Cannes 2015: the bittersweet memories of Desplechin’s “Golden Years”

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Some of my favourite films from last year – Whiplash, Tu Dors Nicole – were first screened at the 2014 Directors’ Fortnight (or Quinzaine des Réalisateurs, as my francophile self undoubtedly prefers), so it’s no wonder that I was especially looking forward to this year’s edition. As things go, I only managed to see one film – only one! – , but I’m so glad that it was Arnaud Desplechin’s latest, My Golden Years.

Described as a prequel to his 1996 My Sex Life…Or How I Got Into An Argument, the drama takes the form described in its original title, Trois Souvenirs de Ma Jeunesse (literally “three memories from my youth”). Mathieu Amalric, a regular with Desplechin, reprises his role as Paul Dedalus, but largely leaves the scene to Quentin Dolmaire, who plays his younger incarnation.

The film starts with Paul’s return to France after many years spent in Tajikistan. Stopped at the border because of an issue with his documents, he is held for questioning, which triggers his memories. He remembers moving in with his great aunt after some awful fights with his mother, and that’s the first chapter. He remembers his adventurous trip to Moscow with his then best friend, and the muted melancholy with which Paul recalls a friendship that has since dissolved is possibly one of the most delicate and moving moments in My Golden Years. More than anything though, he remembers Esther, the third and longest memory in this bittersweet drama.

As beautiful as she is insolent, Esther is so totally out of Paul’s reach that it’s only natural to see them ending up together. Watching their long-distance relationship, romantically sustained by countless letters, brief phone calls and monthly visits, is heart-wrenching, and we truly feel for the couple as they go through ups and downs, separations, crises and the occasional infidelities.

For a film so imbued in melancholy, My Golden Years is surprisingly funny. Esther’s cutting disdain for the other girls is as pungent as it is funny, and the hilarious skirt-dropping scene has quickly become one of the most talked about moments in the film. Paul’s younger brother’s peculiar take on religion is also a constant source of laughter.

My Golden Years is aided by a lively soundtrack and a vivid cinematography, which stop it (and us) from wallowing in nostalgia. On the contrary, the saturated colours, warm light and soft focus that pervades many of its scenes suggest the serenity that only comes once time has glossed over memories, hiding the most painful bits away.

The result is a poetic film about what could have been and what has been instead. Paul Dedalus acknowledges that his best days may be behind him, but seems to be at peace with that, choosing to savour those beautiful memories instead of giving in to self-pity. An almost cathartic journey that will make you smile as you wipe a tiny tear from your eye, it goes to Desplechin’s credit that he manages to achieve that without the slightest attempt at manipulating his audience. I might have not seen the other films in competition, but I know who I’m rooting for tonight. Bravo, et bonne chance.


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When thinking of Mon Roi (My King), two things come to mind: the first is the title of a novel by Lucia Etxebarria, Love, Prozac And Other Curiosities, the second is With or without you by U2 (and yes, I am aware I might have just lost you there). And yet, it is this two sentences that, especially if combined,  best summarise this film by Maïwenn, a drama starring Emmanuelle Bercot, Vincent Cassel and Louis Garrel that is in competition for the Palme D’Or at Cannes.
Having torn her knee ligament in a skiing accident, Tony (Bercot) is sent to a physiotherapy clinic in order to recover. There, a psychologist suggests that this accident might be an occasion to work on some unresolved issues in her past relationships – an idea backed with bizarre evidence such as the knee being an articulation that only bends backwards (suggesting the need to look back) and a pun that is lost in translation (genou, French for knee, sounds very similar to  je, nous – me, us – hence the focus on her love life). mon-roi Whether she is sold on it or not, Tony begins to reflect on her relationship with Georgio (Cassel), reliving all of its ups and downs (“ups and downs” being a major understatement). Maïwenn chooses to chronicle their ardent love story from their first meeting and proceed in a linear way, intercutting the flashbacks with scenes from the present day, which focus on Tony’s recovering process. At the beginning, Tony and Georgio really are the perfect couple – funny, successful and clearly head over heels in love – causing us to become invested in their relationship. This is probably due to My King‘s strongest suit, its cast: Bercot and Cassel share some real on-screen chemistry, and even Louis Garrel, who unsurprisingly plays the part of the impossibly cool, perennially unimpressed guy, later reveals a softer side as Tony’s protective brother. Their powerful performances go from amusing to quite moving, and that’s probably what makes this relatively banal story still compelling to watch. MonRoi My King is told entirely from Tony’s point of view, which is understandable, as it is her recollections we are seeing. However, she is almost always presented as the victim, and while it is undeniable that this is often the case, the film is missing some acknowledgement on her side of what she, too, might have done wrong. This seems slightly at odds with the idea that emotional healing can pass through physical recovery, and that she should see the her accident as the occasion to figure out unresolved issues in her past. But then again, the idea that she might be able to heal her emotional wounds in the same way she could recover the use of her knee seems quite shaky. Lasting just over two hours, My King doesn’t really give us the closure we need; on the contrary, the more the film progresses, the more it feels like every flashback is another episode in the seemingly never-ending soap opera that is their life. Will they make up, break up or grow up? The bets are open.​ This review was originally published on Nisimazine

Fifty shades of burgundy: Peter Strickland and the exquisite pain of unfulfilled potential

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Love it, hate it or “close your eyes and wish it away”-it (I personally oscillate between the last two), there is no denying that Fifty Shades of Grey has made BDSM – or rather, a grossly misrepresented version of it – the buzzword in our conversations, if not our bedrooms. BDSM became so hot it soon transpired that cinema would add fuel to the fire through the release of another BDSM film a week after Fifty Shades. Peter Strickland’s The Duke of Burgundy had me at the trailer: the lesbian dom-sub relationship between two lepidopterists looked full of promise, making me wish that it would be the film to set the record straight on non-vanilla relationships. The stunning visuals, out-of-time atmosphere and critical acclaim further piqued my interest. And of course, the fact that it was directed by Peter Strickland, of neo-giallo Berberian Sound Studio fame, only added to my curiosity. screen-shot-2015-01-23-at-1-15-11-pm Once at the cinema, the film seemed to deliver, starting from the meticulously curated opening titles, which go as far as to feature the fictional perfumes worn by the actors. The twist in the plot came twenty minutes in [spoiler alert!]: we find out that Cynthia is adopting the dom role to please her younger lover Evelyn, a natural-born sub. Her ice-cold allure and inflexible ways are revealed to be a carefully rehearsed act, for Cynthia is following cues penned by Evelyn herself. “Fantastic – I couldn’t help but think – finally a film that acknowledges the power relation between dom and sub, showing that it is the latter, with her license to stop everything by mentioning the safe word, who calls the shots in the relationship”. And indeed, Evelyn is the one in control, imagining scenarios and buying Cynthia outfits in order to fulfill her fantasies. Such premise is fascinating, and for the first half hour, everything is perfect: the deceitful first impression, the chemistry between the characters, the remote universe in which the events take place, a land seemingly populated only by women, all scholars in entomology. These are matched by a sensuous cinematography, which supports the plot in full by studiously lingering over the shiny silk of undergarments, the delicate soap bubbles, the brocade drapes that ask for fingers to be run through them, the creaky, stiff feel of leather and the way it moulds to the skin. dukeofburgundy However, I cannot help but feel that the film climaxes too quickly, with both plot and relationship slowly going downhill after the first half hour. While we understand that Evelyn asks Cynthia to go through the same lines again and again in the hope that they’ll become more ingrained and spontaneous, this becomes repetitive and confusing, for at times it is unclear whether we are witnessing a flashback or it’s just the umpteenth repetition. In any case, Evelyn’s tricks are to no avail, because Cynthia’s ideal relationship remains one where her lover wants to sleep in bed next to her rather than being tied and locked into a coffin-looking chest. Perhaps as a result of this routine, the two begin to drift apart, with Cynthia swapping her corsets for comfy PJ pants and Evelyn deserting the thalamus and getting caught polishing the boots of another woman (we don’t get to find out whether this is a codeword for more serious misconduct or an affront in itself). This introduces an interesting point for reflection: is denying a sub the punishment they long for an even better punishment, or is it just the beginning of a vicious circle? Unfortunately, Strickland doesn’t really engage with it. tumblr_nbjikx0C2U1qbtfr1o1_r2_500 Cinematography becomes similarly repetitive: the progressive zooming in on surfaces (the silky underwear, the warm suds, the brocade curtains…) to arouse our sense of touch is effective at first, but begins to “drag” when we notice it reoccurs over and over again in the same pattern and mode. An exception is represented by the collection of butterflies in their glass cases, which cover the walls of Cynthia’s office, being the subject of her studies. While as recurrent as the other objects, they represent not just a leitmotiv that gives the film its name (the Duke of Burgundy is a butterfly species), but also encompass its message. An object of exquisite cruelty, their colourful wings and pinned down abdomens suggest pleasure and pain, referring to the dynamics of Cynthia and Evelyn’s relationship but also to the douleur exquise of trying to pin down something that is unattainable. 75-2 And perhaps the relationship between the two is unattainable as well, and breaking point is reached when Cynthia chokes on her lines, unable to continue. Evelyn reacts sympathetically, saying something along the lines of “I know I’m putting you through a lot, I’m just strange that way”. End credits roll soon afterwards. We don’t know who will give in, or if the relationship will survive at all, and therefore lack a real sense of closure. But it is the banalisation of BDSM, reduced once more to mere kink, that I find most frustrating. The Duke of Burgundy lacks the matter of fact tone of Spader’s Secretary, the drama of Fassbinder’s Bitter Tears of Petra von Kant or the shock, repulsion and controversy generated by Cavani’s Night Porter. From a film based on such an interesting premise, this is a disappointing result and makes The Duke of Burgundy feel like yet another case of unfulfilled potential, with a tempting hot subject explored only superficially, as ticking boxes on a textbook. Foot fetish? Check. Creaking leather corset? Check. Anything that goes beyond common BDSM cliches? Sadly, not enough.