This story is about a prostitute (Marion) and her loving friend, bricoleur and brothel mascot (Petit Louis) in post-WW2 Paris. He believes that he is not good enough for her, he mentions that he cannot make her smile (she does however love him in her own way, a fondness without rapture). But he has a selfless amour fou and so sets about finding a man who does make her smile (mainly is good looking and reckless enough to make her smile).
The story reminded me a lot of the work of Marguerite Duras, she also told tales of amour fou and desperate living. This movie, similar to her India Song, has a chorus of three women in the background, providing some narration / commentary / framing. It feels like an overt homage / reference to Duras.
Whilst I did enjoy the movie, it wasn't capable of achieving those Duras-ian heights. Leconte wasn't working with Delphine Seyrig and Michel Lonsdale, nor with a cinematographer like Pierre Lhomme. Also, Leconte is not a madman. The movie does not have that Duras / Genet level of absolute commitment to madness, it does not have the weird revelry of those who felt the scorpion's sting and just went with it / danced the tarantella, instead of looking for help. It is a mad tale that is not imbued enough with madness. It should be liquor-soaked and hallucinogenic, it is not. The calibre is not the same as with a masterpiece of urban madness such as Berlin Alexanderplatz.
It is not helped by very improbable in scene action moments.
Another jaw-dropping oversight is to create a movie set in a brothel in the transition from Occupation to Post War Paris, and just not mention that one of the main reasons they were closed was collaboration with the Nazis. It's a gobsmackingly large elephant in the room.
I did give the movie a good rating in the end, because I got a glimpse of something beautiful of something that was close to happening, of a near entrant to that obscure and overgrown part of the cemetery that holds the pantheon of despair-drenched mad love movies. Because of the shiver I had whenever that black Citroen turned up.
The story reminded me a lot of the work of Marguerite Duras, she also told tales of amour fou and desperate living. This movie, similar to her India Song, has a chorus of three women in the background, providing some narration / commentary / framing. It feels like an overt homage / reference to Duras.
Whilst I did enjoy the movie, it wasn't capable of achieving those Duras-ian heights. Leconte wasn't working with Delphine Seyrig and Michel Lonsdale, nor with a cinematographer like Pierre Lhomme. Also, Leconte is not a madman. The movie does not have that Duras / Genet level of absolute commitment to madness, it does not have the weird revelry of those who felt the scorpion's sting and just went with it / danced the tarantella, instead of looking for help. It is a mad tale that is not imbued enough with madness. It should be liquor-soaked and hallucinogenic, it is not. The calibre is not the same as with a masterpiece of urban madness such as Berlin Alexanderplatz.
It is not helped by very improbable in scene action moments.
Another jaw-dropping oversight is to create a movie set in a brothel in the transition from Occupation to Post War Paris, and just not mention that one of the main reasons they were closed was collaboration with the Nazis. It's a gobsmackingly large elephant in the room.
I did give the movie a good rating in the end, because I got a glimpse of something beautiful of something that was close to happening, of a near entrant to that obscure and overgrown part of the cemetery that holds the pantheon of despair-drenched mad love movies. Because of the shiver I had whenever that black Citroen turned up.