M
First Mathieu Chédid, now Michel Spinosa - aime, or "M" is the word.
The musical version of this feel-good commandment makes obeying the falsetto order a pleasure. The film version, to which we submitted our eyes and souls on Sunday afternoon, had us wincing and praying that the final scene wouldn't end in orgiastic butchery.
Spinosa's Anna M. delivers a cold, mechanical view on a psychological disorder that I was previously ineptly referring to as "he's just not that into you" with girlfriends. Erotomania, defined as the delusion that someone, usually of a higher social status, is mad about you, when in fact, they might not even know your name, is also interestingly referred to as de Clerambault's syndrome, since it was most scientifically documented by - get this - Gaëtan Gatian de Clerambault, a fin de siècle French psychiatrist.
Spinosa's cinematic depiction reveals with Dante-esque detail (and length) the stages of this fascinating malady and the descent into the mental hell of insanity embodied by Anna M. As Anna, the red-headed heroine of Russian lineage, traverses the tortuous mental and emotional bridge from reserved ancient manuscript restorer, to obsessive, out of control érotomane, the audience is dragged alongside, though not entirely inside. Isabelle Carré shows off her nut-chops, while her object of desire, interpreted by Gilbert Melki, proves himself a formidable actor of restraint. Or simply of boredom. (O.D.'ing on existentialism will do this to you.)
At times, indeed, the movie unfolds more like a medical documentary than a fully-realised dramatic interpretation. There are helpful chapters entitled "Illusion," "Haine," and "Réfuge," and we examine Anna's delusional slide from afar, at the pivotal moments of her acts of illness. Her voice is assumed in her actions, but as the scenes unfold, the incoherence of her actions and words become not only disconcerting, but frustrating. The end result is a great feeling of sadness and overwhelming failure on behalf of... whom?
Unlike a documentary, unfortunately, scenes allude to sub-stories that may or may not be hints at prior relationships and psychoses, leaving me to wonder how great the margin is between someone who chooses to watch a film about an insane young woman on a beautiful Sunday afternoon, and the tortured character in the movie.
This thought, and other unsolved mysteries followed me around yesterday and left a dark smudge on my thoughts for a short while.
Mathieu Chédid sings "Je dis aime" courtesy of YouTube
The musical version of this feel-good commandment makes obeying the falsetto order a pleasure. The film version, to which we submitted our eyes and souls on Sunday afternoon, had us wincing and praying that the final scene wouldn't end in orgiastic butchery.
Spinosa's Anna M. delivers a cold, mechanical view on a psychological disorder that I was previously ineptly referring to as "he's just not that into you" with girlfriends. Erotomania, defined as the delusion that someone, usually of a higher social status, is mad about you, when in fact, they might not even know your name, is also interestingly referred to as de Clerambault's syndrome, since it was most scientifically documented by - get this - Gaëtan Gatian de Clerambault, a fin de siècle French psychiatrist.
Spinosa's cinematic depiction reveals with Dante-esque detail (and length) the stages of this fascinating malady and the descent into the mental hell of insanity embodied by Anna M. As Anna, the red-headed heroine of Russian lineage, traverses the tortuous mental and emotional bridge from reserved ancient manuscript restorer, to obsessive, out of control érotomane, the audience is dragged alongside, though not entirely inside. Isabelle Carré shows off her nut-chops, while her object of desire, interpreted by Gilbert Melki, proves himself a formidable actor of restraint. Or simply of boredom. (O.D.'ing on existentialism will do this to you.)
At times, indeed, the movie unfolds more like a medical documentary than a fully-realised dramatic interpretation. There are helpful chapters entitled "Illusion," "Haine," and "Réfuge," and we examine Anna's delusional slide from afar, at the pivotal moments of her acts of illness. Her voice is assumed in her actions, but as the scenes unfold, the incoherence of her actions and words become not only disconcerting, but frustrating. The end result is a great feeling of sadness and overwhelming failure on behalf of... whom?
Unlike a documentary, unfortunately, scenes allude to sub-stories that may or may not be hints at prior relationships and psychoses, leaving me to wonder how great the margin is between someone who chooses to watch a film about an insane young woman on a beautiful Sunday afternoon, and the tortured character in the movie.
This thought, and other unsolved mysteries followed me around yesterday and left a dark smudge on my thoughts for a short while.
Mathieu Chédid sings "Je dis aime" courtesy of YouTube
Comments
Hmmm... Will have to think on this before deciding whether to see it or not. But I have a feeling my boy probably wouldn't like it -- he's very adverse to anything TOO psychological, particularly in French film. A guy I used to know said I had a thing for "les films tracassés", and he was probably on to something... Then again, a light, distracting flick from time to time is certainly welcome too!
Alice, after thinking further on this film, I really hope that you didn't waste your time and money on it! Isabelle is terrific, without a doubt, but the movie drags and drowns. Funny about films tracassés - my dad used to say the same things about me when I used to come with depressive cinema like The Piano Teacher or Ponnette.