Till the landslide brought me down: Blue Jasmine (Woody Allen, 2013)

La belle, la raffinée socialite New-Yorkaise Jasmine French (Cate Blanchett) voit son monde basculer lorsque son mari Hal (Alec Baldwin), universellement célébré comme un talenteux investisseur immobilier, est démasqué. Bien loin d'être un spéculateur de génie, il est à la tête d'un véritable système de Ponzi qui a causé la ruine de nombreuses personnes dans l'entourage du couple, et dont le démantèlement réduit à néant le luxueux train de vie de son épouse. Dépressive, Jasmine achète sur un coup de tête un billet d'avion (en première classe tout de même, car on ne se refait pas si facilement) et débarque chez sa sœur Ginger (Sally Hawkins) à San Francisco. 

Enfin, quand je dis "sa sœur" - "Ma demi-sœur", ne peut s'empêcher de rectifier Jasmine, y compris devant les quidams (voisine d'accoudoir dans l'avion, chauffeur de taxi) devant qui elle déverse inlassablement le récit plus qu'à moitié fantaisiste de sa vie. Comme si, même face à de parfaits inconnus qui s'en fichent éperdument, elle voulait préserver les apparences, se draper dans les lambeaux de sa splendeur évanouie, et marquer que, bon, tout de même, elle n'était pas si étroitement apparentée que cela aux occupants de ce boui-boui où elle vient chercher un peu de repos (comme naguère elle se rendait au spa). "Tu pourrais faire mieux", ne cesse-t-elle de répéter à Ginger, fût-ce au sujet de son appartement ou à celui de son mec, le macho gominé Chili (Bobby Cannavale) - sans que l'on sache vraiment si Jasmine a conscience de la violence monstrueuse du jugement de valeur contenu dans ces paroles, ou si elle essaie sincèrement (mais maladroitement) de pousser sa sœur à plus d'ambition dans ses choix. Sans que l'on sache non plus si elle réalise l'indécence d'asséner un tel conseil à celle à qui une précédente tentative de "faire mieux" a déjà coûté si cher - puisque l'ex-mari de Ginger a tout perdu à cause des investissements recommandés par celui de Jasmine.

Si défaite soit-elle par l'abus de pilules et d'alcool, si paumée semble-t-elle être entre nécessité de faire quelque chose de sa vie (quelque chose de rémunérateur, s'entend) et name-dropping hautain destiné à tenir le commun des mortel à distance, Jasmine est-elle si innocente que cela de l'escroquerie commise par Hal - enfermée dans sa bulle couleur champagne, n'a-t-elle rien vu venir? ou s'est-elle accommodée, par confort, d'une version de la vérité qui lui permettait de ne pas se remettre en question? La réponse se fait jour progressivement alors que Jasmine se trouve un nouveau compagnon doré sur tranche, et ne peut s'empêcher de maquiller ce qu'elle lui livre de son passé...

Il y a beaucoup de Gena Rowlands dans la Jasmine qu'incarne superbement Cate Blanchett (une actrice que j'adore et que je me réjouissais de retrouver chez Woody Allen, lequel n'est jamais aussi bon que lorsqu'il trouve, comme ici, des interprètes à la hauteur). Certes, ce serait une Gena en tailleur Chanel et qui porterait constamment ses lunettes de soleil Dior en serre-tête - mais il y a indéniablement un peu de la frénésie alcoolisée de la Myrtle Gordon d'Opening night, un peu de la lente dissolution psychique de la Mabel d'Une femme sous influence, dans la manière dont elle plante le personnage. De Myrtle, Jasmine a aussi le tempérament d'actrice souveraine et névrosée, arc-boutée sur la nécessité de jouer sa vie avec panache quand bien même son public n'en serait pas dupe. Regarder la vérité en face équivaudrait à une défaite - car dès lors le réel aurait prise sur elle, brisant l'enchantement. Elle ne se laisse d'autre choix que de se réinventer perpétuellement, rejetant comme une peau morte les conséquences de ses actes.

Loving you isn't the right thing to do: The furies (Anthony Mann, 1950)

 La version française de cet article est disponible ici.

Some remote place in rural Texas, where the only things that can earn respect from both people and animals are the hand that tames them and the willpower that breaks them. T.C. Jeffords (Walter Huston) is very much the local deity, a Zeus by turns irascible or patronizing, but whose craving for more lands to rule over leads to near-bankruptcy. It is obvious that his son is unable to fill his (rather large) boots but fortunately for the family estate of "The furies", his daughter Vance (Barbara Stanwyck) is more than up to the job. Indeed, Vance is both "The furies" ' shadow manager and her late, delicate mother's body double in T.C.'s worshipping heart, if not elsewhere - and by that I really mean that their relationship screams of latent incest. Like father like daughter - so much so that both of them would rather crush their opponent and risk self-destruction in the process, than surrender. This quite primitive line of thinking is pushed to its most absurd when they come to fight each other over their respective love interests.   

How could Vengeance and Destruction not be part of life at "The furies", if only because of the ranch's name? Little by little, more or less directly, each of the persons who could have brought T.C. and Vance back to their senses will end up being destroyed as a result of their dispute. Flo (Judith Anderson), the distinguished lady who was engaged to T.C., is disfigured by Vance, who sees no other way to prevent her soon-to-be mother-in-law from taking control of "The furies". It is also likely that the young woman could not stand the idea of T.C. having fallen for someone so civilized and educated, and therefore so unlike the rough and tough Vance herself. A childhood friend (and not-so-secret admirer) of Vance and the leader of a clan of Mexican squatters refusing to leave the land of their ancestors, the gentle Juan Herrera (Gilbert Roland) will be hanged on T.C.'s order under a false pretense. This execution is as much a form of retaliation for the attack against Flo as it is a convenient way to eliminate Vance's only genuine support.

Unsurprisingly, Vance is attracted to Rip Darrow (Wendell Corey, who clearly does not play in the same league as his two acting monsters co-stars), who grew up in a context of unrelenting hatred for T.C. as the man who triggered his father's decline. It makes sense that the man that Vance chooses to love is the only one who is compelled to oppose T.C.'s domination over the region - and as such, she is confident that he is also the one man T.C. could never approve of as his daughter's husband.

Both Jeffords father and daughter are above the idea of compassion, and negociating never was, and never is, an option for them. All they ever do is wipe their enemies out - and why should they do otherwise when their sheer brutality gets them what they want? Their relationship is reminiscent of that among great predators: the challenging of the old by the young to take over the pack is a rite of passage, an integral part of the life cycle. Just like wolves, T.C. and Vance can't help getting at each other's throat - but even so their innate violence is what make them so much alike, and so far apart from the rest. Ultimately, they will always get back together to lick each other's wounds.

The furies looks very much like a transposition of Wuthering Heights in Texas: all the locations have this distinctive gothic flavor enhanced by a strongly contrasted photography and ominous landscapes and the relationships between the characters are as loud as un thunderstorm over Emily Brontë's moors. The casting of Judith Anderson, who played the part of Mrs Danvers in Rebecca (a movie that was itself adapted from a book capitalizing on gothic imagery), only adds to this eerie atmosphere.

You're sitting there with so much more: Les garçons et Guillaume, à table! (Guillaume Gallienne, 2013)

J'adore Guillaume Gallienne. 

J'avais, comme tout le monde, remarqué son génie pour incarner des personnages féminins à la foi crédibles (pas limités à des caricatures, donc) et drôlement bien croqués. Dans ses fameux Bonus de Guillaume, programmes courts diffusés dans l'émission "Le Grand Journal" sur Canal +, il réinventait les essais ou les scènes coupées de Peau d'âne, Harry Potter, Brokeback Mountain ou encore Mary Poppins, faisant souvent intervenir au passage son personnage récurrent de Gabrielle Chateckel, agent artistique impérieuse et stressée. J'avais également noté avec surprise que Gallienne était mentionné au générique comme étant "sociétaire de la Comédie Française" - jusque-là j'avais toujours considéré cette vénérable institution comme étant trop guindée pour abriter un authentique fantaisiste, et à plus forte raison pour le laisser s'ébattre à la télévision. Enfin, je connaissais de lui l'infatigable lecteur nocturne de l'émission radiophonique Ça peut pas faire de mal (France Inter) dont les souples intonations m'accompagnaient pendant les nuits d'insomnie.

Dans Les garçons et Guillaume, à table!, qui est une adaptation de son propre one-man show, Gallienne s'attaque frontalement à l'origine douce-amère de la part de féminité qui a fait de lui un portraitiste si précis. Pour ce faire il lui revient de jouer non seulement son propre rôle mais aussi celui de sa mère, grande bourgeoise cassante dont l'affection totalitaire troubla pour longtemps l'identité de son fils, le persuadant (et persuadant tout le monde autour de lui) que s'il n'était pas une fille il était, au minimum, gay. 

Faire le pitre avec élégance n'est pas donné à tout le monde, et trouver le juste équilibre entre l'auto-dérision et la tendresse, surtout lorsque l'on donne à voir quelque chose de soi, est délicat. Le film est souvent réduit à une enfilade de (jolies) vignettes sur la découverte de soi et de sa sexualité, entremêlée de sketches diversement réussis (oui à la recréation semi-fantasmée d'une scène de Sissi où il incarne à la fois la future impératrice et sa mère, non à l'administration d'un lavement par Diane Kruger). 

Néanmoins la sincérité du propos l'emporte et l'émotion se fraye un chemin à plus d'une reprise: l'énergie que Gallienne met à nous représenter son cheminement sous un jour comique ne peut cacher totalement la souffrance très réelle qui fut la sienne, ni gommer tout à fait l'égoïsme et l'inconscience de sa mère. On ressort en se disant que, maintenant qu'il a fini de sortir de sa chrysalide, Guillaume Gallienne a la vie, et sans doute une formidable carrière d'acteur, devant lui.

Old souls in a new life: Skyfall (Sam Mendes, 2012)

The French version of this article is available here.

"I'm too old for this shit."

This famous line (uttered by Danny Glover's character in Lethal weapon and its sequels) could be made his by the James Bond pictured here (and for the third time) by Daniel Craig. But it could just as well belong to M (Judi Dench).

Both are being harshly criticized after a hitman stole a list of MI6 agents working undercover in terrorist organizations. A list which should never have existed, let alone have been stored in a computer (imagine yourself keeping a file entitled "password"...) and which theft through an elaborate hacking has only highlighted how obsolete and out of touch with reality British Intelligence Services are.

This first, very public crisis is mirrored by a second, private one. While Bond was trying to stop the thief from escaping, M had to make a decision that could have resulted in Bond being killed. Bond, although substantially diminished, not only survived the incident but eventually learned about M's choice. As much as the seasoned professional in him understands the rationale behind it, his relationship with his supervisor has evolved over time and is now more similar to that of a rebellious child with his stern foster mother - which leaves him both infuriated and deeply wounded by what he sees as a betrayal.

M's abilities being questioned in high places, both her reputation and her position are at stake when she is targeted by a terrorist attack so vicious that the involvement of someone close to her, either in the present or from her past, makes no doubt. Even though Bond has been deemed unfit for service, she has no other option than to call him back to find who is after her...

The release of this Bond film, coinciding with the 50^th birthday of the most durable franchise in movie history, had been expected to be magnificent and memorable. When I learned that Sam Mendes had been selected to be the director, I was slightly concerned. While Mendes is without question a clever director with a strong sense of style (American beauty and Revolutionary Road provide sufficient evidence of this), I was unsure he would come through at the helm of an action movie. I'm happy to eat humble pie now since I think that with Skyfall he's done better than merely rising to the challenge.

Indeed, far from trying to hide the deliciously old-fashioned and almost standardized aspects of the James Bond franchise (temptresses, gadgets, plots reeking of Cold War-era spy novels with a waft of plaster, vodka-martini cocktails shaken not stirred, Aston Martin, and above all fighting for the greatness of England without losing one's temper), Mendes grab them vigorously by the neck and put them at the heart of the story. Bond is in pain inside and out, defeated in advance and sent to gather dust on some museum's shelf by the combination of better physical condition and technological skills of his opponents. Affected by the evidence of his own dilapidation, he gets to face his limitations as we all have to at some point in our lives, and envisions what will remain after him. These questions are on M's mind too and are made all the more pregnant by her age, her more exposed position... as well as the fact that her own past shortcomings have generated the enemy who is threatening her today.

The whole movie revolves around images of failure, ruin and decay and makes an extensive use of fall from grace vs. redemption and extinction vs. regeneration metaphors, while brilliantly exploiting settings made of shimmering surfaces and saltpeter-covered underground tunnels. The editing, smooth and ample, allows the viewer to read the action and feel the mood of each scene and character (looking at you, Quantum of solace). Landscapes are given enough space to stretch in, gazes enough time to float through, leaving the eerie impression that everything is vacant and out of sync. Bond appears to be wandering in limbos like a lost soul, from a ghost island to the mists of Scotland, Daniel Craig's mineral, crumbling features reflecting a state that cannot be called "life" anymore - but which is not yet death. Unable to give up without negating everything he has been and fought for, Bond is compelled to get back to his roots in order to return, although at great cost for him.

What about the enemy? It is said that a James Bond movie is only as successful as his villain. Javier Bardem is known as an actor who can play anything - if he ever were up to play Lady Gaga (for instance), I have no doubt he would be absolutely amazing - and his ability for portraying larger-than-life psychos has been made obvious since his performance in No country for old men. Needless to say, I was drooling when I heard he had been cast as Bond's Nemesis in Skyfall and now that I've watched the film I must bow to his talent. As Riva, the unlikely and bleached offspring of Silence of the lambs' Jame Gumb (with whom he shares a poisonous affectation) and the semi-human creature of Alien: Resurrection (for the, shall we say, peculiar mother-son relationship), he is terrifying. As simple as that. He is both Bond's evil twin, since each of them could have played the part of the other, had the circumstances been slightly different, and M's monster child, who spreads destruction for the thrill of it. In his ultimate face-off with Bond, Riva's dark figure delineated against a flaming background conjures up the kind of primal fear that grips one's heart upon facing a beast on the prowl.

At the end of the day, Skyfall is a James Bond movie which does not look the part and it might be just as well. What I mean is this: it's an excellent movie in its own rights, with or without the "Bondian" frills. In tune with its own subject, it also reminds us that, blunt and rusty as they may look, old weapons can still reach their target.