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Reviews of Recent Independent, Foreign, & Documentary Films in Theaters and DVD/Home Video
PARIS A character in a French film is often about as sincere as a croissant is nutritious (insouciance generally trumping deep emotion), but in masterful hands both products are invariably satisfying. Sticking to this metaphor, Cédric Klapisch fills Paris, his latest feature film delight, with every pastry in the boulangerie. The ambitious (and presumptuously titled) exploration of the city is a free-flowing collection of narratives centered on Pierre (Romain Duris—in a role uncharacteristically devoid of quirk), a dancer who receives a potentially terminal diagnosis, which both sobers and softens his sensibilities. He grows attuned to the beauty of Paris (of being healthy in Paris) and dips into voyeurism as he stands on his balcony, watching the lives of others. The tired multi-plot gimmick notwithstanding, the film develops organically, guided by a sincere curiosity about the city and its inhabitants. When we aren’t with Pierre or his frazzled sister (voluptuously played by Juliette Binoche), the film visits two successful middle-aged brothers, a gaggle of blue-collar grocers, and a crotchety, racist boulanger, to name just a few. And when Klapisch needs a break from cosmopolitan beauty and laughable bourgeoisie problems, he checks in with a young man in Africa willing to risk his life to get to France. But Pierre and the refugee aren’t just reality checks to the trivial woes of the rest. Every character, no matter how neurotic or shallow, is painted in three loving dimensions. The most neurotic of them all—Roland (Fabrice Luchini), a professor of Parisian history—is also the most electric. We watch his midlife crisis in all its perverse glory, at once laughing and wincing from the full force of this actor’s might. A scene in which he unleashes his repression in a therapist’s office becomes the film’s greatest comedic release. Gray Paris panoramas (the film is set in fall and winter) and matters of death are a far cry from L’auberge Espagnole or Les Poupées Russes—Klapisch’s highly stylized, joie de vivre orgies of European youth. But with the hint of his trademark electronic soundtrack and a handful of dance sequences (Duris at the Moulin Rouge, Binoche grinding with a stranger), there is no doubt of this director’s ability to effect joy. Perhaps
more impressive is the film’s ability to honor its title. Klapisch dims
the blinding Amélie effect, which reduced the city to a postcard,
but he makes no apologies for its beauty. On Christmas Eve, Pierre
points out the glittering Eiffel Tower to his nephews, and a young
Parisian couple drinks wine on the steps of the Sacré Coeur, conscious
of looking like tourists. In this way, Klapisch acknowledges the cliché
of these images, but feasts on them anyway.
Yana Litovsky
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