Rise Above

La fille du RER / The Girl on the Train
2009
France
Dir: André Téchiné

When Kelly Reichardt’s Wendy and Lucy came out, many people found it to be a rather telling portrait of the economic crash of 2008, though many others noted that the film was made (and even premiered) before that had happened. What was fascinating though about the label placed upon it was that the film concerned a woman in her mid-20s, played by Michelle Williams, while the media focused on those individuals who were being laid off from jobs they’d had for years. André Téchiné’s latest film, The Girl on the Train, is one of the first films to really address this age group, the students who graduated at a time when the work field was grim to say the least, with that in mind… though what’s most appealing about the film is that it never directly approaches the subject.

Twentysomething Jeanne (Émilie Dequenne) is a charming, naïve young woman who lives with her mother Louise (Catherine Deneuve) and spends most of her afternoons rollerblading through Paris. The first moment we see Louise, she’s sitting in front of a computer, looking online for jobs to which her daughter could apply. The scene comes across as rather benign, trivial moment within the film. Louise nags her daughter about finding a job, Jeanne agrees with her while trying to change the subject, Louise adds that the particular job she’s found is working for someone she used to know and offers to revise Jeanne’s résumé. At first, the scene appears to exist in order to establish the relationship between the mother and daughter, who otherwise carry on like the best of friends, but it also establishes a generational gap and places context for the film’s driving act, midway through the film.

For a filmmaker approaching 70, Téchiné has a rather astounding grasp of what it means to be young in this economy. Jeanne lives comfortably with her mother and finds distraction with her iPod and rollerblades, while still harboring a hint of shame about her unemployment, as she lies to Franck (Nicolas Duvauchelle), the boy who fancies her, about working at the job for which she interviewed and (evidently) didn’t get. The other significant youth in the film is the grandson of Samuel Bleistein (Michel Blanc), the lawyer whose secretarial position Jeanne applied for. Nathan’s (Jérémy Quaegebeur) situation is a bit different. He’s 13, approaching his bar mitzvah and consistently bossed around by his quarrelling, liberal parents (Ronit Elkabetz and Mathieu Demy) even though they happen to think their actions are in sync with their son’s wishes. Despite the age difference between Jeanne and Nathan, he’s the only one who seems to understand her situation, or at least the only one willing to lend an ear without imposing judgment upon her, another example of the miscommunications between generation.

On a purely superficial level, Téchiné cinematically captures personal exchanges via the Internet in a totally magnificent, compelling way. One of the biggest hurdles filmmakers have had to tackle in recent years is how to make an online conversation visually stimulating, and it’s an obstacle at which most have failed. Favoring online video chat over phone calls, Jeanne and Franck communicate with one another as most kids would, and without a word spoken, Téchiné manages to make their exchanges as dynamic, sexy and engaging as if they were talking back and forth in person. He even adds a surprising touch with Jeanne and Franck’s first sexual experience together happening through the video chat, which could be chalked up to avoiding the interference from Jeanne’s mother or Franck’s roommate or the comfort Jeanne feels through the impersonal medium, avoiding the likely awkwardness of first having sex with someone (or both, naturally).

Jeanne’s situation, the one that only Nathan is able to understand, is not the pangs of being young but specifically the film’s central act in which Jeanne lies to the police claiming to have been a victim of an anti-Semitic attack. Jeanne isn’t Jewish, but she’s living in a world (the film world, that is; I’m not sure whether this is true in the real one or not) where anti-Semitic attacks are on the rise. Her recognition of this fact is probably brought upon through Bleistein, a Jew who’s gained media attention for defending the victims in court. Téchiné spends a great deal of time building up to Jeanne’s act, diving the film into two chapters, “Les circonstances” (Circumstances) and “Les consequences” (Consequences). No single moment, even the apparent one, gives explanation to why Jeanne did what she did. It’s best understood as a product of realities of her life (obviously) and her struggle not to disappear. Jeanne’s entire relationship with Franck provides the biggest clue to this. On most levels, Franck doesn’t seem like the sort of guy Jeanne would normally be attracted to. He’s rough, streetwise and has a family history of crime… not to mention that Louise seems to disapprove of him (which may be one of his appeals, I’m not sure). What Jeanne finds appealing in Franck is the attention he gives her; he appears dedicated and loyal to her, even if he’s rather shady and manipulative otherwise.

Jeanne never really gives a reason for what she did, and it’s very possible that she isn’t even aware of it in the first place. She doesn’t appear to be a racist toward Jews or the North Africans she claimed attacked her. She seems oblivious to a lot of things, including her own motives. The choice of casting Dequenne as Jeanne doesn’t seem to be an accident. Jeanne shares quite a few similarities with the title character in Rosetta, the role Dequenne is famous for. Both young women feel the weight of the economy crushing them, and both have unorthodox (and morally grey) ways of surviving through it. While Rosetta’s situation is one of singularity, Jeanne’s however is a sentiment that’s, unfortunately, considerably widespread.

La fille du RER will hit DVD from Strand Releasing in the US on 18 May; it is already on DVD in Canada (from Mongrel Media) and France (from UGC Vidéo) and will be released theatrically in the UK in June.

Great Moments in Bad Cover Artwork

Inspired by the hideousness that is Lionsgate's cover for John Huston's The Dead, I've been tempted to possibly start a new feature on the blog which will highlight some of the worst DVD covers to surface in the twelve or so years the format has existed. Anyone who has ever worked at a video store or a movie theatre (as I have) could probably spot off at least five awful clichés that plague the world of poster and DVD artwork ("Floating Heads" being the most pervasive, irritating offender). If this does turn into a regular thing on my blog, expect themed posts, such as "Good Films, Bad Covers," "Did you hire your brother to put this together on Microsoft Paint?," "Ethnic Girl Shrugging Her Shoulders," "Offensive Photoshopping," "From Asia, With Love," "Just Because Julia Roberts' Head on a Model's Body Worked on the Poster for Pretty Woman Doesn't Mean It Does Here," as well as a few tributes to the studios who've consistently released ugly covers (Lionsgate, Sony, Koch Lorber, The Weinstein Company/Miramax) and to the gay direct-to-DVD market, who've never ceased to amaze me with their contributions to bad package art. So here are 10 dreadful examples of DVD cover "magic."

1. Repulsion, d. Roman Polanski, Koch Vision, as part of their "Cinema Sirens" Collection, 2001

Probably the most notorious of Koch's "Cinema Sirens" series, which also includes some former public domain flicks starring Sophia Loren, Claudia Cardinale, Ava Gardner, Jayne Mansfield, Elizabeth Taylor and Brigitte Bardot. With a simple cut and paste, Koch rendered Roman Polanski's terrifying, claustrophobic nightmare into a bargain-bin clunker. One of the worst parts about this cover is that they obviously recognized that what they were releasing was a quality motion picture ("Roman Polanski's psychological masterpiece"), but unfortunately the best way to sell it was with Catherine Deneuve's head on a blurry, purple with polka-dot bikini with matching towel(?) and high heels. Remember that great scene on the beach in Repulsion? Neither do I, but as any fashionable woman knows, never break out the bathing suit without your matching heels.

2. Beatific Vision, d. Sountru, Ariztical Entertainment, 2009

Oh boy! Keep in mind that Ariztical, who specialize in no-budget, nudity-filled gay flicks with the exception of the unfortunately popular Eating Out series and a pair of exceptional films from Tennessee-based filmmaker Morgan Jon Fox, has released Beatific Vision with two different covers: "Mainstream Art" (for Blockbuster, I'd assume) and "Alternative Art" (for the online buyers). What you see above is the "Mainstream Art" (the "Alternative Art" has a pair of male lovers locked in embrace with a sliver of an ass crack), and it is certainly the preferable of the two. The floating image is featured on both covers, but this version really caters to a tamer crowd, who enjoy wearing scarves that match Catherine Deneuve's bathing suit and dressing their pug in leather harnesses. If you were wondering what sort of people were still keeping Blockbuster in business, look no further.

3. Don Juan, d. Jacques Weber, Koch Lorber, 2005

It would seem a difficult task to make an aesthetically displeasing cover when you have Penélope Cruz and Emmanuelle Béart in period attire to work with, but leave it to Koch Lorber to prove me wrong. There's a storm brewing on the beach as Don Juan, played by the director, rides his horse across the tide, but as we all know, Ms. Cruz's beauty can part the most treacherous of cloud formations for the sun to shine upon her. Sadly, Ms. Béart's looks do not have the same powers. Both actresses' eyes are drawn outside of the frame, which would make sense as there's nothing striking going on inside of it, but I get the feeling Cruz's disheveled dress is revealing a little more than just her bare shoulders. Just look at the way Béart gazes downward, lips pouted and hair tussled. As if we needed any indication that what we want to be looking at can't be found in this cover.

4. Federal Protection, d. Anthony Hickox, Lions Gate, 2002

Hello, sexy! Glamourous girls with guns has always been an eye-catcher, but none have gotten my attention as strikingly as the headless, diamond-neckless-wearing lady in Federal Protection. Was this cocktail dress a part of Alexander McQueen's fall collection? I would die and go to fashion heaven if I ever saw Victoria Beckham in this number. With his lips puckered just a little bit and his hair slicked back, Armand Assante's face will be the wave of haute couture fashion, mark my words.

5. Poker in Bed [La signora gioca bene a scopa?], d. Giuliano Carnimeo, Televista, 2009

While one can find plenty of reasons to bitch about Televista, a company who issues unauthorized, VHS-to-bootleg-quality versions of Euro flicks, their cover artwork is especially noteworthy. While I typically wouldn't be the person to ask about which of Edwige Fenech's erotic farces are the best, I'd be silly not to at least mention Poker in Bed, which, if we're going by the cover, features a naughty scene in which Fenech wins the game with her Royal-Flush-from-between-the-legs trick. I also had no idea the Algerian-born actress was blessed with upside-down heart-shaped nipples, and that alone makes Poker in Bed a must-have!

6. Spooky House, d. William Sachs, Studio Works, 2003

Another possible theme for bad covers: Slumming Actors. Featuring not one, but two Oscar winners (Ben Kingsley and Mercedes Ruehl), Spooky House could never be mistaken for simply a bad DVD cover; it is refreshingly honest about everything you need to know about the film. Check out VideoDetective to see the official trailer and marvel at the accuracy in which the cover flaunts its state-of-the-art visual effects. If The Pagemaster was too animated for all you Ben Kingsley fans, Spooky House is the film for you. Side note: Someone needs to teach me how to rip scenes from movies off DVDs, because I searched far and wide, with no avail, for a clip of the theme song that was composed for this gem's title sequence.

7. Partner(s), d. Dave Diamond, Lions Gate, 2005

There's not much more to say about the cover for Partner(s). Just look at that photoshopping! Do you think Michael Ian Black is playing a homosexual? If a picture tells a thousand words, this one lays out the entire screenplay. Why would you even need to rent it? Is it just a coincidence that the film sort of shares a title with one of Hollywood's most notoriously homophobic ventures, which also has winning package art?

8. The Lost Steps [Los pasos perdidos], d. Manane Rodríguez, Agua Verde Audio Visual/TLA Releasing

This might be acceptable for the cover for a slideshow your cousin made for his parents' 50th anniversary, but not for anything else. In fact, I may even compliment your cousin if his skills had advanced to this level, but for a movie studio of any level, this shouldn't even suffice for the cover sheet of a press kit.

9. Five, d. Arch Oboler, Sony Pictures, as part of their Martini Movies, 2009

Thanks a lot Seven for making every film with a number that could maybe pass as a letter in the title the standard. While every single one of Sony's "Martini Movies" are the victims of heinous packaging, 5ive is my favorite offender. You've got a Mount Rushmore line-up of the actors, a screaming baby in one corner and a skeleton's face appearing in some sort of mushroom cloud explosion in the other. Mad props!

10. Thunderpants, d. Peter Hewitt, The Weinstein Company, 2007

Speechless.

The Decade List: Dancer in the Dark (2000)

Dancer in the Dark - dir. Lars von Trier

Though I've always argued the case against describing Catherine Breillat as a "provocateuse," I'd be fooling myself to do the same with Lars von Trier. For the past eight or so years, I've grappled with the notion of Dancer in the Dark as an elaborate snuff film or the blackest comedy you've ever seen. It's as emotionally and narratively manipulative as a film can get, with very little remorse in being so. Never before had I seen a film with so much disdain for its audience, and I couldn't help but feel shat upon, seeing all the people around me bursting into tears and feeling as if my stomach had been ripped into shreds. Seeing and feeling such things was, frankly, embarrassing, and for that, I despised Von Trier. Tremendously.

This hatred would subside four years later, though perhaps out of some fear of rekindling those feelings of embarrassment, it wouldn't be until last night that I would return to Dancer in the Dark. From its first moments following the overture, as Selma Ježková (Björk) rehearses for her role as Maria in a production of The Sound of Music, the entire film came swirling back to me, without the varying layers of defense and condemnation I'd been placing upon it for years. Dancer in the Dark became something entirely different in my head, but during those first moments, it was clear that I'd never really forgotten Dancer in the Dark, the film, the same way most people have never really forgotten The Sound of Music.

With numerous reports of spats on the set of the film, one can't help but wonder if von Trier was consciously turning Dancer in the Dark into his own personal Passion of Joan of Arc; he's been quoted as being a huge admirer of co-patriot Carl Theodor Dreyer. In Dancer in the Dark, Selma is von Trier's own Joan of Arc, and Björk, who swore off acting after making the film, is his Maria Falconetti, cinematically immortalized (Björk would later star in husband Matthew Barney's Drawing Restraint 9, though her appearance wouldn't be considered "acting" by any traditional definition). Björk's performance is truly marvelous. It's a thing of uncomfortable privacy, so excruciatingly vulnerable you're almost ashamed to be watching it. The experience of watching her becomes visually exemplified during the scene where Bill (David Morse) exploits Selma's blindness by pretending to leave her trailer and discovering the hiding spot for her money. The overwhelming guilt that arises in Bill, after stealing the money, can be felt within the spectator as it becomes less clear whether it's really Selma's tears, and not Björk's, streaming down her face.

Whether you prefer the term meta-musical or anti-musical, von Trier's approach to the musical is where his brutality can be best defended. "I used to dream I was in a musical, because in a musical, nothing dreadful ever happens," Selma tells the sympathetic prison guard (Siobhan Fallon); though it's never actually mentioned, one would have to imagine Selma named her son (Vladica Kostic) after Gene Kelly. Her love of musicals provides the imagined, visualized escape from Selma's harsh reality as von Trier constructs Dancer in the Dark as a musical negatively exposed, in which everything dreadful happens. The emotional and narrative manipulation he creates becomes less an act of a sadism than of faithfulness in invoking what would have to be the inverse of escapism.

Though he never grants his audience it, von Trier utilizes the idea of the musical as the highest form of cinematic escapism almost as a condolence to Selma/Björk. For Björk, the musical numbers, which don't begin until nearly forty minutes into the film, place her in the familiar, the home from which she came. Whether singing to Cathy (Catherine Deneuve), or Cvalda as Selma calls her, in the factory or dancing next to a moving train with Jeff (Peter Stormare), von Trier allows Björk to return to her element, away from the taxation and foreignness of acting. For Selma, the visual manifestation of her Busby Berkeley dreams yields the sympathetic relief she's never given in her own "reality." The dreams transform machinery into a symphony, the assembly line into a chorus line and turn poverty into beauty. By allowing there to always be someone to catch Selma when she falls during her dreams, von Trier bestows the compassion so many people claim he lacks onto Selma. Within these musical dreams, which transpire the same way the film's "reality" does, Selma/Björk can physically and metaphorically leave the film after singing the next-to-last song, the same point Selma would make her exit when seeing a musical in the theatre. The "film" is therefore allowed to "go on forever" for Selma, and for Björk, she can then be replaced by lifelike set piece that hangs from the noose as the camera goes "out of the roof" to Dancer in the Dark's end.

The suggestion that Dancer in the Dark exposes some compassion beneath von Trier's misanthropy (which, also, if often confused with misogyny) can be largely attributed to Björk. Dancer in the Dark is such a divisive film that the arguments I make for von Trier's compassion could be easily argued as being just the opposite, a simple, and very cruel, irony. However, Björk's performance is so transcendent that it allows that illusion to endure. Then again, maybe the strength of her performance serves as the punch line of a malevolent joke. But, I suppose, what is cinema if not the greatest durable illusion?

With: Björk, Catherine Deneuve, David Morse, Peter Stormare, Željko Ivanek, Cara Seymour, Vladica Kostic, Jean-Marc Barr, Vincent Paterson, Siobhan Fallon, Udo Kier, Stellan Skarsgård, Joel Grey
Screenplay: Lars von Trier
Cinematography: Robby Müller
Music: Björk
Country of Origin: Denmark/Netherlands/Germany/France/USA/UK/Sweden/Finland/Iceland/Norway
US Distributor: Fine Line Features/New Line

Premiere: 17 May 2000 (Cannes Film Festival)
US Premiere: 22 September 2000 (New York Film Festival)

Awards: Palme d'Or, Best Actress - Björk (Cannes); Best Film, Best Actress - Björk (European Film Awards); Best Foreign Film (Independent Spirit Awards); Best Foreign Film (Goya Awards, Spain)