her interior self is unstable. When she is not looking at herself, others are looking at her. In one scene where Cléo walks down a Parisian sidewalk, passersby look directly at the camera, creating a greater feeling of unease. On other occasions, the female body is put on display at the hands of others. Cléo and her friends drink out of novelty glasses featuring nude pinups, displaying the informality with which the female body is treated. Later, Cleo visits her friend Dorothée who poses nude at an artist’s workshop, she watches her friend’s figure as it is molded and constructed by spectators. Cléo, given her insecurities and obsession with her body, is unable to conceive how Dorothée could do such a job:

“I’d feel so exposed, afraid they’d find a fault.”
“They’re looking at more than just me, a shape, an idea. Like I wasn’t there, as if I was asleep.”

While this is meant to explain the ease with which one can pose nude in front of strangers, this line further emphasizes how women and their bodies are looked at and picked apart rather than allowed to exist as whole, complicated persons. Cléo’s body is her worst enemy, something she both fears and loves. She is uncomfortable in her own skin, which is presented in her constant changing of clothes, wigs, and accessories, as well as her inability to sit down and stay in one place for more than a few seconds. It appears as if she believes that if she stops moving, she’ll stop living.

As other films of the French New Wave presented the impact the Algerian War had on young men and society at large, Cléo herself may be an allegory for the ignorant citizens of France that remained neutral and undisturbed by the war. She represents those who are unbothered by a conflict thousands of miles away, instead concerned with herself, her image, her beauty, her wellness. The final act of the film strengthens this interpretation, as Cléo is accosted by a young man in uniform, Antoine, in a park. At first, she tries to deflect his attention, but after his persistence, she realizes that he’s exactly who she needed to talk to. She is unable to ignore him, just as France is unable to ignore the destruction it has caused. By the end of the film, their fates have switched. She is cured of her worry and may return to normal, but he is still leaving for Algeria tomorrow. Once the war is over, France will be able to carry on as it did before, but these young men will still be traumatized, or dead. Antoine is intelligent, observant, and charming. We quickly understand what a waste it would be to send a mind like his to war. Like Cléo, he is afraid of an encroaching death as a casualty of war. But unlike Cléo, who is superstitious and seemingly afflicted with every sort of phobia, Antoine is optimistic and full of admiration for the world around him. Here, Varda presents her mastery of human connection. The relationship between these two is not a friendship nor is it romantic. It is a pure alliance of support and empathy, one that invites the viewers into the world of the film and asks them to stay.

Every frame of Cléo from 5 to 7 is masterful. The contents of the scene are so strategically placed that they may go unnoticed upon first viewing, and may completely change the meaning of the scene upon a second. Yet it feels effortless. Agnès Varda did not have to create magnificent sets or use fanciful cinematography. She knew that the real world was already beautiful, and knew exactly how to bring this beauty to the screen. By filming this world with love rather than contempt, Agnès Varda made Cléo from 5 to 7 a joy to revisit and a true treasure of international cinema.

24/24

Written by Eve O’Dea

You can support Eve O’Dea in the following places:

Website – eveonfilm.com
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Joyeux Noël starts with original images and photos from the war period – the music is captivating from the beginning – and you already get the feeling that it’s going to be a magical and emotional film. The plot centres around the sometimes forgotten Christmas truce which took place during WWI between the allied troops of Europe and the soldiers of Germany. The film is very interesting and well directed, and it’s clear that Christian Carion (who also wrote the screenplay) clearly put all of his heart into it – it’s a passion piece. His direction of his own screenplay makes for an apparent bond of written and visual storytelling. Firstly, the close ups that were used on the soldiers, and especially the generals and the superiors, were really meaningful. Secondly, the start of the film where we see young children from France, England and Germany being indoctrinated with hate and superiority beliefs, was actually quite disturbing. It astonished me, even though I was aware of this kind of propaganda, as it was also very common during WW2, but hearing the words used by those children and how they mechanically repeated them, was really quite gut-wrenching. The dialogues between the young French Lieutenant Camille René Audebert (Guillaume Canet) and his father were always quite poignant. The scenes involving all of the characters are meaningful and important; you truly have to pay attention from start to finish to take as much from this movie as you can. I think the character of the bishop who scolds the priest, father Palmer (Gary Lewis), is particularly powerful, as he preaches hate to the newly arrived recruits. The way the director lets us see through father Palmer’s eyes what the bishop is saying is without doubt one of the highlights of the film as we are forced to feel his pain as he hears the Bishop preach.

The story focuses mainly on the lives of French Lieutenant Camille René Audebert (Guillaume Canet), the German lieutenant Horstmayer (Daniel Brühl) and Lieutenant Gordon a Scottish member of the British army. The figure of the Scottish priest, father Palmer (Gary Lewis), is also very important, as mentioned earlier. His role within the context of the battle is as a reluctant fighter who serves as a stretcher-barer to help the wounded.

All these men long to be back home as soon as possible and would be much happier to spend Christmas with their loved ones. Miss Anna Sørensen, a Danish Soprano, also wants her fiancé by her side – the German Tenor Nikolaus Sprink (Benno Fürmann). She manages to be with him for a night thanks to the permission of the Crown Prince, and she decides to go with Sprink and sing for the soldiers during Christmas. The relationship between French Lieutenant Camille Audebert and his loyal batman Ponchel (Danny Boon) is also important to the plot as the two share a real friendship and it is clear that Audebert doesn’t see Ponchel just as his servant but also as his dearest  friend. Ponchel acts as comic relief to an otherwise very dramatic movie and is therefore important in that he breaks up some of the tension to let you breathe at the right times. He’s also presented as a loyal and caring friend who helps the plot by questionning Audebert about his family and so on.

This film was almost perfect, except for maybe a few tweaks. The German side, for example, isn’t as explored as the French; we see the German trench mostly through the eyes of Sprink but not of his superior Lieutenant Horstmayer, or the other characters. Horstmayer is a remarkable character too – it’s hinted that his wife is French and his goodness and reluctance to fight are both very clear. He also shows care for Lieutenant Audebert and for Lieutenant Gordon and they all seem to develop a bond. The Scottish side is explored almost exclusively through the eyes of Father Palmer, who embodies the fraternity between different nations that pervades the trenches for the duration of the truce. Although the Scottish are shown to be the first to start the truce, this isn’t historically correct since there’s evidence that it was actually the Germans who started singing Christmas songs and were soon joined by the English and Scottish, and later the French – this is another issue I have.

It’s true that, as some critics have said, the film is very sentimental, but I don’t think that’s necessarily a negative, for Joyeux Noël was meant for an audience who knew what to expect given the legend of the event, in this case the Christmas truce. So, a viewer shouldn’t be surprised to see solidarity, love and friendship instead of blood and an onslaught of violence, because that’s what it is supposed to be about. I was personally touched by the strong meaning and message of the film I even cried at some of the more touching parts. Soldiers started to see that there wasn’t much difference between themselves and their opposition and that’s why their superiors punished them, because if all people (not only the soldiers) had realized that, then there would have been no reason to keep fighting that war. The ending of the film presents this clearly thanks to the array of meaningful frames presented by DOP Walther van den Ende.

The cast was carefully chosen, with stars from all over Europe: German Diane Krüger and Daniel Brühl, French comedian Danny Boon, and French actor Guillaume Canet. I found the casting to be very well fitted to their roles and clearly talented, which is certainly a plus. Another plus is the fact that all of the actors spoke in their native languages, apart from the scenes where the characters were together – they were speaking in English in those scenes and this was interesting because it ensured that the characters were presented as if the actual soldiers speaking as they probably did in the trenches. Usually when a cast of different nationalities is involved they all adopt English as the medium of communication – it’s pretty weird and not at all plausible to hear a French or a German speak in English 100% of the time – but this was not the case with this film, and I was really pleased about that.

On a brighter note, I’m very happy to know that the director Christian Carion is thinking of making a sequel on the lives of Lieutenants Horstmayer and Audebert.

I chose to review this film at Christmas because I think it’s not as well-known of a story as it should be and the movie deserves more praise. In many respects, Joyeux Noël is the typical Christmas movie that spreads feelings of kindness, love and peace that I think we all need at this time of the year. Because of its ever-lasting relevance and how much we all need to remember these positive similarities in a world divided by fear, Joyeux Noël gets a…

22/24

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