By Amy Nicholson
By Stephanie Zacharek
By Calum Marsh
By Stephanie Zacharek
By Inkoo Kang
By Voice Film Critics
By Alan Scherstuhl
By Alan Scherstuhl
The Son is about education, but it's not at all didactic. (It's an object lesson, with the emphasis on "object.") The story of a carpenter named Olivier (Dardenne axiom Olivier Gourmet) who finds himself teaching his trade to the teenage boy responsible for his own son's death, the movie manages to be both conceptual and visceral. Life's a soccer match in the world of the Dardennes. The smallest event can set off a brain-jarring tumult. Their trademark cut is a jump from one close-up to another, typically of the lead character rushing off with Alain Marcoen's handheld camera in hot pursuit. The Son opens mid-emergency, introducing the back of Olivier's neck as he bustles around his carpentry shop, barking directions and dealing with a malfunctioning power saw.
Such hectic activity scarcely abates when Olivier's ex-wife appears to inform him of her new pregnancy and impending remarriage. Their oblique, awkward conversation provides a sudden jolt of melodramatic back-story. Metaphors proliferate. The carpenter is dismayed by the synchronicity of her visit, which occurs the same morning that their son's killer, Francis (Morgan Marinne), who has been released after five years in juvenile prison, lands in his workshop.
Le Cercle Rouge
Written and directed by Jean-Pierre Melville
January 10 through 23, at Film Forum
Written and directed by Fred Kelemen
January 9 and 11, at Anthology Film Archives
The Dardennes made documentaries for 20 years before breaking into fiction with La Promesse and Rosetta. Devoid of mood music and tricky lighting, their rough-and-ready method has affinities to Dogme and is, at times, even more confrontational. Establishing shots are infrequent. Compositions verge on the BrakhagianOlivier's blocky form framed to fill two-thirds of the foreground, with a sliver of street glimpsed beyond, sometimes refracted through the prism of his thick glasses. The Dardennes are never less than fascinated by the minutiae of physical labor, including the weight of simply being in the world. Olivier's bad back appears more of an issue than his broken heart.
The carpenter is shown to warily circle sullen Francis, who's unaware of their shared history, but the logic of this approach-avoidance is only gradually deduced. When I first saw The Son last spring at Cannes (where Gourmet won the prize for best actor), it seemed inferior to the estimable Rosetta in that the brothers' stampeding style offered little insight into their stolid protagonist's nature. I was wrong. On second viewing, it's apparent that the tumult mirrors Olivier's agitation. Because this brusque, unsmiling carpenter always seems to be thinking, the audience spends much of the movie wondering what's on his mindat one point, Olivier glimpses his murderous reflection in a rest room mirror and the realization dawns that he may be wondering too. (One of the movie's ongoing questions is the quality of a measured response.)
Like the Dardennes' camera, their story sneaks up on you. Honest craftsmen, the filmmakers construct their setup for sustained suspense. (Indeed, the visuals calm down once the essential conflict is solidly established.) Francis is unaware and ubiquitousjust as one would expect, given his role in the course of Olivier's life. Moreover, this diffident, yet eager, kid exists as something beyond the embodiment of Olivier's personal misery. As unsmiling and dogged as his reluctant mentor, Francis is a distinct, not particularly likable, but undeniably human, being. And, of course, in his stray-cat "innocence," Francis also presents Olivier with an opportunity to achieve grace.
Primal as its conflict is, some have found The Son a perversely withholding version of In the Bedroom. There's no gross catharsis, perhaps not even a law of the father. Abrupt enough to end their movie mid-gesture, the Dardennes are after a more profound revelation. For all its quasi-documentary materialism, The Son is ultimately a Christian allegory of one man's inchoate desire to return good for evil. The movie requires a measure of faith, and like a job well done, it repays that trust.
High priest of tough-guy mysticism, inventor of the attitudinous thriller associated with Godard, Tarantino, and Wong Kar-wai, the late Jean-Pierre Melville returns to us this week with the local premiere of the complete 140-minute version of his 1970 buddy-manhunt-caper cum crypto-western Le Cercle Rouge, presentedin a restored color printby his acolyte John Woo.
Prefaced by one of Melville's patented fake Buddhist quotes, Le Cercle Rouge is a work of leisurely development and tragic inevitabilityso formalized it seems natural for the criminals to wear jacket and tie as they waft through a posh, nocturnal Paris. (They actually seem less anachronistic now than two years after the barricades of '68.) The principal ballerinas in this dance of the professionals are the ex-con Corey (Alain Delon), the alcoholic ex-cop Jansen (Yves Montand), and the escaped prisoner Vogel (Gian Maria Volonté), loners all. The heist at the movie's center is choreographed like a commando raid or a bullfight, with the dapper, self-possessed Delon a grim matador in white gloves and a full face mask. Afterward, Jansen is willing to forgo his share of the loot; to participate in taking the Place Vendôme jewelry store is reward enough.
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