By Amy Nicholson
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Inspector Bellamy, the last movie Claude Chabrol finished before his death last month at 80, may only occupy a high middling position in the prolific directors 80-film oeuvre, but its loaded with the virtues that characterized his remarkable career. A serious entertainment that opens with the sound of someone whistling in the graveyard, its an ostensive crime film at once symmetrical, surprising, and knowingly cinephilic. Like the thrillers of Chabrols idol, Alfred Hitchcock, Bellamy would likely improve on a second viewingnot that I plan to give the ending away.
Pariss celebrated police chief Paul Bellamy (Gérard Depardieu, in his only picture for Chabrol) is introduced rusticating with wife Françoise (Marie Bunel) at their comfortably bourgeois country home in the Provençal town of Nîmes. But can a born sleuth ever truly take a vacation? The inspector is attempting to solve a crossword puzzle when hes interrupted by the presence of an agitated mystery man (Jacques Gamblin) lurking about the garden. Françoise vainly tries to protect her husbands privacy, but, once the mysterious stranger makes the unlikely confession that a recent car-crash fatality was in reality a sort of murder that he contrived in the service of a murky insurance scam, the game is afoot.
Chabrol said that he conceived Inspector Bellamy as a portrait of Depardieu andembodying the bluff, hearty Bellamy in every sensethe iconic actor has the confidence of his bulk; hes a walking, if perpetually winded, Rock of Gibraltar, and his reassuring presence provides the movie its ballast. Not unlike his obvious model, Georges Simenons Chief Inspector Maigret, Bellamy is a domestic cop whose professional nosiness is exceeded only by his fondness for lifes little pleasureseating, smoking, and patting Françoise on the rump. He drinks, too, especially after his neer-do-well kid brother, Jacques (Clovis Cornillac), shows upa dark, little cloud on the Mediterranean horizon.
Bellamy methodically addresses the mystery mans mysteriesinterviewing the guys middle-aged wife and young mistress, among other relevant parties, and empathizing with them all. In one of the movies running gags, Bellamy completely ignores Nîmess oft-referred-to-but-never-seen top cop; in another, the vacationing inspector is treated by the villagers as if he were . . . Gérard Depardieu. (Its a pleasure to be questioned by a star, one suspicious cutie purrs, while another young woman simply exclaims, Youre famous!) Bellamy, however, does not fool around. He entertains his wife with the particulars of the continuously evolving case, which, as in Hitchcock, involves transference of guiltits about a guy who wants to kill a guy who wants to die. Still, the movies real dramatic tension arises from Bellamys fraught, increasingly complicated relationship with Jacques.
For much of its 110 minutes, Inspector Bellamy is a pleasant, deceptively light divertissement in which the mutually resentful brothers spend considerable time arguing over nothing. The alert viewer may note, however, that Chabrol is carefully dropping clues that have less to do with the mystery mans plot than with the personality of the self-described Good Samaritan; perhaps because of his acknowledged soft spot for murderers, Bellamy decides to help the man out of his jam.
Though theres a massive joke thats casually tossed off as the movie builds to its ending, this is hardly Chabrols most overt comedy. Nor does Inspector Bellamyappear, at first glance, to be one of the filmmakers characteristically mordant assaults on bourgeois pretension. Of course, appearances can be deceptive. Its not for nothing that Chabrol ends with a quote from W.H. Audens At Last the Secret Is Out: There is always another storytheres more than meets the eye.
It was Chabrol, with fellow Cahiers du cinéma critic Eric Rohmer, who wrote the first serious book on Hitchcock, ending with the assertion that in Hitchcocks work, form does not embellish content, it creates it. Nowhere is this mastery of cinematic language more apparent than in Psycho, revived this week at Film Forum on the occasion of its golden anniversary.
This low-budget shocker would be Hitchcocks greatest hit, as well as the most innovative and influential Hollywood movie in the near 20 years since Citizen Kane (also scored by Bernard Herrman). However volcanic its effect on the media landscape, Psycho was an idea whose time had come. Two equally visceral (and poetic) horror filmsGeorges Franjus Eyes Without a Face and Michael Powells Peeping Tomwere also produced in 1960. Meanwhile, accepted motion-picture protocol was violated by a cluster of movies appearing around the same time as Psycho: Underground movies like Stan Brakhages Window Water Baby Moving and Jack Smiths Flaming Creatures pulverized existing taboos regarding the representation of the body; Godards Breathless and Kurosawas Yojimbo reveled in new attitudes toward crime and violence; Antonionis LAvventura, which confounded Cannes the same month Psycho upset the U.S., practiced a similar disorientation in doing away with its leading lady mid-movie.
Actually, nothing prepared anyone for the spectacle of a psychotic mommas boy living in a haunted mansion with the preserved cadaver of the woman he murdered 12 years before. Relocating horror to the heart of the American family, Psycho was blatantly ironic from beginning to end. Psycho epitomized Hitchcocks notion of directing audiences (rather than actors), and early viewers responded with screams and laughter; the mayhem caused one New York theater to call the cops and others to call for censorship. Yet, just as with Charlie Chaplin and The Godfather, the movies greatness was soon recognizedand not only by Cahiers du cinéma, Andrew Sarris, and the teenagers who, years before The Rocky Horror Picture Show, turned Psychos showings into rituals. Even Bosley Crowther, the ineffably square New York Times critic remembered mainly for his doomed campaign against Bonnie and Clyde, praised Psycho, put it on his 10 best list, and defended the movie against irate letter-writersnot just as entertainment, but as art.
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