Writers and readers

I don't think we should mix any author's work up with their personal life, even though the life of authors may help to explain their work.

By the way, I fondly remember the anthology book we had in French Literature class when I was a highschool student. It was the Lagarde et Michard collection, that had a volume for each century -- well the first volume was about the whole Middle Ages (of course I now consider such a reduction to be a heresy!), the second about the XVIth century and so on -- and the structure was always the same: life of the auhor, work of the author.

Must we take an artist's life into account in order to understand his (or her) work?

I do believe that the former enlightens the latter, and not only when it comes to auto-fiction, but at some point the work must speak for itself too, and we have to forget about the artist behind it.

It's a two phase process. First knowing to understand and possibly analyse (if you're studying Literature), then forgetting to enjoy and really assess without any bias.  The work is usually bigger than the artist, and will go on its own journey anyway.

Some artists are horrible people in what we call here "Real Life", and yet their work may be masterpieces. Others are really nice people but their work will never be any good.

Take Louis Ferdinand Céline for instance. His Voyage Au Bout De La Nuit is a literary monument from the XXth Century. The man, on the other hand, was notoriously anti-Semitic. Richard Wagner's work is a musical monument as well, not only for the XIXth Century but in the whole history of music, but he was also as Anti-semitic as they came, and probably a difficult man to be around.

I read this morning an article from The Guardian about Marion Zimmer Bradley, or rather on the reactions that were caused by her daughter's revelations. Apparently MZB was quite the monster, especially by nowadays' standards -- read the article I linked to, if you want to know what she is accused of, but given that it is her daughter who's the accuser you probably can guess. So there are fans or fellow-authors from the SFF community that obviously now feel ashamed of having liked her work or revered her person. Some people say that they will never read one of her books again. It seems that they feel betrayed by an author they never met and tainted by their reading. I think it's an interesting reaction showing how much readers deeply bond with the invisible and untouchable god that created the word-universe they dive in. There's something sacred but also intimate in reading someone else words, isn't it?

Personally, I read MZB's The Mists of Avalons when I was about 14 or 15 year old. I remember that I enjoyed the book, but that's it. I never reread it, so I guess I wasn't that impressed, and I doubt I would find it that good if I read it now. So no, MZB is not in the same league as Céline, probably far from it. However reading that article in the morning prompted that musing.

How much do we want to know? How much should we know? Is it always possible to forget the worst and still enjoy the best?

You may have noticed that I have an inquisitive mind. I always want to know, to penetrate a mystery, to draw connections that would provide meaning. But I believe -- or hope -- that I'm also capable of accepting the mystery from time to time, and that, above all, I can distance my experiencing a work from the author of said work.

I guess it's easier when it comes to music, cinema/tv or plastic arts. The written words usually carry more, show more. The ghost of the author haunts the place in a way that is more explicit, more dialectical. Books contain multitude, give freedom, but they also have magical powers. There is the author's voice whispering to the reader's ear, a voice that still can be heard long after the writer's death. Do anyone want the Devil to whisper to their ear?

Jorge Luis Borges, whom I consider a literary genius, was not a supporter of Perón, and he denounced the military dictature in Argentina, but he was a conservative man. I know that. As Latin-American authors go, he didn't share Alejo Carpentier's or Pablo Neruda's, or Garcia Marques' left inclinations. We would probably have disagreed on a lot of subjects if we had discussed politics together. But still, rather decent a man, I believe. And he loved cats, which is always a plus in my book. *g*

Would I still adore his work if I ever found out that he had actually enslaved Indians, molested children or tortured dogs? Or that he had committed a crime that goes against everything he embodies: burn a library (like his evil alter-ego, the Venerable Jorge, from Umbert Eco's The Name Of The Rose)?

Could I still find the same pleasure in reading his words? Would I be able to slowly forget what I found out, and be willing to keep reading his short stories and essays?

I hope so.

Now that I think about it, I believe that part of the mysterious alchemy that defines the reading experience is not only taking over a work, but also re-creating its author.

By reading Borges, while reading Borges, I make Borges.

I think he would have liked that, he, who once wrote that every author creates his precursors, and who told the short story of a man who eventually finds out that he is the product of another man's dream.

So I leave you with the ending of "The Circular Ruins" in its online English version:

"The ruins of the sanctuary of the god of Fire was destroyed by fire. In a dawn without birds, the wizard saw the concentric fire licking the walls. For a moment, he thought of taking refuge in the water, but then he understood that death was coming to crown his old age and absolve him from his labors. He walked toward the sheets of flame. They did not bite his flesh, they caressed him and flooded him without heat or combustion. With relief, with humiliation, with terror, he understood that he also was an illusion, that someone else was dreaming him."

Un Titanic versaillais

Certaines bandes annonces desservent les films qu'elles sont censées promouvoir. Il y a quelques mois celle du dernier film de Benoît Jacquot m'avait convaincue de ne pas me précipiter dans les salles à sa sortie, alors que j'y étais tentée pour des raisons professionnelles.

Plus tard je me suis rendue compte que les critiques étaient plutôt bonnes, et j'ai donc voulu vérifier ce qu'il en était.

J'ai finalement vu Les Adieux à La Reine hier, et je comprends les critiques très positives qu'il a suscitées. C'est un film virtuose, porté par une mise en scène remarquable. Il vaut sans doute beaucoup mieux que le roman dont il s'inspire car ce qui en fait l'attrait et la qualité ça n'est pas tant l'histoire de la lectrice de la reine (et le triangle amoureux, assez secondaire finalement ) mais ce qu'elle permet au réalisateur de faire sur le plan cinématographique, c'est à dire filmer les "coulisses" du théâtre versaillais, avec tous ces serviteurs qui regardent et épient des puissants sur le point de sombrer; de montrer la panique à bord, le chaos qui s'installe quand le naufrage devient patent – en fait il a un côté franchement Titanic, ce film, pour son univers claustrophobe et ces rats qui quittent le navire ou cet orchestre désuet qui prétend "jouer jusqu'au bout", mais sans les machines et la bluette sentimentale!–; l’adaptation l'autorise enfin d'adopter le point de vue subjectif, à travers cette jeune fille qui est une sorte de "fan" intemporelle dont l'idole est un être capricieux et cruel, parfois calculateur et souvent pathétique, mais qui sait jeter quelques os à son public pour se l'attacher. 

Marie-Antoinette pourrait tout aussi bien être Madonna ou Lady Gaga, Mademoiselle Laborde une groupie d'aujourd'hui qui a eu la chance de décrocher un petit job dans l' entourage de la star, et l'idolâtre tant, qu'elle en accepte l'aliénation conséquente.

Ces Adieux sont souvent filmés caméra sur l'épaule ce qui donne au tableau versaillais une facture moderne (inattendue pour un film d'époque), un rythme qui sied aux émotions et aux courses de la jeune fille en fleur, et un côté "documentaire sur la catastrophe en cours". Bref c'est une réussite indéniable, une belle œuvre de cinéma.

Le seul bémol qui m'empêche de crier au grand film c'est qu'il n'émeut pas, en tout cas il ne m'a pas touchée. C'est intelligent et artistique, souvent bien interprété, mais ça reste un spectacle, sans magie. Il manque à l'intrigue un souffle de vie, et les acteurs ont l'air parfois d'être des images ou des rôles et non des êtres vivants (à part l'héroïne et le vieil archiviste). 

Peut-être parce qu'ils représentent un ancien régime moribond – les rats pullulent parmi les dorures et l'eau du canal est croupie – qui ne vaut pas qu'on palpite pour lui. 

Peut-être pour dire justement que la jeune fille confond rêve et réalité? 

Elle a beau tout regarder et tout nous montrer – y compris parfois sous un angle que son regard ne peut pas saisir, quand elle ne fait que surprendre des scènes et des paroles, ou dans un cadre où elle figure elle-même – elle reste éblouie par la star, refuse de voir et de comprendre; elle préfère le personnage à la personne (comme Paolo le gondolier qui une semaine plus tôt s'appelait encore Léon), la littérature à la vie, la reine au peuple.

Sidonie la lectrice, c'est l'isolement et l' aveuglement mis en abîme; véritable tour d'ivoire à l'intérieur d'un château qui pendant trop longtemps aura été sourd et indifférent. La révolution est hors-champs car nul à Versailles ne l'a vue venir, et pour la lectrice tout ne tourne qu'autour de sa maîtresse.

Sidonie, c'est aussi le spectateur moderne, avide de célébrités, fasciné par les têtes couronnées, dont l'éducation n'empêche pas la servitude quand les images sont plus forte que les mots. C'est la relation à sens unique que les nouveaux moyens de communications lui offrent; le leurre d'un accès privilégié aux êtres censés intouchables.

C'est enfin le cinéma, son public et ses cinéastes, qui n'ont pas cessé de faire les tiroirs de l'histoire, avec une fascination évidente pour la monarchie et les Grands, et une prédilection certaine pour le personnage de Marie-Antoinette. Il est peut-être temps de faire nos adieux à la reine.

Spoiler en manière de post-scriptum: le film qui parle d'aliénation semble finir sur le chagrin et le sacrifice, et une possible annihilation, mais j'aime à croire que les mots dont s'est nourrie la lectrice et qui sont ses seules armes dans la vie, auront semé en elle les germes d'une émancipation future, et je reste sur l'image de son visage à la fenêtre de la voiture qui l'emporte loin des grilles du château, un visage qui s'offre au vrai soleil, saluant le monde extérieur, humant ce qui pourrait bien être un parfum de liberté.

He is just the picture

I finally saw Martha Marcy May Marlene which is indeed as good a film as the critics said – I wish I had the time to re-watch it and write a proper review in which I could elaborate on the ambiguity the film is based on,  and all the wonderful little details it provides to tell the story of a shattered personality and of an identity meltdown, through mirror plays, memory tricks, merging timelines and madness, and how it manages to create the right atmosphere doing so, but instead here's a link to a spoilerish review from The New Yorker –, and yes Elizabeth Olsen is quite terrific in it, playing a Martha trapped in her broken self, perfectly conveying confusion and conflicting drives, with her paranoia hiding the secret desire to be found, to fit in again...but it's John Hawkes who blew my mind once more. As usual, his performance was powerful but subtle. To me, he is just the picture.

There was nothing cartoonish about the pastoralist sect guru he played, and yet he was totally credible in the role of a community leader; hypersexualized "father" of nubile followers, exuding charisma, virility and menace, but also sweetness (John's smile always makes me melt!) and perversion; appearing both charming and terrifying, caring and creepy. And all of that, without overacting.

No, the part wasn't at all the same as the one he played in Winter's Bone the year before. Uncle Teardrop was a badass and a threatening presence, a hillbilly lone-wolf addicted to meth who inspired fear around him, but he turned out to be someone a girl could count on, especially if they are family. Patrick is quite the opposite, he appears much nicer, almost "normal", a family man watching over his people, but he is much more dangerous; he's a sorcerer who puts on a seduction act and pulls the strings of his admirers; he is bad news for little girls. A true big bad wolf.

John Hawkes doesn't have a lot of screen time but owns any scene he is in (even the orgy scene...he doesn't partake but the picture that stays with you is Patrick watching from the stairs while his puppets are having sex), and the character haunts the film, just like he haunts the girl who is named Martha/Marcy-May/Marlene. His invisible presence is palpable thanks to the mise-en-scène and Olsen's performance.

And of course there's the beautiful, and disturbing, scene in which Patrick plays the guitar and sings "Marcy's Song" (picture above) and the actress on the screen seems to become the girl in the song. It's very well done. John Hawkes looks like a mix of a troubadour, a magus and a predator. The scene also reminded me a little bit of the one from Maria's Lovers, when Keith Carradine serenaded Nastassja Kinski with "Maria's eyes". I think that John has a solo album to be released soon, I hope his cover of Jackson Frank's song will be in it.

 Martha Marcy May Marlene isn't flawless, some of the dialogues could have been better for instance, but for a debut movie it's really really good. I'm glad that one of my favourite actors chose it. Because thanks to his Oscar nomination for Winter's Bone, John Hawkes can choose now, and so far he didn't make many mistakes (okay Contagion wasn't a masterpiece but he had such a small part in it...).

By the way, apparently he has turned down a part in The Walking Dead. Good for him! He's very busy with movies (I'm so looking forward to seeing The Surrogate that some say it gave his career's best role *) and The Walking Dead, whose writing sucks most of the time, doesn't deserve his talent.

Anyway, if John should come back to television, I demand that it would be on Justified !!!!! They keep hiring Deadwood actors, so I'm sure they'd love to have him...and seeing Sol Star (the kindest character on Deadwood and John played him to perfection) and Seth Bullock reunited on screen would make my heart sing.

*PS:  Just read an interview in which John mentioned that his "Deadwood pals"– Earl Brown, who plays Dan Dority, and Robin Weigert, who was Calamity Jane– got small parts in The Surrogate! Some day I should write a blog on why Deadwood was one of the best tv shows ever, perhaps even the best...

Dracula is back!

I watched Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy yesterday at the cinema with a bunch of friends. The film, directed by Tomas Alfredson, is based on one of John Le Carré's novels and adapted for the screen by Peter Straughan and the late Bridget O'Connor.

I really liked it. It's a much better movie than Eastwood's J.Edgar (especially for the use of non-linear narrative and flashbacks!) that I saw two weeks ago, or than The Descendants. And damnit, yes Gary Oldman deserves an oscar!

It's good to see him as the lead in a good movie. It felt like ages since he had a good part in a decent film. He was excellent here, but all the cast was good, especially Benedict Cumberbatch (who, by the way, looks much better as Sherlock than he did with that blond hair!). Apart from the "stars" (Gary Oldman, Colin Firth, John Hurt), the film was filled with familiar faces from tv series (like Ceasar from Rome, or Edith from Downton Abbey!), and everybody was pretty much perfect. Gary delivered a fine, restrained and subtle performance, based on his commanding presence, and all the other actors seemed to tune in according to his acting.

I hadn't read John Le Carré's book so Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy was all about cinematography and acting for me. There's some suspense but it isn't a thriller and Smiley's inquiry --or the reveal about the mole (which wasn't so difficult to figure out given the cast...)-- isn't what makes the film so good. The plot isn't that complex, the film is not hard too understand -- although some people seemed to think so -- but the writing is clever.

It is, mostly, an atmosphere movie about the Bristish Spy World in the early 70's(MI-6 here, is nicknamed The Circus), with good writing, great direction and original shots. I often marvelled at the tracking shots and the frames. I loved the chess metaphor that is the spinal column of the film; I loved that Karla remained an invisible foe since the film was about the "enemy within", the mistrust and betrayals between the agents of the secret service; and I loved that Ann Smiley turned out to be a bit like Columbo's wife!

I loved the design of the set, the costumes and the props too: the control room that looked soundproof (or was it just 70's orange wallpaper?)to prevent leaks; Goerge Smiley's huge glasses that allowed him to watch everybody's moves (and concealed Gary's beautiful blue eyes), espcially since a "circus" is basically a spectacle. I loved the swimming scenes that suggested the "swimming with sharks" expression. Unless it was also a way to show that after a life of working in muddy waters, Smiley needed to cleanse himself?

I loved the other big metaphor, perhaps less obvious than the chess one, the film plays on: the teaching metaphor. It worked on several levels. We've got the mentor-ward duo that George Smiley (Oldman) and Peter Guillam (benedict Cumberbatch) embodie, and through the course of the film Peter learns a hard lesson but it is kinda rewarding in his line of work; and as an echo we've got Peter's partner who is obviously a teacher (we see him marking papers!). But there's also a counterpoint to those relationships with Jim Prideaux's new job, as a teacher, after the Hungarian mess, and the new boy he takes under his wing...He literaly went from Spooks to school!

And there's the film itself teaching the audience a lesson, asking the viewers to pay attention, to be patient...to follow along, like the boys chasing a car.

I have to confess that I also loved that Smiley's former co-worker, Sachs, used the word "under-fucked". It sounds much more accurate than our French expression "mal baisée"!

Above all, I loved how the Circus world was so grey, full of shabby places and civil servants that were everything but glamorous or charistmatic. We were light-years away from Bond movies(in spite of some sex here and there). Don't expect to find some sexy spy in there! And there was little action too, and when it happened (at the beginning mostly) it looked clumsy.

There was violence, for sure, but it was mostly a world of protocols and hierarchy, a world of mere apparachiks, with the highest-ranked ones thinking they were kings and sending pawns like Ricky Tarr (and, to a certain extent, Jim Prideaux) to do the dirty work. But they are just civil servants, playing with the lifes of the others; British men who grew up in those famous Public Schools , work in offices, have affairs and have Christmas parties...

Early on in the movie, we are told that there's "a mole" at the top of the British Intelligence, and the more we see those secret service the more it's obvious that there's indeed something rotten, poisonous, in the Circus world, as if they were all, already, cold spectres. Through its visuals, the actors' performance, and the ambiance they created, the film conveyed very well the mix of spy machinery, lethal skills (Jim and the owl !!!!) , a certain sloppiness -- and the mess that ensues--, and a general state of decay.
The chess pieces move on the checkboards, the main ones deluding themselves into believing they are more than pawns that can be dispatched, disposed and replaced. And this is where the two metaphors merge, for all the pieces will have to face the truth and learn the lesson. Smiley learned it first...

The film is cold and sometimes it feels devoid of human feelings, especially when it comes to the older characters(Peter or Ricky are still "tender meat", young enough to look fresh and human),yet all of those master spies, at some point, became more than their function, lost their self-control and showed some emotion(either when losing their position like a defeated Percy in the rain, or when having their heart broken...). 

Gary Oldman who was very quiet (silent even at the beginning of the film) was a bit like a mummy, wrapped in his beige raincoat, or the avenging ghost coming back to sort things out, to put the Circus to rights, and he slowly came back to life while doing so.

Of course he also turned out to be the best chess player of the game. The scene in which he corners Toby Esterhase and have him yield and beg is very significant. And of course the final chekmate scene is highly ironical given the actor who plays the fallen king and a previous role he played not so long ago...

Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy is the kind of spy movies that I like, gripping and focusing on the Intelligence work rather than on showy action scenes, so obviously the anti-Bourne kind...

I recommend it, but it is not pop-corn movie, people!

Quelque chose en nous de rooskiy

Je n'achète pas souvent les livres qui ont reçu des prix littéraires. Le Houellebecq qui a reçu le Gouncourt de l'an dernier, La Carte et le Territoire, a été une exception à la règle, car j'étais curieuse à son sujet, mais il m'arrive d'emprunter des livres à des amis, et il se trouve parfois que ces ouvrages ont reçu des prix. Ce fut le cas avec Les Disparus de Daniel Mendelsohn qui avait reçu le prix Médicis mais il ne m'inspirait pas du tout à l'époque, et il aura fallu qu'une collègue me le prête pour que j'en tombe amoureuse et que j'en achète ensuite la version originale. Comme quoi...

Cette année on m'a offert à Noël le nouveau Goncourt que je n'ai pas encore lu, et j'ai fini par emprunter à une amie le Limonov d'Emmanuel Carrère, non pas parce qu'il avait reçu le Prix Renaudot, mais parce que la préface que Carrère avait écrite pour Les Chuchoteurs d' Orlando Figes m'avait plu. Je savais que mon amie, russophile et russophone, avait lu Limonov , et je la savais critique à l'égard du livre, donc je lui ai demandé de me le prêter pour les fêtes, alors même qu'elle partait pour Moscou.

Je ne lis pas souvent de biographies, c'est un genre, comme le biopic au cinéma, qui ne m'attire guère, probablement parce qu'il me semble assez peu littéraire, mais je sentais que le livre de Carrère pouvait se distinguer du stéréotype biographique. C'est en partie vrai. Ce n'est pas une biographie, mais un portrait. Reste à savoir de qui...

J'ai fini ma lecture hier soir et je peux dire que, pour ma part, sans être vraiment sous le charme, je comprends qu'il ait séduit mais je comprends aussi les réserves de mon amie, sans pour autant les partager.

En racontant la vie du sulfureux, et toujours bien vivant, Edouard Limonov, Emmanuel Carrère parle en fait beaucoup de lui -- et un peu de sa mère, la célèbre Hélène Carrère d' Encausse, grande critique du soviétisme et proche de Poutine --, et on peut, à l’évidence, lire en creux, ce que Carrère est, ou ce qu'il pense être; ce qu'il regrette un peu de n'avoir pas été, et ce qu'il aimerait pouvoir être; ce qui le fascine et ce qu'il exècre; ce qui l'attendrit et ce qui le rebute. Limonov dont le parcours chaotique n'est pas dénué d'une certaine cohérence, est un double bien commode pour dire tout ça, et c'est ce que j'ai aimé dans le livre, ce qui en fait bien plus qu'une simple biographie, mais une vraie construction littéraire.

C'est donc un Limonov, rêvé, dont il est question dans cet ouvrage (il paraît qu'en Russie il dit à qui veut l'entendre qu'un "bourgeois de Paris" à écrit sur lui), un Limonov reconstruit à travers le prisme presque exclusif des livres de Limonov lui-même (pour la plupart relevant de l'autobiographie et de l'autofiction) et de la psyché d' Emmanuel Carrère. L'entreprise est donc fort intéressante, car les enjeux dépassent la simple biographie telle qu'un historien, par exemple, pourrait la construire en croisant de multiples sources. Le Limonov de Carrère c'est en fait un livre enfanté par d'autres livres, puisque c'est dans la matière artistique produite par Limonov que Carrère a essentiellement puisé, et c'est aussi un double miroir où se reflètent l'image d'un écrivain qui a passé sa vie à se regarder et à écrire sur lui-même, et celle que l'auteur du livre a de lui, cette dernière image étant brouillée et sans doute déformée, par le reflet de l'auteur lui-même.

A l'arrivée, Emmanuel Carrère a écrit un roman, parce que la vie de Limonov a été très romanesque, ce qui selon lui l'a poussé à faire ce livre, mais aussi parce que l'histoire racontée se situe finalement ailleurs. C'est l'histoire d'un regard sur soi et sur l'autre, avec quelque chose qui rappelle un peu la cristallisation chère à Stendhal et le sentiment amoureux. D'ailleurs l'auteur joue un peu pour Limonov, le rôle qu'il prête à son héros auprès des femmes qui ont traversé sa vie, acceptant de le voir parfois dans sa petitesse, ses travers et ses fiascos, reconnaissant ses faux-pas et ses erreurs -- ses crimes peut-être--, mais le devinant beau dans la laideur et bon dans la méchanceté, le voulant fondamentalement magnifique et héroïque.

Sous la plume de Carrère, Limonov est souvent un loser (et c'est pour ça qu'au fond il l'aime), parfois un bourrin -- et même un sale type!, quelque fois une diva, mais c'est surtout un héros romantique (amoureux fou de ses compagnes et  loyal envers les causes ou les amis auxquels il s'attache) et ce qu'il semble le plus admirer chez lui c'est cette vertu qui fait souvent défaut à l'homme de lettre: le courage. Limonov c'est l' anti-Houellebecq!

L'auteur dit que Limonov a grandi, comme lui, en lisant les livres de Dumas et de Jules Verne, et a, toute sa vie, voulu être un héros de roman, et si c'est le cas, alors Carrère a accompli dans ce livre, pour son double littéraire, ce que le vrai Edouard aurait raté malgré ses efforts pour vivre une vie d'aventurier. Mais peut-être l'assertion de l'auteur n'est après tout qu'un moyen pour justifier son entreprise, ou se donner à lui-même le beau rôle...

Mon amie n'a pas vraiment apprécié le livre pour des raisons que je crois surtout politiques. Et comme elle connaît et Kharkov où Limonov a grandi, et la Russie, elle a par ailleurs relevé quelques erreurs çà et là, refusant à Emmanuel Carrère toute licence poétique. Mais je pense surtout qu'elle préfère aux héros romanesques les héros réels, et que Limonov est un anti-héros à ses yeux, quelqu'un de trop "sombre",  qui manque aussi peut-être un peu trop de failles, et dont la résilience ne l'impressionne guère; quelqu'un qui a fait trop de mauvais choix et sur lequel il n'était pas nécessaire de faire un livre. Il faudra d 'ailleurs que je lui dise qu'il doit y avoir en elle un petit côté stalinien qui la pousse vers des héros plus positifs! J'espère qu'elle appréciera l'ironie et je suis sûre qu'elle ne m'en voudra pas de la taquiner ainsi.

Moi j'avoue que ce livre m'a donné envie de lire les livres d' Edouard Limonov !

Alors pourquoi ne suis-je pas tout à fait sous le charme? Eh bien parce que je trouve le livre très intéressant mais inégal. Certains passages font mouche ou sont touchants mais d'autres sont un peu écrits avec les pieds. Et Carrère se croît un peu trop souvent obligé d'étoffer son livre par des exposés sur l'histoire récente de la Russie (ou des Balkans) et au lieu de le faire habilement pour offrir un contexte aux différents "exploits" de son héros, il le fait sur un ton presque professoral qui lui vient peut-être de maman mais qui gâche le roman limonovien; il a même recyclé un passage de la fameuse préface que j'avais aimée, et je dois dire que ça m'a énervée.

Et puis c'est vrai qu'il a quelque chose d'un peu agaçant, d' un peu trop "entre deux", ce Carrère, avec un pied dans le monde bourgeois et confortable d'une certaine bien-pensance et bienséance toujours prête à hisser certains étendards ou à lancer l'anathème contre les méchants, et un autre dans le monde plus relativiste de ceux qui se gardent des jugements hâtifs et qui privilégient et la sensibilité et la hauteur de vue. Du coup, il paraît un peu Normand parfois, ou comme il le dit lui-même, enclin à pencher du côté du dernier qui a parlé.

Je crois, néanmoins, qu'il y a beaucoup d'humanité, et quelques fulgurances (mais les doit-on à Edouard ou à Emmanuel?, c'est la question) dans ce livre, et qu'il vaut la peine d'être lu.

La fugue du Pape

Habemus Papam is totally my kind of comedy and it might be Moretti's best film to date.

The movie begins with a conclave for the Pope is dead. The famous smoke turns black twice but finally the cardinals manage to choose a Pope. The problem is that cardinal Melville, played by Michel Piccoli, doesn't want to be The One, so the film actually contradicts the "habemus papam" phrase, as the newly elected Pope can't cope with the job and decides to run away; the cardinals remain helpless(the papal curie even asks a shrink to help!) and everybody is left Popeless.

The film is brillant, often touching and funny (irreverent as a comedy must be but not at all the red-hot movie against Vatican and Catholic Church that one would expect from a leftie like Moretti), and Michel Piccoli is fantastic. To think he played Dom Juan so many years ago, and now he's Pope!

Habemus Papam isn't a film about religion, rather a film on the wish for freedom, illusions, frustation, acting and imitation -- actually it is a sort of movie fugue considering the film's structure and the character's mental state. Moretti mocks the media and communications advisers, makes fun of psychoanalysis and shrinks, and, above all, of himself, and plays with the idea that The Vatican is a big theatre where, when a Pope dies, the show must go on...as long as nobody is miscast.

At the end of the day, art is the answer, or at least a place to find refuge when it's too much. Nanni Moretti tried to fight against Berlusconi and must be very disheartened as nothing has changed in his country,  and he doesn't believe in Heaven, but he has found his haven and it's a nice one.

La dernière piste

I went to the movies yesterday evening and saw Meek's Cutoff which is a beautiful beautiful movie.

I'm sure that many people who mostly seek entertainment would find it too slow, and perhaps even boring, and would hate the open ending, completely missing the point that it is ALL about the journey, and that the film is a work of art. It isn't an action movie for sure, but an existential story. Actually, I liked it better than the Coens' True Grit and I'm a fan of the Coens!

Meek's Cutoff is a great modern western (although it takes place in 1845), renewing and updating the genre by choosing a new point of view (the women's) and getting rid of formula and many cliches, while bringing us back to the roots of the western that are both religious and historical (the Bible and the reality of the conquest of the Wild West)and creating a universal and engrossing tale.

The film manages to convey realism, demystifying the take on those pioneers and a journey that would have been epic in old films -- here, on the contrary, and despite very few close-ups, we get to be close to them, to see the dirt, the doubts, the fears, the sheer craziness, the real tough life of a wagon train, we get to smell the stink even --, while also playing on the metaphorical level.

Apart from the obvious allegorical and biblical side of the journey from the Genesis reading and the garden (the water land), through the desert, to the Tree of Life, a journey in a desert land is a bit like a journey in a labyrinth; it is always metaphorical and cathartic (purgatory-style) on screen (remember Gus Van Sant's wonderful Gerry?), so we see the settlers slowly getting rid of superfluous weights, but the film also tackles the question of power and how it may shift (the subjugated ones may become in charge eventually), and there are the key element of fear and human vulnerability, of being dependent on others for survival, and therefore of trust and distrust.

It's about being a stranger in the strangest land and the theme of otherness is central: men and women are different worlds, set apart and hardly communicating (the men make decisions, the women, mostly going about their chores, follow), which the first part of the film shows very well; Meek, who is supposed to lead the settlers to Oregon and chose that dangerous shortcut, is something of a mystery himself for the immigrants to the point that they begin to suspect he might not know what he is doing or is an evil man so, even though he's somewhat familiar, they consider killing him; and of course there's the Indian who is the ultimate Other of the tale. And then it's all about blood and water, and about whom they can really trust to guide them towards water, to be their saviour.

The screenplay is smart but, above all, the cinematography is just fabulous (at first the square screen is weird but then you forget about it and the pictures are simply breathtaking), the angles, the frame are perfect, the mise-en-scène is clever and the film has the best crossfade I have ever seen, I mean EVER.

At the end of the day, the viewers are like the three foreign families in the wagon trail, trusting some stranger, the director, to take them somewhere, focusing on the destination (the supposed climax and pay-off we expect in adventure movies) but actually forced to go on an uncomfortable journey which takes time, so it can be confusing and you may think that the director has let you down, actually got lost and has gotten you lost in the process. Or like Emily, played by Michelle Williams, you can reject the clueless oldschool cowboy whose leading days are gone, you choose to follow the native person who knows that new land, you start interpretating his/her language, and you trust that he/she will lead you to the refreshing and rewarding water.

Also, on a meta level, one could say that the film is the opposite of Meek's goal and reflects the story showed on screen for there's no cutoff, no easy road, no explanations handed on a plate to the passive audience.

Michelle Williams delivers a good performance (just as a good as the one in Blue Valentine), playing a strong female character that is a nice change from her usual roles, but all the actors are perfectly cast (and the Indian is hot!).

I'm really impressed by Keily Reichardt here, and glad to see that there are great female directors (Debra Granik, Courtney Hunt being other examples) out there, rising in indie movies. Reichardt defies the expectations of the genre, from beginning to end, but she is up to the job of directing the great western of the XXIst century.