Length is a curious thing in films. I confess that one of the joys of films, as opposed to theatre, is that by and large they come in at under two hours. This figure seems somewhat arbitrary - whilst the epics of Gance or Griffiths might not fit too easily into the rhythms of modern life, there's no reason a film shouldn't be two and half hours long, even longer. But in practice, the balancing act of narrative development and audience engagement seems harder and harder to maintain the longer a movie stretches past the 120 minute mark, and it's rare to see a film that absorbs its audience so effectively that the extra time seems well spent, rather than an act of directorial indulgence.
Couscous makes it clear early on that it's a film of long scenes, long takes, length in general. The first half hour felt like it consisted of little more than half a dozen scenes, with a lengthy Sunday lunch taking up a good twenty minutes. The lunch takes place in the large household of a second generation French-Algerian family. The father of the family, Slimane, is not present, as he's separated from his wife, even though she prepares a large bowl of couscous for him which his sons take round. As in almost all the scenes in Couscous, the camera is encouraged by the director to linger, dwelling on the details of food, eating, conversation, (much of which gave the impression of being improvised), in a social realist manner. In this way Kechiche succeeds in getting his audience into the world of his characters, as they try to get by in the Mediterranean town they inhabit. The film has a languid pace, generating shrewd and often amusing observational moments, however it is clear from the first half that plot is not Kechiche's central concern.
Then, almost haphazardly, Couscous introduces its key storyline. Slimane uses his redundancy pay from the shipyard to buy a boat, and sets out on a Quixotic venture to turn it into a restaurant. The introduction of plot seems to work against the film's style, as it encourages the audience to believe the film is actually going somewhere. Struggling against bureaucratic opposition to his project, Slimane decides to hold a free launch night, which does not run smoothly. By the time the night begins, the film is already two hours into its running time. Unwilling to abandon his observational style, Kechiche films the launch in what feels like real time, thereby showing up the difference between film time and real time. A belly dance which lasts about five minutes probably doesn't feel too long in real time; in film time it threatens to become interminable. In the end it felt as though, even if Kechiche's film continued all night, there would still not be enough time for it to reach some kind of resolution, and sure enough, the ending comes with more than just one loose string flapping in the Mistral breeze.
Couscous successfully captures the feel of life for an immigrant family in Southern France. Cinema's ability to take the viewer into another world is one of the things that makes the medium such a remarkable artform. However, cinema is not like staring out of a train window in a foreign land for a couple of hours. It's also about the telling of stories, and the economy of storytelling. And as soon as the storyteller starts stretching their story beyond that vague two hour mark, there's a danger that the audience will start to wonder whether the reason for the protraction has more to do with the storyteller's fascination with their own process in the telling of the story, than the story itself.
Couscous makes it clear early on that it's a film of long scenes, long takes, length in general. The first half hour felt like it consisted of little more than half a dozen scenes, with a lengthy Sunday lunch taking up a good twenty minutes. The lunch takes place in the large household of a second generation French-Algerian family. The father of the family, Slimane, is not present, as he's separated from his wife, even though she prepares a large bowl of couscous for him which his sons take round. As in almost all the scenes in Couscous, the camera is encouraged by the director to linger, dwelling on the details of food, eating, conversation, (much of which gave the impression of being improvised), in a social realist manner. In this way Kechiche succeeds in getting his audience into the world of his characters, as they try to get by in the Mediterranean town they inhabit. The film has a languid pace, generating shrewd and often amusing observational moments, however it is clear from the first half that plot is not Kechiche's central concern.
Then, almost haphazardly, Couscous introduces its key storyline. Slimane uses his redundancy pay from the shipyard to buy a boat, and sets out on a Quixotic venture to turn it into a restaurant. The introduction of plot seems to work against the film's style, as it encourages the audience to believe the film is actually going somewhere. Struggling against bureaucratic opposition to his project, Slimane decides to hold a free launch night, which does not run smoothly. By the time the night begins, the film is already two hours into its running time. Unwilling to abandon his observational style, Kechiche films the launch in what feels like real time, thereby showing up the difference between film time and real time. A belly dance which lasts about five minutes probably doesn't feel too long in real time; in film time it threatens to become interminable. In the end it felt as though, even if Kechiche's film continued all night, there would still not be enough time for it to reach some kind of resolution, and sure enough, the ending comes with more than just one loose string flapping in the Mistral breeze.
Couscous successfully captures the feel of life for an immigrant family in Southern France. Cinema's ability to take the viewer into another world is one of the things that makes the medium such a remarkable artform. However, cinema is not like staring out of a train window in a foreign land for a couple of hours. It's also about the telling of stories, and the economy of storytelling. And as soon as the storyteller starts stretching their story beyond that vague two hour mark, there's a danger that the audience will start to wonder whether the reason for the protraction has more to do with the storyteller's fascination with their own process in the telling of the story, than the story itself.
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