Film journals aside, the 50th anniversary of the nouvelle vague—which might have been celebrated last year for The 400 Blows or this year for Breathless—passed with remarkably little fanfare. No matter. The jumpy, self-aware, assertively "new" filmmaking pioneered by Godard and Truffaut is forever young. The two most influential directors of the past 15 years—Quentin Tarantino and Wong Kar-wai—are both hard-core neo–new wave. And so are many of their ambitious juniors. Take, for example, Mexican filmmaker Gerardo Naranjo.
For his third and most fully realized feature, I'm Gonna Explode, which had its local premiere at last year's New York Film Festival, thirtysomething Naranjo has transposed '60s Godard, and particularly Godard's ultra-romantic Pierrot le fou (1965), to an upper-middle-class exurb of his hometown Guanajuato. I'm Gonna Explode is the tragicomic tale of Roman and Maru, two disaffected high school kids (convincingly played by Juan Pablo de Santiago and Maria Deschamps) on the road to nowhere. Dense, funny, almost underground in its rawness (although shot in glamorous wide-screen), the movie opens with Roman's plaintive cri de coeur, "fucking sons of bitches," and ends—as it has to—in teenage obliteration.
Kicked out of boarding school for keeping a notebook of Columbine-style homicidal fantasies, Roman—the baby-faced son of a sleazy right-wing pol—introduces himself to his new classmates with a talent-show act called "See You in Hell." His dramatized mock suicide falls flat; the only appreciative audience member is the supremely sullen Maru, an attitudinous girl from a lower-middle-class family. It's love, with pretty-boy Roman as the object of Maru's cultivated disaffection. (Writing to an unseen friend, she exults that "he exists, but I also made him up.")
As played by Jean-Paul Belmondo, the eponymous hero of Pierrot le fou was a besotted, dashing sap—hopelessly gone for Anna Karina's captivating femme fatale. Naranjo's doomed outlaw-couple narrative has a lot less of Godard's masculine self-pity and a bit more nuanced sense of feminine psychology. Maru, who calls her new boyfriend "Romantico," envies his freedom. (It's Maru who provides the movie its title, an echo of Pierrot's fate.) And after the two kids team up for a staged abduction, she impulsively cuts her hair to match his.
Roman and Maru are less soul mates than accomplices, and their escape is actually something of a retreat. For most of the movie, they're hilariously camped out on Roman's parental roof, smoking, boozing, and barbecuing—while their distraught parents drink themselves into a stupor below. The adults in I'm Gonna Explode are necessarily clowns, but the adolescents have a certain verisimilitude. They're sulky, sexually skittish, and emotionally infantile. (Rather than Rebel Without a Cause, their road map might be Where the Wild Things Are.) Maru and Roman don't relate to each other so much as riff off each other's moods, their spontaneity matching the tone of this artfully slapdash film.
In his youth film Masculine Feminine, made a few months after Pierrot le fou, Godard articulated a particular form of new wave consciousness, introducing the notion of the "movie we secretly wanted to live." For any number of 16-year-olds, myself included, Pierrot le fou was that movie. What's inspiring about I'm Gonna Explode is the degree to which it both critiques and fulfills that secret desire. Naranjo might be pondering his own first (cinematic) love.
I'm Gonna Explode is certainly a studied work. But, although pillaging Pierrot le fou for scenes, lines, narrative techniques, and chunks of its Georges Delarue soundtrack, it feels consistently fresh. As Maru makes a fetish of her Romantico, I'm Gonna Explode derives its essential pathos not by fetishizing Pierrot le fou but by embracing that film's profoundly adolescent nature. Pierrot le fou isn't pastiched or travestied, but poignantly downsized. And therein lies the movie's authenticity: I'm Gonna Explode dramatizes even as it demonstrates the maxim that you can't go home again.
An elliptical narrative from Latin America's other cinematic powerhouse, Argentine filmmaker Lucretia Martel's third feature, The Headless Woman, opens next Wednesday for a two-week run at Film Forum.
Like I'm Gonna Explode, The Headless Woman was shown in last year's New York Film Festival, concerns a local haute bourgeoisie, is also set in the filmmaker's native region, and has a violent undercurrent. The perspective, however, is entirely different. Where I'm Gonna Explode is blithely free-associative, The Headless Woman is a dark comedy of disassociation—a movie in which the filmmaker uses her considerable skills to render a protagonist opaque even as the audience is compelled to share her mental state. (Martel's affinities are not to Godard and the new wave but to Antonioni and the metaphysical Michael Haneke of Caché.)
Distracted by her cell phone, Veró (María Onetto)—a well-off woman of a certain age—causes an automobile accident. It may be that she has run over a dog, although the two ghostly palm prints left on her driver's side window suggest something else. The subject of the movie is not the mystery of what happened, but rather how, or if, that mystery is resolved.
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