redoubtable (w&d hazanavicius)

Michel Hazanavicius’ oeuvre is another love-letter to cinema. An adaptation of Anne Wiaszemsky’s book about her her marriage to Godard, it’s a playful, quasi-philosophical offering, an homage to Godard which seeks to negotiate his shade without being overcast by it. The issue is whether it succeeds or not. It may seem harsh to accuse a film, one that seeks to engage with the serious issues of the relationship between art, politics and the artist’s personal life, as being too entertaining, but that was probably my subjective reaction as the credits rolled. Hazanavicius is clearly having fun. There’s a scene where two actors discuss the merits of doing gratuitous nude scenes, whilst gratuitously in the nude; there are pastiches of La Chinoise, Le Mepris and presumably half a dozen other Godard films. As Godard and Wiaszemsky get more and more drawn into the politics of Paris 68, a succession of working class characters appear to ask the cineaste when he’s going to go back to making ‘marant’ films like A Bout de Souffle. All of which is tremendously entertaining, as is Louis Garrel’s lovely portrayal of the self-absorbed director, a quietly mocking performance which manages to still be respectful to Godard’s undoubted genius. However, this is a film which is seeking to address issues of some import; not least the whole structure which underpins the making of movies themselves. There’s plenty of relevance to a critique which questions the role of the market and the producer in the creation of cinema, the most expensive of art forms. It’s far from absurd that Godard grappled with these issues through the formation of the Dziga Vertov group, setting out to develop another method of cinematic creation, one which investigated the means of production. it’s to Hazanavicius’ credit that he puts all these issues on the table, but rather than engage with the issues, the film seems to use them as window-dressing. It’s not often that you come out of a film with the feeling that you loved it, but found it at the same time disappointing. My hunch is that I’d rather have hated it a little bit more; but found it more challenging. 

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A few extra notes on the film: lovely to have seen this homage to cinema with Mr C in the big screen of the Curzon Soho; disappointing that there were only about half a dozen more people for screening. Also: having done some cursory research it’s very curious to see some of the ways in which the film’s narrative chose to bend reality. Wiaszemsky had a small role in the film of Godard’s friend, Michel Cournot, whose Cannes screening’s cancellation becomes one of the central issues of the film. Additionally, the Italian film Wiaszemsky went to film, which is presented as the breaking point of their marriage, was not quite the soft-porn romp as presented by Redoubtable; in fact it was a very much of-its-time quasi-philosophical post-apocalyptic drama, far more redolent of the sixties than the Hazanavicius’ film suggests. 

the artist (w&d michel hazanavicius)

Leaving the cinema there was some debate over whether this is a reactionary film or not. In difficult times, the public takes succour in escapism. A film about silent cinema becomes an unlikely success as we look for anything to take our mind off recession and the collapse of Western capitalism. Into the breach steps a tale from a time when stars were stars and cinema was simpler.

I could buy this argument, but I’d like to offer the counterpoint. Hazanavicius’s film instead compels us to revisit a brief, golden time when the filmmaker’s message wasn’t sullied by language. When the image was paramount. It could almost be seen as a tribute to Derrida. We revisit a less forensic, cynical age, when delight in the image was still permitted to flourish and watching cinema was akin to stepping on the Moon. In this regard it would appear to have something in common with Scorsese’s Hugo, albeit The Artist is a more satisfying, witty film than the old master’s.

So I’m not convinced that The Artist, no matter how enjoyable, is all that escapist. It’s more of a paean to those things we have lost than an invitation to bask in the delights of what we have. Perhaps that’s why it’s weirdly moving. Valentine is a man out of time, losing touch with the world that is to come. A feeling that all of us are constantly condemned to repeat in this hyper-technological age, forever one step behind whatever is just about to emerge and turn the world around again.

I sometimes wonder what it must have been like to have lived a normal life before the invention of the printing press. If you didn’t speak Latin or live in a monastery. Were minds less rich for the lack of information? Did the intellect not sing its own song still in whatever form it took? The Artist reminds us that for all our so-called sophistication, we’re still susceptible to those things which have shaped human perception since before time began. Things such as the other and the heart. And dogs.