First saw this puppy at Cannes last year, and this is what I wrote then:
“Confession time: as a result of hitting a Cannes wall that I really didn’t see coming, I zoned out and occasionally even dozed through substantial bits of Argentinean director Lucrecia Martel’s new film, the title of which translates as The Woman Without A Head. [Well, over-literally it does. The film’s current U.S. distributors have given it a more apt title, I admit.—G.K.]Some of the detractors of the film (which does not feature any decapitations) might try to comfort me with the notion that the 87-minute-film is, in fact, boring. And while Mujer is a far quieter film than Martel’s sardonic 2001 feature debut La Cienega, not to mention it’s followup, 2004’s The Holy Girl. Mujer doesn’t lack for stuff—but the register of the film’s nuances is so narrow that unless you’re paying proper attention, the image will disappear before your eyes. A fancy way of saying that I need to see this story of the discreet guilt-trip of one particular bourgeoisie again.
The picture concerns a woman of privilege (Maria Onetto, who as a blonde here resembles a younger Geraldine Ferrarro—an unfortunate coincidence that could have disastrous effects for the film’s U.S. prospects) who, reaching for her cell while driving, hits something (the first of the many jarring, convincing sound effects the picture throws up). We see a dog, but she believes she’s killed somebody, and grows thoroughly withdrawn from her family and friends. Throughout, Martel places the character in shallow focus widescreen close-ups; therein, those people in her periphery—generally servants, workers, and so on—are diffused, hazy. It’s an oblique way of reflecting on contemporary class relations, but it’s apt, and in point of fact this is one of the few films in the largely-socially-conscious Competition that reflects on class relations as such. I also admired the way Martel drops in quasi-irrational elements; in one shot, Onetto goes to use a bathroom sink, as bizarre sparks emanate from a space behind her. For a moment one suspects that she’s entered the world of Eraserhead, and then out of the space steps a welder. Such drollery is nevertheless in keeping with an overall dryness which makes me unsure as to whether I’d agree with a friend’s assessment that this film is the Bunuel version ofA Woman Under the Influence. As I said, I’m gonna have to see it again.”
And so I did, at the New York Film Festival later in the year, and man, did it ever kick in. My friend’s assessment is utterly right-on. (We encountered Martel and her lead actress at a nice hole-in-the-wall Cannes restaurant a couple of nights later and gushed at them like teenage Beatle fans circa 1964.) The film is absolutely mesmeric, very apt to repay repeat viewings, and while it does make some very potent points, it does so seamlessly, without any hectoring. One thing I see that the reviewers talking about it today are missing is how weirdly funny it is. Which it is. The picture opened in New York’s Film Forum today; see it if you’re in town, keep your eyes peeled for it if you’re not.
so, does the apple trailer do it any justice with SCENE QUOTE SCENE?
http://www.apple.com/trailers/independent/theheadlesswoman/
Anyway, it is a bore.
The Bunuel version of A Woman Under the Influence! Awesome, although I thought more about Rosemary’s Baby given the incessant infantilization of Veronica. She’s really only in control of one scene, the crash. After that, it’s off to the passenger seat, the garden, the gossip circle.
And the ending gives me goosebumps every time. I can’t put my finger on it, but I get the same thrill from it that I get from Lynch’s more audacious moments. Maybe it’s just chilling that such a moral transgression can be shrugged off thanks to rich friends and a few days of soul-searching.