Film review

  • Loulou

    Maurice Pialat (1980)

    Nelly (Isabelle Huppert) goes to a disco with André (Guy Marchand), the man she lives with.  She leaves the disco with Loulou (Gérard Depardieu) and they spend the night together.  When she returns to their apartment, André tries to chuck her out.  They make up but she then leaves and shacks up with Loulou anyway.  André runs an advertising business, where Nelly also has a job.  When she moves into a small apartment with Loulou, it’s she who pays the bills:  Loulou doesn’t work at all, except for the odd bit of petty crime.   He likes booze and sex, both as often as possible.  As he tells one of his pals, he doesn’t go in for thinking.  Nelly finds all these things powerfully attractive, just as she’s turned off by the relatively cultured and cerebral André.

    Loulou’s set-up is familiar enough.  Middle-class woman abandons secure, passionless bourgeois existence for a bit of rough.  What comes next seems par for the course too.  The wrong-side-of-the-tracks sex machine impregnates the heroine, something her ex with more brains than balls never managed to do.  The prospect of fatherhood appeals to Loulou.  In response to questions about his and Nelly’s future from her conventional, young-executive-type brother (Humbert Balsan), Loulou even says he’ll get a job, once the baby arrives.  Urbanite Nelly’s first meeting with Loulou’s rustic family changes things, though.  During an alfresco lunch, in a farmyard, his loco brother-in-law (Patrick Playez) starts brandishing a shotgun.  No one gets hurt but Nelly gets an abortion.  Although this distresses Loulou, he and Nelly remain an item.  The last shot of the film shows them leaving a bar and heading back home together.

    The New Yorker’s Richard Brody, welcoming a retrospective of the work of Maurice Pialat (1925-2003) at the Museum of the Moving Image in 2015, called him ’one of the greatest, most influential, and most misunderstood modern directors’.  For Brody, ‘Their most salient traits render Pialat’s films not merely unlovable but almost odious – and that’s their distinctive and inimitable virtue’.  Since Loulou is the first Pialat I’ve seen, I’m in no position to dispute Brody’s judgments.  I can only say I wouldn’t apply any of his adjectives to this particular film (which is one of the director’s best-known).  It’s possible I couldn’t see the wood of Pialat’s special style and approach for the trees of a not unusual scenario, in terms of plot and character types.  Perhaps it’s considered ‘distinctive’ that Pialat and Arlette Langmann (who wrote the screenplay with him) don’t supply the protagonists with clear motivations for their actions.  Until Nelly decides to have the abortion, both she and Loulou appear to act on impulse, to do what they feel like doing.  But if you’ve seen movie characters like these behaving similarly with reasons explained, the withholding of such information doesn’t seem to matter much.

    Loulou‘s famous leads hold your attention – as much, at this distance in time, because they look so young and different as because of their acting (though the talents of both are clear enough).  Depardieu had just turned thirty and was still in decent physical shape.  Huppert, in her mid-twenties, still had her gamine bloom and a bit of roundness in her face.  It’s Guy Marchand, however, who creates the only interesting character.  At the start this seems highly unlikely.  Although we first see Loulou in the process of dumping his latest lover (Frédérique Cerbonnet), his vivid spontaneity is evident and appealing.  Our introduction to André in the disco is to a sharp-tongued, coldly possessive misogynist:  you feel any woman in her right mind would want to get away from him.  Yet his weakness and neediness later in the story, especially when he and Nelly go to bed together one more time and she takes the opportunity to tell André she’s pregnant with Loulou’s child, are the most unexpected and expressive part of Pialat’s story.  Not long after Loulou, Guy Marchand was again rejected by Isabelle Huppert, in Diane Kurys’ Coup de foudre (1983).  If memory serves, he was the best thing in that film too.

    23 November 2019

  • Le Mans ’66

    James Mangold (2019)

    My decision to buy a ticket for Le Mans ’66 wasn’t thoughtless but it was, in the event, very foolish.  I’ve not been to anything in the Richmond Odeon’s biggest theatre for ages.  A two-and-a-half-hour motor racing movie was an inadvisable way of renewing acquaintance with Screen 1’s powerful sound system.  I felt pretty battered even before the trailers were over – the high-decibel mosquito buzz and whine in James Mangold’s film then started up immediately.  In their first scene together, Mollie (Caitriona Balfe), the wife of engineer and racing driver Ken Miles (Christian Bale), tells him how she loves the sound of racing cars:  it ‘goes right through you’.  That’s just what I hate and a main reason why I’ve never followed motor sport (other reasons include a complete lack of interest in things automotive and the fact that you can’t actually see the drivers).  To make matters worse, and although I found Le Mans ’66’s soundtrack deafening, I couldn’t make out much of the dialogue.

    The film, with a screenplay by Jez Butterworth, John-Henry Butterworth and Jason Keller, tells the based-on-a-true story of how the Texan Carroll Shelby (Matt Damon) and Brummie Ken Miles built – on behalf of Henry Ford II (Tracy Letts) and Ford vice-president Lee Iacocca (Jon Bernthal) – a new racing car to take on the perennially dominant Ferrari team at Le Mans, in the 1966 renewal of the 24-hour race there.  The movie has been released in the US with the sensible title of Ford v Ferrari and I don’t know why its UK release title is different (especially since it isn’t a remake of the 1971 Steve McQueen picture Le Mans).  In the course of the first hour, you see little of Matt Damon’s eyes because he rarely removes his shades.  The rest of his face and body don’t tell us much more than his voice does.  Christian Bale is more engaging but his playing, compared with those around him, comes across as overplaying.  (It may be something genetic:  Noah Jupe, as Ken Miles’s son Peter, gives the same impression.)  There’s a minor amusement in seeing Bale and Tracy Letts together on screen.  As Ford, Letts is so imposingly dull he makes you think that he too would have made a good Dick Cheney in Vice last year, and with much less prosthetic than Bale required.

    Why did I bother to give it a go?   Because, as Peter DeBruge of Variety rightly says on the Wikipedia page for the film, ‘The best sports movies aren’t so much about the sport as they are the personalities’.  For me, Bennett Miller’s Moneyball is the classic example of a thoroughly involving film about a sport in which I’ve no interest.  I also reminded myself beforehand that Asif Kapadia’s Senna is a first-rate documentary and that Ron Howard’s Rush, about the battle between James Hunt and Niki Lauda for the Formula 1 world championship in 1976, was very watchable.  Not Le Mans ’66, though.  The above quote from Peter DeBruge goes on to say admiringly of Mangold’s protagonists, that ‘these two go big with their performances’.  I’d say too big (Bale) and not big enough (Damon).  In any case, they’re thoroughly upstaged by the cars.  After an hour, I gave up.

    21 November 2019

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