What a frustrating experience Cold Mountain is, both during the viewing and upon reflection. The opening 45 minutes are among the worst of the year. They epitomize everything wrong with Hollywood today. They’re melodramatic, clichéd, cheesy, overblown, and repetitive. Minghella shows the complete lack of trust in the audience that’s all too prevalent in modern American cinema. How many times must we see Inman (Jude Law) glance longingly at Ada’s (Nicole Kidman) picture, and vice versa while Ada’s intrusive voiceover dreamily reminisces about their glory days—okay, okay, it was more like 10 minutes—together, and how she longs for him to return from the war? Once is plenty, thanks; we get it. Guess what, angel? He wants to come back too! Yay! The syrup is piled on the emotional waffles with constant slow-motion shots, cute kids, and sappy dialogue. Minghella basically empties his bag of treacle. At one point, I turned to my friend and whispered, “This is why Hollywood blows. This rubbish will probably win Best Picture!”
Then a funny thing happens. Minghella begins focusing on Inman and Ada’s stories separately, using their love as a backdrop. Ruby (an electric Renee Zellweger) enters the picture as Ada’s helper and companion, breathing life into the picture in the process. Meanwhile, a haggard Inman wearily claws his way towards Cold Mountain town, running into the usual assortment of obstacles that usually befall solitary travelers in these kinda flicks (traitors, lonely women, etc). Despite this cliché, however, Cold Mountain becomes engaging and somewhat riveting during this stretch, which lasts for about 80-90 minutes. Law lacks chemistry with Kidman, but plays the solo vagabond extremely well, his beard and eyes fatigued and lonely. His various encounters along the way is somewhat of a recycled tale, but it’s executed with enough skill to be moderately riveting anyway.
Ada and Ruby’s branch also works for the most part, primarily thanks to Zellweger, who vanishes inside her character, delivering an animated yet believable performance. Unfortunately, there are some glaring flaws here, particularly an offensive one involving Ruby and her father, who’s admitted to beating, abusing, and abandoning her as a child. Now, Ruby ain’t no soft girly-girl, but a tough, take-no-shit southern chick that’s persevered through hellish times and come out just fine. Yet after some initial resistance—which feels like little more than the obligatory shooing before the inevitable cave—Ruby’s anger melts away and she shelters her father (who happens to be one of them deserters who’ll be killed if found). Even weak-willed ladies (which Ruby is certainly not) are unlikely to overlook past sins, particularly those of such severity, simply because it’s wartime. If that’s the message of Cold Mountain—unify at all costs, discard all offenses—I’ll look elsewhere for my moral lessons.
The visual are outstanding, with snowy photography capturing the chilly landscapes and frosty roads. Minghella clearly has an excellent view of the world which he’s filming, making the mediocre finished product all the more exasperating. When not overused, the music is appropriately somber. Despite its many flaws, Cold Mountain is worth seeing for its lovely cinematography, Zellweger’s energized performance, and its meaty middle. It’s too bad this sandwich came with moldy bread.
2/4
Nothing could sum up Bresson’s cinematic sensibility better than his quote about Mouchette, his companion piece to Au Hasard Balthazar. Released in successive years when Bresson was at his prime, both explore many of the same themes: abuse, solitude, hatred, and loneliness. Mouchette, a 14-year old girl situated in a small rural community, lives a dreadful life. Her mother is dying and her father is an alcoholic. With her parents AWOL, she’s forced to provide most of the care for her baby sister. Her social status at school is so low that she isn’t bullied by her classmates, but simply disregarded. One night while returning from school, she encounters the poacher Arsene in the woods. Arsene is agitated because he believes he has just killed the town policeman, and takes Mouchette back to his cabin. He rapes her and uses her as an alibi for his whereabouts for the night.
Bresson sets up Mouchette’s persona without any redeeming qualities. With her short pigtails and icy eyes, she’s the antithesis of feminine. Early in the film, a gaggle of schoolgirls are gathered around the school sampling new perfume. Spitting on such girly acts, Mouchette throws mud at the girls. The first few times are ignored. The next lands directly on the perfume bottle, drawing looks of loathing. Mouchette’s disdain for typical junior-high triviality is telling, for she lives a miserably banal existence. Death in Mouchette is completely desensitized. As Arsene describes his encounter with the policeman to Mouchette, there is no emotion in his voice. There are no raised voices, no musical accompaniments. This is Bresson’s intent and it’s amplified by his habit of giving his protagonists precious little dialogue. Obviously, Balthazar the donkey doesn’t speak at all, but Michel in Pickpocket and Yvon in L’Argent have minimal lines as well. This leaves us on the outside looking in; we must discern for ourselves how these characters are feeling. As Mouchette is being raped, her reaction is impossible to ignore. After a brief initial struggle, she wraps her arms around him in an apparent moment of passion as the camera fades out. Considering that she calls him “her lover” near the conclusion of the picture, it’s evident that her sexual relations with him were her way of striking back at a world that had abandoned her.
One of the film’s most wrenching moments occurs when Mouchette’s mother is about to breathe her last. Ignorant of her daughter’s promiscuous activity the night before, she says, “I’m a slut. Try to be a good girl.” Nine words more powerful than most movies in their entirety. When Mouchette realizes that her life is worthless, she breaks down in typical Bressonian fashion, shedding a few tears, not a melodramatic flood. But her hatred for everything knows no boundaries. Bresson’s normal assortment of lower-body shots hold a special significance here. Mouchette would have been a very daring film if made in the United States—sexual imagery is plentiful. Schoolgirls bend over so their dresses fly up and a boy shows Mouchette his penis (Bresson uses a rear-angle shot, so there is no frontal nudity).
If there’s a problem with Mouchette, it’s that the film may be too cold. The film ends bleakly but unlike Balthazar, there are no signs that our lead character has achieved inner peace. For some viewers, this resolution will prove unsatisfying. However, fans of Bresson’s work will find him at his finest here. Mouchette is as pure as any film to come out of the 60′s.