Thursday, March 24, 2005
LIPS LIKE SUGAR
Saw Alain Resnais's Not On The Lips (Pas Sur La Bouche) at the Siskel last night. Have you ever liked a film but not had much to say about it? Well, that's my reaction to this one. So I might as well write about some things I have strong feelings about, namely, watching a film at the Siskel.
First of all, I get to the theater with plenty of time to spare, but there's already a line. Bad sign. Apparently, there is a huge Alain Resnais following here in Chicago. Who knew? I guess the crowd had something to do with the fact that Not On The Lips won't be distributed here in the U.S., but the amount of people was still surprising. It was one of those lines that was sprawled all over the place, giving people the idea that they could sneak ahead of you in line. Well, I put a stop to that, let me tell you.
After I get my ticket, I get in another big line for a cup of coffee. I remember reading somewhere that other people's conversations always sound stupid. Truer words were never spoken. The people in front of me and the people behind were just jabbering away like they hadn't seen each other in decades, or at least since last week at the Steppenwolf. Another thing that bugs me about the patrons of the Siskel, they seem to have no idea that you might actually have to pay for the concessions you order. Everyone waits to last second to go digging in their purses to pay for their skim-milk lattes.
So, I get my coffee (I had my money ready to go, thank you very much) and head into the theater. It was worse than I thought, as I discovered a sea of elderly faces inside. Honestly, what is the deal with the AARP crowd at the Siskel? Are they all retired? Do they all live downtown? Do they really have nothing better to do? Why do the men all have to be bald and wear those chunky sweaters? What bothers me the most about this crowd is that I'm not sure they really care about the films they see. I wonder if they're there just to get out of the house, which is fine, or to feel good about themselves for watching arty movies, which is not fine. Don't get me wrong, I don't think of myself as the guardian of the sacred beauty of the cinema, but I detect a more than a whiff of self-congratulation from this kind of crowd. They're the kind of people that laugh a little too hard at anything that's even slightly amusing in a foreign movie. I think this kind of laughter has two components: 1) Look at me! I got the joke in a foreign film! I'm ever so smart!; and 2) I'm so bored! What a relief that something funny just happened! Now I can show everyone what a good time I'm having!
Anyway, I spotted an open seat and made my way to it. To do so, I had to step past a guy with salad dressing body order. Very nice! A few minutes after I sat down, a woman sat down next to me. She seemed okay, but proceeded to laugh like the lead actress in a fetish, tickle-porn movie for the next two hours. Actually, she was okay. Anybody that can get that much enjoyment out of a film can't be all bad. Rounding out my dream team of viewing companions was a woman of a certain age, with her big helmet of hair, (why do rich old white women do that?), tweed jacket with linebacker shoulder pads, and a fur coat that might have been a bearskin rug. To make matters worse, the film had sold out, delaying its start so that a bunch of tardy idiots could be personally escorted to their seats. I was seriously hating life right before the film started. To top it all off, I realized that if I wanted to go to the bathroom, I would have to climb over salad dresing B.O. guy. Bad times.
Well, the film started, and I'll be damned if my mood didn't almost immediately improve. The film's basic plot is this: In mid 1920s Paris, Madame Giberte Valandray (Sabine Azema) is happily married to a wealthy industrialist, Georges (Pierre Arditi), who is a bit obsessed with the idea that he was his wife's first lover. Little does he know that Gilberte was previously married to an American businessman, Eric Thomson (Lambert Wilson.) In a ridiculous coincidence, Georges has invited Thomson to his home to negotiate a business deal. Needless to say, Gilberte is a very alarmed that her husband will learn of her past with Thomson.
Sound like an episode of Frasier? Well, it certainly resembles one, but it's also a charming musical with tremendous visual style. The songs casually breeze by without a big, showstopping number, which was just fine with me. Too many American musicals try to beat you over the head with their sheer size. The film also looks great, it has spectacular sets that are like something out of an Art Deco dream of Paris. The camerawork flows beautifully, tracking around the actors as they move from song to song and from set to set.
My biggest problem while viewing Not On The Lips was with the subtitles, which seemed flat out wrong at times. That however, is not a fault of the film. My only real problem with the film itself was that it was almost too lightweight. There's a crucial moment near the end of Not On The Lips where the film has a chance to deepen its emotional impact. The film does not do this, but simply continues with its breakneck resolution of the plot. A flaw, but not a major one for a film that so quickly made me forget about the crowd in the theater. ¶ 8:19 AM
First of all, I get to the theater with plenty of time to spare, but there's already a line. Bad sign. Apparently, there is a huge Alain Resnais following here in Chicago. Who knew? I guess the crowd had something to do with the fact that Not On The Lips won't be distributed here in the U.S., but the amount of people was still surprising. It was one of those lines that was sprawled all over the place, giving people the idea that they could sneak ahead of you in line. Well, I put a stop to that, let me tell you.
After I get my ticket, I get in another big line for a cup of coffee. I remember reading somewhere that other people's conversations always sound stupid. Truer words were never spoken. The people in front of me and the people behind were just jabbering away like they hadn't seen each other in decades, or at least since last week at the Steppenwolf. Another thing that bugs me about the patrons of the Siskel, they seem to have no idea that you might actually have to pay for the concessions you order. Everyone waits to last second to go digging in their purses to pay for their skim-milk lattes.
So, I get my coffee (I had my money ready to go, thank you very much) and head into the theater. It was worse than I thought, as I discovered a sea of elderly faces inside. Honestly, what is the deal with the AARP crowd at the Siskel? Are they all retired? Do they all live downtown? Do they really have nothing better to do? Why do the men all have to be bald and wear those chunky sweaters? What bothers me the most about this crowd is that I'm not sure they really care about the films they see. I wonder if they're there just to get out of the house, which is fine, or to feel good about themselves for watching arty movies, which is not fine. Don't get me wrong, I don't think of myself as the guardian of the sacred beauty of the cinema, but I detect a more than a whiff of self-congratulation from this kind of crowd. They're the kind of people that laugh a little too hard at anything that's even slightly amusing in a foreign movie. I think this kind of laughter has two components: 1) Look at me! I got the joke in a foreign film! I'm ever so smart!; and 2) I'm so bored! What a relief that something funny just happened! Now I can show everyone what a good time I'm having!
Anyway, I spotted an open seat and made my way to it. To do so, I had to step past a guy with salad dressing body order. Very nice! A few minutes after I sat down, a woman sat down next to me. She seemed okay, but proceeded to laugh like the lead actress in a fetish, tickle-porn movie for the next two hours. Actually, she was okay. Anybody that can get that much enjoyment out of a film can't be all bad. Rounding out my dream team of viewing companions was a woman of a certain age, with her big helmet of hair, (why do rich old white women do that?), tweed jacket with linebacker shoulder pads, and a fur coat that might have been a bearskin rug. To make matters worse, the film had sold out, delaying its start so that a bunch of tardy idiots could be personally escorted to their seats. I was seriously hating life right before the film started. To top it all off, I realized that if I wanted to go to the bathroom, I would have to climb over salad dresing B.O. guy. Bad times.
Well, the film started, and I'll be damned if my mood didn't almost immediately improve. The film's basic plot is this: In mid 1920s Paris, Madame Giberte Valandray (Sabine Azema) is happily married to a wealthy industrialist, Georges (Pierre Arditi), who is a bit obsessed with the idea that he was his wife's first lover. Little does he know that Gilberte was previously married to an American businessman, Eric Thomson (Lambert Wilson.) In a ridiculous coincidence, Georges has invited Thomson to his home to negotiate a business deal. Needless to say, Gilberte is a very alarmed that her husband will learn of her past with Thomson.
Sound like an episode of Frasier? Well, it certainly resembles one, but it's also a charming musical with tremendous visual style. The songs casually breeze by without a big, showstopping number, which was just fine with me. Too many American musicals try to beat you over the head with their sheer size. The film also looks great, it has spectacular sets that are like something out of an Art Deco dream of Paris. The camerawork flows beautifully, tracking around the actors as they move from song to song and from set to set.
My biggest problem while viewing Not On The Lips was with the subtitles, which seemed flat out wrong at times. That however, is not a fault of the film. My only real problem with the film itself was that it was almost too lightweight. There's a crucial moment near the end of Not On The Lips where the film has a chance to deepen its emotional impact. The film does not do this, but simply continues with its breakneck resolution of the plot. A flaw, but not a major one for a film that so quickly made me forget about the crowd in the theater. ¶ 8:19 AM
