Nouvelle Vague

Zoey Deutch and Guillaume Marbeck

I found Richard Linklater's Nouvelle Vague to be a charming, frisky, and light on its feet tribute to the French New Wave. The film focuses on Jean-Luc Godard's struggle to direct his first feature, Breathless. The script, written by a cohort of writers, places Godard within the ferment of the Cahiers du Cinéma magazine in which Godard and his fellow critics (especially Truffaut, Chabrol, Rivette, and Rohmer) formulated la politiques des auteurs. That critical stance became known, in English, as the auteur theory which is somewhat of a misnomer. The auteur theory is not some all encompassing method for evaluating film, but, originally, was a championing of a more personal approach to commercial filmmaking. The auteur theory was a response to a the stultifying "tradition of quality" that dominated the French cinema and was represented by such figures as Marcel Carné, René Clément, Claude Autant-Lara, and Henri Clouzot. In response to this, the Cahiers critics championed European auteurs who they felt offered a more personal and less stuffy vision of cinema such as Renoir, Ophuls, Becker, and Tati. The Cahiers critics also championed Hollywood directors such as Hawks and Hitchcock long before they were recognized as artists in the English speaking world.

Nouvelle Vague does a good job of providing a glimpse into the Cahiers crowd before Godard began shooting Breathless. All of the characters are introduced by titles which proves to be a good shorthand method for introducing the film's large cast. The film also shows Godard following the advice of esteemed film veterans before making his debut. There are wonderful cameos by figures playing Cocteau, Bresson, Melville, and Roberto Rossellini all of whom were venerated by the Cahiers crowd. Linklater's choice of shooting in black and white captures the feel of early New Wave films without mimicking Godard's style. There are no jump cuts or irises like those employed by Godard in Breathless. The editing is brisk and ebullient, fitting for the story of a film which was shot guerrilla style in less than three weeks. 

A number of Linklater's films revolve around a group of individuals who band together due to a common bond: the stoners in Dazed and Confused, the outlaws in The Newton Boys or the jocks of Everybody Wants Some!!. The cast and crew of Breathless are another little band united in a common purpose in this paean to cinephilia. The crew all play their part even when befuddled by the more cryptic pronouncements of the director. Nouvelle Vague displays the crucial contributions of cinematographer Raoul Coutard (Matthieu Penchinat) whose grounded efforts often provided a counterbalance to Godard's airy fancies. The cast are uncanny in their likeness to their real life counterparts and there is no weak link among them. No one quite has the charisma of Belmondo, but Aubry Dullin beautifully personifies his relaxed physicality and bemused demeanor. Guillaume Marbeck captures the intelligence, insolence, and insularity of Godard. The film wisely elides some, but not all, of the less laudatory aspects of his character. We root for him despite his nature because he is young and struggling to be a voice in the world of cinema that is his true love. Best of all is Zoey Deutch who is an uncanny twin of Jean Seberg. Deutch ably displays the steely resolve that lurked beneath Seberg's corn fed Iowa exterior.

Misericordia

Félix Kysyl and Jacques Develay

Alain Guiraudie's Misericordia (in France Miséricorde) is a wry and unsettling murder mystery set in the southern French countryside. The film, scripted by Guiraudie, combines an assortment of elements: a polymorphously perverse figure cons and bedazzles a small circle of patsies with his erotic allure (Teorema), a homophilic attraction and its attendant passion leads to murder (any Patricia Highsmith adaptation) resulting in a corpse being comically underfoot amidst gorgeous fall foliage (The Trouble With Harry). Guiraudie populates his film with a motley array of characters, nearly all harboring a secret or two. Most interesting are a not too grieving widow (Catherine Frot), an equivocal cleric (Jacques Develay), and a protagonist who is the object of desire for all who gaze upon him (Félix Kysyl). Misericordia is nothing earth shaking in terms of film dynamics, but I appreciated its droll aplomb. 

The film is not a whodunit, the audience witnesses the killing, but a will he get away with it.  Misericordia presents a series of mostly two handed dialogues with a constant vying for dominance between the combatants. It is the dialogues between priest and the perp that best display the range of the film, meditations on crime and punishment that limn the heights and depth of the human soul. Ultimately, the film rejects the rationalism of Cartesian dualism to celebrate the comforts of the flesh, while we can. The film's priest offer a rationalization for his moral stand, as a French priest would, but it is eros more than agape that compels him. 

Cold Fish

Megumi Kagurazaka

Sion Sono's Cold Fish is the sickest film I've seen in some time, but I mean that in the nicest way possible. This 2010 film is easily the best of the half dozen or so of Sono's films that I've seen. Still, the copious amounts of gore and polymorphous perversity contained within the film will limit the appeal of this picture. Viewer beware! The film is quite lengthy at 144 minutes, but I was not bored or repelled for a moment. I appreciated the film's pitch black humor. The protagonist is a repressed loser named Shamato who owns a tropical fish store. He leads an uneasy existence with a wife named Taeko (Megumi Kagurazaka) and a daughter from a previous marriage named Mitsuko (Hikari Kajiwara), both of whom hold him in contempt. Mitsuko, acting out, is busted for shoplifting at a drug store. The proprietor of the drug store,  Murata (Denden), who not coincidentally also owns a swankier tropical fish store than Shamato's, seemingly takes a kindly interest in Mitsuko and offers her a job. He employs "troubled teens" at his fish store where they reside. Mitsuko, eager to leave home, accepts the job and soon joins the all female crew who attend to their duties in skimpy tees and short shorts. Murata and his mate Aiko (Asuko Kurosawa) ingratiate themselves into the lives of Shamato and his family. Murata eventually seducing Taeko and tricking Shamato into joining in his criminal escapades.

Eventually, Shamato grows sick of doing Murata's bidding and turns the tables on him. This is not a political film per se, but it does seem like a meditation on the Japanese national identity. Certainly, the misogyny of the film seems to be a comment on women's second class status in Japan. This fits within the film's depiction of domination and submission as the basis of relationships. The characters, all two dimensional, seem primarily motivated by lust and greed. Denden, a stand-up comedian, hectors those around him like a sinister Don Rickles. Murata alternately belittles and pep talks Shamato. It is a performance that is both appalling and tremendously entertaining. Sono constantly films Denden from below, looming over the browbeaten Shamato. What Sono is seeking to portray is a dog eat dog world predicated on consumption. We are constantly being treated to shots of creatures in their aquariums being fed smaller creatures for their survival. The world depicted in Cold Fish is an anti-humanist one in which homo sapiens have hardly evolved beyond their amphibious ancestors. 

Frankenstein

Oscar Isaac

I was largely knocked out by Guillermo del Toro's Frankenstein even though another go at this old chestnut was the last thing I desired to see. The film is impeccably cast and appointed, the rare sound spending of Netflix bucks. That said, the heroic cinematography of Dan Lausten and production design of Tamara Deverell is best suited to be enjoyed on a big screen, an opportunity not yet afforded the residents of my burg. I do admire the passion and scrupulousness that Mr. del Toro has applied to this project. Why though is this Frankenstein more effective than a similar del Toro Gothic fantasy, Crimson Peak, also lensed by Lausten. I think the primary reason is that the source material for Frankenstein provides a more interesting and involving plot.

Mary Wollstonecraft Godwin Shelley was a singular woman, the product of two brilliant and radical parents, whose life story is incredible gripping, even during her post-Percy period. Her Frankenstein holds up much better than any other Gothic novel of that period (1818). Del Toro wisely pares down the book, eliminating one of the novel's narrators and some superfluous supporting characters. In order to do all of the book, one would need the length of a mini-series. An attempt that is not half bad is the 1973 mini-series Frankenstein: The True Story, directed by Jack Smight and adapted by Christopher Isherwood and Don Bachardy. It enthralled me at twelve and is much better than the later Branagh film. Better than any previous version, del Toro captures the rebellious spirit of the Romantics. It is not just the matter of quoting PB Shelley and Lord Byron, though that helps, but it is also invoking the whiffs of Eros and Thanatos in their works and lives. Percy and Mary Shelley, after all, conducted their courtship by having clandestine midnight trysts beside her mother's grave. Del Toro also captures the Promethean rebelliousness of the Romantics. Oscar Isaac's Victor Frankenstein is all rock star magnetism and arrogance, but the audience knows he is heading for a fall. As he is warned by his benefactor, "I will be the eagle that feasts on your liver."

The director is true to Mrs. Shelley in his exploration of the religious themes in Frankenstein. The Romantics had rejected organized religion as calcified and contrary to nature. Nature is what made them fall into a swoon, so much so that one commentator wrote that they could "see the preternatural in a puddle." Under the sway of Kant's Critique of Pure Reason, published in 1781, they also rejected scientific rationalism as a false god and any version of Frankenstein needs to acknowledge this. Del Toro utilizes a host of religious iconography and graven images, his Catholic upbringing I suppose, to buttress this theme. Most important is an icon of St. Gabriel who young Victor prays to. The saint later appears to an older Victor in a recurring and flame filled dreams. I think this represents the false god of science that Victor thinks will lead him to salvation. Instead, the apparition is a daemon who leads men astray, like the fiery angel of Bryusov's Gothic novel. 

One curious change that del Toro has made to the material is to place the main action of the film in the 1850s. There is no obvious reason to do this, but the period better suits the film's steampunk goth look. Certainly, the massive, yet disused water works that serve as Victor's lab could not have been imagined in 1818. This timelessness helps the visual dynamism of the mise en scene. The director structures the film, excepting a wraparound prelude and coda, into two parts. The first is Victor's story with Oscar Isaac narrating. In the second part, the story shifts to the creature's point of view with Jacob Elordi narrating. Victor's section is mostly made up of baroque interiors, like his lab which is the film's ultimate cabinet of curiosities. These knotty interior set-ups remind me of William Holman Hunt's paintings in their combination of baroque symmetry with Christian allegory. The exteriors in the film, especially the Polar sequences, offers a different sort of tableaux: polar landscapes with the grandeur of Caspar David Friedrich. 

Jacob Elordi

No matter the visual execution of a film, it is the acting corps that brings it to life. Del Toro continues to improve in his ability to give time and space to his players. I especially appreciated the efforts of two old timers: Charles Dance with another of his dastardly Dads and David Bradley getting to play a nice guy for once as the blind man. Mia Goth is saddled with a rote role which too bladly proclaims the film's moral condemnation of Victor. Yet, she is marvelous, projecting both a corporeal and an ethereal presence that reminds me of Lillian Gish. I always found Mr. Isaacs to be a little cold, but that quality dovetails with his character here. He is both suitably magnetic and mad, an Elon Musk of the 19th Century. As the creature, Elordi is sublime, maybe a little too sublime. I was enthralled by his mellifluous narration, but thought he was too buff.

I have a few issues. The film is a tad long and the score was unmemorable, but those are about all of my caveats. The film balances well practical effects, especially the recycled cadavers, with CGI. Mary Shelley saw no need for ravening wolves, but I can see why del Toro wanted to pump up the film's action. Overall, Frankenstein strikes me as del Toro's best film since Pan's Labyrinth.

Holy Cow

Luna Garret and Clément Faveau

Louise Courvoisier's Holy Cow is a promising feature debut from the young French director. The French title for the film is Vingt Dieux or "twenty gods" which is a common French exclamation akin to "good heavens". The phrase derives from the more blasphemous "vain dieu" or vain god. Darn, as it were, instead of damn. The title Holy Cow points to the film's setting which is in Jura, a rural region of France near the Swiss border, which is the main dairy producing area in the country. The film focuses on two siblings, the young Claire (Luna Garret) and 18 year old Totone (Clément Faveau) who are left to fend for themselves after the sudden death of their father. The film is chiefly a coming of age drama about Totone coming to terms with his newfound responsibilities.

The film presents a warm portrait of the youth of the region, though it implies that they have few outlets for entertainment after a hard day's work on the farm. One of the few dark notes of the film is the prevalence of alcoholism displayed in the region. That said, the film's tone is somewhat naive. There are no social services to be found to help or nettle Totone. The only hint at the daily struggle to survive is a brief scene of Claire and Totone dumpster diving. The film's narrative is chiefly taken by two strands. The first is Totone's desire to follow in his father's footsteps by becoming a maker of artisanal cheese. Totone's clumsy attempts at learning his craft are somewhat comical, but he finds mentors to further his education about fromage.  

The other strain of the narrative concerns Totone's sentimental education. Totone falls in love with Marie-Lise (Maïwene Barthelemy), the no-nonsense daughter of the owner of a large dairy. Marie-Lise is a fount of practical knowledge and she gives Totone lessons in a wide range of subjects, from how to birth a calf to the finer points of cunnilingus. The whole cast is terrific, but it is Ms. Barthelemy who makes the most indelible impression. What impressed me the most about Holy Cow was Ms. Courvoisier's skill at pacing individual sequences. The film never drags or lags, but moves along in a spritely and engaging manner. It reminded me of Breaking Away, but Holy Cow is a superior film to that one about a rural community and a young man's coming of age.

Red Rose White Rose

Joan Chen and Winston Chao

Stanley Kwan's Red Rose White Rose is a rapturous romantic melodrama from 1994. The film is relatively faithful to its source, Eileen Chang's novella of the same name, which was first published in 1944. Zhen-Bao (Winston Chao) has returned to Shanghai after finishing his education in the UK. Hired by a trading company, Zhen-Bao takes a flat with an old classmate who has an attractive and very Western wife named Jiao-Rui (Joan Chen). The old friend leaves for a business trip and the inevitable occurs. 

The first half of the film is, largely, one long tryst. Kwan separates his lovers from the world as they plunge into each other. The camera remains tightly fixed on the duo. The current events of the era are faintly touched upon. Shanghai is evoked by artifice such as miniatures and hand painted backgrounds which play up the unreal, fairy tale nature of falling into romantic tumult. Christopher Doyle's cinematography utilizes inky black and blood orange to depict the flames of love. Jiao-Rui's apartment walls are studded with tiles, like the background of a Klimt, which shimmer just the right way thanks to Mr. Doyle. The use of titles, quoting the novella, further distances the audience from this folie à deux. When Jiao-Rui tells Zhen-Bao that she wants to ditch her husband and marry him, he recoils and retreats from her. He cannot sacrifice his career by marrying a divorcee, so he discards the red rose of passion for the white rose of marriage.

Veronica Yip

There is an ellipsis of time in the film and we see Zhen-Bao on his wedding day, embarking on an arranged marriage. His new wife, Yen Li (Veronica Yip), is the opposite of Jiao-Rui, in almost every way. She is unsophisticated and unresponsive in bed. She bears her husband a baby girl, her meddling mother-in-law prattles that the next one will be a boy, but their union is discordant. Zhen-Bao drowns himself in alcohol and frequents prostitutes. While the focus of the first half of the film is on the two lovers, the second half focuses on Zhen-Bao's family milieu with a foregrounding of his brother and mother. The palette of the cinematography changes also. Darkness is banished and the images are over saturated with light. Pastels are substituted for vivid primary colors, all the better to highlight the Western kitsch of the married couples' flat. The decor is festooned with cherubs and pink roses highlighting the cognitive dissonance of the menage.

Joan Chen's performance here is so ferocious that it convinced me that Hollywood misused her as an actress. Ms. Yip has less to do, mostly play sullen, but is equally expressive. Inexpressive is what Mr. Chao is, he reminded me of Gregory Peck, but this serves to bolster a film about the transience of male desire. The film ends with Zhen-Bao vowing to keep to the straight and narrow, but I note a trace of mild irony with the pat ending of this under seen masterpiece.

 

The Miracle Woman

Barbara Stanwyck

Frank Capra's The Miracle Woman is an uneven, yet ultimately effective 1931 drama. It reunites Capra with Barbara Stanwyck who were on a winning streak for Harry Cohn and Columbia Pictures. The picture was based on a 1927 play, entitled Bless You Sister, by John Meehan and, significantly, future Capra collaborator Robert Riskin. The material was adapted by Jo Swerling, and functions as a critique of evangelism, equating it with  sports, carnivals, medicine shows, and the like. The main inspiration for the play was evangelist Aimee Semple McPherson whose "disappearance" was the most sensational news story of 1926. 1927 was also the year Sinclair Lewis' Elmer Gantry. Since the birth of the Republic, each new spiritual awakening has elicited a backlash by America's writers and intellectuals. I just finished reading Hawthorne's superb The Blithedale Romance, published in 1852, which pictures American spiritualists as confidence men and scoundrels. The song has remained the same.

The picture opens with Stanwyck dressing down her father's congregation after they have defrocked him. This provides her an ideal opportunity to display her moxie and passion as an actress. A traveling carny named Hornsby(Sam Hardy) senses her charisma and takes her under his wing. Soon, she has been monikered "Sister Florence Fallon" and is ministering to a large congregation. Sister Fallon's show features stage lighting, a large band, a choir, and even caged lions. Shills are employed by Hornsby to fan the flames of the fanatics. The razzmatazz and ballyhoo employed by Hornsby brings lucrative rewards. The backstage aspect of The Miracle Woman is what is most saltily attractive about the picture. Hardy, in particular, excels at the rat-a-tat-tat dialogue that Riskin would become renowned for. Hardy amassed over eighty film credits before his premature death in 1935.

Stanwyck and David Manners

Unfortunately, the romantic angle of the picture nearly sinks it. David Manners, as a blind veteran named John Carson who wins the evangelist's heart and moves her towards redemption, is so stiff and lifeless he resembles a two ton anchor. Manners had some success playing Jonathan Harker in the 1931 hit Dracula, but his lack of affect would doom his career in films. The romantic ardor generated by Stanwyck and Manners is zilch. Manners was a stiff, but I'm not sure who could have redeemed this idiotic role. Carson wins over Stanwyck by employing racial epithets, a doll named Sambo, a toy clown that plays The Farmer in the Dell, and, most heinous of all, ventriloquism. The mind reels. 

However, there are moments of genius that redeem the picture. A good example is Capra's introduction of Carson: a four shot sequence briskly tossed off, but containing a trove of information about the character. Carson is seen in the background of the shot telling an apartment dweller, separated by a narrow alley from Carson's pad, to turn her radio, tuned to the Sister Fallon show, down. Then there is an overhead shot from the roof of Carson's apartment showing his head sticking out his window asking for quiet. The shot, which will be crucially repeated, shows how narrow the alley is separating Carson's building from his neighbor. The shot emphasizes the reduced circumstances of those living in these tenements. Capra then cuts to a head on shot of Carson closing the window. The next shot, from the inside of his apartment, shows Carson in profile with a Harvard pennant in the background. Why, the audience must ask, is an Ivy League grad living in penury. We soon learn that Carson was a World War 1 aviator who lost his sight in the conflict. He has struggled to make a living as a songwriter, but his failure compels him to attempt suicide. Capra repeats the overhead shot that now augurs doom. Instead, Carson hears Sister Fallon's voice urging her listeners to combat despair and never quit on life. The rest of the film pretty much writes itself. 

Stanwyck's diaphanous stage outfits are a wonder of Pre-Code cinema. The finale in which Sister Fallon's tabernacle is engulfed in a conflagration is a fiery ending that calls to mind the title of one of Capra's 1932 pictures: American Madness.

The Shrouds

Vincent Cassel and Diane Kruger            

David Cronenberg's The Shrouds opened in competition at Cannes in 2024, but struggled to find a distributor. It eventually had a cursory theatrical run in the US this year. Critics were largely receptive, but this is a very personal film best appreciated by diehard fans of the director and writer. I must say I am a diehard Cronenberg fan and believe The Shrouds is one of the best pictures of the year, but I'm sure it will appear inscrutable to some. For those seeking cinematic adrenalin, this film is a hard pass. However, as with Crimes of the Future, I savored Cronenberg's serene, yet passionate meditation on mortality. The film is funnier than almost all recent comedies and sexier than any erotic thriller in many a moon. Cronenberg's perversity does not align with mass taste, but it is his singularity that is his genius.

The Shrouds was inspired by the death of Cronenberg's wife and features Vincent Cassel (done up to look like the director) as a Cronenberg stand-in named Karsh. Karsh is an industrial filmmaker and entrepreneur who is bent on opening a chain of cemeteries named GraveTech. The company wraps corpses in the titular shrouds that enables video of the decaying corpse to be streamed on the screens on the tombstone and on your phone if you buy the app. Karsh is haunted, literally, by the death of his wife (Diane Kruger), Becca. The first image of the film is of her moldering body in a dream of Karsh's. In the dream, he is literally separated from her and screams. Cronenberg cuts to another nightmarish vision, with Karsh, mouth open again, writhing in his dentist's chair. His dentist tells him his mouth is in bad shape with the diagnosis being the effects of his grief. We are firmly in the body horror territory which Cronenberg mapped out under The Shape of Rage rubric in The Brood. Karsh is devoted to GraveTech not for wealth or fame, but because a perverse romantic obsession drives him; a self-reflexive admission from the auteur.

Vincent Cassel and Guy Pearce

Cronenberg has never been fully appreciated for his black humor. The first major sequence in The Shrouds is a prime example with Karsh involved in a disastrous blind date set up by his AI avatar, voiced by Ms. Kruger and appropriately named Honey. Karsh decides to host the date at his flagship cemetery which boasts a gourmet restaurant. I suppose a goth chick might find this setting romantic, but Karsh's date, deftly played by Jennifer Dale, is appalled, especially when Karsh takes her to the graveyard to see the video of Becca's skeleton. Karsh does attract other female attention, though. He has a barbed and charged relationship with Becca's sister, Terry, also played by Ms. Kruger. Then there is Soo-Min Szabo ( a superb Sandrine Holt), the blind wife of a Hungarian business man who is interested in opening a GraveTech franchise in Budapest. However, her designs on Karsh may be more sinister than romantic.

The picture changes tone, slightly, when Karsh discovers that his cemetery has been vandalized and that the video feeds of the corpses, including Becca's, have been highjacked by unknown hackers. The film morphs into a paranoid thriller wherein Karsh tries to find out what entities are bedeviling him. Terry, who has a conspiratorial slant, provides assistance and a bond between her and Karsh grows. They enlist Terry's ex, Maury (Guy Pearce), who is an expert computer programmer. Maury is a sullen nerd who has had previous fallings out with both Karsh and Terry, the latter characterizing Maury as a schmuck. However, Maury carries around grievances that makes him less than trustworthy. He functions within this film much as fellow computer nerd Harlan does in the cinematic twin to The Shrouds in the Cronenberg canon, Videodrome. In both films, unseen corporations or nation states coop cutting edge technology to usurp control over the bodies and minds of individuals. Who is there for Karsh to trust? His avatar Honey is certainly a dubious guide. Soo-Min is looking out for number one. Then there is the recurring dream Karsh has of Becca in which she seems to be incrementally losing body parts. Certainly, this bodes something sinister in store for Karsh.

I'm not going to spill the beans, but am going to say that I was enthralled with The Shrouds from beginning to end. The quality of the performances in the film is extremely accomplished, even the bit players. Guy Pearce has to tamp down his natural charisma to play a nerd, but he is effective and believable. I was astonished by the range displayed by Diane Kruger in her tripartite roles. I guess I tended to underrate her early in her career, probably because of her background in modeling, but I am now fully onboard the Kruger train. If the film has a flaw, it is Cassel. Like Léa Seydoux in Crimes of the Future, Cassel is saddled by Cronenberg with too many expository monologues for a thespian for who speaks English as a second language. That noted, Cassel is expert in using his body for the role. Cassel sculpts the outline of Karsh's body so that we see it as a steely carapace masking inner vulnerability.

The Shrouds was intended to be an episodic show for Netflix. Each episode would cover GraveTech franchises in separate countries enabling Cronenberg to explore an array of burial customs. Like David Lynch with Mulholland Drive, Cronenberg has fashioned fine cinematic wine from the sour grapes of television. 

Line of Demarcation

Jean Seberg and Maurice Ronet

Claude Chabrol's La Ligne de démarcation (Line of Demarcation) is a World War 2 French resistance drama that I found to be better than its reputation. It is one of those rare films that gets more interesting, deeper, and incisive as it goes along. The setting is a small French village bisected by a river which also serves as the line of demarcation between Vichy France and what remained, in 1942, of the German occupied French republic. We see various refugees, spies, and escapees from German terror try to cross into Vichy France during the course of the film. Eventually. the town's populace unites to help a wounded American. The film was based on a memoir by a hero of the Resistance named Gilbert Renault who published it under nom de plume, Colonel Rémy. The memoir has been streamlined and depersonalized by Chabrol with events conflated.

The initial section of the film drags, primarily because it focuses on the film's most lifeless characters, the aristocratic Count Pierre (Maurice Ronet) and his English born wife, Mary (Jean Seberg). Pierre has just come back from a hospital where he recovered from wounds received during the German conquest of France. He is crippled and embittered, epitomizing the defeatist attitude of Petain and his cohorts. Mary, however, has turned into the Mother Courage of the Resistance. So, their bisected union represents, all too baldly, the split between Vichy and the de Gaulle led Free French. The duo doesn't seem to be getting it on, as Pierre's limp signals, all too baldly, impotence. There is little the actors can do to animate these one dimensional placards, though Ms. Seberg seems to be acting only above the neck.

Happily, the other inhabitants of the village are well cast and memorably played. No performance descends into type, but transcends. I particularly enjoyed Daniel Gélin as the village doctor and Stéphane Audran as his wife who provide the film's only erotic spark. I also thought Jean-Louis Maury was delightfully slippery as a Gestapo fiend and Reinhard Kolldehoff was suitably ambivalent as a Wehrmacht major who tries to bond with Mary and Pierre in a tip of the chapeau to La Grande Illusion. 

Collective Solidarity

Line of Demarcation was initially targeted to be a Anthony Mann project, but Mann passed and recommended Chabrol to the producer. The film shoot, larger and more commercial than he was used to, was not a happy one for the director. However, I love the way Chabrol balances the demands of juggling over a dozen characters. I think the look he gives the 1966 film is not far from Mann's noir films, but with more of a gothic melodrama feel that is perfectly apt for a film about the horrors of Nazism. After Pierre sacrifices and redeems himself in the final reel, the town barman, a socialist and class opponent of Pierre, salutes him by leading the villagers in a rendition of La Marseillaise. This display of the collective solidarity of the French Resistance is a myth, given what we now know about the extent of collaboration during this period, but all countries need their own myths and Line of Demarcation is not a bad one.