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Shown at last year's New York Film Festival, Friday Night plays out in a cozy corner somewhere in the realm of gratified desire. The opening sequence evokes a magical Paris wherefor what could be days and nightsthirtysomething single woman Laure (Valérie Lemercier) packs up her possessions in anticipation of moving in with her lover. He only exists as the voice on an answering machine; Laure takes a bath, so we're intimate with her. Then she leaves her apartment, hops in her carloaded with her belongingsand drives out into a strike-produced traffic jam that has snarled the entire city.
"When I first saw [Roberto Rossellini's] Voyage in Italy," Jean-Luc Godard recalled in a recent interview, "I thought, 'with two characters in a car you can make a film.' If you want to, it can be done. [Claude] Lelouch did it. That doesn't mean it will be a good film." Closer to Lelouch's sappy A Man and a Woman than Rossellini's Voyage, although more minimalist than either, Friday Night is an impacted road romance. The movie is richer in metaphor than narrative drive. Laure, on the verge of surrendering her independence, is literally a woman in transitionshe even has a "For Sale" sign pasted to the window. The allegorical gridlock makes time stand still. The cars are isolating little worlds, but baby, it's cold outside. I doubt the expression TGIF has been incorporated into Franglais, but that anticipatory sentiment, at least in the Western world, is universal. Stage thus set, Laure's dream man Jean (Vincent Lindon) materializes out of the mistfollowed by the eyes of other womenwith the self-assured bravado of the hunk in a Coke commercial.
Directed by Ron Shelton
Written by Shelton & Robert Souza
Written and directed by John Cassavetes
June 19 through 29, at Anthology
A female voice on the radio news, which is exclusively devoted to the traffic jam, is advising people to pick up hitchhikers. Laure complies: Jean gets into her car, sinks into his seat, and promptly falls asleep. Laure dozes off tooin the first of several teasing and somewhat awkward hints that the whole adventure, or aspects of it, may be her reverie. Meanwhile, fights erupt on the street; Laure goes out into the night to make a phone call and imagines she's lost her car. Then, Jean takes over the driving and Friday Night shifts briefly into Hitchcockian adventure.
Denis's gently fragmented montage is impressionistic rather than analytical, suavely interpolating a few stray new wave-isms (star cameos, bits of animation, languid superimpositions). The movie is filled with close-ups, often shot with Agnès Godard's camera in motion; this is particularly so during the central although relatively discreet sex scene, staged like a solemn ritual. The sensuousness that characterized Denis's strongest films, Beau Travail and Nénette et Boni, is scarcely apparentit's striking that in both of these, sexual desire is more or less sublimated in tropical light and ecstatic film craft.
Glamorously hyper-ordinary, Lemercier and Lindon make a pleasant pair of mature lovers. Of course, from the filmmaker's perspective, the blank screen that is Lindon's Jean seems idealhe's projected as capable, tender, ardent, and a bit mysterious. (Emmanuèle Bernheim's original novel is written in the first person and, although there are no voice-overs, that's largely how the movie is filmed.) It's almost charmingly French that, as in the more middlebrow analogue An Affair of Love, the couple's first impulse after taking a room and making love is, as Jean exclaims, "Let's go to dinner!" The scene in the modest Italian place they find feels considerably longer than the one in their stuffy little cinq à sept and is characterized by at least as much gusto. Even the round little pizza pie smiles up at Laure, anticipating her own response when Saturday dawns and she skips slo-mo back to her life.
Based on a common, if not universal, erotic fantasy, Friday Night's slight exercise has naturally provoked an excess of feeling. In Film Comment, Amy Taubin called it "one of the sexiest films ever made" on its subject; writing in The New Yorker, David Denby found Friday Night "enraging" in its undue taciturnity. Indeed, while Taubin lavished praise on Denis's visual language, Denby disapprovingly noted that the most extensive comment Jean makes to Laure in the afterglow of their lovemaking is, "Your hand smells like rubber." It's all subjective; reading another sort of naturalism into the scene, I thought his observation was, "Your hand smells like a rubber."
Speaking of one-night stands, Ron Shelton's cheerfully inane Hollywood Homicide is an odd-couple policier matching a weary-looking veteran detective (Harrison Ford) with a dewy-eyed rookie (Josh Hartnett). The guys are working a hip-hop murder casefour rappers gunned down gangland style in an L.A. cluband the milieu allows for a large cast of young motormouths while enabling the running gag of Ford as an old Motown man. His cell phone rings the first few bars of "My Girl," while in a stab at the frolicsome, he plays "The Tracks of My Tears" and executes a stiff version of the skate.
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