NOTE: There are some spoilers here, but none will affect what Bresson is trying to accomplish in the slightest. However, if you’d like to go into the picture with no prior information of note, you’ll want to skip this review.
Unobtainable in any legitimate form for over 30 years, Robert Bresson’s Au Hasard Balthazar has finally reemerged in a fully restored print, and what a gift for the movie world that is. Until now, the only way to see Balthazar was via bootleg tapes obtained on e-bay or cult dealer. Now, with a New York theatrical run at Film Forum and a DVD release soon to follow, cinephiles from all over will be able to see one of cinema’s greatest achievements. For those unfamiliar with Bresson’s work, this is not the place to start. Balthazar represents Bresson’s most personal and intense work, an aching look at loneliness and dejection. This isn’t an uplifting film, and it’s probably as anti-Hollywood as anything in the past fifty years. For those used to the mainstream (and even those who’ve seen the work of Kurosawa, Bergman, etc), Bresson’s emotionless style takes a good deal of getting used to, and I recommend beginning with Diary of a Country Priest (1951), A Man Escaped (1956), and Pickpocket (1959). All three contain the same dry distance and visual compositions, but aren’t quite as extreme in their austerity and detachment. After putting yourself through a Bresson crash course, you’re ready for Mouchette, Lancelot of the Lake, and yes, Au Hasard Balthazar.
The story is of the mistreated donkey Balthazar, from its childhood to death, and the mirroring tale of the girl who named him. For those upset that I “spoiled” the picture by alluding to Balthazar’s death, don’t be. Bresson is not concerned with suspense; in fact, the literal French translation of Un condamné à mort s’est échappé is, “A Man Condemned to Death has Escaped.” Bresson is telling us before we watch the film what the results will be, intentionally eliminating any possible intrigue or tension. In A Man Escaped, I felt this detracted from the end result; while the picture was expertly crafted, there was an odd feeling of emptiness throughout, as if all the beautiful compositions and meticulous actions were pointless, since the eventual outcome was inevitable. The mystery genre doesn’t really lend itself to Bresson’s style (though don’t misunderstand, A Man Escaped is an excellent film, simply a bit flawed and not among his very finest). In Balthazar, there are no such problems. It’s a sublime study of mistreatment, and ultimately of downfall and inner peace.
It begins with a lovely medium close-up of a small donkey suckling his mother’s teat. The baby is discovered by Marie and Jacques, two children with strong adolescent feelings for each other, and is taken from his mother. The kids tenderly christen him Balthazar and pamper him with attention, but as years pass, family strife intervenes and Jacques is forced out of Marie’s life by her angry father. So begins Balthazar’s journey through life, paralleled almost exactly by Marie’s miserable trek. Balthazar is frequently sold, given away, and beaten. When the village baker obtains him to help carry bread, Gerard (an employee of the bakery and the leader of the village gang of thugs) sets fire to Balthazar’s tail in a heartlessl attempt to speed him up. When Balthazar is overworked to near-death, Arnold (the drunk) takes him from the baker and revives him, but eventually brutalizes him to such an extreme that the scared donkey escapes. He ends up in the circus, where he’s trained as an animal prodigy of sorts, putting on mathematical displays for the crowd. One day, Balthazar sees an intoxicated Arnold in the audience, recognizes both his former master and his former master’s drunken state, and panics. After (unfortunately for the poor donkey) retrieving Balthazar, Arnold keeps him until he obtains a great inheritance from a deceased uncle. Balthazar is then bought by a stingy old grain merchant, but only remains with him a short time; a shamed Marie appears at the merchant’s door, having run away from her parents (more on this later). She prostitutes herself to him in exchange for food; her family then shows up and reclaims her, and Balthazar is taken along as payment for an old debt. The family slowly implodes, and Balthazar is soon left alone with Marie’s mother, who now believes he’s a saint. Gerard and his band of criminals steal him from her to help with a smuggling operation, but custom officials spot them and begin firing. Balthazar is wounded. And then, in one of cinema’s most poetic moments, Balthazar painfully limps through the fields until he comes across a flock of sheep. Finally at peace, Balthazar lies down in their midst and dies.
Throughout Balthazar’s travails, Marie suffers much as well. After her separation from Jacques, she becomes quite solitary until she drives by Gerard (with Balthazar) delivering their bread one morning. Gerard successfully charms her in the front seat of her car. From that moment onwards, she is completely infatuated with his bad-boy demeanor (nor is it just a demeanor; at various points throughout, Gerard steals, fights, and lies frequently). It’s unlikely Marie could have picked a worse man to fall for; Gerard is a womanizer and rarely shows Marie affection. He nonetheless takes pleasure in defying his bosses, who insist that he have nothing to do with her. Marie eventually is able to push aside her feelings for Gerard after the aforementioned incident with the merchant, at the same that Jacques reemerges in her life, claiming he still loves her. While attracted to the (much-needed) stability that he offers, Marie finds that her desire for excitement and hatred for her former life has demolished most of her feelings for the young man. Not coincidentally, she’s unable to dismiss Gerard so abruptly, and insists on seeing him and his gang one final time for some closure. They beat and rape her, and lock her in a shed. Fatally broken inside, Marie runs away, never to be seen again. Her father dies of grief and shame. Her mother is left alone…with Balthazar. There’s a lot more plot synopsis in this review then is my norm and there’s a reason; in order to fully understand what Bresson is trying to do here, it’s crucial to have a strong understanding of the story arc. This isn’t possible on one viewing—I’ve seen the film three times now and there are still many layers I feel I’m missing. However, I will now do my best to break down the cinematic purpose of Au Hasard Balthazar as best I can.
To start, there’s Balthazar’s name itself and its symbolic representation in the context of Christianity. Balthazar was one of the three wise men who journeyed to Bethlehem and while the religious aspect of the picture is the one I feel least equipped to discuss, it seems likely that this is a direct influence on the revelation at the film’s finale that Balthazar is a saint. Bresson’s films are frequently steeped in Christian values, and this may be his most fascinating and complex examination of all. For before the end revelation, there could scarcely be less faith permeating the picture. Other than Balthazar himself, there are few pure characters. There’s even less happiness, and the only time when we sense content is when Balthazar finally passes away. Consider; Gerard is a heartless thug. Marie has become a cheap lapdog, practically incapable of any deep thought or noble actions. Marie’s parents painfully watch their daughter disintegrate, with her father unable to bear it by the end. Jacques may be tenderhearted but he’s shallow, basking in childhood promises instead of facing the modern day realities (that Marie is no longer the innocent girl of his youth) until it’s too late. All of these people could use a saint; it’s a relief to hear Marie’s mother utter her beliefs about Balthazar near the finale. Unfortunately (and typically), Balthazar isn’t allowed to live out his days in peace with the first owner since his childhood who treated him as more than a slave.
Employing an array of lower-body shots and brilliantly utilizing the weather, Bresson’s compositions are essential to Au Hasard Balthazar’s success. We see Balthazar, framed in the center of the screen, subjected to the rain and snow in a lovely 15-second montage. This serves as a metaphor for the harsh and frequent mistreatment he’s forced to absorb from all angles, sadly including the elements. There’s a remarkable scene when Balthazar first arrives at the circus where he’s taken around to look at the other animals. We see extreme close-ups of their faces one by one, always alternating back to Balthazar after each shot…this is one of the few times in the film that any character aside from Balthazar receives this visual treatment but in each tight shot, the donkey’s eyes are like moist portals of despair. And sometimes…there’s even a vulturing fly buzzing around the poor animal, hungrily awaiting Balthazar’s inevitable demise.
Made within a year of one another, Au Hasard Balthazar and Mouchette are companion pieces, and there are extreme similarities between Marie and Mouchette’s title character. Both are hopelessly wretched girls, regularly surrounded by emotional decay and disgust. These were also the first Bressonian pictures (aside from the very un-Bressonian Les Dames du Bois de Boulogne in 1945, which worked from a script penned by Jean Cocteau) to contain sexuality. Diary of a Country Priest, A Man Escaped, Pickpocket, and The Trial of Joan of Arc are all completely devoid of any eroticism, making the orgasmic traits displayed by Marie and Mouchette to be initially surprising. After some thought, though, it becomes evident how apt the cold carnal energy is for Bresson’s style. The sexual encounters of Marie and Mouchette all stem from either desperation or a concession to their worthless lives. As a result, no passion comes through the screen. Instead, we feel a chilly sorrow when Mouchette wraps her arms around Arsene’s back, or Marie dully—and without conviction—slaps the merchant’s hands from her shoulder, when it’s obvious that she’ll be sleeping with him by night’s end. The statement made by Mouchette’s mother near the films’ end; “I’m a slut, try to be a good girl,” could just as easily be made by Marie’s mother, and would have been just as in vain.
The opening shot of Balthazar at his mother’s breast becomes even more haunting upon reflection, because the finale in the plains contains several baby sheep with their mothers. Balthazar has come full circle, in Kubrickian fashion—one of the few American directors who has a feel for the emotionless like Bresson)—and perhaps only now can finally recapture the innocent peace of childhood. Dying amongst the sheep, perhaps Balthazar can finally live.
100/100
Seeing Luchino Visconti’s The Leopard in its 205-minute entirety is almost impossible, what with the many butchered prints circulating throughout the world, so a chance to view it in its original Italian must not be passed up. From the opulent visuals and lavish costumes down to the stately Burt Lancaster himself, The Leopard is a breathtaking film. Casting Lancaster as Prince Salina appears to be a curious decision at first glance, considering that it required an Italian voiceover after filming, but I can’t imagine there being a better choice. Dripping authority with every action and movement, Lancaster serves notice early on that this is his show, despite the presence of the equally famous Alain Delon as Salina’s nephew Tancredi and the stunning Claudia Cardenale as the luscious Angelica. Considering the story revolves around him, it’s natural that Lancaster would command the most attention, but Delon’s reputation and prowess could easily steal the show if Lancaster were anything less than marvelous.
Set in 19th Century Sicily, The Leopard‘s storyline centers around Prince Salina during a period of social unrest. Italy is uniting and Salina’s power is slowly fading as a result of the changing times. In an attempt to reinvigorate his status, Salina arranges for Tancredi to wed Angelica, the daughter of a wealthy aristocrat with a strong reputation. While the marriage successfully unites the families, it fails to return society to the manner that Salina craves. One of the many magnificent characteristics present in The Leopard is how Salina’s fall exists on both a personal and political level. For the first two hours, The Leopard predominantly focuses on Salina’s goals in a societal sense, then gracefully shifts to his self-examination once the legendary dance begins. While the ball is certainly lovely to behold, it’s also full of meaning—Salina’s dance with Angelica is a dreamlike alert that age has finally caught up to him, and his most powerful days are behind him. Salina is never entirely unlikable at any point in the picture, so his final realization ends up being quite wrenching. Without spoiling the ending, I’ll say that it ranks up with Bresson’s Au Hasard Balthazar as the most sublime finale that I know.
Visconti’s direction here is astonishingly subtle. He never loses sight of the little nuances of life that ultimately make the characters so sharply developed and authentic. When Tancredi—the soldier, the handsome youth, the nephew of the Prince—meets Angelica for the first time, he behaves like a schoolboy with a crush, telling cocky stories to puff himself up and ignoring everyone else in the room. One of The Leopard‘s most charming moments occurs when Tancredi and Angelica playfully explore the mansion, flirting and playing a quirky version of hide-and-seek. By not forgetting that these are real people we’re dealing with, Visconti injects just the right amount of pleasurable touches without straying from the primary storyline. The Leopard is completely different in structure and style than Visconti’s neo-realistic masterpieces like La Terra Trema, but it’s no less powerful or impressive. Despite—because of, really—its brilliance, I strongly advise against seeing The Leopard unless the print’s in tip-top shape. Imagine watching Bergman’s Fanny and Alexander or Kurosawa’s Seven Samurai dubbed in English with 50 minutes lopped off. Sound appealing? I thought not.
Let me immediately make something clear: I went into Martin Brest’s worthless Gigli with an open mind. I wasn’t among those who found the Ben & J-Lo phenomenon even moderately interesting, let alone newsworthy. To me, they were just another Hollywood couple destined for failure—banal as can be, though they did get a few extra points for Lopez’ juicy booty. So the Bennifer factor held no weight with me, either positively or negatively. What did intrigue me was Gigli’s universal critical panning, coupled with the few rebels who emerged from the woodwork with boasts of a hidden gem, or an underappreciated and unfairly shafted masterwork. Additionally, a friend of mine in the industry watched it recently, saying that while it wasn’t good by any means, it certainly wasn’t awful. Personally, I expected mediocrity; a weak picture built up to new levels of ineptitude by the (undeserved, perhaps?) media frenzy. Armed with alcohol in case of an emergency, I jumped into the fray.
The storyline, if it can be called that: an amateur hood named Gigli (Affleck; more on him later) is hired to kidnap and watch over Brian, the mentally challenged brother of a federal prosecutor. Not trusting the bumbling Gigli with this immense responsibility alone (hmm, why was he asked to be involved at all then? One would think that someone incapable of watching over a retarded teenager for a few days wouldn’t be trusted with Mafioso business…), his boss Louis sends “Ricki” (Lopez) randomly to his door to offer assistance…and that’s it, really. Throughout the film’s ridiculously overlong two hours, Gigli goes nowhere. Occasionally, celebrity cameos (Christoper Walken and Al Pacino in a recreation of his overblown monologues in The Devil’s Advocate) attempt to advance things, but accomplish little more than soiling their resumes. Gigli himself develops only in the most trite manner imaginable: from tough guy to softie, from constantly berating Brian to feeling for him, from confidently proclaiming his superiority over women to emotionally retreating into a shell whenever he gets a whiff of J-Lo’s perfume. Brest inserts little wrinkles, such as the quote atop this review or having Gigli read to Brian from a bottle of Tabasco sauce (by making Larry’s apartment devoid of books, Brest enhances the feeling of Gigli’s cavemanish and chauvinistic roots) in an attempt to wash away the clichés, but all he achieves is taking an already wretched script to new depths.
Gigli attempts to convey messages of sexual ambiguity, individuality, and maturation but manages the unique accomplishment of falling on its face in every conceivable way. Firstly, half of its scenes are taken almost directly from other pictures, including Rain Man, but predominantly Kevin Smith’s sharp and insightful Chasing Amy. Chasing Amy tackled practically every issue that Gigli takes on, but managed to do so with a biting script and characters that aren’t so repugnant or pointless that caring for them becomes impossible. In Smith’s film, we sympathize with Holden from the moment Alyssa informs him of her homosexual preference, because Holden’s character smacks of realism and true affection. As his love for Alyssa is untainted in its authenticity, we can look past his issues and past transgressions, particularly since Alyssa is painted as similarly flawed. Gigli completely fails to address this: Larry and Ricki are unbearably one-dimensional throughout the picture, to the point that when Ricki finally plants one on Big Ben’s lips (sorry, couldn’t resist one Bennifer reference), it’s as ridiculous as if she had done so the moment after they met. The character development is that minimal; IE, nonexistent. Ironically, Affleck is the lead in both Gigli and Chasing Amy; while I wouldn’t exactly call his performance in Chasing Amy outstanding, it certainly was more than passable, perhaps because Smith’s more relaxed direction didn’t force him into uncomfortable situations. I mean, Ben as Mafioso tough guy? It’s been quite a year for him…this, an action hero in Daredevil, some moron in Paycheck…oh, I digress…
And to think, we haven’t even really gotten to Jennifer and Ben yet, and already Gigli’s riddled with holes large enough for Rosie O’Donnell to waddle through. But lest you think I forgot our dashing heroes…oh no, no, NO. Lopez turns in a decent enough performance; she has zilch to work with, of course, but she’s a very talented woman beyond her obvious sex appeal, and actually injects “Ricki” with some spunk and personality, something that the screenwriters clearly forgot to do. Affleck, on the other hand, is among the worst actors working today, and this is easily his worst performance, perhaps one of the worst of all time. Every line, every expression is a chore. His entire character smacks of artificiality; nothing Affleck does feels even slightly believable, completely ruining any hopes of a moderately enjoyable story (not that they weren’t shot to shit already). As Brian, Justin Bartha turns in a credible performance early on, but miraculously seems to improve as the film progresses. It’s also *interesting* how he’s able to hold pretty normal conversations with just the token stammer/struggle, yet is incapable of recognizing Gigli “calling” the Baywatch set with an appliance that, um, clearly isn’t a telephone.
Fittingly, Gigli ends with the purest of clichés: Ricki tells Gigli her real name, Brian fulfills his dream of seeing the cast of Baywatch (even better! He gets to dance with the cast! Mysteriously, nobody minds when a fully clothed doofy teenager joins the beach full of scantily-clad ladies), and Ricki and Gigli roll off into the sunset, even if they’re not together in the strictest sense of the word. Any attempts to perceive genius in Gigli’s constant mentioning of how his name rhymes with “really” or the frequent turkey references during sexual activity are overanalyzing at its most heinous. Beyond its exceptional unintentional humor value, there’s nothing redeeming about Gigli on any level. But for drinking games, it’s destined to become a cult classic. Any time a “jesus, did he really say or do that” moment happens, take a swig. I guarantee you’ll be toasted 40 minutes in.