There’s nothing to win by
this sort of an outcry
Oh yeah we all know why
Cuz the world a person lives in
is his brain. Well mine just gives in…
—Richard Hell, “Who Says? (It’s Good To Be Alive?),” from Blank Generation, Richard Hell And The Voidoids, SIre Records, 1977
Michel Piccoli, Juliette Binoche, Denis Lavant, Mauvais sang, Leos Carax, 1986.
Denis Lavant, Holy Motors, Leos Carax, 2012.
In a recent comment the reader calling himself “That Fuzzy Bastard” expressed surprise/curiosity that Holy Motors was ranked so highly on my best-of-the-year list given the skepticism I expressed about it on first seeing it. As I mentioned in my first writeup, some of that skepticism was fueled in a reactive mode relative to Carax’s Cannes 2012 status as the Approved-Creative-Fireworks-Wackadoodle of the Know-Somethingish American contingent of the festival attendees. Also there was some subsequent annoyance at self-satisfied predictions concerning a shift in the film’s reception.
A second viewing was, for me, more demonstrative of the movie’s not just melancholy but its anger, its futile regret over a life badly lived because, in the immortal words of Jake LaMotta in Martin Scorsese’s Raging Bull, “I got no choice!” As the ultimately nameless (I believe) actor played by Denis Lavant, once more I think acting for/as both himself and his director, goes through a day of demands and insults and winds up having to spend the evening with (spoiler alert) a family of chimps, if I’m not mistaken, the movie drives any number of sad and pissed-off stakes through The Imaginative Life As It Is Lived In These Times, but avoids (to use David Thomas’ phrase) “I’m a miserable artiste, pity me!” special pleading, in part via a genuine empathy expressed through certain of the roles Lavant enacts. The imaginative life is not so far removed from what’s referred to a the life of the mind after all. Unlike That Fuzzy Bastard, I came out not seeing “light, context-less emotion-tweaking” so much as a mélange of modes and of alienated reactions to those modes, those reactions not making much of a dent in “reality” along the way. Yes, the green-suited “Merde” monster does succeed in disrupting a fashion photo shoot, but aside from a hard-on and a cigarette, what does it get him?
Nick Tosches’ latest novel, Me And The Devil, is a pretty problematic piece of work, but in the aggregate I have to say it left a mark, one that’s not entirely segregated from the local anger that Tosches often expresses therein in a fashion many will take not unreasonable exception to. It’s that kind of book, one where the acheivement seems in too-uncomfortable proximity to the things that make it objectionable. Where Holy Motors stumbles, it’s in the realm of sentimentality (forgivable with respect to the movie’s treatment of Edith Scob, less so in the It’s A Wonderful Life-inspired talking-limos coda); Me And The Devil errs, as regular Tosches readers should not be surprised to learn, in the area of sort-of nihilist-tough-guy posturing. But it’s not entirely purposeless. For instance:
Only an utter fool would rather express himself than simply be himself. To live was a beautiful thing. To write about it was a labor. And the pay had given way to pay cuts.
Writing was not an act of imagination or, may the Devil take me for even using the word, creativity. (How I cringed when people used the word ‘creative” in referring to me in my presence. I knew then and there that they did not know what work was. I knew then and there that they lived in a dream world. Often they themselves were make-believe “artists,” living the “creative” life under the shelter of trust funds, inheritances, or family money of some kind. Often they were trying to imply an intimacy that did not, could not exist with me or what I did.) There was nothing to be romanticized in what I did. If flower garlands of words and phantoms of imagery had come to me in visions, so had some of the stupidest ideas I have ever had: ideas that landed me in jail, emergency rooms, or hock.
While Carax’s film is a fantasy depiction of the working life of the artist, it is relatively unsparing in its depiction not just of toil but of emotional deprivation and loss. If it is a work of “creative” “exuberance” that exuberance is in a certain sense a gob of spit from the bowels of hell.
Tosches again:
When I was young, I thought it would get easier. But as it turned out, each novel got harder. Maybe this was because, with each one, I was flaying a further layer from inside me, exposing yet another, deeper layer. Maybe this was what made it harder. When I was young and thought it woudl get easier—the days when I was thrilled to see my name or my picture on a book—I hid. I did not even dare to write in the first person. Then all that changed, and when it did, it reminded me of that sixteenth-century anatomical engraving by Amusco something-or-other, or something-or-other Amusco, the one of a guy stripped to his inner anatomy holding a knife in one hand and the drooping entirety of his body’s own freshly removed skin in the other.
The special knife, I thought as I recalled this: the special knife. Maybe I needed to write. Maybe, even with all the illness it brought, it was the least destructive, least dangerous alternative that I had. And I should be thankful that I had it.
Every gift a curse, every curse a gift.
“Unlike That Fuzzy Bastard, I came out not seeing “light, context-less emotion-tweaking”
It’s funny, when I first read that comment, my mind immediately went to Mauvais sang, as that’s a film I DID sorta feel to be ‘context-less emotion-tweaking’, but man, I definitely thought it worked and loved it.
“Nick Tosches’ latest novel, Me And The Devil, is a pretty problematic piece of work, but in the aggregate I have to say it left a mark.”
For me, that line works for Mauvais sang, Pola X, and Holy Motors.
Just back from a fruitless search of Dublin’s bookshops for the new Tosches. At least the day hasn’t been entirely wasted. I would never have put these two together but I’m glad someone did.
Tosches composes a perfect epitaph for Tribeca. The vampire stuff – not so great.
Glenn, I would concur with your take on Holy Motors if it weren’t for how clearly Carax revels in the creation of his movie. Unlike POLA X, which does seem genuinely anguished over the artistic life and its travails (and, as a movie, is compromised by this self-pity), Holy Motors, while not without a certain sadness, is just too restlessly inventive and funny to be as pained and regretful as you say. It’s extremely rare that a filmmaker manages to deliver on his own bravado and showiness, but I felt that Carax did so in spades. Regarding your comparisons, it seems to me that Holy Motors offers a kind of rebuttal to the dour machismo expressed by Tosches: I’m sure making Holy Motors would qualify as a labor, but to elide the evident joyfulness of the enterprise, not to mention the role of imagination, seems churlish and downright lame. Maybe Tosches would feel better about his life if he had helped build the friggin’ railroads – I’m sure he wouldn’t have had to suffer as many artsy trust-funders. As for Carax, his orneriness aside, I think he recognizes the sympathy that his (great) work requires.
See, now it’s pieces like this that make me wish I liked HOLY MOTORS more. Maybe I’ll watch it again when it hits bluray. I saw it with a paying audience in Berkeley last year, and the reception in the room was pretty cool. My girlfriend hated it. My own response was pretty much akin to Mr. Fuzzy Bastard – a nice performance from Lavant, and occasionally interesting moments, but mostly it’s a grab bag of scenes without any narrative momentum or even any compelling sense that what we’re watching actually matters to our protagonist or to anyone else. There’s no stakes. And it’s a rather drab film to look at, too.
I could totally live without narrative momentum, though, if I felt like it added up. I’ve been googling around in vain hopes of finding something suggesting a larger pattern, or at least general direction that determines the aesthetic choices. It just seemed like while there was a lot of general effect, there wasn’t much to really consider afterward because the specific choices were merely moody. When I started wondering why it was this particular CGI mermaid creature or a Cocteau-inspired model changing into a burqa, there didn’t seem to be much in the “text” to support further consideration.
That said, I really liked the look of it- on the subject of The Cosmopolis Coincidence I was struck by how Cronenberg shot his limo interior with characteristically North American controlled lighting, while Carax mostly preferred that echt-French natural light that sacrifices sharpness to gain texture. Plus, as our esteemed host notes, the movie sure does conjure a potent mood of loss and regret with allusive and economical means. I just wish I felt like I had more to chew on.
Glenn, what’s with this constant invoking of the straw man that is the “know something”? I get what you’re attacking, but you can’t have it both ways: critiquing know nothing’s like Greenwald while snarkily putting down the informed – albeit hipsterish/douchey/etc. – critic.
“I just wish I felt like I had more to chew on.”
With apologies to Sam Goldwyn, if you want something to chew on, buy Wrigley’s Doublemint.
Ideally, you walk out of a Carax feeling frustrated / ecstatic / with a mark left on you.
(And we obviously walked out of different movie experiences, but your original comment did give me something to chew on even before Glenn picked up on it…)
Jason: I think it’s “know something-ish”: critics who know just enough to feign expertise, but are really hiding a shallow understanding of the subject. “A little knowledge is a dangerous thing,” etc.
Are you serious? As cineastes, there’s more than enough to chew about in this movie, that I don’t doubt. I don’t wanna talk about those, per se. A film about life of an actor and all involved creatives to make a movie is essentially, a lot to chew about; meaningly that the while thing is self-reflexive, so unless you are thinking, you’re not. But the argument that there’s nothing to chew is just stupid.
Ashraysingh: Sure, I get the big theme and overall (ugh) “message”. But the moment-to-moment choices seemed arbitrary to me (why a mermaid? why a burqa? why talking cars?). If you have a coherent notion of them, I’d love to hear it.
Why Gregor Samsa turns into a beetle? Why not into an lame alligator, or an hydrocephalic hippo, or a sentient two-by-four? Oh, boy, Kafka is SO arbitrary, that and his (ugh) “messages”.
@Zach: “Unlike POLA X, which does seem genuinely anguished over the artistic life and its travails (and, as a movie, is compromised by this self-pity)”
It is Pierre who feels anguished and pities himself, not Carax (and neither Melville).
@Petey: “Ideally, you walk out of a Carax feeling frustrated / ecstatic / with a mark left on you.”
Exactly. And that pretty much applies to every major work of art.
“Exactly. And that pretty much applies to every major work of art.”
Meh. There are ‘major’ works of art very close to my heart that DON’T leave you walking out that way. There are far tidier filmmakers than Carax who still crank out ‘major’ films, to my way of thinking…
I loved the movie because of the beautiful dream-like playfulness of inter-connected moments that make no sense whatsoever. Sometimes I wonder if we’ve been so severely handicapped by narrative and meaning that we unfortunately syringe all the fun out of the illogic.
I.B. – while it might be true that Carax wasn’t feeling any of the things his main character felt (an extremely unlikely case), it doesn’t really matter either way. Several of Carax’s very deliberate formal choices contribute to an atmosphere that is turgid, mournful, and pissed off. I like plenty in POLA X – it’s thrilling and beautiful at times, but its Carax’s least successful film, and it feels far too like a truly epic pity party. I’m not interested in how Carax felt; I’m interested in how his films feel – same goes for anybody, including Melville.