Dassin's under-seen, under-valued THE LAW gets a week's run at BAMcinématek

Juicy is one word for THE LAW.  Rich, thick and ripe are a few more, should you need them.  Jules Dassin's melodrama-cum-comedy-of-manners takes place in a small Italian village located amongst some drop-dead gorgeous scenery that includes hills, architecture, art and ocean. (The grand, black-and-white cinematography is by Otello Martelli, whose work for Fellini is legendary.)  From the cooing pigeon that opens the film, waking up an Italian villager and then walking into the hands of the writer/director's son Joe -- who would later become a pop sensation in France, and whose voice and song you can hear on the wonderful soundtrack of Wes Anderson's The Darjeeling Limited -- the camera then climbs up and into the windows of a building that houses many of the characters we'll soon know.  Dassin, shown below (in a scene from Brute Force), doesn't miss a beat.  Though his movie is two hours long, there's not a moment that doesn't delight and fascinate.

It is difficult to imagine what this film must have looked like to staid, middle-class America when it was first released back in 1959 (and dubbed, under the title Where the Hot Wind Blows): I would  guess it seemed pretty much the epitome of shocking, sexual, sensuous, passionate European cinema.  Among its cast, which now looks like a veritable who's who -- Gina Lollobrigida (on poster, top, and two photos down), Marcello Mastroianni (at bottom), Yves Montand (below, left), Melina Mercouri (below, right), Pierre Brasseur and Paolo Stoppa --  only Lollobrigida was well known in the states at that time.  Montand had done The Wages of Fear six years previous, but his best-known work would begin the following year (starting with Let's Make Love, opposite Monroe) -- as would Mercouri's (Never on Sunday) and Mastroianni's (La Dolce Vita).  In retrospect, Dassin appears utterly prescient in this casting coup.

Really, though, it's the content that counts. Within the movie's first 20 minutes everything from power to religion, the police to the male prerogative -- and especially propriety -- takes a licking.  Most of this is done via Ms Lollobrigida, who has never been sexier or smarter on film.  Under-appreicated (except for her cleavage) in her own time, the actress seems pretty remarkable, a fine example of women's lib before the term even existed.

The film's title refers to a nasty game of derision and shaming played by the men of the village, although law and power, as seen via love and sex, is everywhere in the village and the movie. Probably the most wonderful thing about the film is how simultaneously funny and sexy it is, particularly in the scenes between Lollobrigida and Mastroianni.  What a pair!  And I'm not talking about that cleavage.

The Law, restored and re-released via Oscilloscope Laborator-
ies opened this past Wednesday for a week's run at the BAM
cinématek. You can find upcoming playdates for other cities here.

RESTREPO: the Hetherington/Junger American men-at-war documentary opens

In the annals of men-at-war documentaries (U.S.-in-the-middle-east variety), Tim Hetherington and Sebastian Junger's RESTREPO occupies an interesting place. More artful, though less off-the-cuff, than Gunner Palace or Severe Clear (even with the latter's odd mix of conflicting narrator and director viewpoints), it gives us, in just about 90 minutes, a fairly inclusive picture of men at modern warfare. Here is the getting ready, the going abroad, the combat (with its loss of life), working with the indigenous people (who might very well be the enemy), horsing around and challenging each other at wrestling, and a lot of talking -- about both what is happening at the urgent moment and in retrospect, with time having healed (or further opened) old wounds.  

This makes for a more complete picture than we generally get, and it goes a long way towards our understanding of the situation from the viewpoint of its U.S. participants (we never see the other side's combatants: it's all just bullets whizzing by).  Our boys shown here, unlike those in some other documentaries, never question why they are where they are or what they are doing.  (Or if they do, we don't see or hear this.)  But then, that's what good soldiers don't do: question. They carry out orders.  This situation allows Restrepo to be about as non-political as possible under the circumstances.  Viewers, in any case, will probably already have their own ideas, fairly well-fixed by now, about the ongoing war in Afghanistan.

Hetherington (above, right) and Junger (above, left) are smart to stick us into the thick of things quite soon.  However, unlike what I had already read about this film -- and so was consequently expecting almost non-stop "action" and fierce, you-are-there fighting -- the movie is leavened with a good deal of quiet talk and remembrance.

Early on, the Captain explains that, "Getting these people (the Afghans) to push out the Taliban, the insurgency, is to get them to basically push out their own family members, so this is going to be the hard part." Uh, yes.  And from what we see over the next hour and a half, he's so right. Later he explains that past mistakes made by former commanders will be expunged: "We're wiping the slate clean!"  Gosh, I wonder how you do that?  Especially when there's no time for the truth-and-reconciliation thing -- not that T&R always works that well, anyway (see Disgrace).

The short wrap-up information that closes the film indicates, without spelling this out in bold type, that nothing this company of men has done has achieved a damn thing, except the loss of life. That's about as political (or not) as the movie gets.  (I did not stay for the Q&A that took place with Mr. Junger after the FSLC's Human Rights Watch Festival screening, but I am told that he seemed to indicate that, while Iraq was certainly a folly, our presence in Afghanistan is good, if only for the fact that the death toll among Afghans is down since we've been there -- a conclusion that has drawn mixed reviews.)

Restrepo, by the way, is the name of the outpost created by the company soldiers at the top of hill where they can fire down or up at the hills above and below them (and can be fired upon from above and below, as well). The outpost is named for a medic whom we see briefly at the film's beginning, as he leaves for his deployment and jokes with his companions.  He is the first person in the company to be killed.

Another soldier, whom one of his comrades calls "the best of all of us," is also killed, as we watch during one of the attacks, and shocking as this is to see, even more so, in its way, are his comrades' responses to the death.  These are not so much the fear or anger we might expect but rather a kind of how-can-this-be-happening surprise, accompanied by such sorrow and pain in their cries that this sweeps away nearly everything else I have seen regarding death-in-combat.

Along the way, you may feel, as did I how difficult it must be for these soldiers to understand what is happening, let alone why.  The need for constant translation of language when speaking with the populace, not to mention an understanding of Afghan culture and religion -- so much is missing for our boys that a tiny detail like petting a local dog takes on incredible meaning as a primal give-and-take that actually works on some level.

After a mini firefight, "Next time you see that dude, take his head off!" notes one solider to another. Trouble is, they didn't "see that dude" in the first place.  They never seem to see their enemy. Nor do we.  During the event that most of the guys feel was their worst experience -- something called Operation Rock Avalanche -- the men go into the home of a dying family where they are simply unable to offer help of any sort.  This pains them -- and us.  And from where do these very odd looking dyed-red beards on the older men of the village come and what do they signify?  We don't learn this either, but we wonder briefly if we've wandered into some re-creation of the Kurosawa movie.

As for the homo-erotic, men-at-war element, there's a scene here that should call to mind a certain Camp Sullivan. Finally, we're just glad, as are the men, to depart Restrepo -- the movie and the outpost. We're left, as are the soldiers, with odd, disturbing memories.  We can shake them off; for the soldiers, you've got to wonder about PTS syndrome.

Restrepo, from National Geographic Entertainment, opens Friday, June 25, in New York City at the Angelika Film Center.  You can find upcoming playdates across much of our very large country here.

Resnais' WILD GRASS grows in limited release. What elegant, imaginative fun!

Don't look to master filmmaker Alain Resnais for conventionality. You just won''t find it, even if, for a moment or two, you think you have. Resnais has never met a cliché he does not enjoy upending, and in his new film WILD GRASS, he exults in offering us moments to approach, observe, get our minds around and then -- swoosh! -- he pulls the rug out from under us.  But the fall is such fun.

M. Resnais (at left) is a film director; he almost never writes the films he makes (his last adaptation was for Mélo in 1986). He is content to serve as a conduit for the story the writer has told, and this is why his style, if you can ever pin it down, will surely change with his next movie. If his track record moves up and down, the ups are many and most prominent, from Last Year at Marienbad, Muriel, Providence to some of his later larks like Not on the Lips and  Life Is a Bed of Roses. Even with his rare "down" (I Want to Go Home), you can yet applaud his trying something new.

The filmmaker is in lark mode once again, as he has been generally of late (except for Private Fears in Public Places) and as perhaps befits a gentleman of 88 years.  Though Wild Grass deals with some heavy stuff -- infidelity and stalking, mugging and robbery, love and death -- it's all handled so delicately, delightfully that you realize once more: It's the telling, not the tale, that creates  the mood. When was the last time a line like, "So you do love me!" caused an audience to explode with laughter?  You've heard of "the Lubitsch touch"; think of this as the Resnais goose.

What is so wonderful here is how the director is able to tap into our expectations about everything from love and shopping (above) to desire and dentistry (and movies!) and then upend these, making us consider them from a different angle, in a different light.  I won't go into plot, but even if I did, it wouldn't quite make sense -- though it will, somehow, as you are experiencing it.  

For his protagonists (other than we viewers: Resnais forces us into these roles and makes us do some heavy lifting, nowhere more than at the end of the film), the director offers two of France's currents icons: the gorgeously craggy-faced André Dussollier (above) and that frizzy, red-haired delight, Sabine Azéma (below). Both have worked often for the director (I believe Ms Azéma doubles as Mme. Resnais) and they ring their many changes like the pros they are, with flair and utter dedication.

In lesser roles appear some other terrific actors like Emmanuelle Devos as Sabine's dental partner, Anne Consigny (shown two photos below) as Dussolier's extremely understanding wife and Mathieu Amalric (below, right) as a helpful, interested police officer.  As good as the cast is -- very -- it's finally the director and his vision, taken from the novel L'Incident by Christian Gailly, as adapted for the screen by Alex Reval and Laurent Herbiet, that carries the day.  The reason is that Resnais is able to find proper visual equivalents for so many things -- incidents, moods, behaviors -- via his choice of edits, colors, lighting, sound. (The fine cinematography is by Eric Gautier.)

The filmmaker even -- and especially -- uses movies, and how we observe and process them, to makes some interesting points.  (There's a faux ending, and then an ending, and then... something more.)  But mainly Resnais explores the mystery of character and event -- and their collision.

What this director does, as I as am now beginning to understand, is what he has always done: force us to use our imaginations, just as he uses his.  At film's end occurs an odd incident that appears to have little relationship to anything that has gone before. Immediately after the screening that I and a friend attended, much of the exit/elevator/lobby conversation had to do with the meaning of this final incident.  I had my theory, as did others in the crowd. On the way to the subway, my friend suggested that the key to that moment lay in using "imagination," just as the child on-screen is doing.  I think he's right. See what you think.  But see this movie.

Wild Grass, via Sony Picture Classics, open Friday, June 25, in New York and on July 2 in Los Angeles, with a limited national rollout to follow.

All photos are from the film itself, except that of M. Resnais, 

which comes courtesy and copyright of AbacaPress.

Northside Film Fest: nice mix of movies in Williamsburg, Brooklyn. Take a look!

What the world needs now is not another film festival (unless its content helps plug a certain oil spill), but I have to say that an email I received yesterday sure piqued my interest.  First of all, this particular fest -- NORTHSIDE FILM, a new addition to the second annual Northside Festival opening this Thursday, June 24, and running through Sunday, June 27 -- takes place in Williamsburg, Brooklyn, land of the artsy, up-and-coming and a fun place to visit.  Second: its very well-chosen, interesting and quite varied film programs -- eight of them -- are the kind that TrustMovies would jump at the opportunity to view. Third: this is the kind of festival that you can easily get your head around, for it unfurls over only four days, with two evening programs on each of those days at 8 and 10 pm.

The price is appealing, too, as the tickets cost but $9 (and you don't have to be a senior or a seven-year-old to get that rate).  It's even cheaper ($6.25 per event) if you buy a Badge that entitles you to see all the movies. Plus, the venue itself sounds like fun: indieScreen, a new 100-capacity art-house-movie-theater-meets-music-venue-meets-restaurant-and-bar (whew!) opening on Kent Ave & 2nd St.

You can find the entire film program here, and the festival's music schedule here.  While all eight of the film events sound plenty good, several of them stand out, one of which I've already seen:  Todd Solondz's LIFE DURING WARTIME (to be released later this summer via IFC Films). 

Solondz -- of Welcome to the Dollhouse, Happiness, Storytelling and Palindromes -- is among America's best and most original filmmakers, and Life During Wartime finds him at the top of his form. In it, he takes characters from his earlier Happpiness and runs them through the wringer (gentle cycle) one more time.  If you haven't seen that earlier movie, don't fret: Wartime stands on its own just fine.  In fact, the first time I saw the film -- at last year's New York Film Festival -- I didn't even realize that the writer/director had recycled many of the same characters from his Happiness.  (Though the cast is completely different, the situation in the two films struck me as similar, but since I am not good at remembering the names of most movie characters, I didn't worry about it.)

Solondz's unique gift is to be able to create the oddest scenarios peopled with the strangest characters and make all this seem somehow appropriate, if not normal, so that soon we are laughing with, as well as at, his people while growing to love them and hoping for -- if not the best, at least something good. He achieves all this in even stronger fashion in this film, so I cannot recommend Life During Wartime strongly enough.  (Click here for my earlier review, from last year's New York Film Fest.)

 

THE FEAST OF STEPHEN, written and directed by James Franco, remains unseen by me, but as Mr. Franco is among our best and brightest young actors, anything and everything he does is worth tracking down, so far as I am concerned. And even if you hate his short film, its running time is only five minutes, so what can you lose? Making its debut at this year's Berlinale (winning the Best Short Film prize) and earlier this month at the CineVegas fest, "Feast" seems to divide audiences, while pouring more fuel on the "Is Franco gay?" question. But, as I always say: gay, straight, good, bad, only "the thing itself " counts.  So let's watch the film, and then we'll talk. On the same program is Jake Yuzna's OPEN, which won the Jury Prize at that Berlin fest. I know nothing about this 90-minute film, except what I learned from the IMDB: "Interweaving love stories centering on real individuals who are utilizing medicine to explore new frontiers of love, sex, and the human form."

Finally there is CENTURION, the new film from Neil Marshall, a writer/director whose work I very much like, who has earlier given us Dog Soldiers (the best werewolf movie since The Howling and/or An American Werewolf in London and the underrated Paris version) and Doomsday, a dark, slambang, knock-your-socks-off, post-apocalyptic thriller). Marshall's most popular movie, The Descent (he only co-produced its sequel) is my least favorite of his work, but I wouldn't miss this new one, in which it appears that he tackles the early days of the Roman/British connection in a kind of cross between Gladiator and The Last Legion.  Centurion stars the wonderfully versatile and sexy Michael Fassbender, whom I'd view in just about anything, plus an additional bunch of good actors.  Cuter than Crowe and every bit as good an actor, Fassbender probably lobs phones at hotel staff more gently, too.

So that's it, film fans. The next move is yours.   But I would definitely stick Northside Film on your list of things to do in the days to come. Again, here's the schedule. 

Ozu's I WAS BORN, BUT... gets restoration (new subtitles & score) and theatrical play

As someone who only knows some of Yasujiro Ozu's post-WWII work, sitting down to watch I WAS BORN, BUT..., a film of his from 1932, came as something of a surprise. America had already been making "talkies" for five years when this Ozu film appeared, and not bothering to read the press release (I usually save these for after the screening so that more of the element of  surprise enters the viewing experience), I simply sat down and watched. How charming, I thought, early on: He's beginning with a nod to the old silent films!  Uh... yeah.  This is a silent film.  According to the IMDB, it turns out that the Japanese master (shown below) made around 30 silents (which outnumber his "talking pictures" by a long shot), both short and full-length, over his 35-year film-making career.  (The writer/director was born in 1903 and died in 1963 on the same date, December 12.)

Once I got over my surprise, no matter. To begin with I Was Born, But... is remarkably well acted for a silent film, featuring much less "indication" on the part of its actors.  Usually, in silent movies, the players appear to have felt that they must make up for the lack of soundtrack by hitting us over the head with their intentions.  Not here. These performances are subtle and rich. As usual with the Ozu that I have seen, the conception is also rich.  While the film appears to be about the adjustment of the two young boys, below, in a family that moves, due to the father's employment, to a new town where the boys must attend a new school and make new friends (including a couple of bullies), Ozu is actually dealing with the inevitable event that often -- quietly or not -- rocks a family somewhere along the way: the point at which children come to terms with the fact that their parents are not saints or heroes but simply flawed people, and further, what happens to the parents when they realize that this has occurred.

When you think about it, many American films never show us anything like this event.  Father (and Mother) knows best, and when they finally go to their reward, well, gee, weren't they just wonderful, sublime folk?  Ozu helps us all grow up.  If  this description makes the movie sounds heavy, it's not.  There's plenty of delightful comedy along the way; laughs occur even in the heat of the big event.  And the film's look at prewar Japanese society proves fascinating -- something quite different from what I might have expected.

The restored print is lovely, and the subtitles, new with this restoration, are fine.  Only the recorded score -- that usual, silent-movie piano music -- finally begins to grate.  Maybe this won't bother you, but it's a problem I have always encountered while watching a full-length silent film: There's too little variation along the way in that tinkling Joplin-esque score.  (Why can't they, during the quieter moments, play Debussy or Satie?)  A minor grumble: This Ozu restoration is worth a hurrah.

I Was Born, But... opens in New York for a two-week run at the IFC Center on Friday, June 25, and will kick off IFC's Ozu retrospective, presented in the theater's ongoing Weekend Classics programs, staring this summer. (More information, the Center promises, will be forthcoming....)

It's Father's Day, so off to Vincenzo Natali's SPLICE we go!

Designed as the perfect, ironic fix for Father's Day (or even better, Mother's Day), as well as a great monster movie, Frankenstein film, and lesson on the do's and do not's of parenting, SPLICE is all of these and more -- a scary journey into transgressive behavior of many sorts, from the ethical to the sexual to the corporate.  So much better than the usual Hollywood horror show, though it bears the Warner Bros logo, it is a mostly Canadian production (remember Last Night?), and this, more than anything, I suspect, accounts for its being a tad too good for the megaplex crowd.  (Though I must say that the small audience with whom we saw it today at New York City's AMC Empire 25, seemed very appreciative.)

Directed and co-written (with Doug Taylor and Antoinette Terry Bryant) by Vincenzo Natali, at left, who earlier gave us Cube, Cypher and the charming "Quartier de la Madeleine" vampire segment of  Paris, je t'aime, Splice proves his most mainstream movie to date, in which he sacrifices neither intelligence nor style.  His pacing is terrific (the film runs 104 minutes but seems considerably shorter), his use of humor proves spare but pointed, his movie referencing is underplayed enough not to seem self-congratulatory, while his sex scenes employ a particularly disturbing combination of heat and danger. My daughter, who treated me to the film for Father's Day pronounced it better than she had expected, "more a real movie than just a horror film."

While the screenplay telescopes events, the life of its more-or-less "heroine," Dren, seems telescoped, too, so there is both art and justice in this approach. Natali has cornered a cast that is probably better than necessary to bring this all off, which only adds to the pleasure ahead.  Because Splice, as does much of the best science fiction, deals in questions of ethics and morals, needs and desires, its characters in particular must seem true and believable, and so this casting pays off quite well. 

Sarah Polley (above, left) brings an effective combination of intelligence, neediness, anger and pain to her role of the female half of a crack team of scientists.  She's maturing as an actress and a woman, and here, for the first time that I recall, there is little left of the girlish demeanor we used to see. Adrien Brody (above, right), via his usual intensity and nerdy sex appeal, while tamping down his sometimes-tendency toward Nic Cage-like craziness, plays Polley's other half.  They make a fine team. And, in the very interesting role of Dren is an actress new to me,  Delphine Chanéac (shown below).  She can't speak, but, boy, can she communicate.  Though helped by some small but spectacular special effects, Ms Chanéac is memorable indeed.

Splice -- which should strike a number of familiar chords in the minds and hearts of many parents -- probably won't remain in theaters much longer.  But if you have a fairly large, hi-def TV, the film should prove nearly as scary and every bit as thought-provoking and fun on your home screen.

Diane Kurys' SAGAN premieres at FIAF, as part of the Sylvie Testud festival

TrustMovies does not usually cover films that his readers will not be able to view, but he's making an exception for this one: SAGAN, the movie by Diane Kurys (shown below) about French literary sensation of the mid-20th-Century Françoise Sagan.  This writer (née Françoise Quoirez, but according to the film, her parents preferred that she use a pseudonym) was probably as "famous" -- if not important or talented -- as any to come out of France in the last 75 years, and for that reason alone (plus the fact that her death probably made this project a bit easier) a film biography was inevitable.

"Sagan," together with her new name, burst upon the French literary scene in 1954 at eighteen years of age with her first published novel Bonjour Tristesse. Today, a young lady of this age writing a novel that deals with sophisticated adults and/or teens partaking in sex and other delights would hardly cause a ripple in the waters of our culture. Mid-century, however, the chattering classes declared themselves shocked. (I'm trying to think of some current equivalent, but the only example I can come up with might be Lady Gaga -- who is decidedly non-literary and part of a culture that, in terms of intelligence, has deteriorated noticeably over fifty years and for which the ability to "market" has far surpassed the ability to produce art.)

Three of the writer's first six novels were made into American motion pictures, all with some minor degree of success: Preminger, ever with an eye on what might push the envelope, directed Bonjour Tristesse (released in April of 1958); Jean Negulesco directed the filmed version of  Sagan's next novel, A Certain Smile (which hit theaters just three months later and about which most Americans of a certain age will remember only Johnny Mathis crooning the title song); and finally Goodbye Again (1961), directed by Anatole Litvak from the Sagan novel Aimez-vous Brahms?, in which Ingrid Bergman, Yves Montand and Tony Perkins starred in a love triangle.

After these these films, Hollywood lost interest in Sagan's work, and America mostly did, too.  And why not? At that time both Hollywood and America were still unable to come to terms with anything close to the acceptance of humanity's foibles and needs, particularly where sex was concerned.  Yet in France the woman continued writing fiction, plays, and works both autobiographical and even biographical (on Bardot and Bernhardt!) until her death from a pulmonary embolism in 2002 -- at which point she had becomes something of a national icon/scandal. Known for her extravagant lifestyle, she was also addicted to a number of drugs along the way and was arrested for cocaine possession in the 1990s. (The film includes this, prefaced by a particularly witty scene that, according to Wikipedia, actually happened.)

Why would younger Americans want to learn about Sagan? (At this point only America's senior citizens or Francophiles among us know her and her work). Again, why not? She was a "celebrity," and I suspect, even in France, known as much for that status as for any other.  Her life was quite something, too -- at least what we see of it Ms Kurys' film, which (we're finally getting the point of this post) is actually a very good example of smart, paint-by-numbers, celebrity biography movie-making.  So good, in fact, is Sagan the movie -- beautifully filmed and acted, while ontelligently covering all the important bases (I went on Wikipedia to discover that Kurys includes nearly all the biographical points mentioned there, plus a lot more) -- that it rivals in skill and intelligence both of the two recent movies (Fontaine's and Kounen's) about Coco Chanel. (Chanel, of course, was a fashion icon, which trumps literature in our society every time.)

Sagan's story is full of easy living, good friends, a somewhat distant family (except for her brother) and a good deal of bi- and homosexuality, which would have made it much more shocking in its own day; even now the behavior on view seems surprisingly open for its time.  Co-written by Kurys, Claire Lemaréchal and Martine Moriconi, the screenplay is necessarily telescoped to fit a two-hour format. (There is also a two-part, three-hour version made for French television that undoubtedly featured more detail, but I found the shorter adaptation an acceptable biopic.)

We see Sagan grow from a clearly talented, questing  late-teenager to overnight success -- which she handles, as do most of those gifted with this curse, badly. But since bad behavior is usually more fun to observe that the saintly type, the movie is often captivating. And its screenplay is full of witty, ripe dialog that the actors chew on with great finesse. Kurys occasionally intersperses newsreel footage with her narrative, and this make a nice mix -- especially due to her choice of the actress who plays Sagan.

In Sylvie Testud, the French star to whom FIAF is devoting its June Cinema Tuesdays program, Ms Sagan comes to compelling life. The author was no great beauty and neither is Ms Testud, but the actress possesses such charisma and versatility that no matter what character she's playing, she brings it to complete life. And with a role as juicy as this one, we can expect -- and get -- the works.  Testud is a little old for a high-schooler, but she manages the youthful Sagan damn well, then goes on to adulthood, middle-age and senior citizen (the writer lived till nearly 70) with commitment, flair and some great aging make-up. In the photos above, with the young Testud on the left and the middle-aged Sagan on the right, I think you can note a similarity in everything from the steady gaze to the straight nose, thin lips and short hair.  It 's a good match, both looks- and temperament-wise.

She is surrounded by some first-class French actors, as well -- from the marvelous Jeanne Balibar, above, left, as fashion stylist Peggy Roche to Arielle Dombasle as her later partner Astrid (which I suspect is a stand-in for Annick Geille).  The men in her life -- dancer Jacques Chazot, writer Bernard Franks, and Guy Schoeller, a publisher whom she later marries, are played respectively (and quite well) by Pierre Palmade (below, right), Lionel Abelanski (below, center) and Denis Podalydès.  

All told, Sagan is such fun, bringing us up close and personal to a fascinating writer whom most of us know little about, that it's sad to think most Americans will never get the opportunity to see it.  It's a shame that it can't at least appear On-Demand or on DVD, where, given the American appetite for celebrity and scandal, not to mention an older audience who would welcome learning more about an author they knew and perhaps loved in their youth, and foreign film audiences who already have a soft spot for Balibar and Testud, the movie might very well pay for itself.  Are you listening, IFC?

A note to Testud-ophiles: There are only two more weeks left in the June Cinema Tuesday fest, which offers a chance to see this actress in the very interesting La France by Serge Bozon and Chantal Akerman's La Captive.  Click here for more details.

DVDebut: COLLAPSE -- watch this documentary and feel your scrotum tighten

That headline is directed, of course, at us guys. Women may be less effected by this unusual film only because many of them, being perhaps both more rational and more concerned and in-tune with what really matters, have come to similar withering conclusions about America's government and the current course of our country (and the rest of the world) as have the film's director (Chris Smith, shown below) and his subject/star, Michael Ruppert. The latter is one fascinating fellow (he comes from a family that has served the USA for decades) who was formerly a police officer in the L.A.P.D. until he renounced that career, after seeing way too much corruption around him locally, nationally, worldwide.  He's become a journalist/reporter/writer and a gadfly to our mainstream media, which he generally detests for its inability to do more than
parrot the party line.

Via his own newsletter that went out to his subscriber base, Ruppert predicted the current economic collapse long before it came to pass -- rather pointedly, too, with specific details (many of them on-the-mark) and timetable (off, by a little). Now, documentary and narrative filmmaker Smith (American Movie, The Yes Men, The Pool) has had a little sit-down chat with Ruppert, the result of which is called COLLAPSE, a film that should hold you riveted from pretty much its first moment through the last.  Once you've seen the documentary, you'll want to watch the DVD bonus feature "update," as well -- which takes you through the end of 2009.  All told, the film and that "update" comprise approximately 95 minutes.  It's brief time well (if frighteningly) spent.  And you may want to read Ruppert's book, on which the film is based, too.

Ruppert, shown above, does not appear to be the kind of guy who plays games.  If there's a distinct note of told-you-so pride in his presentation, well, why not?  He did tell us, and continues to tell us, although, "I don't debate any longer," he explains.  Indeed, there's no point.  This man is not just smart; he's educated and continually learning, and so it is very difficult to nay-say him on any point that I could find in his presentation -- from why our economy collapsed to how groups of families and friends may fare better in the trying times to come than will "rugged individualists."

Mr. Smith clearly likes Mr. Ruppert and is a fan (so, now, am I, as I suspect you will be, after viewing the film), and he simply holds his camera on his subject and lets the guy speak -- about history (his own and his country's), economics, credit, debt and more -- all of which Ruppert makes clear, if not simple. I know that there is so much to watch out there in movieland (hell, I'm usually giving you at least five films to see each week), and yes, we all love to be entertained.  But trust me here: Collapse is immensely entertaining -- if the acts of concentrating, thinking, connecting and learning can be considered entertainment.  I believe they can.  In fact, our brain actually craves this kind of thing, which we don't give it often enough.

There is even a moment in this unusual film in which Ruppert begins to choke up and must stop, briefly.  Is this to do with loss, perhaps of family?  We are not told.  But the moment makes the man, for all his knowledge and strength, quite human.  (In the "Bonus update," we learn he's a musician, too.)  I'd like to meet him someday -- if we're around long enough.

After a limited theatrical release, Collapse appeared on DVD this past Tuesday and is available now for sale or rental.