Smart, engaging, funny, thoughtful, and doesn't collapse under its own weight. 4 out of 4.

There is a scene early on in Jesus of Montreal in which one of the characters performs a voiceover to a video depicting the Big Bang, and the inevitable end of the universe.  The presentation is both scientific and philosophical, and all in all, quite moving.  After he is done, the voice over artist turns to the sound technician and says, “Leaves a lot unanswered,” a question that not only addresses the cosmology at hand, but the nature of the human experience betwixt the beginning and the end.  In many ways, the scene sums up the film: curious, introspective, and reverent towards scientific explanations and religious experiences.

Religion has always been a controversial topic, and most films that challenge religion always stir up condemnation from the most faithful of the flock.  Ironically, the most protested films (Last Temptation of Christ, Dogma, Life of Brian) do not ridicule or demean faith, but dogma, interpretation and religious establishment.  Like those who came before and after him, writer and director Denys Arcand challenges the authority of the powers-that-be, but eschews smug cynicism for a receptiveness to faith in something more abstract than convention or doctrine would allow.

In an attempt to boost church attendance, Father Leclerc (Giles Pelletier) contacts respected underground actor Daniel (Lothaire Bluteau) to direct and star as Jesus in a modernized passion play at a Montreal basilica.  Daniel recruits four old actor friends to perform the play with him, and bases the play around historical accounts, theology and philosophy rather than staging a literal, and rather dry, reenactment straight from the Bible.

We get to see Daniel’s take on the Passion in its entirety about forty minutes into the film.  At one point in the play, it is stated that, “[Jesus’] miracles became more popular than his sermons,” which lies at the heart of the play, as well as the film.  The production denies the supernatural elements of Jesus’ life – including the virgin birth, Jesus’ miracles and the physical resurrection- and asserts that there is very little known about the actual life of Jesus; “disciples,” the actors say “embellish and lie.”  Instead, the play focuses on relaying the tenants of Jesus’ message: chief among them, “Seek your own salvation,” and “love one another.”

The play is a big hit with the public, who all seem genuinely moved by this new grasp on post-modern spirituality.  Church officials, on the other hand, are livid by what they deem as a blasphemous, atheistic rendering of the Passion, and having their authority questioned by a lowly troupe of actors does not help matters either.  Various members of the media take an interest in the performance as well, but are more motivated by the popularity the play generates and not what it has to say.

A modern, French-Canadian Jesus if I ever saw one

In a case of life imitating art, the film itself is something of a modern-day Passion play, with Daniel playing Christ on and off stage.  Daniel’s life also parallel’s Jesus’ life off stage: he butts heads with authority (the Church), resists temptations from nefarious forces (talent agents), and even drives out money collectors from a place of worship (in this case, advertising execs out of a theater).  Arcand skillfully retrofits the life of Jesus into a modern tale without being too obvious, and     Bluteau is perfect at exuding a calm, tranquil demeanor, and there is something very real and genuine in his actions and words, which is, perhaps, the most important element of the film; if Daniel is to be the real thing, he better make for a convincing Christ.

The film was, for obvious reasons, controversial in its day, and could still be considered so in this day of age.  Fundamentalist religious forces are still at work today, as are fundamentalist anti-theist movements, drawing battle lines, and clinging to warped concepts of deities (see: God and reason), leaving the rest of us to marvel (in confusion) in a polarized polemic between two groups who, frankly, resemble one another more than not.

As a student of history and a lapsed Catholic, Arcand has an intertwining view faith and reason, God and the universe, the natural and supernatural that is often glossed over by the media- crazy and rage make for the most entertaining stories- but has been around for centuries, if not even longer.  Arcand doubts the intentions of religious authority and remains skeptical over the supernatural, magic parts of the Bible, but there is an underlying respect, and even an acceptance, of some kind of humanistic spirituality.  There are no deux ex machinas or burning bushes in Jesus of Montreal, but the ideas, the sensations, the essence of what Daniel and his actors discover, and later go on to represent, are presented with a sense of wonder and transcendence, as if they have tapped into some kind of ground of being.

After the voiceover artist refers to the Big Bang presentation of being vague, the sound technician responds, “Yeah, on though it’s valid today, in five years it may change,” reflecting Arcand’s own gospel of hope, doubt, growth and faith.  Jesus of Montreal embodies these qualities, and does so by exploring religion in a very clever, unorthodox way that avoids being smug in its skepticism, or sanctimonious in its soul-searching.  On the one hand, it is a modern re-telling of Jesus, but in Montreal and in the Nineties, but on the other, it asks questions and makes revelations on religious thought that are profound and modern, all while providing a very smart, entertaining film that anyone can appreciate and respect.

Dazzling and Thrilling. 3 1/2 out of 4.

The 1980’s was a time when style superseded substance; music, fashion, television and film all seemed more concerned about the way they looked- which is does not mean they had nothing to say.  Granted, while some mediums of pop culture in this era were superficial, others used visuals to tell the story, but most were a little of both, and unabashedly so.

The “cinema du look” movement in France was a response to the French New Wave, in which filmmakers like Jean-Jacques Beineix, Luc Besson and Leos Carax favored experimenting with visual spectacle rather than with a film’s narrative.  The result was the creative use of primary colors, lighting and mise en scene to create a world that spoke for itself.  Amongst the first cinema du look films was Beineix’s Diva, which was made at the beginning of the decade and set the bar for the rest of the movement.

Diva begins with Jules (Frederic Andrei), a young delivery boy, attending an opera concert starring Cynthia Dawkins (Wilhelmenia Wiggins Fernandez), a diva who refuses to be recorded.  Jules manages to record the concert, but not for the sake of profit; an avid fan of opera, Jules simply wants to listen and experience the music on his own accord.  When Jules unknowingly receives a tape revealing the identity of a sex and drugs trafficker, Jules finds himself pursued by cops, thugs, and a pair of mysterious Taiwanese gentlemen.  Assuming this pursuit is a result of his illegal recording, Jules hides away in the back alleys and subways of Paris, comes across a pair of quirky fellow art lovers, and forms a touching relationship with his diva.

When one hears a terms like “style over substance,” or “spectacle over narrative,” most probably imagine a style of filmmaking akin to Michael Bay or Zack Snyder, whose allegiance to visuals over content manifests themselves as explosions and graphic novel recreations.  After watching a film like Diva one will realize that there is a considerable difference between spectacle over narrative, and spectacle over content.

Diva is an intensely beautiful film; each and every frame looks like a work of Romantic art, full of life, expression and vibrant colors.  So much of the film- the clothes, the vehicles, the buildings- is covered in primary colors.  The opening scene appropriately sets the color palette for the whole of the film, features Jules riding a yellow scooter, and wearing a red helmet and blue coat.  Furthermore, nearly every scene is lit in a way that makes these colors glow at all times.  Beineix’s use of color for the sake of spectacle is bold and unapologetic, but it is in no way sloppy or frivolous.

Beineix’s use of architecture is just as bold; virtually every setting in the film looks as though it could be an art deco exhibit.  Cinema du look often focused on sensitive, isolated youths who found their place in the underground, and Beineix’s romantic, new wave vision of the Parisian underground facilitates this overall tone perfectly.  Although the film’s underground look may appear a little too pop from time to time, it still manages to be undeniably enchanting.

Fortunately, Diva’s story does not suffer for the sake of spectacle, which may appear at odds for cinema du look’s “style over substance” philosophy.  While the film’s aesthetic beauty is the main attraction, Diva manages to display a multi-faceted and surprisingly thrilling story that justifies Beineix’s artistic preoccupations.  Granted, the transition between the first few acts are a bit abrupt, but they surprisingly come together just in time for the climax.  Beineix also does a great job casting the right actors for their respective roles; Fernandez was a real opera singer and sang her own songs in the film, and Andrei is perfect as the sweet, wide-eyed protagonist who just wants to listen to his favorite diva.  Yet it is Richard Bohringer who steals the show as the quietly eccentric Mr. Gorodish, who at times is a little too quirky (in one scene he is cooking breakfast wearing a snorkeling mask.  Just ‘cause.), but proves to be an intriguing man of action in the later half of the film.

At one point of Diva, the titular character discusses her approach to the music industry, saying, “Business should adapt to art, not the other way around.”  It is rare for a film with such reliance on the visual to also incorporate a real story.  Beneath Diva’s exterior lies a clear statement about the nature of art, and yet, though it does come close to becoming a bit silly now and then, it manages to have enough control over itself to avoid being too pretentious or involved (in other words, French).  Diva takes the Aesthetic philosophy of  “art for art’s sake” to heart by avoiding statements or preaching or politics; it is, simply, and engaging work of beauty.

Light-hearted fun, but not much else. 2.5 out of 4

“Micmacs” is a French word similar to “knick-knacks”, as in “a little of this, a little of that.”  In many ways, this describes Jean Pierre Jeunet’s latest film pretty well, as its made up of charming little ideas, yet doesn’t add up to anything all-too substantial.

Micmacs opens with Basil’s father killed by a French-made land mine in the Middle East in 1979.  Thirty years later, Basil (Dany Boon) is caught in the crossfire of between a criminal and the authorities, and is accidentally shot in the head.  He survives, but after his recovery Basil finds he is without a job, without a home, and still has the bullet lodged in his brain.

After a few months of living on the street, Basil is adopted by a family of misfits who salvage junk for a living, and exist in an oddball kind of harmony.  After discovering the two arms dealers inherently responsible for his father’s death and his own bullet, Basil and his makeshift family decide to pit the rival companies against each other.

A major element, perhaps the element of Micmacs is its dedication to Rube Goldberg-like machines, and it’s reliance on your everyday junk drawer treasures.  Like the wire hanger creations of the family’s resident handyman-artiste Tiny Pete (Michel Cremades), Micmacs is the assembly of many a great things long-since forgotten by the public.

This clockwork aesthetic is tailor-made for a director like Jeunet, whose attention to visual detail has enabled him to create masterpieces like City of Lost Children and Amelie.  Similar to the occupation of his characters, Jeunet too relies on the knick-knacks of cinematic history to supplement his vision.

Like many actors who have worked with Jeunet in the past, the stars of Micmacs each have a very unusual look about them, as if they were made in a factory somewhere in France with the sole purpose of starring in a Jeunet film.  The actorsin Micmacs are armed with very distinct facial features that enable them to speak more with their faces than with words.  As a result, the film sometimes plays out more like a silent film as all character development and interaction relies on over-exaggerated expressions and movements, which, frankly, wears a little thin from time to time.

Reverance to silent films aside, the film is still recognizably “Jeunet”, particularly in his trademark use of color and mise en scene.  Whereas his previous films have been more serious in tone, Micmacs is his most light, whimsical film to date.  In many ways, Micmacs looks like a product of fun.  And yet, therein lies Micmac’s greatest flaw: playtime hardly makes for great work.  Sure, the film looks fanciful and fantastic, but there is a prominent “who cares?” sentiment that lies beneath the surface of the filmgoer’s mind while watching the film.

The film has been referred to as a satire on the arms race, yet this mild political statement only appears as a mere undertone at the beginning and end of the film.  Of course, no one should blame Jeunet for not making a political movie, but the film’s opening scenes rely greatly on the widespread repercussions of violence, war and death.  Unfortunately, this sentiment disappears amidst the aesthetic clutter of Jeunet’s great, but possibly over-excited imagination.

Despite the cast of unusual characters, none of them succeed in really coming alive on screen.  When Basil’s new family is introduced, they each bear a unique, singular quirk, from super-matriarch Mama Chow (Yolande Moreau) to superfluous proverb spouting Remington (Omar Sy).  Unfortunately, these same quirks are revealed to be the only thing going for these characters, diminishing them to entertaining, but flat caricatures.  Only Jeunet-regular Dominique Pinon succeeds (somewhat) in bringing a little something extra to his character as the family’s resident human cannonball.

Micmacs plays out like the Rube Goldberg machines it features so often; lots of little things here and there are used to create darling shows that are as delightful as they are forgettable.  The film is by no means bad, but a masterpiece it is not.  At it’s best, Micmacs is undeniably charming, and at its worst, unremarkably so.  Nonetheless, it is still fun to watch.

Malik El Djebena (Tahar Rahim) is a nineteen-year-old Beur (formal term for an Arab immigrant in France) living on the streets of France when he is arrested and given a six-year sentence.  He has no family, no friends in or outside of prison and is illiterate.  Needless to say, he has all the odds stacked against him.

Soon, Malik is approached by the reigning Corsican gang within the prison (the Corsicans are to France as the Sicilians are to Italy) to kill Reyeb, another Arab inmate with vital information concerning some of their outside criminal activities.  Though reluctant to do so, Malik follows through with the task, and in return receives protection and low-level status, while still being treated like a dog by Cosriscan crime boss Cesar Luciani ( a wonderfully vicious Niels Arestrup).  From there, Malik learns to read, makes his own connections inside and outside of prison, and within his sentence, slowly becomes a reigning boss in his own makeshift crime family.

The film itself is a whopping two and a half hours, but director Jacques Audiard keeps Malik’s rise through the ranks of prison and the criminal world are engaging and unpredictable.  The atmosphere of prison is bleak enough to clash with the film’s main theme of rising to power, and the expected horrors of prison life still carry enough of an impact to shock us.

What sets this film apart from other crime films is how Audiard uses violence.  We expect people to get beaten in showers or stabbed in the mess halls, but Audiard keeps the violence to a minimum.  That kind of absence of the unexpected puts us in Malik’s place in that any horrible thing can happen at a moment’s notice.  When the violence happens though, it isn’t flashy or stylish, but savage and real; it resonates a kind of terror films of this nature seldom achieve.

Of course, credit must go to Tahar Rahim, who never fails to keep Malik a sympathetic character.  Whereas we watched Michael Corleone become a cold-hearted monster in The Godfather, Malik manages to maintain a kind of   innocence and vulnerability, regardless of his actions.  Although motivated by the classics (greed, success, and, later, respect), Malik’s acts of violence are more like acts of survival than Machiavellian tactics, and his attitude towards violence is never glorified satisfaction, and always have lasting effects on his conscience.

Malik’s rise from illiterate newbie to legit crime boss may sound like a stretch, but Audiard shows this path, not as a quick scheme of big moments, but as a slow succession of opportunity and choice.  Malik’s accumulation of power is impressive, but not so much that it’s unbelievable; one friend turns into a sizeable crew, one business deal turns into a profitable relationship and so forth.  Furthermore, Malik’s own personal growth is parallel to his professional one, as he learns to read, teaches himself the Corsican language (which is different from traditional French), and proves to be quick on his feet when it comes to handling a situation that doesn’t go according to plan.

One thing that may make this film difficult for American audiences to understand is the different European crime organizations.  For Europeans, the various Arab and Corsican mafias are as familiar to them as the Irish and Italian mafias are to us.  Because the film isn’t an American guide to Euro thugs, we are thrown into the intricate web of French organized crime while figuring out who’s who.  Although this makes particular plot points a bit difficult to follow, it doesn’t drown out the story.

A Prophet is described as someone who has contact with the outside world, often God or angels of sorts, and communicates the messages of said celestial beings to mere mortals.  This person is often celebrated, respected and revered as a result.  Although Malik is haunted by a ghostly Reyeb and has a single prophetic dream that grants him a mystical reputation with a particular gangster, the film’s title is not rooted in the supernatural.  Much of Malik’s power comes with the connections he forms with others while on leave (a conditional “parole for a day” arrangement within the prison system).  While charged to run errands and perform tasks for the Corsicans, Malik forms his own business deals and partners.  Like a prophet, Malik’s communication with the outside world brings him respect and power inside the sobering, penitent “real” world of prison.

Un Prophete is a wonderfully engaging gangster movie done with a light touch.  The film balances it’s violent subject matter with seamless storytelling, and as a result, the drugs, beatings, criminal politics and murder never once take away from the center of the story, which is simply one man’s transformation as a nobody into a very notable somebody.

Overall, 5 out of 5. Fantastique

Where does evil come from?  A complex question with a number of debatable answers, no doubt, but in Michael Haneke’s The White Ribbon, the answer is simple: home sweet home.

Recounting his experiences as a schoolteacher in a small German town just before World War One, an elderly German man (Ernst Jacobi, with Christian Friedel playing him as a younger man) tells the story of a series of strange events resulting in the injuries of a number of townspeople.  The town itself is, by first glance, a simple town of farmers, children, a town pastor, doctor and a Baron who owns the village; pretty standard for an early Twentieth century, pastoral community.

However, the sudden injury of the town doctor involving a hidden trip wire in the middle of the road casts an ominous shadow that looms over the tiny village.  Over the course of the year, children disappear and are found tied to trees in the nearby forest.  And as if things can’t get any worse, there are no clues or witnesses to speak of, with the exception of the children, who always appear, or possibly return, to the scene of the crime.

Shot in desaturated black and white, Haneke removes anything that could add any life to the environment, reflecting the barren indifference of the inhabitants of this eerie little town.  Furthermore, there is no musical score, sparse camera movement, and very conventional, unobtrusive editing.  One would think that the lack of style or flair would leave one bored, and in many cases they would be right.  In White Ribbon, however, this kind of silent filmmaking makes one a slave to their own imagination.  The camera often follows characters around tight corridors of houses and stops just short of a turn, lingering for a few moments in absolute silence, keeping the audience in a constant state of panic.  “What’s going on?”  “Where did he go?”  “Who else is in that house!?”

At the beginning of the film, the narrator states that some of the events in his story are hearsay, and that he did not witness them directly.  Furthermore, the narrator confesses that, due to the amount of time that has gone by since, his memory is a bit hazy.  As a result, there are a lot of loose ends and unanswered questions; it should be said that we never see these nefarious acts in action, nor do we find out just went on.  We are just as much in the dark about the whole event as our mild-mannered schoolteacher.

Haneke’s open-ended series of events forces us to tap ino the darkest recesses of our minds in order to fill in the blanks of this mystery, and for good reason: this film is not a German rendition of Children of the Corn.  Haneke said that this film explores, “the origin of every type of terrorism, be it political or religious [in] nature”, thus the film lingers not with the violence itself, but asks the question: where does such horrible, cruel indifference come from?

Fortunately, or unfortunately, the answer is not nature, but in nurture.  Despite the solemn, uber-strict religious sentiment that surrounds the village, the adults in the town are far from saintly, further than even the status quo.  The pastor, who’s seven children are seen as prominent figures within their own social circle, subjects his children to a number abuses that include tying them to their beds, skipped meals, and good old fashioned flogging (And what warrants such brutality? Showing up late for supper, mostly).  The most notable of these punishments is the use of a white ribbon, in which the symbolic purity derived by the color inversely reflects in impurity of its wearers.   What’s even more unsettling than the punishments themselves is the manner in which they are given; the good pastor delivers these acts of retribution in a manner of cruel self-righteousness that is equal parts cold and casual.

Children, if anything, are reflections of the culture that brought them up.  If children are treated with such an authoritative malice and mechanical apathy, one would have to wonder what the children will do with this identity bestowed upon them.  The implied result of this upbringing within the film is extreme, yes, but it should also be said that these children would have been in their thirties or early forties at the time of Hitler’s rise to power.  People today have often asked, how could an entire country be seduced by a cold, malicious monster?  Haneke gives you his answer.

Of course, the film is not about the Nazi party; it’s more than that.  If anything, this film serves as a kind of warning to the older generations that a child’s innocence makes them apt pupils of humanity, or what our own interpretations and exercises in said humanity may be.  What will become of today’s children?  The answer, of course, is what we show them, and then some.