Left: Maïwenn, Polisse, 2011, color film in 35 mm, 127 minutes. Production still. Right: Nanni Moretti, Habemus Papam, 2011, color film in 35 mm, 104 minutes. Production still.

POLISSE IS THE THIRD of four Palme d’Or–vying films helmed by women, but its director has the distinction of being the only one in the Competition lineup with a mono-moniker: Maïwenn, who decided to drop her surname, Le Besco (she is the older sister of Isild Le Besco, another actress-writer-director). Based on real cases from the Paris Child Protection Unit, Polisse examines the brutal work and messy domestic lives of ten CPU officers, and stands out as the most clamorous, tonally awkward film shown in the festival so far. That the director cast herself in a completely superfluous role as a photographer assigned to document the unit—who later falls in love with its shoutiest member, Fred (the one-named, no-spaced Joeystarr)—typifies the film’s many misjudgments (others include scenes in which the officers crack up, as did the audience, at the misfortunes of two barely teenage girls). One colleague admitted he endured the two-hours-plus running time just so he could hiss at the end; I wished I’d heard him over the stupefying applause during the final credits.

Also confounding were the claps and laughs that greeted Habemus Papam (“We Have a Pope”), another Competition title by another triple threat: Nanni Moretti, who won the Palme d’Or in 2001 for The Son’s Room. The director, who co-wrote the script with two others, plays a renowned psychoanalyst summoned to aid the newly elected pontiff, played by Michel Piccoli, who screams, “I can’t do this!” just as he’s summoned to the balcony of the Vatican to greet his flock. The Holy Father, presented as a sweet, sympathetic, frail old man, flees his handlers and mingles with civilians. During his walkabout, he falls in with a group of actors performing Chekhov; back at the Vatican, Moretti’s shrink organizes a double round-robin volleyball tournament for the cuddly cardinals. Only in the final minutes of Habemus Papam does Moretti acknowledge, ever so discreetly, the enormous crises facing the Catholic Church. We have a papam; we also have pap. Why not a pope smear?

Melissa Anderson

Left: Julia Leigh, Sleeping Beauty, 2011, color film in 35 mm, 101 minutes. Production still. Lucy (Emily Browning) Right: Gus Van Sant, Restless, 2011, color film in 35 mm, 95 minutes. Production still. Annabel Cotton and Enoch Brae and (Mia Wasikowska and Henry Hopper).

“OH! WAS THAT FESTIVAL SEX?” wisecracked a publicist outside the Salle Debussy this morning after he was accosted below the waist by a too-aggressive member of the scrum pushing to get in to see Gus Van Sant’s Restless, which opens Un Certain Regard. The bodily contact along the Croisette was much lustier than what was on-screen: Written by first-time screenwriter Jason Lew, Restless recounts the romance between two teenagers—orphaned, funeral-crashing Enoch (Henry Hopper, son of Dennis), and Annabel (Mia Wasikowska), a naturalist with a brain tumor given three months to live. Wasikowska, who gives one of the best interpretations of roiling adolescent passion in the recent Jane Eyre, helps leaven the emo goo of Restless, a film that droops with its own tender earnestness.

Another kind of festival sex—depraved, baroque, and mostly offscreen—takes place in Sleeping Beauty, the first film from Australian novelist Julia Leigh, one of four women in the Competition lineup this year (the highest number in the festival’s history). Emily Browning, who, coincidentally, replaced Wasikowska in the lead role, plays Lucy, a university student with a series of odd jobs: medical-research subject (for which she patiently submits to having a long tube threaded down her esophagus), café waitress, office filer—and an upscale sex worker paid to go into deepest slumber while geriatrics do what they want with her. The white-haired gentlemen, however, are respectfully asked to obey the rules of the soignée proprietess: “No penetration, and take care not to leave any marks.” Slobbering, violent mouth exploration (including possible tooth extraction), and creaky dry humping are permitted.

Bodies—covered in tomato sauce?—also writhe in the dream-sequence opening scene of Lynne Ramsay’s Competition entry We Need to Talk About Kevin, based on Lionel Shriver’s 2003 novel about a teenage mass murderer told from the perspective of his mother, played by a hollowed-out Tilda Swinton. Ramsay’s first film since 2002’s Morvern Callar traces the development of the sociopath of the title from infancy. Though Ezra Miller is undoubtedly sinister as the archery-obsessed adolescent Kevin, the festival may need to create a Palme d’Enfant to acknowledge the formidable, creepy talents of Jasper Newell, who plays Kevin at age eight—and is the most baleful child actor I’ve ever seen.

Melissa Anderson

Left: Woody Allen, Midnight in Paris, 2011, color film in 35 mm, 100 minutes. Rachel McAdams, Owen Wilson, and Woody Allen on set. Right: Poster for the sixty-fourth Cannes Film Festival.

“IT’S A BIG TRAP to think that living in another time would be better,” Woody Allen offered at the press conference this morning following the screening of Midnight in Paris, which opens the sixty-fourth Cannes Film Festival. The director, a Cannes perennial—eleven of his forty-two films have played at the festival; five have opened it—was explaining the misplaced nostalgia of his movie’s main character, Gil (Owen Wilson), a screenwriter and aspiring novelist on vacation in Paris with his termagant fiancée (Rachel McAdams) who finds his wish to live in the City of Lights in the 1920s come true.

While Allen feebly joked that there “was no Novocain, no air-conditioning,” in the era Gil is so besotted with, the left-leaning French daily Libération proposed a provocative question about the future of the esteemed cine-orgy on its cover: Le dernier Festival de Cannes? Though debates will continue about the necessity of film festivals in an age of constantly changing viewing technologies and platforms, it’s highly doubtful that Cannes will ever disappear—especially with so many manufactured crises and outrages to ensure its perpetuity. Robert Guédiguian, whose The Snows of Kilimanjaro screens as part of Un Certain Regard, wrote in Libération that he would not see Allen’s movie out of political protest: Making her film debut, Carla Bruni—Mrs. Nicolas Sarkozy—has a small role as a tour guide at the Rodin Museum in Midnight in Paris.

At its best, Cannes collapses past, present, and future. A dramatic 1971 photograph of Faye Dunaway—eyes downward, her left hand clutching her neck, her legs featured prominently—taken by Jerry Schatzberg, who directed her in his first film, Puzzle of a Downfall Child (1970), graces the official poster of this year’s festival. Both Dunaway and Schatzberg were spotted at baggage claim at the Nice Airport yesterday; they’ll be present for tomorrow night’s screening of a restored print of Puzzle. “Will I see you at the Marché?” Dunaway hopefully asked an acquaintance, referring to the film market (the largest in the world) that runs simultaneously with the festival. But will she be buying—or selling?

Melissa Anderson

Pierre Thorreton, L’Amour fou, 2010, color film in 35 mm, 103 minutes. Production still. Photo: JC Deutsch.

THE TITLE OF PIERRE THORETTON’S documentary on the relationship between Yves Saint Laurent and Pierre Bergé—who met in 1957 at Christian Dior’s funeral and remained close companions and business partners even after they split as a couple in the early 1980s—suggests madness, passion, obsession. And though the stately Bergé doesn’t demur from recounting the trying times—Saint Laurent’s extreme emotional fragility, his drug and alcohol abuse, his affairs—he doesn’t dwell on them, either. Reflecting on his fifty years as the caretaker and protector of Saint Laurent, who died in 2008, Bergé, in his calm, measured responses, never gives the slightest indication that he regrets the intensity of his devotion to the man considered the greatest couturier of the second half of the twentieth century. As former French minister of culture Jack Lang puts it, the two gave a certain “nobility to love.”

YSL, the subject of two documentaries by David Teboul from 2002—the straightforward biography Yves Saint Laurent: His Life and Times and the trancelike Yves Saint Laurent: 5, Avenue Marceau 75116 Paris, which captures the unwell designer at his atelier as he oversees the creation of one of his last collections—remains a haunting, seductive presence in Thoretton’s film. L’Amour fou opens with an ashen-faced Saint Laurent announcing his retirement on January 7, 2002, a heady speech in which he acknowledges his past addictions and quotes his beloved Proust. Footage of YSL from the ’60s and ’70s reminds us of his odd, lanky beauty and charming shyness—qualities Bergé surely found irresistible.

L’Amour fou is organized around the 2009 auction of Bergé and Saint Laurent’s astonishing art collection, culled from their three homes in Paris, Normandy, and Marrakesh. Yet Thoretton’s depiction of the Brancusis, Mondrians, and Ensors being studied, appraised, and packed up never devolves into the glib, gaudy celebration of wealth and excess found in another recent couturier study, Matt Tyrnauer’s slick Valentino: The Last Emperor (2008). Like Bergé, Thoretton’s film is never less than dignified.

If anything, L’Amour fou may be too delicate, its director too deferential to further press Bergé, who once said that Saint Laurent “was born with a nervous breakdown,” on the toll exacted by caring for the genius neurasthenic. Bergé, so often overshadowed by his partner, is rightfully proud when he speaks, briefly, of his own, non-YSL accomplishments: his work on behalf of François Mitterrand, who appointed him president of the Bastille Opera in 1988; his commitment to AIDS activism. But one senses that even Bergé considers his political and civic roles ancillary to his legacy as Saint Laurent’s lifelong helpmate. What’s missing from Thoretton’s decorous film is a willingness to probe the darker side of this five-decade relationship, memorably (but still respectfully) detailed by Cathy Horyn in “Yves of Destruction,” her 2000 New York Times Magazine profile of the designer. There’s plenty of love in Thoretton’s documentary—it just needs more crazy.

Melissa Anderson

L’Amour fou opens May 13 in New York.

Doc Holiday


Alma Har'el, Bombay Beach, 2011, still from a color film, 80 minutes.

WITH A SLATE divided roughly 40/60 percent between nonfiction and fiction films, any foray into the Tribeca Film Festival this year was bound to involve documentary. And an unlucky sampling of dramas could make the docs portion seem all the more engaging. Swede Lisa Aschan’s World Narrative Competition award-winner She Monkeys, for example, was an assured yet inert depiction of two teenage equestrian frenemies, its young actors incapable of sustaining our interest in the trickle of revelation and humiliation (periodically stopped dead by a tone-deaf side plot about a younger sister’s awkward sexual stirrings). Putative showstopper Beyond the Black Rainbow, an anesthetizing megadose of shoestring futuristic dystopia, demonstrated director Panos Cosmatos’s complete and utter mastery of … two or three visual effects. Rwanda trauma meta-drama Grey Matter, in recounting the efforts of a young filmmaker and the grim postwar drama he is struggling to get made, failed to revivify clichés of artistic struggle and madness.

On the other side of the doc/fiction line, Bombay Beach (also a prize-winner) offered an acute chronicle of hard times on California’s dilapidated Salton Sea community, leavened with staged dance sequences. Israeli director Alma Har’el, who also makes music videos, pulls in an ambitious spread of personalities from American past, present, and future. Perhaps none is so poignant as the divergent portrait of youths: there’s the teenager looking to get out through football and currently deep into a bout of puppy love, and then there’s the pint-sized son of an excon, a serious-looking boy zonked on psychotropic cocktails that seem to be slowly flattening his off-the-wall spirit. Shadowing their two portraits is the ancient Depression veteran who makes money reselling cigarettes, the epitome of a go-it-alone survivor, a maverick on his own terms. A fascinating bookend to the hardscrabble Americana was Eva Mulvad’s The Good Life, about a Danish mother and daughter—the once rich and now flat-broke Beckmanns, living abroad in Portugal—whose insularity will inevitably elicit comparisons to the two Edies of Grey Gardens. Markedly less eccentric, their “plight” is epitomized by the baby-faced middle-aged daughter’s blinkered sense of entitlement, toxic arrested development, and bewildering flashes of self-awareness. But the film (Mulvad has called her subjects “bad at being poor”) leaves a viewer feeling queasy about all the class-reinforcing voyeurism.

A rollicking run of old-fashioned escapism was available to the Tribeca-goer who caught Tsui Hark’s Tang Dynasty adventure yarn Detective Dee and the Mystery of the Phantom Flame. From the introduction of the premise (the empress’s underlings keep bursting into flames) on through the early moment when a deer opens his mouth to make an oracular pronouncement, you know you’re in good hands, with a rejuvenated Tsui happily embracing a world where the fantastical is second nature.

Nicolas Rapold

James Fotopoulos, Alice in Wonderland, 2010, still from a color video in HD, 99 minutes.

“CURIOUSER AND CURIOUSER,” said Alice, although I can’t remember exactly where. Was it after she’d fallen down the rabbit hole or when she crossed to the other side of the mirror? No matter: Alice in Wonderland (2010)—James Fotopoulos’s adaptation of Lewis Carroll’s Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland and Through the Looking-Glass by way of Henry Saville Clark and Walter Slaughter’s 1886 musical Alice in Wonderland: A Dream Play for Children—is an extremely curious object in its own right, and its premiere New York screening is a must-see. If you doze through a few of its ninety-nine minutes, your dreams will be the better for it.

A prolific Chicago-based underground filmmaker, Fotopoulos created a stir with his stupendously creepy feature Migrating Forms. It screened in 2000 in the New York Underground Film Festival, which subsequently renamed itself by borrowing the film’s title. The concept of “migrating forms” has remained a constant in Fotopoulos’s work: In Alice, it applies to the fragments of John Tenniel’s illustrations for Carroll’s Alice books and the bits of Carroll’s prose and poetry that migrate to Fotopoulos’s movie, along with excerpts from the score of Clark and Slaughter’s opera. One might view the slow dissolves between the hundreds of drawings that Fotopoulos created for the film as another layer of migration; so too is the mix of the nineteenth-century score with droning metal–art music that sounds as if it’s erupting from the bottom of a swamp.

Alice is a multimedia opera presented in the form of a single-screen movie. In terms of avant-garde genres, it could be classified, to borrow a term from P. Adams Sitney, as a trance film. At the center of the proceedings is a medium close-up of a very beautiful young woman who appears in two guises. In Part I (subtitled “Alice in Wonderland”) her dark hair curls about her face and is held in place by a white housemaid’s bonnet. In Part II (subtitled “Through the Looking Glass”) her hair is blonde, long, and straight, swept away from her forehead in the manner of Tenniel’s Alice. Although her face almost never changes its expression, it seems very much alive, thanks to the talent of the actress and Fotopoulos’s filmmaking. One fully believes that the drawings (most of them charcoal-shaded outlines on a coral ground), which cross-fade seemingly in front of her face and behind her head, are projected from her psyche. As in many of Fotopoulos’s movies, the narrative is couched as a stream of consciousness. The drawings—most of them of body parts, strange animals, whiskers without a cat, a long-eared rabbit head cut off at the neck, a terrifying featureless face, and other less legible organic forms—evaporate before they can be fully grasped, as do the single words and phrases that pop onto the screen in varying sizes of white typeface, punctuated before they can accumulate into a complete sentence by the word “pause,” always placed, as if it were a stage direction, in parenthesis.

And, occasionally, we see a long shot of Alice I and Alice II superimposed on the close-ups of their respective faces. At one point Alice I slow-dances alone, and the undulation of her torso is among the most erotic images in cinema. Alice II is pregnant, which certainly would have taken Carroll aback. I wish Fotopoulos hadn’t tried so hard in the last ten minutes to reach a conclusion with texts that are foursquare on the meaning, unlike anything that came before. I had hoped that the last text on-screen would be “pause.” Instead, in the movie’s only bow to convention, it’s “The End.”

Amy Taubin

Alice in Wonderland screens Saturday, May 7, at 7 PM at the Microscope Gallery in Brooklyn, New York.