Tag Archives: Drama

APOCRYPHA CANDIDATE: L’INTRUS [THE INTRUDER] (2004)

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DIRECTED BY: Claire Denis

FEATURING: Michel Subor, , Katerina Golubeva, Bambou, Béatrice Dalle

PLOT: Having received a new heart via transplant, a man reassesses his priorities and goes in search of rapprochement with his estranged son.

Still from L'Intrus (2004)

WHY IT MIGHT JOIN THE APOCRYPHA: Claire Denis crafts a film that may be entirely metaphorical. Under the pretense of narrative, she links together a series of scenes that are best explained as analogues for the brain’s capacity to remember past events and to imagine future ones, often imperfectly. You can’t believe anything you see in L’intrus, and everything in L’intrus is true.

COMMENTS: Sometimes a film will have its script credited as “inspired by” some other work, often as a ploy to forestall the payment of rights and residuals. However, the term could not be better suited to describe the way this film is informed by the memoir/philosophical treatise of the same name that Jean-Luc Nancy penned about his own heart transplant and the subsequent dissociation he felt from his own body. Claire Denis crafts characters and situations that have no connection to the philosopher: Nancy never kept a string of lovers in the frozen tundra, or abandoned a son he had fathered in French Polynesia, or killed a man in cold blood. Yet our hero Louis seems to be living out the emotional experiences that Nancy encountered. Truly, she was inspired.

We know that Louis is facing a health crisis, one that necessitates the acquisition of a new heart. His circumstances are such that not only can he get it without difficulty, but he’s in a position to make demands. “I want a young heart,” he tells his organ broker. “Not an old man’s heart, or a woman’s heart.” It’s the arrogant proclamation of the rich, knowing he can get anything he wants and uninterested in who might suffer as a consequence. Up to this point, Louis lives a charmed life, residing in the mountains with a mistress, a pair of loyal dogs, and not a care in the world. His new heart will not only upend his existence, but shatter his confidence. Much of L’intrus is committed to watching his sense of control and certainty steadily unravel. Maybe you can have it all, but you rarely can keep it.

Denis teases us with genre expectations. When Louis visits a Swiss bank to obtain the money for his operation, we’re inclined to think that he’s some sort of retired secret agent or assassin putting his illicit earnings to work, but the film provides no evidence for that scenario, and the brush with “spy thriller” soon gives way to another mood. Louis’ quest to reconnect with his lost son feels like it will head to a meeting of tremendous importance, but Denis has no interest in such melodramatics. There’s reason to believe that Louis is confronted with a horrible twist at film’s end, but given all we’ve seen, this could easily just be a visual metaphor for the guilt he feels, or a flash-forward to an event that ties together two characters who have stayed far apart, or simply a dreaded outcome given form. We’ll never know for sure, and the feeling is the point, anyway.

What’s most unsettling, the thing that makes the ground so unsteady for the viewer, is that Denis uses the language of film in service of a presentation that intends to do none of the things that we expect a film narrative to do. We’re used to unreliable narrators and visualizations of things that never happened, but Denis provides no guide to help us sort one from another. We are familiar with nonlinear narratives, but we usually count on signifiers to help us work out the chronology in our own heads. We even understand the tricky nature of the Kuleshov effect—using edits to put two scenes together in a kind of shared meaning. Denis uses that technique as a cudgel to shame us out of our assumptions, following a lengthy scene of a grave being dug with a shot of the expected corpse recuperating in a hospital. We don’t have names (the dogsledder played by Dalle is identified in the credits as “The Queen of the Northern Hemisphere”), we don’t have places so much as climates, and we have so little dialogue that every word becomes laden with meaning. Denis is not here to play ball with us, and she makes sure we know it.

Even if you are familiar with Denis’ penchant for obscuring meaning, L’intrus is an impressively opaque work. It also happens to be a strikingly beautiful movie. Cinematographer Agnès Godard captures the exotic beauty of Tahiti, but she also finds character in a South Korean ship foundry or a remote border crossing. Faces look remarkable, too, especially that of Subor, whose handsome aged looks remain striking even when prone in bed running his fingers along the fresh transplant scar on his chest. The majestic professionalism of the production only enhances the sense of disassociation: how can you look at something so immaculately conceived and not be able to figure out what’s going on? You can, though, and Denis seems to think that you should. Maybe to recognize that fact, what you need is a whole new heart.

WHAT THE CRITICS SAY:

“…a weird groundbreaking otherworldly film that breaks down borders in a post-colonial realpolitik (merging the northern and southern hemispheres) and cinematic way (similar to Jean-Luc Godard’s blend of non-linear narrative into a dreamlike tale to try and reinvent cinema).” – Dennis Schwartz, Dennis Schwartz Movie Reviews

(This movie was nominated for review by russa03. Then eight years later, Cliff Williams nominated it anew. Suggest a weird movie of your own here.)    

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CAPSULE: CAMP (2025)

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DIRECTED BY: Avalon Fast

FEATURING: Zola Grimmer

PLOT: A traumatized college girl reluctantly volunteers as a counselor at a camp for “damaged” kids, but when she gets there she finds the other female counselors are practicing homemade witchcraft.

Still from Camp (2025)

COMMENTS: Poor Emily has had it rough the past couple years. Already wracked with guilt for a fatal accident that wasn’t really her fault, she finds herself responsible for a second unintentional death, making her feel like a serial killer. She leans on her father for support, and when he suggests the depressed girl could benefit by serving as a counselor at a Christian-themed camp for “damaged” kids, she agrees. There, she finds herself eagerly embraced by her fellow counselors, who aren’t nearly as Christian as management would prefer: every night is an campfire bacchanalia of dancing, flirting, pot, and alcohol. But, just as the Christians warn, weed, booze, and dancing are inevitably a gateway to witchcraft—and, perhaps, to psychic healing as well.

Where Camp is good is in the dreamy cinematography and imagery. Fast’s movie is shot through with experimental impulses, from fuzzy montages underlaid by indie ballads to a red-midnight rendezvous to overlays of twinkling stars as females cavort (and levitate) in the moonlight. Although the Alberta forest is entrancing, occasionally, mountainous backdrops seen from out the window are obvious matte paintings instead of natural vistas. After the indie dramatics of the first two acts, things slide towards the surreal: there’s a pay phone that pops up in the middle of a sylvan glen in the late going at a moment of crucial decision for our protagonist. In terms of setting a dreamy mood, Camp hits the notes it aims at, and for some, that will be enough.

But where Camp is bad is, sadly, pretty much everything else. Not only does the plot wander around aimlessly for most of the film, the characters are unmemorable. Emily’s female confidants are hardly developed: there’s the ringleader, there’s the kinda sexy one, and there’s… two others. The male characters are even sketchier, with only the camp’s senior leader, a wait-until-marriage hymn-singing straight-arrow, receiving significant attention. (There’s another guy who’s positioned as a potentially darker influence, but his plotline seems to fall victim to the cutting room floor.) And, although other critics seem to disagree, Emily herself is too much of a cipher: a knot of guilt, and little more. (What are her interests and hobbies, besides self-medicating and moping?) It’s not the actress’ fault: Grimmer portrays all the appropriate emotions, but why (beyond the obvious) and, more specifically, how her tragedies makes her “damaged” remains something of a mystery.

The overall result is disappointing, because Fast’s visual sensibilities are so engaging and the story has such a weighty theme that you wish these virtues had been wedded to a more affecting narrative. Instead, we get an often lovely mood piece with sincere impulses that’s undone by draggy pacing. If you’re looking for fun at a late-summer Camp, book Miasma instead.

WHAT THE CRITICS SAY:

“Surreal in a manner that evokes aspects of David Lynch by way of Jane Schoenbrun, Fast’s atmospheric film is more interested in embracing the protagonist’s emotional damage than presenting her with a tidy way out from under it.”–Josh Goller, Spectrum Culture (contemporaneous)

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IT CAME FROM THE READER-SUGGESTED QUEUE: THE TRACEY FRAGMENTS (2007)

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DIRECTED BY: Bruce McDonald

FEATURING: Elliot Page (as Ellen Page), Zie Souwand, , Slim Twig, Ari Cohen, ,

PLOT: A look inside the troubled mind of a teenage girl who is dealing with a hostile school atmosphere, emotionally hostile parents, a fixation on the cool new boy, a random drugged-out loser who may be the best friend she has, and the disappearance of her little brother.Still from "The Tracey Fragments" (2007)

COMMENTS: Split-screen photography has been a filmmaking tool almost since the beginning of the cinema. The technique took a giant leap, though, with the debut of filmmaker Christopher Chapman’s “A Place to Stand,” the groundbreaking short that he created as part of Canada’s Expo 67. Far from merely dividing the image in twain, Chapman developed a technique of isolating images and enabling them to move through the frame in concert with other images, like a moving mosaic. It was called “multi-dynamic image technique,” and it gained a foothold in popular culture a year later when deployed it in The Thomas Crown Affair.

Maybe it’s a Canadian thing, because Bruce McDonald’s The Tracey Fragments may boast the most splits any screen has ever seen. The story of a girl whose mind is shattered by disaffection and tragedy (a simile Tracey employs in her first monologue) is suitably embodied by a narrative and a screen image that is similarly fractured. Humans are notorious for holding multiple viewpoints and emotional states at the same time, and the mosaic method allows the film to display all of them at once. Unexpressed rage and undelivered ripostes share space with silent pain and vast landscapes, while grids of pictures give way to clouds of dozens of images, sometimes with a sharp triangle piercing the frame. One particularly memorable image features Tracey in a desperate run for freedom, perfectly overlaid with shots of a horse in full gallop while the score by Broken Social Scene lays down an appropriately desperate groove. Rarely has the complexity of the mind, especially that of a teenager, been captured with such fidelity. 

The Tracey Fragments is a technical marvel. The film supposedly took a month to film and nine more to assemble, and the work shows as McDonald, editors Jeremiah Munce and Gareth C. Scales, and sound designer Steve Munro create an impressively clear story out of a deliberately jumbled set of pieces. It’s frankly remarkable that it works as well as it does, given that Tracey’s story is pretty one-note. While her life does seem legitimately grim, the nonlinear approach represents her situation as an unchanging condition: disaffected teen girl, touched by tragedy, cast among the losers in high school, disdainful of her aggressively distant parents, and yearning for a bland boy who promises escape but evidently is a cruel, cavalier lover. (If we can believe what we see; our point of view is entirely Tracey’s.) It’s authentic, but it’s not dramatic.

This was Page’s first release following the starmaking breakthrough of Juno (although Tracey was shot first), and it solidifies the actor’s inclination toward challenging material. Page doesn’t always look as scruffy and homely as the character’s situation would suggest, and Tracey’s monologues sometimes feel inappropriately formal and clear-minded for a girl in such distress. The whole film rests on Page’s shoulders, though, and he carries it with confidence. Notably, some scenes have taken on a stranger veneer with the passage of time. One of Tracey’s tormentors verbally taunts her for her lack of perceived hot-girl femininity, calling her “It” and demanding, “Is It a boy or a girl?” Scenes with Tracey and her therapist are particularly odd, with the trans actor playing opposite Richings in drag in an ex post facto head-scratcher. 

Split-screen is hardly an obscure technique. If you’ve seen any heist movie, you’ve probably been treated to a collage of lasers, hands, and beads of sweat. What distinguishes The Tracey Fragments is the way it gives the split-screen a psychological dimension. Instead of delivering information, it delivers character and mood. It’s not an entirely successful effort, as that mood has little chance to develop and grow. It does serve as a valuable reminder that all the cool things we can do with image and sound have the potential to do much more, if we give them a shot.

WHAT THE CRITICS SAY:

“The film’s split screens create a hallucinatory ripple effect, jumping back and forward in time, in and out of synch, and alternating between emotional states of characters to create an oddly cohesive whole… the results are breathtaking and exquisite…and a real mind-bending trip… no matter how otherworldly and strange the film feels and looks, THE TRACEY FRAGMENTS breathes with poignant genuineness and contains yet another performance of staggering and guileless determination by Ellen Page… Its shockingly bizarre and virtuoso use of cutting edge split screen techniques may have many people fleeing for the theatre exits within the first few minutes. However, if you’re patient and stay with the film it’s even easier to see what an absolutely thankless work of painstaking filmmaking resourcefulness and originality it is.” – Craig J. Koban, Craiger’s Cinema Corner (contemporaneous)

(This movie was nominated for review by H. E. Martin. Suggest a weird movie of your own here.) 

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The Tracey Fragments

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  • English (Original Language), English (Unknown)

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IT CAME FROM THE READER-SUGGESTED QUEUE: COMING APART (1969)

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DIRECTED BY: Milton Moses Ginsberg

FEATURING: Rip Torn, Sally Kirkland, Viveca Lindfors

PLOT: A psychiatrist sets himself up in an apartment overlooking the East River where he beds a series of women, all the while heading steadily toward a complete mental breakdown.

Still from "Coming Apart" (1969)


COMMENTS: It’s hard to appreciate just how strange the conceit of Coming Apart must have felt to moviegoers in 1969. Here in the second quarter of the 21st century, when people document their lives frequently and extensively, the sheer strangeness of a man choosing to capture his illicit second life on film just doesn’t come across the same. Viewers at the time were surely perplexed by a film that seemed to be composed entirely a footage taken from a single vantage point. It must have seemed like nothing short of voyeurism, the worst kind of candid camera. Contemporary reviews of the film frequently flail about for the one point of comparison they have at hand: James McBride’s groundbreaking pseudo-documentary David Holzman’s Diary. But while this intentionally self-aware movie has similar vibes, Coming Apart is something very different. Ginsberg crafts a silver screen salute to a man who feels compelled to chronicle his life for a very compelling reason: self-loathing.

Torn’s erstwhile analyst has ditched his career and his pregnant wife, creating a new identity for himself by setting up shop in a Kips Bay love nest. He doesn’t seem at all clear as to why he’s doing this, and for reasons even he can’t begin to unpack, he decides to film everything, making this an early example of the found footage genre. The footage we find is largely his attempts at seduction, successful to varying degrees; but while this is a film with plenty of sex, it’s much more about the manipulations and deceptions that are perpetrated just to get to the act. The wayward Dr. Glaser is an easygoing seducer, but he gets no enjoyment out of it, neither the hunt nor the kill.  He’s like a man grazing at the buffet not because he’s hungry but because there’s food. Anyone approaching Coming Apart looking for sexytimes is likely to end up as disappointed as Glaser.

For anyone who knows Torn primarily from the lacerating deadpan he brings to later projects like Defending Your Life, Men in Black, or “The Larry Sanders Show,” his work here is revelatory. He deploys his gravelly baritone infrequently, communicating largely through the subtlest of expressions. It can feel like he’s hardly acting at all, until a crucial scene late in the movie when he goes nearly catatonic and you realize just how emotive he has been all along. Most of the women opposite him, such as Lois Markle’s aspiring fetish-lover or Lynn Swan’s mercenary young mom, are richly detailed, although they can feel melodramatic by comparison. The characters who avoid sex are the most grounded, like Viveca Lindfors’ ex-mistress who tells Torn to his face that his charms won’t work on her anymore. Standing out among the crowd is Sally Kirkland, whose growing mania is grounded by her shockingly total lack of vanity or guardedness. Her role could easily be viewed as “the crazy broad,” but she earns respect and sympathy by giving nothing less than her all. The idea that Torn’s hidden camera captures these people so authentically justifies the gimmick.

While the filming technique suggests gritty realism, the characters and situations we encounter feel forced, as most of Glaser’s sexual partners bring their own lunacy to the show. Were it not for the bad doctor’s slow-motion breakdown, it might be easy to interpret the film’s message as “women be wack.” It is interesting, though, to see documentary formalism deployed in an experimental manner. In the early hangover following the sexual revolution, Ginsberg’s daring feature has the smarts to get out of the way and let the stories of the shellshocked survivors speak for themselves.

WHAT THE CRITICS SAY:

“… almost every image is half real, half the reverse of reality, which is, I suppose, a legitimate cinematic equivalent of the way one automatically supplements reality with fantasy in conscious experience…  the screenplay, like the film, eventually drifts in a horizontal direction into a kind of foggy confusion.” – Vincent Canby, The New York Times (contemporaneous)

(This movie was nominated for review by Joel Heller. Suggest a weird movie of your own here.)     

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Coming Apart [Blu-ray]

  • Rip Torn (Men in Black) gives one of the great screen performances as a psychiatrist secretly filming his own mental breakdown in Milton Moses Ginsberg’s classic exploration of dark eroticism and self-referential cinematic form

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APOCRYPHA CANDIDATE: THE MAN WHO LIES (1968)

L’homme qui ment

DIRECTED BY:

FEATURING: , Sylvie Bréal, Zuzana Kocúriková, Sylvia Turbová, Ivan Mistrík,

PLOT: A mysterious stranger gradually infiltrates the home and family of a missing man.

WHY IT MIGHT JOIN THE APOCRYPHA: The Man Who Lies suffers from doppelgänger syndrome, both the title character and the film as a whole. A second shadow protagonist haunts the main character, who defends his own existence and reality by repeatedly telling the same story over and over again. But with each telling the details change, until the final version becomes the exact opposite of the first. Where reality ends and the lies begin is impossible to untangle. Every scene of the film negates its own double and even the dual protagonists swap identities by the end.

COMMENTS: In the opening narration, Trintignant introduces himself as “Jean Robin” but then backpeddles and admits he’s actually called “Boris Varissa.” And people sometimes call him “The Ukrainian,” though he doesn’t know why. As the film progresses, it becomes obvious none of these names actually belong to him, and we never find out who he really is. In one meta-moment, he even describes himself as an actor rehearsing a role. Robbe-Grillet covers much the same territory as Last Year at Marienbad but in a more comedic tone, closer to the literal winking at the camera of Trans-Europ Express.

“Boris” enters a small rural town after escaping from a brigade of soldiers. He describes how he anonymously disappears into the crowd, though we see him walking alone down deserted streets. He enters a pub, which he describes as empty, though it’s so full of patrons he has difficulty finding a seat. Here the townspeople discuss the unknown fate of local hero Jean Robin, whose portrait adorns every building in town.

The details of Robin’s disappearance are sketchy and inconsistent. No one is quite sure where he is, how long he’s been away, or when he will return. Some believe he will definitely come back, others declare him dead. His poor lovely wife and sister remain in their crumbling ancestral chateau awaiting his return, though no one has actually seen them in years.

Boris immediately begins telling everyone he was great friends with Jean Robin during the war. In fact, he personally helped Jean escape their enemies. No one is particularly inclined to hear this tale, and many, like the pub’s proprietor, treat the interloper with outright contempt. Others act like he isn’t even there.

After this inauspicious debut, Boris heads to the Robin chateau. There, Jean’s wife, Laura, his sister, Sylvia, and their maid, Maria, amuse themselves playing Blind Man’s Bluff and other obscure games involving blindfolds and medieval weapons. Boris first insinuates himself into the affections of Maria. He regales her with long tales of Jean’s heroism in the Resistance. But cracks quickly develop in his facade. He doesn’t recognize his dear friend’s elderly father? And who is this Dr Mueller he speaks of? There is no doctor of that name in town.

In one scene, where he meets with Jean’s sister, Trintignant poses before a grave in a cemetery marked with the name “Boris Varissa,” which he quickly moves to hide from her. In another scene, he re-enacts his own near-death experience for Maria, telling her dramatically of how he suffered a near-fatal head wound. As he collapses, he pours a bottle of fake blood onto his chest. “But wasn’t it a head wound?” she asks him.

Even with the humor, the repetition of Jean/Boris story gets a little tiresome. The viewer may find themselves thinking, like the film’s characters, there he goes again—the war, the war—whenever Boris launches into yet another version of the narrative. Though he initially lauds Jean as a valiant hero, Boris eventually claims he was actually a treacherous traitor. But since Boris is a liar, the identities of both men remain questionable and unstable.

After a while, it’s the women who fascinate, though they hardly say a word. They play their strange games in an abandoned attic full of forgotten heirlooms and family portraits. Here Robbe-Grillet displays all his classic fetishes: the nape of the neck, the suspended gesture, bound wrists. Though Maria and Sylvia succumb to Boris’ advances, Laura remains spectral and aloof. She drifts through the house in a long white nightgown, appearing to give no credence whatsoever to anything Boris says. Indeed, she barely acknowledges his existence.

Unable to crack her, Boris starts to lose it. When Jean’s father dies in a sudden accident and a “Dr Mueller” shows up to write the death certificate, Boris looks genuinely spooked. Though he makes headway in removing his detractors, his success in taking Jean’s place at the chateau is far from secure, as the subject of his lies keeps coming back to haunt him.

In his quasi-autobiographical “romanesque,” Ghosts in the Mirror, Robbe-Grillet credits the mysterious figure of Count Henri de Corinthe with providing the inspiration for the screenplay. In Robbe-Grillet’s telling, Corinthe comes across as a Ripley-esque character, who may have disappeared one of his own friends in order to “borrow” his military exploits. Of course, we must take this explanation with a grain of salt for, as Robbe-Grillet admits, in writing the book he deliberately took on the role of the man who lies for himself. Any viewer looking to discern the “truth” here will inevitably be frustrated—by design.

WHAT THE CRITICS SAY:

“Shades of the filmmaker’s script for Last Year At Marienbad can be picked up on throughout the movie but here he blends that with the pseudo-surrealism he’d started toying with in Trans-Europ Express, a film that, like this one, is more concerned with the viewer’s interpretation of reality than reality itself.… The Man Who Lies isn’t the best starting point for those new to Alain Robbe-Grillet’s work but it’s an interesting, stylish and at times intriguingly sexy mix of mystery and artsy surrealism, the kind that fans of his work will no doubt appreciate. – Ian Jane, DVD Talk

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