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film

Jacques Nolot

IN THE FILMS OF JACQUES NOLOT, weakness of the flesh implies bodily decline as much as unbidden desire. Nolot’s unflinching camera looks with equal asperity and tenderness on the corpse of an old woman with its hairless vagina, spreading breasts, and wizened skin; aging drag queens in erratic mascara and tortuously extruded bosoms prowling the periphery of a porn theater; and the filmmaker’s own naked corpulence, its mottled sag blue-lit and afflicted in a nighttime kitchen. While Nolot’s protagonists, acted by the handsome director as obvious versions of himself, gloat that “other people’s troubles exhilarate me” or “I don’t believe in happiness, especially other people’s,” his films never succumb to schadenfreude. Their vision of human triviality and carnal chagrin may depend on disgust or ridicule, but Nolot’s directness and self-implicating wit avert the baleful. Absently wiping ass

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