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Reviews of Recent Independent, Foreign, & Documentary Films in Theaters and DVD/Home Video
A CHRISTMAS TALE Not for one moment will A Christmas Tale be confused with the upcoming Four Christmases or Home for the Holidays. Sentimentality or a group hug would be scoffed at out right in this family reunion. In the upper-class Vuillard family, it’s every man for himself. Like Lily Tomlin said, “We are together—alone.” This is true even when all of the grown siblings gather around the Christmas tree as the matriarch is dying. As the mother, Catherine Deneuve sets the tone. When Junon receives the news that she has a rare form of leukemia, she accepts the news nonchalantly. But she may have expected it. Her first-born died of the disease as a boy. In fact, she gave birth to a third child, Henri, in the hopes that he would be a compatible bone-marrow donor for his ailing brother. He wasn’t, and the other died, setting the course for her brittle relationship with her surviving son. (The regal and aloof Junon doesn’t brake any barriers for the actress, but Deneuve, now 65, is the rare female star who never had to reinvent herself, not having an awkward period in her forties or venturing out to character roles in her fifties.) When no match is found, she calmly declares to her husband (Jean-Paul Roussillon) that one of her grown children will have to be the donor: she gave them life, now it’s their turn. Two are compatible: her grandson, Paul, who was just been diagnosed as a schizophrenic, and the ex-con/drug-addled/erratic time bomb Henri (long-time Desplechin collaborator and new Bond villain Mathieu Amalric). But for the past five years, Paul’s mother, Élizabeth (Anne Consigny), has banished her younger brother Henri from any family gathering. Although what caused their cataclysmic rift is never explained, it’s not hard to imagine what happened. (Based on his behavior, I fully take Élizabeth’s side.) At the Christmas Eve dinner, inebriated Henri delivers a toast, where he proceeds to call his sister and mother c----. Like mother like daughter, Junon and Élizabeth remain defensively and coolly amused. Not a minute goes by when one isn’t aware of director Arnaud Desplechin deploying his bag of tricks: the iris-in, iris-out transitions; the use of split screen, confessions to the camera, etc. He revels in the artifice. But what prevents the film from largely turning into a bombardment of various visual styles is the strong script. The family’s vulnerabilities and eccentricities burrow under the skin. There’s practically someone for everyone to identify with, if not tentatively, though Melvil Poupaud, as Junon's youngest son Ivan, fades into the background. But then again, Ivan bears no animosity toward anyone. Maybe his psychiatric treatment as a teenager made him the most easygoing of the bunch. (Mental illness runs through this family like eye color prevails in others.) With such a set of abrasive characters, I was a little bit on the outside looking in until midway, when Ivan’s wife Sylvia discovers one bit of family history through a chance remark, the sort of information that keeps one awake at night. Her confirmation of the truth offers the movie’s most moving moments. Though film buffs will be disappointed—Chiara Mastroianni has very little interaction with her real-life mother Deneuve; Junon despises Sylvia for stealing away her favorite son, Ivan, and has little to do with her. In his direction of his well-cast ensemble, Desplechin does show restraint (except for those who need their meds). Seconds will fly by before the stinging barbs register. His film is certainly no more self-consciously told than Jonathan Demme’s familial hysterics in Rachel Getting Married, with its invasive, nonstop handheld camera—it was surprising its cameraman never bumped into a lamp or slammed into Anne Hathaway. Along with
the anything-goes tone of this darkly comedic drama, there’s a
looseness to all the mini-dramas occurring under one roof—no forced
confrontations or resolutions or last-minute revelations. If anyone
moves towards a reconciliation, it’s a baby step. Softening the
bluntness of the often abrasive combatants is Desplechin’s eclectic
soundtrack—Irish folk music, American ‘50s pop,
classical, and then some. Despite the on-screen vitriol, the playlist
keeps the tone light, soothing, and varied, offering an extra kick to the already
clipped pace.
Kent Turner
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