Noir, c’est (film) noir

It’s been a slow couple of months here in Paris. For foreign––and thus, not American––film.

First there was that little traditional-annual-it-happens-every-year little strike-thing back in October and then in November and then in December when everyone went on strike, even the unemployed people and even the Pariscope, too (well actually, it was the distribution warehouse) and there was no way to access movie listings. And before you say: “Why didn’t you just buy l’Officiel du spectacle ?” Because I happen to hate their font. And they were on strike, anyway. At least their distribution warehouse was.

And before you say: “Why didn’t you just go online?” Ahem. I’m not that kind of girl. And besides, have you ever not read Descartes and still tried to navigate a French website? Sans connaître Descartes ?

And before you say: “Well, why didn’t you just go see something from Hollywood? They advertise those movies everywhere.” Ahem . . . helllooooo? Not that type of girl? Like, do you know how many boycotts I would have to lift? The boycotts I’ve blasted upon all the Hollywood movie people I boast about banning and blasting and boycotting? Think of all the red tape! Think of the neighbors! I mean, if they saw me––moi––trotting off to a Hollywood film––especially a contemporary, new, just-came-out-this-week Hollywood film . . . well, just what would they think of me next? I have a reputation to uphold, you know. C’est très compliqué.

I was beginning to get desperate. (It was, rassurez-vous, one of the only times I got desperate.) And then––voilà !––I got an idea. (I always, rassurez-vous, get ideas.) I could always watch foreign films chez moi. (There are always, je vous assure, foreign films chez moi.) French ones, and ones watched by the French, and old ones and young ones and ones somewhere in between. Ones that––if you’ve seen them––make you sound cool at French parties (or parties attended by the French). So if you’re in Paris? And it’s feeble fare in foreign film-land? And you wanna look cool at French-or-attended-by-the-French parties? Consider this your Get Out Of (Watching) Hollywood Films For Free Card…

La haine (1995)

Directly translated, it means “hate,” but in America they call it La Haine. The best thing that Mathieu Kassovitz has done (he directed it), with the exception of Amélie (he played the love interest). The best thing that Vincent Cassel has ever done, ever. (It was his first major role.) The best thing that Vincent Cassel will probably ever do. (Although he was pretty good in those Mésrine movies, but still.) (I’ve got a boycott on Natalie Portman, so I don’t know how he did in Black Swan.)

Rumor has it that La haine was actually a student film, but I don’t buy it because the budget came to 2,59 million euros. (Although maybe I’m just sheltered . . . I’ve never seen 2,59 million euros because I can never seem to bag trust-fund baby bourgeois boyfriends from the bourgeois trust-funded 16th.) (Sixteenth arrondissement of Paree, that is.) I don’t know if Kassovitz is a trust-fund baby, or if he’s from the 16th, and frankly, my dears, I don’t give a damn. Because this film kicks ass. Literally and figuratively and everything-ively in between.

Anyone who actually wants to know anything about the politics of Paris’s infamous cités stands to learn a lot from La haine. (And the suburban verlan slang rocks!) Basically, it’s a day in the lives of three racailles. (What? Don’t know what racailles are? Scum, mes amis.) (It’s what Sarko called suburban youth during the last election campaign.) (That’s cailles-ra en verlan.)

I won’t spoil it by supplying a spoiler, but I will tell you that it ends bad. You know––Chekhov-bad. His thing about when there’s a gun in the first act? How you know damn well what’s going to happen in the third? Yeah, that.

C’est arrivé près de chez vous

(Means: It Happened Close To Your Home)

(American Title: Man Bites Dog)

(1992)

O.K., so it’s Belgian, so you know it’s gonna be fucked up. So. So basically, it’s a faux documentary on a few days in the life of a serial killer-cum-philosopher-cum-poet, with a little “Striptease” and This Is Spinal Tap thrown in. This one actually did start out as a student film, and it’s the best thing Benoît Poelvoorde has ever done. (It was his first of many roles.) If nothing else, watch it for the love poem dedicated to pigeons. You’ll feel fucked up for laughing but you’ll laugh away anyway. I told you – it’s Belgian. C’est la vie.

La grande bouffe

(Original Title: La grande abbuffata, but the film’s actually in French)

(American Title: La Grande Bouffe)

(What it Means: The Big Eat)

(1973)

Dieting? Whittling down to a willowy waistline in time for swimsuit season? Well, this one’s for you!

O.K. … O.K. … Here goes: Four guys walk into a French country house––a judge, a TV exec, a pilot and a chef. Their goal? To commit suicide. Their modus operandi? Eating themselves to death. So it’s a good thing that there’s a chef––much classier than death by McDonald’s. (Or Death by Quick, the French equivalent.) (Which, by the way, was just found responsible for the hamburger-related death of a customer.)

Between all those plentiful meals, there are prostitutes and sex a-plenty, only all the food and fucking––and fucking with food––can’t be compared with that refrigerator scene in Nine 1/2 Weeks. (Mainly because Nine 1/2 Weeks was kinda sexy and mainly because La grande bouffe is kinda gross.) Worth watching just because it pissed so many people off. (People get so prickly about critiques of consumer societies!) And then there’s the hot Marcello Mastroianni . . . and Marcello Mastroianni’s hot car! (Brand? Model? Oh, please––like I know.) En plus, if you are stressed about slithering into that slinky swimsuit, this really is the film pour vous. Because after La grande bouffe? You won’t eat for at least a week.

Anything Starring Patrick Dewaere

(Means: Watch Anything Starring Patrick Dewaere)

(What That Means: I Mean It!)

(1947-1982)

This guy made 37 films in his 35 years on this planet, and while I haven’t seen all of them, I’ll bet he’s great in them all. Ever witnessed someone who’s doing something he was obviously meant to do? Yeah . . . that.

A ponderous Parisian recently (while lighting a Lucky) pondered: “You know what the French say about Dewaere? They say that if he was still alive, he would have surpassed Depardieu, largement.” Ponderous pull on the Lucky. Exhale. “I think that every time Gérard Depardieu takes himself for a god of cinéma, he thinks of Dewaere, and he calms down.”

Now. Now take Depardieu for what you want, but if you don’t get that he’s pretty good, you don’t get much. Dewaere, however? Much, much better. Forget Depardieu and DeNiro and Hoffman and all of their bullshit-overdone-hyperbolic-hyper-hyped Hollywood musings on their Methods . . . (Though it’s ironic that Dewaere did the French voice-over for Hoffman’s Ben Braddock in the French sortie of The Graduate . . . ) This guy’s the Real Thing. Or was the Real Thing: During lunch break, during the filming of Lelouch’s Édith et Marcel (the story of Édith Piaf and her lover, the boxer Marcel Cerdan . . . Dewaere was playing Cerdan . . . ) Dewaere shot himself with a gun given supposedly-generously by his (ex-best friend and his) wife’s lover, the cacophonous comic Coluche. Le résultat ? La merde. But his films certainly weren’t. My favorites? Les valseuses (Going Places) (1974), Adieu poulet (The French Detective) (1975), Préparez vos mouchoirs (Get Out Your Handkerchiefs) (1978) and Série noire (no American title) (1979). Sad there’s no American title, because this last one has him opposite the sexy-sultry-super-sexy Marie Trintingnant (she herself the victim of a violent death––though not self-imposed . . . she was killed by the heavy hands of her rock star/Jim Morrison wannabe/Noir Désir lead-singer lover . . .) (. . . but that’s another story . . . )

Un peu noir ? Un peu glauque ? Bah…oui, mes amis, bah…oui. What did you think, that love stories and film stories and cinéma stories ended happily? That’s the stuff of hyper-hype-hyped Hollywood. And I just told you how to get out of (watching) Hollywood for free, n’est-ce pas ?

First published on The New Vulgate in 2011. This version has been edited for length.