PICKPOCKET
A-
France (75 mi) 1959 d: Robert
Bresson
This film is not a
thriller.
—Opening inner title sequence
Coming directly after A
Man Escaped (Un Condamné à Mort s'est échappé) (1956), this meticulously
spare film serves the exact opposite function, as the protagonist spends the
entire film disregarding all morals and rationality in order to get himself
locked up into prison. Perhaps Bresson’s most mathematically precise
film, as the entire editing structure couldn’t be more stripped of all essentials,
where the prevailing mood of indifference creates a suffocating noose around
the neck of Michel (Martin LaSalle), in an uncomfortable performance that’s
likely to divide audiences, as he rarely utters a word, as everything takes
place through his dry inner narration, where the intellectualism may not be
translated to the screen. Stripped of all artifice and emotion, there may
not be a more wooden performance in the entire Bresson repertoire, with a
blank, never changing facial expression, making it difficult for audiences to
relate to this doomed individual who seems to have no redeeming qualities
except he’s obsessed with becoming an excellent pickpocket, an occupation
requiring contemplated skill and dexterity. An adaptation of Dostoevsky’s
Crime and Punishment, the film exists
on a much smaller scale and is an example of repressed emotions, where Michel
is continually driven to carry out the perfect crime, perhaps not even knowing
why, but he’s driven nonetheless. Locked up in this stiflingly tiny room,
where dirt and grime are everywhere, wallpaper peeling, where he rarely even
locks the door, but while it’s his refuge, it’s also a place he never wants to
return to due to the unpleasant gloom. Often, especially at the
beginning, when he’d otherwise turn around and go home without committing any
offense, it’s the revolting thought of the room that compels him to keep
trying, to find any excuse to be anywhere but there. One could easily
think the room stands for the claustrophobic confines of being stuck inside
your own head in an existential void, where nothing matters except the
exhilarating rush of adrenaline that comes from pulling off heists, where at
least for a moment you don’t feel imprisoned by the monotonous world of apathy
and alienation.
Easily the most rigorously austere film in all of Bresson’s
works, making it uniquely weird and mysterious, to say the least, cast in a
dreamlike netherworld, much like Dreyer's VAMPYR (1931), the eerie minimalist
detail is pure Bresson, where years can be condensed into mere seconds.
This was a film Jean-Luc Godard watched over and over again before filming
BREATHLESS (1960), trying to capture the rhythmic design through such basic
film construction, where each featured an outlaw blind to the conventions of
others who was resistant to change, leading to an eventual calamity.
What’s interesting to consider is that The French New Wave was in effect
railing against the conservatism of this film, giving it more energy and life,
adding cinematic devices that Bresson abhorred. Yet in the same breath
the New Wavers revered Bresson, calling him the patron saint of French cinema
due to his uncompromising methods. So the film has a provocative and
divisive nature built into it. American screenwriter/director Paul
Schrader has attributed this film to writing his depiction of a man outside
society in Scorsese’s Taxi
Driver (1976), where interestingly each of these films adds an element of a
love story, where Bresson’s probably gets the least screen time, but may be the
most influential, as the entire film may be considered one meandering diversion
away from any meaningful love, where continually dwelling on oneself is not the
road to romance. Nonetheless, Bresson’s portrait is a bleak expression of
an utterly self-absorbed, soulless wretch who believes that by ignoring
society’s rules that he is above society, creating a balancing act of
occasional elation and huge doses of self-loathing, where miserablism accounts
for his typical frame of mind. There seems to be nothing this guy cares
about other than himself, including his sick mother and a beautiful neighbor
that looks after her, Jeanne, Marika Green (who had a long career mostly in
television after this film), a caring woman who is the antithesis of Michel, who
willingly gives to others without asking for anything in return.
The film is largely constructed around his lifestyle,
defined by repetitive movements walking in and out of rooms, down hallways, and
in and out of bars, where he always seems to be passing through a door of some
kind, but also as a pedestrian on the streets or a passenger on public
transportation, where his close contact with crowds of people allows him the
incidental contact he needs to steal a watch or a wallet. The best
sequences in the film are given a choreography of crime, where working with
partners, the camera follows their hands in motion, constantly moving in and
out of purses and coat pockets, where they gain such confidence in their
success that they even return the wallet back to the pocket minus the
money, The edited montage of rhythmic hand movements is simply stunning,
establishing what amounts to cinematic ecstasy in carrying out the criminal
act, before returning to the dreary monotony of daily living afterwards.
Simply by the film construction itself, Bresson has validated for the audience
how this “action” is unlike anything else in the film, as it is far and away
the most pleasurable and singularly intense moments onscreen. The
interplay with the police is interesting, as Michel has a running dialog with a
police inspector (Jean Pélégri), where he is even warned of an impending arrest
before it happens, but nothing stops this guy from returning to the scene of
the crime, which is the sole purpose of his existence. Once arrested and
imprisoned, Michel has a complete transformation, discovering the significance
of human contact only after years of alienation, and only when the confined
limitations of his physical surroundings limit his prowling behavior, mandating
he make an existential shift in his core beliefs, finally discovering love from
behind prison bars, where the love element is reduced to about one minute of
screen time. This is an interesting comment on free will, suggesting
beliefs evolve through changing circumstances, such as death, divorce, or
incarceration, when people are actually stripped of their choices, allowing a
Nietzschean superman, once completely outside any moral bounds, to be humbled
in the process and actually rejoin the ranks of society. What's
fascinating, however, is his apparent lack of contrition, where some may see a
transcendent conversion, while for others his self-styled philosophy may
continue to suit his own needs.
