The Crime Is Mine: A frothy period romp

The Crime Is Mine (2023) • View trailer

Four stars (out of five). Unrated, equivalent to PG-13 for sexual candor and brief nudity 

Available via: Amazon Prime and other VOD options

By Derrick Bang

This is way too much fun.

 

Director François Ozon’s frothy period farce is many things: an homage to 1930s Hollywood screwball comedies, and a canny nod to the tempestuous cinema transition from silents to talkies, along with a cheeky soupçon of contemporary gender issues.

 

Crafty attorney Pauline Mauléon (Rebecca Marder, right) isn't about to let best friend
Madeleine Verdier (Nadia Tereszkiewicz) be convicted of a crime she didn't
commit ... or did she?

Oh, and it’s also a murder mystery.

The result is joyously entertaining, thanks both to a sharp script by Ozon and Philippe Piazzo — adapting Georges Berr and Louis Verneuil’s 1934 play, Mon Crime — and effervescent performances by the entire cast. Traces of the original stage production are evident (which must’ve been a hoot, back in the day), but the presentation never feels cramped; Ozon, production designer Jean Rabasse and cinematographer Manual Dacosse “open up” the story in a manner that’s far more cinema than theater.

 

The setting is Paris, the year 1935. Struggling actress Madeleine Verdier (Nadia Tereszkeiwicz) and best friend Pauline Mauléon (Rebecca Marder), an unemployed lawyer, share a cramped flat and owe 3,000 francs in five months’ back rent. Their oafish landlord, Pistole (Franck De Lapersonne), seems willing to take it out in trade, but — harumph! — Madeleine and Pauline aren’t that sort of gals.

 

While Pauline verbally jousts with Pistole, Madeleine is in trouble elsewhere; we see her hastily depart the lavish estate of famed theater producer Montferrand (Jean-Christophe Bouvet). She’s disheveled and clearly distraught. Upon returning to their flat, she tearfully explains that Montferrand offered her a bit part only if she’d become his mistress; we she refused, he tried to rape her, and she fled.

 

Madeleine’s longtime boyfriend André Bonnard (Édouart Sulpice) shows up — he’s heir to the Bonnard Tire corporation — but is scarcely a comfort. 400,000 francs in debt, thanks to bad luck at the horse track, the only “solution” offered by his father (André Dussollier) is an arranged marriage with Berthe Courteil, which — conveniently — will pump millions of francs into the ailing Bonnard factory operation.

 

But that’s okay, André insists, to the shattered Madeleine; we’ll still see each other for at least one meal per day ... as my mistress. (The cad! The bounder!)

 

Enter police Inspector Brun (Régis Laspalés), who arrives with the news that Montferrand has been found dead, murdered by a single gunshot ... and isn’t it rather suspicious, that Madeleine owns a gun with one chamber fired? 

 

Mais non, the young woman insists. But then, after an unsatisfied Brun departs, Pauline takes her friend aside ... and a plan is hatched.

Dead Man Down: The dish best served cold

Dead Man Down (2013) • View trailer 
3.5 stars. Rating: R, for profanity and considerable violence
By Derrick Bang

As I expected, David Fincher’s American remake of The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo completely eclipsed Danish director Niels Arden Oplev’s vastly superior 2009 version in this country ... and let me note, as well, that Noomi Rapace’s Lisbeth Salander blew Rooney Mara right off the screen.

Victor (Colin Farrell) thinks that the scarred Beatrice (Noomi Rapace) merely wishes to
go on a date, to forget — for an evening — the despair that has lingered in the wake
of the car accident that left her with such a crippled self-image. In fact, though, Beatrice
has chosen Victor for a very specific reason ... as he's about to learn.

Imagine my delight, then, to see that Oplev and Rapace have reunited for the former’s American film debut, with a riveting crime thriller that offers more of the intense, claustrophobic character interactions that marked their first collaboration.

Dead Man Down also owes much of its narrative snap to a slick script from J.H. Wyman, a writer/director/producer best known for a pair of engaging TV shows: Fringe and the woefully under-appreciated Keen Eddie. Wyman has a knack for provocative concepts, and he certainly delivers that — and more — in this new film.

The setting is contemporary, the locale the seedier underbelly of any American metropolis (filming took place in Philadelphia). Dead Man Down hits the ground running, with a gaggle of hoods summoned by their boss, Alphonse (Terrence Howard). Somebody is playing a nasty game with Alphonse, sending cryptic messages that arrive on the corpses of his men.

The newest oblique missive sends Alphonse and his gang to the lair of a local drug kingpin (Andrew Stewart-Jones, vividly compelling), which prompts a confrontation that doesn’t go at all well; indeed, Alphonse survives solely due to the timely intervention of Victor (Colin Farrell).

This clash doesn’t sit well with regional boss Lon Gordon (Armand Assante), who feels that Alphonse has gotten seriously out of line. A price will need to be paid. Alphonse scarcely registers this warning, obsessed instead with what these damned notes might mean.

Victor hasn’t much of a life outside his duties as protective gunsel, although he has bonded with fellow hood Darcy (Dominic Cooper), an ambitious fellow looking to work his way up the gangland ladder. After hours, Victor eats makeshift meals in a minimally furnished, upper-level apartment in a complex that might be one scant step up from slum projects. He occasionally spots an attractive young woman on the balcony of a similar apartment in the adjacent tower.

This time, however, their eyes lock. She tentatively wiggles her fingers in an almost-wave. After a lengthy pause, he does the same.

Amour: Dull, dreary and beyond endurance

Amour (2012) • View trailer 
Two stars. Rating: PG-13, for dramatic intensity, painful intimacy, brief profanity and fleeting nudity
By Derrick Bang • Originally published in The Davis Enterprise, 2.8.13

However impressive Emmanuelle Riva’s starring role in Amour — and her work transcends mere words such as brave and raw — the film itself is a colossal yawn.

The moment comes without warning: Georges (Jean-Louis Trintignant) suddenly
discovers that his wife isn't present in her own skin, as if her soul has been
extinguished. Moments later, she's back, unaware that anything is wrong ... but this
initial stroke is merely the first indication that her body will, in time, betray her in the
cruelest way possible.

At all times, and in every possible way, writer/director Michael Haneke refuses to grant access to these characters; they’re little more than two-dimensional ciphers. Dialogue is sparse, Haneke often preferring the intimate intensity of searching gazes amplified by extreme close-ups. He and cinematographer Darius Khondji also favor faraway compositions, with people occupying only a small portion of an otherwise quiet and static room.

Haneke holds, at great length, on the most mundane behavior — unpacking groceries, donning clothing, eating meals — to a point well beyond aggravation. This really isn’t a film, or a least not a narrative in the conventional sense: more a lengthy tone poem or mood piece.

The wafer-thin story could be scrawled on a postcard: Retired music teachers Georges (Jean-Louis Trintignant) and Anne (Riva) are enjoying their twilight years in a spacious city apartment laden with culture: books, music, a piano. She suffers a sudden stroke, then in time endures a second, much more crippling one; she declines before her husband’s eyes. And ours.

He insists on caring for her, coping as best he can. Which, ultimately, isn’t too well.

That’s all, folks.

So yes, fine: Haneke’s emphasis on the routine and commonplace underscores the degree to which Anne finds it harder and harder to accomplish any of the thousand-and-one little tasks that we take for granted each day. Dressing, eating, moving across a room. Going to the bathroom.

Their refined artistic tastes aside, Georges and Anne are rendered “ordinary” by Haneke’s detached approach. Strokes are equal-opportunity: They can hit anybody, at any time, and life changes in an eyeblink. Thanks to Riva’s wholly realistic transformation, as Anne slides further away from her “normal” life, we can’t help reflecting on that silent prayer: There, but for the grace of God, goes my partner. My child.

Myself.