“Amour”

Two stars

Starring: Emmanuelle Riva, Jean-Louis Trintignant, Isabelle Huppert, Alexandre Tharaud, William Shimell

Rating: PG-13, for dramatic intensity, painful intimacy, brief profanity and fleeting nudity

Strong performances are buried beneath insufferable directorial flourishes

By Derrick Bang
Enterprise film critic

However impressive Emmanuelle Riva’s starring role in “Amour” — and her work transcends mere words such as brave and raw — the film itself is a colossal yawn.

At all times, and in every possible way, writer/director Michael Haneke refuses to grant access to these characters; they’re little more than two-dimensional ciphers. Dialogue is sparse, Haneke often preferring the intimate intensity of searching gazes amplified by extreme close-ups. He and cinematographer Darius Khondji also favor faraway compositions, with people occupying only a small portion of an otherwise quiet and static room.

Haneke holds, at great length, on the most mundane behavior — unpacking groceries, donning clothing, eating meals — to a point well beyond aggravation. This really isn’t a film, or a least not a narrative in the conventional sense: more a lengthy tone poem or mood piece.

The wafer-thin story could be scrawled on a postcard: Retired music teachers Georges (Jean-Louis Trintignant) and Anne (Riva) are enjoying their twilight years in a spacious city apartment laden with culture: books, music, a piano. She suffers a sudden stroke, then in time endures a second, much more crippling one; she declines before her husband’s eyes. And ours.

He insists on caring for her, coping as best he can. Which, ultimately, isn’t too well.

That’s all, folks.

So yes, fine: Haneke’s emphasis on the routine and commonplace underscores the degree to which Anne finds it harder and harder to accomplish any of the thousand-and-one little tasks that we take for granted each day. Dressing, eating, moving across a room. Going to the bathroom.

But all this would mean more — and become more poignant — if we had the slightest clue about this couple, prior to this tragedy. They appear to have done well professionally; money isn’t an issue. But did they get along? Were they satisfied with living through the artistic successes of students who went on to become famous? Are they kind and honorable? Do their deserve our sympathy?

They have one child: an adult daughter, Eva (Isabelle Huppert), who appears to have married unhappily. Her personal life is sketched even more superficially, her relationship with her parents strained at best, possibly even estranged. She and her father talk like casual back-fence neighbors, rather than intimates. We’ve no idea why. At best, Eva behaves like a self-centered dolt; at worst, she could be actively insensitive. Impossible to be sure.

Huppert’s performance is brittle and clumsy, as if she’s trying to fabricate behavior on the spot, rather than having studied a script and rehearsed a part.

These people are so superficial, their lives so claustrophobic — we spend the entire film within the rooms of this apartment — that Haneke’s dry, leaden touch minimizes the very emotional intensity we should be experiencing. It’s almost as if Haneke and Riva are working against each other, with the director undercutting, minimizing and muting his lead actress’ achingly powerful performance.

Yes, fleeting moments are unexpectedly powerful, and — as the narrative progresses — Haneke imbues this apartment with an unsettling atmosphere of creepy tension that strongly echoes Roman Polanski’s “Repulsion,” wherein Catherine Deneuve slowly went mad within the walls of her self-imposed apartment prison. But Haneke’s snapshots of emotional brilliance inevitably are undone by prolonged stretches of … nothing.

Then, too, there’s the mystery of this story’s prologue, and the questions raised by the emergency crew that removes a barricade in order to enter the apartment. Barricaded, from the outside? Say what?

This, actually, is where the saga concludes; the story then unfolds as an extended flashback.

Anne suffers her first stroke while she and Georges share a meal; she simply freezes, her expression blank, as if all the inner synapses have failed to fire. Unable to rouse her, his concern mounting by the moment, Georges prepares to call a doctor. But then, just as suddenly, Anne is back, utterly unaware of the missing few minutes.

He wants her examined anyway; pride and defiance chase each other across Riva’s expressive face as Anne objects. He apparently perseveres; some period of time passes, and she returns home after unsuccessful (botched?) medical intervention, her entire right side now paralyzed. (It should be mentioned that Haneke appears to take a rather dim view of the French health care system.)

They adjust to this new reality, Anne growing more frustrated by what she’s no longer able to do or enjoy, Georges increasingly troubled by her unwillingness to cope.

They entertain one unexpected visitor: a former student (Alexandre Tharaud) now turned concert pianist, who takes a chance and just “drops in.” The atmosphere is tense, uncomfortable; the visit is short. When he later sends them one of his CDs, Anne cannot listen to it, apparently reminded too much of what she’s no longer able to do at a piano.

Then, precisely at the midpoint of this 127-minute slog, one scene cuts to the next and whoosh … suddenly Anne is in bed, now infirm, having suffered another, much more severe stroke. We’ve no idea how much more time has passed; indeed, it’s impossible to clock the passage of time to any degree. In a sense, time doesn’t exist: no doubt another deliberate touch on Haneke’s part, and just as irritating as so many others.

Nurses become part of the routine; one proves a disaster, an exchange so brief that we wonder if some relevant scenes have been chopped away. Her “exit wages” are 780 euros, surely a suggestion that she has been present for at least several days.

Haneke can’t be bothered with such details. He’s far more interested in (for example) showing the paintings — one … after another … after another — on the walls of this apartment. Paintings with no people, further symbolizing Anne and Georges’ enforced isolation. We get it, we get it.

Riva has garnered the lion’s share of acting attention, and she certainly deserves the accolades; you’ll not soon forget the heartbreaking, painful intimacy of her performance (this despite — never because of — Haneke’s intolerable filmmaking style). We ache for the wearing away of Anne’s dignity, and her increasingly desperate efforts to cling to the more radiant self she must have been.

In fairness, though, Trintignant deserves equal credit for a performance that is less “showy” but just as strong. We see the depth of love in Georges’ eyes, the growing despair as the woman he knows withdraws from him … in part because of the strokes, but also of her own doing, because she can’t bear him to see her like this. Trintignant radiates mounting grief at a level that becomes painful.

Or it would be painful, anyway, given better circumstances. Under Haneke’s guidance, however, Riva and Trintignant too frequently act up a storm in a vacuum. We can’t help being relieved when the screen finally goes dark: not for any sense of closure to this sad, dreary saga, but simply out of gratitude for the bloody film being over and done with.

A best picture nomination? Best direction? Best writing?

Gimme a break.

— Read more of Derrick Bang’s film criticism at http://derrickbang.blogspot.com. Comment on this review at www.davisenterprise.com

‘The Intouchables’

Four stars

Starring: François Cluzet, Omar Sy, Anne Le Ny, Audrey Fleurot, Clotilde Mollet

Rating: R, for profanity and drug use

On June 27, 1993, Philippe Pozzo di Borgo — fifth son of Duke Pozzi di Borgo, and acting director of France’s Pommery Champagne — was seriously injured while paragliding. The accident broke his spine and left him a quadriplegic, unable to sense or move anything below his neck.

Three years later, his beloved wife Beatrice lost her struggle against a prolonged illness. That was one tragedy too many; Philippe sank into a depression and abandoned the will to endure each new day.

That is, until the arrival of his “guardian devil,” an Algerian-born career criminal named Abdel Yasmin Sellou, who became the wealthy man’s caregiver.

Abdel brought Philippe back to vibrant life in every sense of the word; the latter detailed this unusual relationship in a popular 2001 book, “The Second Wind.” That led to a 2003 TV documentary, “A la vie, à la mort (In Life, Death),” which in turn inspired filmmakers Olivier Nakache and Eric Toledano to make the big-screen drama “The Intouchables,” a smash hit in France and now newly released on our shores.

“Inspirational” simply isn’t a strong enough word for this enchanting film.

The saga’s rougher edges have been smoothed out, particularly with respect to the caregiver’s dodgier back story. (Rather oddly, he has been transformed into a Senegalese immigrant named Driss here.)

The goal clearly was crowd-pleasing entertainment, and Nakache and Toledano side-stepped any details too grim to interfere with that tone. But they haven’t skirted any of the day-to-day challenges involved with attending a quadriplegic; indeed, that’s where much of the story’s cheerful outlook resides.

Following a droll prologue, the story opens as Philippe (François Cluzet, well remembered as the endangered lead in the sensational 2006 thriller, “Tell No One”) and his secretary/assistant, Magalie (Audrey Fleurot), consider applicants for the position of his 24/7 caregiver.

These interviews, the overlapping responses staged for comic effect, are deftly edited — Dorian Rigal-Ansous, take a bow — in the manner of countless “tryout scenes” from films as diverse as “All That Jazz” and “The Commitments,” among many others.

Driss (Omar Sy) stands out like the proverbial bull in a china shop: too tall, too brutish, too unrefined, too brusque, too loud, too … street. And, indeed, he’s present only to collect a signature that demonstrates the token job-application effort needed to qualify for his next welfare check.

But Philippe, intrigued by this energetic, wildly intense young man, doesn’t let Driss off that easily. Correctly deducing that Driss might be tempted by room, board and a salary in such posh surroundings, Philippe has his housekeeper (Anne Le Ny, as Yvonne) conduct a tour of the guest quarters. The ploy works, as does Philippe’s barbed suggestion that Driss won’t last two weeks.

That’s no idle threat; the job demands are brutal. Driss certainly has the size and strength for the necessary lifting — out of bed, into a chair, and so forth — but lacks the temperament for the, ah, more delicate details. Macho pride prompts Driss to balk more than once, when confronted by bathing needs, or seemingly effeminate leggings (essential to maintain circulation in Philippe’s limbs) and other duties that require plastic gloves.

Driss’ reactions range from baffled and contemptuous to utterly appalled, and Sy delivers a performance of well-timed comic genius. (No surprise: He just won France’s Best Actor César Award for this role, besting Jean Dujardin, in “The Artist.”) But Driss isn’t merely a bearer of impeccably delivered one-liners; he also has a darker, tortured side, and that’s the deftly shaded beauty of Sy’s superbly nuanced acting talents.

Cluzet, of necessity, nimbly essays the far more difficult yin to Sy’s yang; Philippe’s behavior is minimalist, where Driss is flamboyant enough to fill a soccer stadium. Cluzet projects complex emotions via half-smiles and his gaily dancing eyes, while Philippe’s darker funks are revealed — just as vividly — when the actor’s face simply shuts down, yielding to levels of despair and panic that are palpably painful to witness.

The glaringly obvious question, voiced by one of the many members of Philippe’s huge family, is why such a refined, intelligent and vulnerable gentleman would trust his life — and home — to somebody who looks every inch a thug.

“I don’t want pity from anybody,” Philippe calmly responds, “and he’ll never do that. It’s not in his nature.”

We’ve seen this dynamic before, in countless dramas and comedies: the rough-edged, lower-class “loser” whose earthy, uncomplicated joie de vivre transforms the dull, repressed aristocrat. And, to be sure, Nakache and Toledano’s script frequently navigates those familiar waters, often for light-hearted effect.

But it’s neither that simple nor one-sided; both men give much to the other, beginning — most crucially — with emotional support. As introduced, both Philippe and Driss have come to believe that they’re worthless, each unable to fulfill the functions of “real” men. Stepping outside their respective comfort zones is essential at both ends of this relationship dynamic.

So, yes, we giggle as Driss introduces Philippe to the anxiety-easing comforts of marijuana, but the surface humor of this scene transitions smoothly to the wealthy man’s realization — we see this awareness in Cluzet’s eyes — that he is better able to endure the “phantom pains” of his insensate limbs, after a few tokes.

Philippe’s biggest gift to Driss, in return, is the encouragement of artistic self-expression. Once again, this initially comes about in comic fashion — as Driss scoffs contemptuously at the high price fetched by a minimalist gallery painting — but then leads to an epiphany, as, in the privacy of his quarters, Driss grabs a brush and lets his imagination run wild.

The almost constant focus on Philippe and Driss comes at the expense of some sidebar characters. Magalie and Yvonne fare well enough, but we don’t get sufficient closure regarding Philippe’s rebellious adopted daughter (Alba Gaïa Bellugi, as Elisa), or the strained relationships between Driss and his aunt and younger cousin (Cyril Mendy, as Adama), the latter in serious danger of falling in with a street gang.

The latter situations apparently resolve themselves en route to the obligatory — and completely anticipated — upbeat conclusion. That’s a bit contrived and convenient, but by this point, Nakache, Toledano and their stars have built up so much good will, that you’re unlikely to care.

Needless to say, the final scenes arrive in a triumphant rush of sentiment. Powerful as they are, though, they’re trumped by a quick, closing-credits shot of the actual Philippe and Abdel, who’ve remained close friends to this day: the emotions-stirring cherry atop an already delectable crowd-pleaser.

— Read more of Derrick Bang’s film criticism at derrickbang.blogspot.com. Comment on this review at www.davisenterprise.com