Misericordia (Miséricorde)

 

Writer/director Alain Guiraudie

MISERICORDIA (Miséricorde)                    B                                                                       France  Spain  Portugal  (104 mi)  2024  ‘Scope  d: Alain Guiraudie

For me, Misericordia goes beyond the question of forgiveness, it embodies the idea of empathy and understanding others, transcending all moral boundaries.                                                    —Alain Guiraudie

Listed as the #1 film of the year by French publications Cahiers du Cinéma: Top Ten Films of 2024 and Les Inrocks: Our Top Films of 2024, and a major hit in France, from the maker of Stranger By the Lake (L'inconnu du lac) (2013), which was listed as the #1 film of the year by Cahiers du Cinéma: Top Ten Films of 2013, and Staying Vertical (Rester vertical) (2016), this is a mysteriously odd Dostoevskian Crime and Punishment morality tale, where Guiraudie loves his male characters to be psychologically complex, doing things that are completely unexpected, where an examination of masculinity is always at the heart of his films.  This is basically an examination of sin, largely viewed from a Catholic perspective, as Catholicism remains the dominant religion in France, providing an unorthodox yet contemporary reading, where it’s less about punishment and more about atonement, adding an interesting layer to criminality, where the church actually sides with the offender, believing that soul can still be saved, with the church promoting the idea of mercy, which is the title of the film in French, effectively playing a prominent role, with surprisingly little thought given to the victims.  It never actually clicks with viewers, however, succumbing to its own ambiguity, though it may be driven by the social media age, with everyone primarily thinking only of themselves, where we may have lost the capacity to be moved by the grief, sorrows, and miseries of others.  This may recall the priest in Hitchcock’s I CONFESS (1953), though it feels more like a grim outgrowth of his morbid comedy of errors, The Trouble With Harry (1955), while some think this veers more in the direction of Bruno Dumont, and others draw comparisons to the homoeroticism of Pier Paolo Pasolini’s TEOREMA (1968) or Anthony Page’s ABSOLUTION (1978), with Guiraudie suggesting criminality is an extension of physical desire, seemingly inevitable, a part of the existential human equation, with the church stepping in to provide important context.  Based in part on Guiraudie’s 2021 novel, Rabalaïre, while also drawing from Now the Night Begins from 2018, born and raised a Catholic, this feels like an extension of the ethical principles advanced by French writer and philosopher Georges Bataille, an important influence on the director’s work, so prominently featured in Christophe Honoré’s sexually provocative MA MÈRE (2006), where the sex is wildly exaggerated, exposing a quest for transcendence through base sexual indulgence.  Like that film, this can feel rather preposterous as well, defying convention with a kind of far-fetched, alternate reality.  Bataille was himself a failed priest, and was “excommunicated” by his fellow Surrealists, yet his philosophy has resonated widely and helped pave the way to contemporary critical theory.  By embracing everything rejected, feared, or held in contempt, Bataille reclaimed everyday parts of human existence, becoming associated with a literature of transgression, where he “consistently uncovers and affirms the unmistakable signature of violence, sacrifice, transgression, abjection, sensuality, excess, passion, waste, and horror at the heart of our erotic desires,” Georges Bataille (1897-1962): Life & Letters, offering a more primal aspect of human sexuality.  Guiraudie is a gay filmmaker and novelist whose examinations of sexual desire have always been at the heart of his pictures, but this feels less about the sexual act itself, and more about the unreleased tension stemming from the unavoidability of our desires and their destructive power, which may be seen as guiding all of our actions, for better or for worse, often playing out in a comic chain of events.  Accordingly, a lonely priest figures prominently in this film, shepherding a man who commits a mortal sin, a murder by passion, yet the priest shields him from authorities, perplexingly guiding him from imminent arrest, creating what amounts to a completely unorthodox and possibly corrupt reading of sin and redemption, yet there’s no mistaking the Buñuelian religious hypocrisy, becoming a metaphor for the church as a whole, which has been condoning wrongs and covering all kinds of atrocities under the cloak of love for a few thousand years.

Opening on a long shot seen through the windshield driving down a country road, this is our introduction to the small rural town of Saint-Martial, as Jérémie (Félix Kysyl), an out of work baker from Toulouse, returns to his hometown for the first time in ten years to attend his former boss's funeral, Jean-Pierre (Serge Richard), a bakery owner who is the former mentor that taught him the art of pastries and baguettes, a man that he holds in great affection.  After visiting the body in the home of his widow, Martine (Catherine Frot), the village priest (Jacques Develay) delivers the eulogy in the breezy outdoor funeral service, suggesting love is eternal, as Christians believe “death is not an end,” but simply “a passage into the kingdom of love and light.”  Few details are offered about Jérémie’s past, but there are suggestions that it is a troubled history.  While Martine graciously offers her home, implying this is not a time she wants to be alone, her hot-headed son Vincent (Jean-Baptiste Durand), who lives elsewhere with his wife and young son, views his intrusion with open hostility, erupting in moments of playful hands-on fighting that is more typical of the roughhouse tactics of teenage boys, where it’s clear these two don’t exactly get on, as Vincent seems furious that Jérémie is staying in his old room, still filled with all his personal memorabilia, including sports posters on the wall.  It’s important to note that Catherine Frot is a bonafide star in France, but much less known abroad, where she appears in all three episodes of the wonderfully inventive Lucas Belvaux TRILOGY (2002), also Denis Dercourt’s THE PAGE TURNER (2006), and Xavier Giannoli’s MARGEURITE (2015), working for the first time with this director, providing a charming contrast of calm between the flared tensions of the two men.  As Jérémie prolongs his stay, however, his presence seems to unleash an undercurrent of unease among the residents, continually stirring up old resentments from the past, becoming an irritant to many who come into contact with him, who wonder why he’s returned, where the mysterious behavior of the characters is never less than intriguing, submerged in dark motives and repressed sexual desires.  While there is little sex to speak of, none actually happening onscreen, Guiraudie’s film is immersed in psychological projections and unfulfilled desires.  Plagued by doubts about his own character, Jérémie’s intentions are never actually revealed, like why he fled the town in the first place, which is part of the existential mystery of a film that vociferously defies viewer expectations and is never easy to digest, yet the way this is envisioned feels like it exists in a netherworld somewhere between a dream and reality, where the dark forest, and the pervasive role of mushrooms, add murky elements of a perversely discomforting fairy tale.  Jérémie has difficulty sleeping, often awakening in the middle of the night to either examine family photograph albums or go on long walks in the forest, presumably to seek out mushrooms, but he has no real knack for it.  These incidents are preceded by a glimpse of the digital clock in the darkened bedroom, alerting viewers to the time, with Vincent storming into the room at the crack of dawn to offer a stern warning that he needs to immediately get out of town and never come back, startling him before heading off to work for his 5 am shift, and on another occasion he follows Jérémie into the woods, only this time the fisticuffs are for real, with a bullying Vincent threatening that he needs to leave immediately.  These volatile explosions leave viewers on edge, wondering what secrets Jérémie could possibly expose, exacerbated by visits to another childhood friend, Walter (David Ayala), who is also best friends with Vincent, so there’s an underlying feeling of resentment each time one of these guys pays him a visit, bordering on adolescent jealousy, though Guiraudie never seeks resolutions to clear the air, instead allowing lingering resentments to fester.  

Nature plays a prominent part in this film, spending a lot of time in the woods, while the changing autumnal colors of the rural farmlands add a bucolic beauty to the landscape, gorgeously filmed by Claire Mathon, one of the more prestigious cinematographers working today, having filmed his earlier films, while also collaborating with Mati Diop’s Atlantics (Atlantique) (2019), Céline Sciamma’s 2019 Top Ten List #2 Portrait of a Lady On Fire (Portrait de la jeune fille en feu) (2019) and Petite Maman (2021), and also Alice Diop’s 2023 Top Ten List #3 Saint Omer (2022), films that vibrate with sensuality and grace, literally bathed in the iridescence of light.  This film, on the other hand, accentuates scenes that take place in the dark, adding a somber and sinister tone.  Only a few characters actually grace the screen, with almost no extras, so this is a minimalistic, uncluttered aesthetic that largely accentuates the psychological mindset of the characters, accentuating prevailing themes of homoeroticism, guilt, shame, and morality, with a few semi-erect penises that are carefully revealed at precise moments, giving a clear indication of what’s driving the moment, like an essential truth that cannot be questioned, while also representing a force of nature.  Balancing that physical reality is the spiritual presence of the priest, who seems to pop up out of nowhere at times, representing the moral conscience of the community, though this priest is not like any other, a far cry from Bresson’s Diary of a Country Priest (Journal d'un curé de campagne) (1951), which is a grim portrayal of self-deprivation, and a profoundly contemplative work where pain and suffering may be the conduit that drives us closer to the Divine.  This priest revels in the grim realities of the everyday working class, painstakingly attempting to contextualize and make sense of acts spiraling out of control, curiously contending death is a good thing, “We need unexpected deaths.  We need accidents.  We need murders,” which further complicates an entangled web of desire, suspicion, and what is described as an “irreparable act,” with the priest exploring themes of guilt, forgiveness, love, death, and the nature of desire, with a focus on the characters’ motivations and the relationships between them.  An unorthodox confessional may be the scene of the film, with a role reversal taking place, as Jérémie hears the priest’s confession, acknowledging he knows who the murderer is, but chooses not to turn him in, where this dilemma between vengeance and forgiveness is an essential Catholic problem, typified by the confession, where no sin is beyond forgiveness.  This scene is mirrored by equally unorthodox police procedures, visiting Jérémie as he sleeps, hoping to extract a confession from his semi-conscious state.  The film has been described as an elegy for impossible love, where eroticism and death are intimately entangled, as Guiraudie’s films typically explore the social and emotional impact of crime, and the inexplicable yet irrepressible power of desire, often in similar settings, particularly the rural south of France where the filmmaker is from, known for conveying a feeling of detachment, where the camera is always placed from the perspective of one of the people involved, typically using fixed shots, and while there is a musical score by Marc Verdaguer, it only appears at the very beginning and end.  At the root of Jérémie’s visit may be the fixated and likely unconsummated love he still holds for the deceased (which Martine is at peace with, while clearly Vincent is not, creating an unexplored dynamic), as Vincent is now irrationally threatened by his extended visit, believing he has an erotic interest in his widowed mother and is taking advantage of her vulnerability.  While all indications are that Jérémie is gay and/or bisexual, he also tends to cause trouble and stir things up, remaining something of an enigma, not particularly sympathetic, hard to read, and sexually unidentifiable, representative of those Guiraudie protagonists who are drifters, where nothing truly defines them.  Enveloped in small town repressions and petty jealousies, it all unfolds as a darkly comic crime thriller, deceptively subtle in its sensuous subversion of the film noir genre, transitioning into an increasingly absurd murder investigation, with a textured, engrossing kind of atmosphere, where the perpetrator repeatedly makes up stories about what happened, as lies only lead to more lies, with wayward desire giving way to impulsive behavior that instead of turning into a disaster, potentially leads to a rather unexpected road to liberation. 

Alain Guiraudie's Closet Picks  Criterion selections (3:44)

Le Samouraï

 

poster of Maurice Ronet from Elevator to the Gallows

Director Jean-Pierre Melville

Melville on the set

Alain Delon

Melville directing the Delon couple

site of burned down Jenner Studios

LE SAMOURAÏ          A                                                                                                        France  (105 mi)  1967  d: Jean-Pierre Melville           

There is no greater solitude than that of the samurai, unless it is that of the tiger in the jungle... perhaps...                                                                                                                                      —Bushido (Book of the Samurai), fictional opening screen title

With the recent death of French actor Alain Delon, whose unnerving beauty made him a transfixing screen presence, it’s worth a look back into what is arguably his greatest role.  Seemingly drawn from Bresson’s Pickpocket (1959), Truffaut’s SHOOT THE PIANO PLAYER (1960), and Jules Dassin’s RIFIFI (1955), with the minimalist style reflecting the emotional state of the characters, or even further back with the professional killer of Alan Ladd in Frank Tuttle’s THIS GUN FOR HIRE (1942), whose solitary ferocity made him such a unique character on the cinematic landscape, or the well ahead of its time, existential cool of Irving Lerner’s Murder By Contract (1958), yet the real roots would have to be the stunningly choreographed police procedural of Fritz Lang’s M (1931), where an elusive killer is chased not only by the police but by the criminal underworld.  Made during the Summer of Love and the psychedelic era of the 60’s, this grim, downbeat effort remains one of the most influential films in history, as it so elegantly and stylishly exists in its own universe, completely cut off from the real world surrounding us, where the fatalism is as thick as the atmospheric gloom of Sam Peckinpah’s The Wild Bunch (1969).  Often regarded as the godfather or spiritual father of the French New Wave, known for shooting on location as early as the 40’s, something that was simply not done, even making a brief appearance in Godard’s Breathless (À Bout de Souffle) (1959), where he utters the unforgettable line, “My dream is to become immortal, and then die,” but more importantly behind the scenes it was Melville who taught Godard how to utilize the infamous Jump cut to streamline his editing style, cutting directly to the best parts of the shot, snipping out any extraneous material in order to shorten the overall length of the film.  Melville was essentially a genre filmmaker, with a distinct attraction to the crime dramas of American film noirs, where that sparse existential style saturates his work and defines his aesthetic.  Coming from a rich history of struggling writers, cynical detectives, corrupt cops, or shadowy, down-on-their-luck figures who have been double-crossed, film noir offers an unusually sympathetic treatment of characters alienated from the social mainstream, often utilizing an existential, first-person voiceover narration, where nothing showcases the essence of the style more than a shot of Humphrey Bogart alone with his thoughts smoking a cigarette.  To that end, the film opens with Alain Delon alone in a drab, non-descript hotel room lying on his bed smoking a cigarette, with a made-up quotation acting as the lead-in to his most melancholy role as hitman Jef Costello, perhaps in honor of Robert Mitchum’s Jeff Bailey in Jacques Tourneur’s Out of the Past (1947), completely isolated from the outside world, where other than repetetive chirps from a caged bullfinch bird sitting in the middle of the room and the sound of passing traffic in the rain, there is absolute silence, as the start of the film is completely dialogue-free for nearly ten minutes, where the pervasive silence is used to create an unnatural and unnerving atmosphere, Le Samourai | Opening Scene | Alain Delon | Jean-Pierre ... YouTube (3:24).  Immersed in the existentialism of the 50’s and 60’s, with very distinctive music by François de Roubaix, Delon is a doomed, tragic figure who remains faithful to a code of honor that is reminiscent of ancient samurai traditions, where nobody cares about them, nobody knows who they are, lost along their inner journey that feels like something out of Greek tragedy, with the highly influential Hong Kong director John Woo offering his take on the picture, “The closest thing to a perfect movie that I have ever seen.”  Now that’s some endorsement!

The beauty of the film is the degree to which the philosophies and personnas of actor Alain Delon and director Jean-Paul Melville are merged together in complete harmony with one another, as Delon is a stoic figure who rarely speaks, but is an impeccable planner, who has a moral code guiding his actions, but suffers through the loneliness of his solitary lifestyle, a predecessor to Robert De Niro’s Travis Bickle in Martin Scorsese’s Taxi Driver (1976), though fastidiously dressed in his trenchcoat and fedora.  An inscrutable gun for hire, we sympathize with his intellect and professionalism, while Melville eliminates every possible distraction, stripping the drama down to its bare essentials, where the characters say very little, expressing what they have to say through gestures, glances, and body language, while Paris is portrayed as cold and distant, exactly how Delon as Jef feels towards everything.  While he had already worked with Luchino Visconti in Rocco and His Brothers (1960) and THE LEOPARD (1963), when the film was first released Delon was viewed in France as “boring,” where his vacant stare revealed nothing, with many critics complaining of an inability to read or understand this mysterious hitman, where even the esteemed Cahiers du Cinéma complained about the casting of a colorless Alain Delon in the role, while also criticizing the film for a perceived lack of political engagement, which was all the rage the 60’s, yet that enigmatic aspect of his character is precisely what has carried this film’s reputation through the years, creating an elusive, yet alluring protagonist.  Melville has an unflashy yet unmistakable style that most closely resembles Dreyer or Bresson, though he gravitated to making crime films, where he somehow managed to combine his own culture with Eastern philosophy, which is why the Hong Kong audience was so responsive to his movies, where his signature style has influenced cutting edge directors like John Woo, Wong Kar-wai, Johnny To, Takeshi Kitano, Aki Kaurismäki, Nicolas Winding Refn, Jim Jarmusch, Martin Scorsese, and the Coen brothers, while Ingmar Bergman was also an ardent admirer, yet his status as a filmmaker rests upon a reputation for defiance and taking risks.  As a youth, he devoured films, obsessed by French and Hollywood fare, but it was his wartime experience as a decorated veteran and Resistance activist that really shaped his fiercely pro-American sensibility, taking the pseudonym Melville as his secret code name to honor the American novelist, which he kept after the war, flatly rejected by multiple film schools, so he began his career working on the margins as an independent outsider, basically learning on the fly, forging his own path.  His directorial debut, LE SILENCE DE LA MER (1949), is adapted from a Resistance novella where Melville didn’t receive permission either for the book or from the film industry, made on a tiny budget, and takes place almost entirely in a single room, working with gifted cinematographer Henri Decaë, who at that time was a documentarian and industrial photographer, but would eventually become associated with New Wave filmmakers like Louis Malle’s Elevator to the Gallows (Ascenseur pour l'échafaud) (1958), François Truffaut’s The 400 Blows (Les quatre cents coups) (1959), and Claude Chabrol’s Les Bonnes Femmes (1960).  By the time Melville made this, his tenth film, coming twenty years after he broke into the industry, it is a distillation of all his cinematic obsessions, both thematic and stylistic, becoming intrinsically linked to what we think of today as the heritage of French cinema.

Interestingly, Jef is not a larger than life heroic figure, and while the camera intensely follows him wherever he goes throughout the entire picture, he’s wholly unimportant in the grand scheme of things, yet Melville’s clever use of camera, taut editing, and dramatic lighting continually draw attention to him, as he perpetually lurks in the shadows even in broad daylight, infused with a dark sense of romanticism, where we see nothing that belongs outside the frame of the film.  With no hint of the past, there is only the present.  When Jef finally leaves the room, the wet streets are lined with parked cars, choosing one that is unlocked, where he incredulously produces a gigantic ring of master keys that enables him to steal any Citroën DS, methodically trying each one until the ignition starts, A Scene from LE SAMOURAÏ YouTube (1:48), stopping by a dreary garage in the middle of nowhere to change licence plates on the car and procure a gun, a transaction that takes place wordlessly before speeding away to meet his girlfriend, Jane Lagrange (Nathalie Delon, the actor’s wife at the time, though they were divorced not long afterwards), who finally breaks the silence while he arranges a fake alibi.  But as she is meeting an older gentleman later in the evening, she will not be able to provide a complete alibi, so he visits a back room poker game afterwards for an alibi for the remainder of the night.  It quickly becomes clear what he has been assigned to do, visiting Martey’s, a popular jazz club, where he calmly and efficiently murders the owner, yet he’s seen in the hallway after the shooting by the black lounge pianist Valérie (Cathy Rosier), Le Samouraï (1967) by Jean-Pierre Melville, Clip: Jef Costello ... YouTube (1:20), an alluring femme fatale who goes against the grain of what we expect, not manipulative or conniving in any respect, instead exuding a kind of warmth.  The Police Inspector, François Périer, is much more animated and talks a lot, perhaps best known as the Angel of Death who accompanies Orpheus into the underworld in Jean Cocteau’s ORPHÉE (1950), as he rounds up all the usual suspects and places them in a grandiose line-up that is lifted right out of John Huston’s ASPHALT JUNGLE (1950), with potential witnesses sitting in the same room as the police ask if they recognize the murderer, suggesting this is really old school when it comes to police procedures, but Melville spends an inordinate amount of time in this scene, playing out in real time, apparently mesmerized by the silences and furtive glances as the Inspector meticulously runs through the suspects.  In a major surprise, Valérie insists she does not recognize Jef as the killer, compelling the police to release him, though he remains the prime suspect.  This is compounded by another shock, as Jef is shot while meeting the crime syndicate man sent to pay him for his services, the Man on the Bridge (Jacques Leroy), where the whole thing is a set-up, yet Melville prefers to film it in a very subdued, poetic way.  While it’s only a flesh wound, Melville highlights the very precise movements to dress the wound, remaining completely detached, utterly calm and composed, yet this transpires while another intricate psychological development is taking place in his head, as the syndicate is unhappy with his arrest, believing it draws too much unwanted attention to them, hiring another contract killer to take him out.  Meanwhile, in an ultimate irony, the police place a listening device in Jef’s apartment, yet the one thing you can count on is that he won’t say anything, so it’s a rather hilarious diversion that only accentuates the police ineptitude.    

Arguably the coolest scenes, again a throwback to Bresson’s Pickpocket (1959), are the labyrinthian underground scenes of the Paris Métro, where the police have designed an extremely sophisticated surveillance operation to tail him through “the belly of Paris,” plotting his movements on a police-designed electronic subway map with flashing lights following his progress, trying to never lose him from their sight, using a legion of undercover operatives, both male and female, where Jef’s wits are uniquely challenged, as he has interiorized the subway map, knowing every single point of entry and exit, recalling a similar scene in Jean-Jacques Beineix’s Diva (1981), yet here there are up to 70 police thrown into the mix, where the excess is clearly deliberate, giving Jef near superhuman powers to elude them all.  Lacking sympathetic characters, Melville is instead concerned with the meticulous choreography of ritualized events and the procedural nature of police activities, where so much emphasis in his films are concerned with physical movement, yet in a far different way than the comic playfulness of Jacques Tati, for instance, sharing more in common with the minimalism of Robert Bresson.  Released the same year as Arthur Penn’s Bonnie and Clyde (1967), the overall style and especially the endings couldn’t be more different.  We never see Jef interact with anyone else, no eating, no socializing, and even when an attractive woman in a car pulls up next to him, his eyes remain fixed forward.  The emptiness of Jef’s hotel room mirrors the emptiness of his own facial expressions, essentially revealing a core truth of his character.  While he is simultaneously being chased by both the police and the criminal underworld, there are many small details that are easily missed, with Melville de-emphasizing the obvious, choosing instead to rather abstractly present the storyline, such as the shooting on the bridge, with an immediate cutaway to a long shot where the acts are obscured.  While Melville did make films in color, he initially distrusted its use, believing it was too realistic, like an “inferior” aesthetic of television.  Even using vibrantly saturated color film, Melville preferred to shoot in muted colors, like gloomy, overcast weather, darkened hotel rooms, back alleys, a poorly lit car garage, underground subway trains, or a colorless police station, which are in stark contrast to the opulent living room of the lounge pianist he visits, as she may be the lover of the duplicitous man pulling the strings, so when he finally tracks down that crime boss, Olivier Rey (Jean-Pierre Posier), the colorful art on the wall and multi-dimensional, modernist space literally pops before our eyes, where it actually resembles the White Room at the end of Kubrick’s 2001: A Space Odyssey (1968).  Famously working outside the studio system, Melville built his own Studio Jenner in Paris, an abandoned factory converted in 1955, which burned down during the shooting of this film (with the director suspecting arson), losing both his home and his workplace, along with decades worth of scripts and eqiuipment. where he was forced to complete the project at Studios de Saint-Maurice, yet much like this film, it’s an ominous reference to Icarus flying too close to the sun, where in this world someone is always ready to double-cross you, where the police are as untrustworthy as the gangsters.  Just as in the Eastern samurai philosophy, the importance of death plays a central role, as the characters are literally driven by their closeness to the finality of the end, as their very existence is intertwined with this tragic fate.  Melville developed almost total creative control over his filmmaking, relying principally among a small group of collaborators, evolving into a very spiritual director with a unique vision, with his low-budget mode of production coming nearly a decade before the directors of the New Wave, who he both influenced and criticized, demonstrating how a uniquely personal technique could redefine for the rest of the world to see what “modern” French cinema would look like.    

Ginette Vincendeau on Jean-Pierre Melville  YouTube (18:44)

Le Samouraï: Jean-Pierre Melville's Work of Art   Edwin Adrian Nieves, YouTube (16:23)

Noir Alley - Le Samouraï (1967) intro 20240317  Eddie Muller introduction, YouTube (4:30)

Noir Alley - Le Samouraï (1967) outro 20240317   Eddie Muller post film comments, YouTube (4:35)