Deerskin

Rated: MA15+Deerskin

Directed and Written by: Quentin Dupieux

Photography, Editing: Quentin Dupieux

Art and Set Direction: Joan Le Boru

Sound: Guillaume Le Braz, Alexis Place, Gadou Naudin, Cyril Holtz

Starring: Jean Dujardin, Adele Haenel

French with English subtitles

‘I swear never to wear a jacket as long as I live.’

Deerskin first introduces Georges (Jean Dujardin) wearing a green jacket with three plastic buttons.  He parks on the wrong side of the petrol bowser.  And looking at his reflection in the car window he frowns at what he sees.  Then he flushes the jacket in the public toilet.

Yep, Georges is losing it.

The music flares.

And I think to myself, I already like this movie.

The film is character driven and continues to follow Georges.  But there’s another character in this movie.  A jacket.  We meet the beast.  The new jacket: 100% Deerskin.

The way the film flashes to a live deer in the wilderness seals it somehow.  Just how cool the jacket is.  But It’s not. It’s made from the skin of this beautiful innocent animal (see previous flash to said deer in the wilderness).  And, it’s got… fringes.  But Georges LOVES it: ‘Style de tueur (Killer style),’ he says, looking in the mirror.

It just makes me grin.

After that Georges keeps driving.

‘You’re no-where Georges.  You no longer exist.’  That’s what his ex-wife tells him, over the phone.

Georges ends up in the bar of a small village, where he meets the barmaid, Denise (Adele Haenel).  She’s been burnt by love too.  But Georges is a brand-new man in his deerskin jacket.  He tells Denise he’s a film maker.

It makes sense to say he’s a film maker.  He’s been recording film all day, so it’s kinda the same.  ‘No it’s not,’ says the jacket.

Instead of getting to know an available woman, Georges gets to know the jacket as his relationship with this 100% deerskin jacket becomes the subject of Georges’ movie to be.

Killer style indeed.

Director and writer Quentin Dupieux says, ‘I wanted to film insanity.’

And Georges has lost it.  But wow, he’s really enthusiastic about it.

The way Georges insanity is shown is somehow shocking and hilarious.

It’s the same dark humour used in, The Lobster, but less confronting even though there’s more killing…  And this whole jacket business is just so ticklish.

Jean Dujardin (who plays Georges in the film) explains it’s Quentin’s use of space that creates the comedy, ‘It’s in those moments of hesitation that the comedy and drama blend. You’re right on the borderline. All those scenes, for example, in which Georges demands money, or can’t pay. Quentin takes the time to stretch out the sense of malaise, to allow for some lingering doubt. Is Georges going to turn violent? Weep? Laugh? You never know what will happen. Time stands still for a moment, and those little agonies make me want to die laughing.’

Then there’s Georges dream in life – for him, it’s all about wearing this deerskin jacket.  To be the only person wearing… a jacket.  It doesn’t make sense.  But from the perspective of Georges, as he makes a film about his dream, it kinda does.

The character Denise gets it.  She reckons the jacket is like a shell to protect the wearer from the outside world.

I think it’s because Georges hates who he used to be, wearing that green blazer with the three plastic buttons.

Or perhaps Deerskin is just a weirdo movie that’s put together in a way that somehow makes sense.

Whether you analyse the layers or not, I was thoroughly absorbed and entertained from start to finish.

Like Denise says, ‘I’m into it.’

Portrait of a Lady on Fire

Rated: MPortrait of a Lady on Fire

Directed and Written by: Céline Sciamma

Produced by: Bénédicte Couvreur

Starring: Noémie Merlant, Adèle Haenel, Luana Bajrami, Valeria Golino.

Is it the ‘Lady’s’ portrait that is on fire or does the title allude to a portrait of a ‘Lady’ who is on fire? Inscribed within the very title is a hint of the subtleties and ambiguities that characterise this deeply intimate romance, winner of the ‘Best Screenplay’ at the Cannes Film Festival.

And from this point on, the enigmas only proliferate.

In the opening scene, a hand clasping a stick of willow charcoal hesitantly traces a black line across the page while the model/tutor posing in front of the class instructs her students and, at the same time, indirectly urges the viewer to, ‘Take the time to look at me.’

Much in the way that an artist will strive to render three dimensional form on a two dimensional surface, noticing the minutiae of form and the way the model’s limbs and torso are affected by the quirks of perspective and the play of light, so too the viewer is invited into a more intense and quiet world where gesture and symbol take on a deeper meaning and sounds emerging from the stillness— waves slapping against a wooden hull, keys jangling, the scratch of charcoal on paper—take on their own musicality.

It is 1760 and Marianne (Noémie Merlant) is travelling to an isolated chateau perched atop a cliff on the Brittany coast to fulfil a commission. She is to paint a wedding portrait for Héloïse (Adèle Haenel), but the work must remain a secret. Her subject, freshly graduated from life in a convent, is clinging on to her first and last moments of freedom before she is offered up for marriage to an Italian nobleman she has yet to meet, and the only way for Héloïse to resist is to prevent her portrait from coming into existence.

While Héloïse has already forbidden one artist to continue painting her, she doesn’t suspect that her new companion may have her own agenda. Not only is Marianne compelled to work in the few moments of daylight she can snatch away from her time with Héloïse, she must also reassemble Héloïse in her memory from the fragmented glances she manages to steal as the two roam the grasslands surrounding the estate and the rugged shoreline below.

As she works at her task Marianne reflects, ‘One must study the ear, even if it is covered.’ With this observation, Marianne does not simply refer to the way that memory and imagination must work together to reconstruct that which is hidden, or the way the folds and whorls of the ear set up a visual rhythm that recalls its function, she also draws our attention to the ear as a motif, with its form a labyrinth at the entrance to a lightless tunnel.

Like the layers Marianne builds up on her canvas—from the initial cartoon marked out in charcoal, through the abstract daubs of paint where features roughly blocked in glow whitely against the raw umber imprimatura, to that moment when a likeness appears as if from a veil of smoke—that first guarded friendship between the artist and her subject forms its own layers, eventually building into a connection that will draw them both through an emotional and philosophical labyrinth to that lightless tunnel at its heart.

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