Day 2: September 9

Le Havre (Aki Kaurismäki) C-

Apparently ”pure pleasure” translates to utterly nonthreatening. Like a sitcom with the punchlines troweled over by unemphatic readings, except the gags are still predicated on characters’ bizarre lack of self-awareness. (Sample exchange: Marcel—“It’s good you’re thin; that way more people can fit into the car.” Marcel’s Wife (unironically)—“So you want more wives?”) Marcel may lack outright innocence, but bumbling good-heartedness does not complexity make. His is a redemption story with no weight, and as a result, obligatory crises like the Little Bob concert pop up, because, apparently, Kaurismäki likes him. (Why?) Monet’s moral trajectory, meanwhile, is telegraphed in his very first scene. Admittedly, I did enjoy Arletty’s hypersensitive, albeit low-key reaction to Marcel’s brief absence, a lovely, human moment that feels rather out of place here. An expertly paced and shot movie, Le Havre is punctuated by silences and spaces that, due to Kaurismäki’s insipid characterizations, express nothing. Slowness is there to distract us from how perfunctory everything is.

This Is Not a Film (Jafar Panahi and Mojtaba Mirtahmasb) B

At times defiant, at others resigned, and for a long stretch the loosest kind of home movie, This Is Not a Film had yet to get to me until its final moments. The gorgeous last 20 seconds or so provide both Panahi with a singular jolt of the documentary immediacy he craves, and the viewer with a most powerful reminder of Panahi’s condition. That said, it’s interesting to hear about his project in development, a loose adaptation of Chekhov’s “A Girl’s Notes,” and relevant that the screenplay, about a suppressed young female artist, observes its protagonist renounce art for a relationship. From the scenes read, the story emotions clash profoundly with Panahi’s own struggles. But he seems as aware as we are of the inherent sadness in talking up an unfilmed screenplay for festivals, and in fact his frustration is so pronounced and sudden that it appears a put-on for the camera, in contrast to his usual relaxed manner. But it still lends the not-film some much-needed reflexivity.

Porfirio (Alejandro Landes) B

The abjectness of Porfirio Ramirez’s performance rivals Keitel in Bad Lieutenant, key difference being that the former is a real person. For much of the film, Landes doesn’t depict so much as assume Porfirio’s humiliation: he has a mistress, job, and faithful caretaker, so what’s the deal? The stunningly expressive camerawork has rightfully earned Bresson comparisons: Porfirio breaking and retreading china recalls the Balthazar party smashup. It also creates a delicate dialogue with the screenplay, avoiding, like Porfirio himself, looking at the dog he says is the “only one who hasn’t betrayed me,” fearing the truth of that statement may change. The very nature of Porfirio’s movement makes him out of sync with his lover, but the movie can also be fearlessly sexy. (And even borderline sexist, although this is a striking context for booty shots.) The jolt of an ending has unfortunately become a staple for this sort of movie, but the epilogue is nicely abstract, bringing us back to our hero’s quiet, marginalized pain.

Chicken With Plums (Marjane Satrapi and Vincent Paronnaud) B-

Walked out of Persepolis, and almost did the same here, until the film’s center emerged as deeply intelligent; it’s a shame the details are shrill and bland. I’d now like to read Satrapi and Paronnaud’s graphic novels: their cinematic style, altogether too omnivorous in its range of influences, may benefit from a medium where things like the tone and rhythm with which actors speak are less important. This much is moving about Chicken With Plums: its ability to both understand and hold proper contempt for an unforgiving nature. But while there is a smidgen of Coens-like, winking exaggeration in the directors’ manner of overstatement, sometimes it is simple redundancy. Case in point: the lunch introducing Faranguisse to Parvine, in which we can only see the back of Nasser’s head. As expressive as Von Stroheim’s in Grand Illusion, Amalric’s neck alone says “I don’t love her”; we don’t need to hear it. Nasser’s music guru may tell him, “It’s not about technique! It’s about art!”—but it’s also about technique, guys.