PATSIES! A Celebration of the Cinematic Loser

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While Glasgow Film Festival celebrates Dangerous Dames, Glasgow’s cult movie zine Physical Impossibility considers the other side of the equation – cinema’s worst Deadbeats, Duds and Dweebs. Expect insight, wit and expert PowerPoint wrangling, as a roster of special guests scour the history of cinema to present to you a toast to the yellow bellies, the thwarted schemers and the straight-up losers. Whether they make good marks or just failed to make a mark, this is their time to shine!

Guests include:

Dr Becky Bartlett (University of Glasgow)
Claire Biddles (FWYL, Sad Girl Cinema)
Kate Coventry (LightShow Film Club)
Morvern Cunningham (VHS Trash Fest)
Craig McClure (Physical Impossibility)
Edward Ross (Filmish – A Graphic Journey Through Film)
Video Namaste
Sean Welsh (Physical Impossibility)

PATSIES! follows Physical Impossibility‘s sold out BAD ROMANCE event at GFF16.

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NB This is a free but ticketed show. Free tickets will only be available on the day from the venue where the event is taking place, when the box office opens. First come, first served (maximum 2 tickets per person).

More info at the Facebook event page here and the GFF page here.

 

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Toni Erdmann Programme Note for GFT

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Maren Ade’s Oscar-nominated Toni Erdmann opens at GFT today and runs till Thursday 15th February. My specially commissioned programme note will be available at screenings, but you can also read it online here. GFT’s new website archives all their programme notes from mid-2016 here – reading them will make you smarter and more attractive.

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Silence Programme Note for GFT

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Martin Scorsese’s Silence opens at GFT Monday 2nd January and runs till Thursday 19th. My specially commissioned programme note will be available at screenings, but you can also read it online here. GFT’s new website archives all their programme notes from mid-2016 here – reading them will make you smarter and more attractive.

 

 

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The Neon Demon (2016)

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“I thought that I was the greatest filmmaker of all time, that I was God’s gift to mankind. And I’ve learned that I’m not the greatest filmmaker of all time. But I’ve accepted that the kinds of films I make, I’m the absolute best at.”1

The Neon Demon (2016) is Nicolas Winding Refn’s 11th film, and the second since his breakthrough commercial success with Drive (2011). He followed that film with the self-consciously challenging Only God Forgives (2013), the fraught production of which was captured by Liv Corfixen, Refn’s wife, in the documentary My Life Directed by Nicolas Winding Refn (2014). To his detractors, Refn has made his reputation as a stylist principally concerned with fetishing violence, a self-conscious aesthete whose work is as pretentious as it is insubstantial. To his supporters – and himself – he and his collaborators are “the Sex Pistols of cinema”2, taking pleasure in provoking negative reactions as much as positive ones. To either side, with its promotional campaign mimicking/parodying fashion shoots, utilising familiar iconography and branding, The Neon Demon is agreed to be “about” something.

It comes trailed as Refn’s first horror (“To do a horror film about beauty is probably to do the most complex horror film, because it’s…everything.”3), and with an unusually pronounced – for Refn – feminine aspect. It’s about the fashion industry, youth, female relationships, LA, the narcissism of a generation. Above all, though, it’s about Nicolas Winding Refn, a filmmaker who refutes the side effects of his native Danish ideals of social parity and universal equality – “janteloven” – essentially that you shouldn’t aim to stand out from the crowd. In a recent interview with the Guardian’s Danny Leigh, Refn confessed, “I’m just very, very self-absorbed, when it comes to work, and if I feel the need to do something, then I have to find a way to do it.” And while acknowledging this self-absorption, he confirms that all his films are, on some level, about him. “I don’t deny my egomania,” he counters, “I don’t hide it.”4

The Neon Demon poster

Refn has somehow evolved into a filmmaking brand as much as a respected filmmaker. He lends his name to coffee table books, curated series of vinyl soundtrack re-releases and entire film seasons. These are indulgences, perks and plaudits usually awarded to established auteurs with distinct ‘brand identities’ and, perhaps more importantly, proven commercial track records, e.g. Tarantino, Scorsese, del Toro. Refn’s name sells now, and it’s not a coincidence that his bespoke NWR logo resembles that of a fashion house. Like many of his peers, he pays the bills directing adverts – a recent one for Hennessy X.O cognac features a score by frequent Refn collaborator Cliff Martinez, presents seven ‘chapters’ in under two minutes and is generally a maximalist ode to self-indulgence.

Raised partially in New York, he’s always been at odds with his countrymen peers – reportedly making “unkind remarks…on roughly an hourly basis”5 about Festen director Thomas Vinterberg and accusing an “over the hill”6 Lars von Trier of trying to sleep with his wife (von Trier retorted, “I’ve known him since he was a kid! Fuck him.”7). And although Vinterberg and von Trier launched their Dogme 95 manifesto before Refn made his debut with Pusher (1996), some insist the latter was more influential than either have acknowledged. According to Pusher star Mads Mikkelsen, “We did the film without any rules, without any rules of lighting or money or costumes or sound. We did it because we had no money…and I think that rock ’n’ roll energy was an inspiration, and if they don’t want to admit it, that’s fine with me.”8 At any rate, it’s difficult to imagine Refn willingly signing up to any restrictions, let alone to Vinterberg’s infamous Kyskhedsløfter (Vow of Chastity).

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Notably, then, The Neon Demon was inspired, in part, by Refn’s desire to counter the unrestrained masculinity of his oeuvre. He’s explained, “it’s a film that gives women control,”9 and that inspiration came one morning, “when I woke up and was like ‘You know what? I wasn’t born beautiful, but my wife is and I wonder what that would be like.'”10 In other contexts, he’s reframed that moment a little more insightfully, saying, “I woke and realised I was both surrounded and dominated by women. Strangely, a sudden urge was planted in me to make a horror film about vicious beauty.”11 The other primary inspiration for The Neon Demon came from Corfixen’s insistence his follow-up to the Thailand-shot Only God Forgives be made in California (the newer film is dedicated to her).

Refn surrounded himself with key female collaborators – debut screenwriters Polly Stenham and, later, Mary Laws, cinematographer Natasha Braier, producer Lene Børglum and a core cast consisting of several young women, led by Elle Fanning as Jesse. And yet, of course, it’s really all about Nicolas Winding Refn. The high-contrast colour palate, as is the norm in his films, is shaped by his partial colourblindness – he can’t discern midtones, so The Neon Demon obliges the viewer to literally see as he sees. Refn deliberately obscured Jesse’s past and minimized her dialogue, putting her in a lineage with Drive’s The Driver (Ryan Gosling) and Valhalla Rising’s One-Eye (Mikkelsen), so their stories are “less about their journey and more about everyone else’s interpretation of what they actually represent to them.”12 But Jesse is, at her core, “a 16-year-old-girl version of me, coming to LA, having been born beautiful.”13 The lens may refract, but of his focus, Refn remains clear. “I think that part of creativity is also falling in love with your own narcissism: accepting it, using it as an asset.”14

Sean Welsh, July 2016
This article was originally commissioned as a programme note by GFT.


Footnotes

1. Nicolas Winding Refn, video interview with Danny Leigh
2. Nicolas Winding Refn, ‘The Neon Demon: Nicolas Winding Refn Reveals Why His Cannibal Model Movie Is Autobiographical’ by Anne Thompson for IndieWire
3. Nicolas Winding Refn, video interview with Danny Leigh, ibid.
4. Ibid.
5. Danny Leigh, ‘Nicolas Winding Refn: ‘I bring the singular, the narcissistic, the high art‘, The Guardian
6. Nicolas Winding Refn, as reported by Brent Lang for Variety
7. Lars von Trier, as reported by Howard Feinstein for Indiewire
8. Mads Mikkelsen, ‘Exclusive: Mads Mikkelsen and Nicolas Winding Refn chat to Euronews
9. Nicolas Winding Refn, interviewed by Danny Leigh for The Guardian
10. Nicolas Winding Refn, ‘The Neon Demon Director Nicolas Winding Refn on Making a Horror Film for Women’ by Trace Thurman for BloodyDisgusting.com
11. Nicolas Winding Refn, The Neon Demon press release
12. Nicolas Winding Refn, Anatomy of a scene: The Neon Demon, Nytimes.com
13. Nicolas Winding Refn, Anne Thompson, ibid.
14. Nicolas Winding Refn, ‘The director of Drive has a new film he hopes challenges “goddamn old-school morality”’ by Alex McCown for The AV Club

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Tale of Tales (2015)

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“The tale is not beautiful if nothing is added to it.”1

Matteo Garrone’s eighth film seems, at first glance, to be a significant departure for the director. Garrone made his breakthrough with 2002’s The Embalmer (L’imbalsamatore), cemented his reputation with breakthrough-hit Gomorrah (Gomorra, 2008), and won Cannes’ Grand Prix for his most recent film, 2012’s Reality. His films have generally been based on real events and populated with non-professional and amateur actors. For Gomorrah and Reality, Garrone cast, respectively, a genuine Camorra gang boss and a former hitman still serving life in prison for a triple murder. Such an approach inevitably seems at odds with a project based on a 17th century collection of fairy tales, one which also marks Garrone’s first English language work. For the first time, in what seems like an abrupt volte-face, he’s also working with established actors. In a sense, though, with Tale of Tales (Il Racconto dei Racconti, 2015), the director has remained faithful both to his own established concerns and the spirit of the text he’s adapted.

The text, Giambattista Basile’s Lo Cunto de li Cunti, overo Lo Trattenemiento de’ peccerille (1634-36), translated into English in 1848 as The Pentamerone, or The Story of Stories: Fun for the Little Ones, contains the first literary iterations of Sleeping Beauty, Cinderella, Hansel and Gretel, Puss in Boots and Rapunzel. Published posthumously and pseudonymously, it consists of 49 fairy tales and one framing story, also fantastical. The collection, despite its subtitle and fantastical subject matter, is not aimed at children, a fact periodically foregrounded in Basile’s phraseology if not in its content (in the tale entitled The Flea, for example, people flock to meet a king’s challenge from “the asshole of the earth”).

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Essentially a record of an oral tradition, one of the key virtues of Basile’s work was responsible for restricting its wider reach – it’s written in baroque Neapolitan, dense of allusion and peppered with vulgarity. In the introduction to his Italian Folktales, Italo Calvino described Lo Cunto de li Cunti as “il sogno d’un deforme Shakespeare partenopeo…in cui il sublime si mischia con il volgare e il sozzo” (“the dream of a deformed, Neapolitan Shakespeare”2 …in which “the sublime mingles with the vulgar and filthy”3). Nevertheless, Lo Cunto de li Cunti was a touchstone for Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm, whose Grimm’s Fairy Tales (1812) popularized the same tales Basile first captured on the page, some 40 years before the latter was first translated into German, while praising the richness of Basile’s work and its unadulterated quality.

It was this quality that drew Garrone to Tale of Tales, which he’s described as “a reckless, even masochistic, choice”4. Besides wanting “to get into trouble, as usual,” the director was attracted to the “fantastic environment, the fantasy genre, which is not so common in Italy. I wanted to explore this genre while keeping a very personal look.”5 Thus, Garrone explains, it’s not necessarily the dramatic departure it seems. Instead, Tale of Tales represents a simple reconfiguration of his established approach, “that blend between the real and fantastic which has always characterized my artistic endeavours.”6 While Gomorrah and Reality drew upon real life and transposed the reality “into a sort of magical context,” with Tale of Tales, “I did the exact opposite. I started from magical elements and I tried to give them as much as realism as possible.”7

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Garrone’s film is split into three distinct but interwoven sections – The Queen, The Flea and The Two Old Ladies – which correspond with Basile’s La Cerva Fatata (The Enchanted Doe), La Pulce (The Flea), La Vecchia Scorticata (The Old Woman Who Was Skinned). Garrone and his writing collaborators (Edoardo Albinati, Ugo Chiti and Massimo Gaudioso) threaded in elements from elsewhere in Basile’s collection, but otherwise discarded 47 tales, including all the most familiar – not to mention exhaustively retold – fairy tales. Their guiding principle was to look for “something powerful, physical, shared and authentic, even in the stories in which the imagination was the most fired-up.”8

In an introduction to her 2007 translation of Lo Cunto de li Cunti, Nancy Canepa describes how Basile’s “pervasive punning and wordplay” and “urbane manipulation of Baroque conceit … may constitute a simulation of the need, on the part of the oral storyteller, to use every means at his disposition – and the showier the better – to keep his audience’s ears perked.”9 Garrone and his collaborators, meanwhile, intended to honour the spirit of Basile’s work, if not its specificity, “and the language in which we wanted to transpose it was above all the cinematographic language – a language which can have its own specific richness, like that which we find in Basile’s work.”10 The resulting trio of tales, not coincidentally all female-focused, startled the writers with their capacity to capture contemporary obsessions, including “a satire on today’s cosmetic surgery, four centuries ahead of his time.”11

Italo Calvino asserted that the value of a tale “consists in what is woven and rewoven into it”, and thought of himself “as a link in the anonymous chain without end by which folktales are handed down, links that are never merely instruments or passive transmitters, but…it’s real ‘authors.'”12 And anyway, as Garrone himself insists, “you can never be faithful to a tale: each time you tell it to a child so they go off to sleep, something changes.”13

Sean Welsh, June 2016
This article was originally commissioned as a programme note by GFT.


Footnotes

1. Old Tuscan proverb, quoted, with a nod to Gherardo Nerucci, by Italo Calvino in his introduction to Italian Folktales (London, England: Penguin Books, 2000) pxxi
2. Sometimes translated, more benignly, as “odd, Mediterranean Shakespeare”.
3. Italo Calvino, introduction to Italian Folktales (London, England: Penguin Books, 2000) pxv
4. Matteo Garrone, as quoted in ‘Cannes: How Game of Thrones Influenced Tale of Tales
5. Matteo Garrone, ‘Cannes 2015: Five Questions for Tale of Tales Director Matteo Garrone’ by Ariston Anderson
6. Matteo Garrone, Tale of Tales Director’s Notes
7. Matteo Garrone, ‘Cannes 2015: Five Questions for Tale of Tales Director Matteo Garrone’ by Ariston Anderson
8. Matteo Garrone, Tale of Tales Director’s Notes, ibid.
9. Nancy Canepa, introduction to The Tale of Tales (New York, New York: Penguin Books, 2007) pplviii-lix
10. Ibid.
11. Ibid.
12. Italo Calvino, introduction to Italian Folktales (London, England: Penguin Books, 2000) pxxi
13. Matteo Garrone, Tale of Tales Director’s Notes, ibid.

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Mustang (2015)

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“I wanted to portray these girls like a five-headed monster. They were like supernatural, otherworldly creatures for me with their long hair, which was reminiscent of a horse’s mane.”1
Deniz Gamze Ergüven

Mustang is the debut feature of writer-director Deniz Gamze Ergüven. Most frequently/lazily compared to another debut, The Virgin Suicides (dir. Sofia Coppola, 2000), Ergüven’s film revolves around five sisters (all but one played by non-professional actors), from eldest Sonay (İlayda Akdoğan), to the football-loving youngest, Lale (Günes Sensoy). Beyond that, the comparison isn’t particularly instructive, since Coppola’s film is concerned with languor, torpor and primarily the fuzzy myopia of the male gaze. In its form and content, in the story of its production and its lasting impact, Mustang is intrinsically a film of feminine agency, the very existence of which is a provocation. Ergüven synthesises autobiography, social commentary and a kind of cathartic wish fulfillment into a fable of female empowerment.

Ergüven shares co-writing credit on Mustang with Alice Winocour, writer-director of Disorder (2015). The two met while taking part in Cannes’ Cinéfondation Workshop, where they found themselves the lone female participants. Winocour encouraged Ergüven to abandon one project (Kings, about the LA riots) that was struggling to gain traction in order to develop Mustang. The choice to veer towards more personal territory was, according to Ergüven, “a deliberate choice of me saying, ‘OK, I’m not going to freak people out any more. I’m going to do something with girls who look like me and speak like me and everyone will easily understand it.'”2 Ergüven has spoken of writing Mustang, with Winocour’s encouragement, “in a trance…beating the shit out of my keyboard,”3 in just a few weeks’ worth of 20-hour days. The original treatment and subsequent hard graft was Ergüven’s, with Winocour “more like a boxing coach… she would help channel all my energy and make sense of certain things, refine characters, etc.”4

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The Turkish-born Ergüven, raised between France and Turkey, drew upon her own experiences to produce Mustang’s script. “For example,” the director told Vogue, “the little scandal the girls trigger when they sit on the shoulders of the boys is something that me and the girls of my family had done.”5 From the point at which the girls rebel, mocking the sexualisation of their innocent activities by smashing chairs that have been in equally close proximity to their asses as any boys’ shoulders, Mustang diverges from real life. “We didn’t say anything. The characters in the film voiced the courage that we wished we had.”6

From then, Ergüven has explained, “it’s a film told as a fairytale and it’s quite condensed. Nobody can say it is the exact life of this person. There are reflections with real-life characters and a lot of real events, but it’s fragmentary. Being emotionally truthful is very important to me.”7 The director also drew from the experiences of family, friends, “and I tried to discover what lies under the surface by asking people I knew were knowledgeable about these matters,”8 which led her to the testimony of hospital workers who had witnessed scenes similar to those depicted in the film. Despite her focus on Turkish social realities, for the director, “knowing how it was to be a woman in other places” was “constitutive to the way I articulated the question in the film.”9

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Having completed the script and carefully assembled her cast around professional actor Elit İşcan (Ece), Ergüven’s original producer almost derailed the production, having departed the project after allegedly botching the budget. According to Ergüven, to make matters worse, the female producer then “wrote letters to the other producers saying things, among which, ‘Deniz is pregnant.’ She listed all these reasons the film was impossible to make.”10 Those producers then began cancelling carefully cultivated location shoots, leading to the near collapse of the entire project. Luckily, new producers stepped in to save the day. Today, Ergüven is admirably philosophical about the sabotage she experienced. “It’s like me, when I see a woman pilot, I’m ashamed for myself. We are just a product of our time.”11

Mustang was nominated for the Best Foreign Language Film at this year’s Oscars. Since it screened in the Director’s Fortnight section at Cannes last year, it’s been a magnet for awards nominations, and a fair few wins too, including the 2015 Lux Prize. And yet, fundamental to the success of the film for the director was how the very performance of it impacted on the lives of her cast. “For them, being courageous, fighting for your rights, being a bit insular when you need to be – all those things – have become normal. They become more and more like the characters.”12

Mustang doesn’t simply represent catharsis, or at worst the wishful rewriting of the director’s past. Its lines are a little more indelible, its influence a little less ephemeral than fashion spread aesthetics. As Ergüven has explained, “what was essential for me was to be able to film those girls in different poses, so to show that we could also look at them without associating their bodies with sexuality.”13 Therefore the simple act of watching is subtly transformative: “When you look at the world through the eyes of women, cinema is an extremely powerful meta-language…even people who hate the film, who feel antagonized by it, even they, for an hour and a half, have seen the world through Lale’s eyes.”14

Sean Welsh, May 2016
This article was originally commissioned as a programme note by GFT.


Footnotes

1. Deniz Gamze Ergüven, interviewed by Yonca Talu
2. Deniz Gamze Ergüven, interviewed by Despina Ladi, ‘Wild At Heart’, Sight & Sound, June 2016 Volume 26 Issue 6 p29
3. Deniz Gamze Ergüven, ‘Deniz Gamze Ergüven on Her Stunning New Movie, Mustang‘ by Julia Felsenthal
4. Deniz Gamze Ergüven, ‘Interview with Mustang director Deniz Gamze Ergüven
5. Deniz Gamze Ergüven, Felsenthal, ibid.
6. Ibid.
7. Deniz Gamze Ergüven, Ladi, Ibid.
8. Deniz Gamze Ergüven, Talu, Ibid.
9. Deniz Gamze Ergüven, Ladi, Ibid.
10. Deniz Gamze Ergüven, Felsenthal, Ibid.
11. Deniz Gamze Ergüven, Ladi, Ibid.
12. Ibid.
13. Deniz Gamze Ergüven, Talu, Ibid.
14. Deniz Gamze Ergüven, Ladi, Ibid.

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Dheepan (2015)

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By all accounts, Jacques Audiard’s Dheepan (2015) is a curious film. On one hand, it’s a story of immigration, of Sri Lankan refugees seeking escape to the west, told in an almost documentary-style form. On the other, it’s a slow-burning descent into bloody violence that started life as a Peckinpah remake. Its nuanced, carefully measured character study gives way eventually to an explosive climax, and beyond to a deceptively subtle coda. Nevertheless, perhaps in spite, perhaps because of its peculiarity, it won the Palme d’Or at last year’s Cannes Film Festival, beating the hotly-tipped Carol, Sight & Sound poll-topper The Assassin and future Oscar-winner Son of Saul to the prize.

Curious audiences drawn to this emotionally complex, award-winning tale may be tacken aback by its denouement, but the tension in Dheepan between social-realism and a kind of Hollywood classicism is increasingly a hallmark of Audiard’s work. Most recently, Rust And Bone (2012), which starred Marion Cotillard as a killer whale trainer who loses her legs in an accident, “almost felt more like an effects movie than a purportedly intimate drama set on the fringes of society.”1 Audiard also told The Observer recently of his nostalgia for the heyday of the Hollywood Western, when “cinema dealt in pure truth”2.

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It’s perhaps not surprising then, given Audiard has never been reluctant to pay tribute to his Hollywood inspirations (The Beat That My Heart Skipped was a remake of James Toback’s Fingers (1978); A Prophet’s lead, Malik, was reportedly inspired by The Godfather’s Michael Corleone) that he should consider producing a remake of Straw Dogs (Dir. Sam Peckinpah, 1971). “Initially,” Audiard has explained, “we had the idea of using genre as a Trojan horse… But using genre gave us a ‘vigilante’ film, a rather stupid and reactionary genre.”3 From Straw Dogs, Audiard, with his writing collaborators Noé Debré and Thomas Bidegain, took “the idea of an outsider, somebody who comes from another place”4 and began to glean that the film they wanted to make “was a love story, that this man would do anything for his family out of love.”5

Audiard’s work has long concerned itself with the struggle of inchoate voices to find form (2001’s Read My Lips), the struggle for self-actualisation (1996’s A Self Made Hero), and the struggle to create one’s self, to forge one’s own destiny (2009’s A Prophet). The director’s intention, however, is not simply to give voice to the voiceless or a platform to underrepresented minorities, but to discover and engage with “people that are totally different from me, my social milieu, and my culture.”6 This impetus, away from French culture, domestic and colonial, drove Audiard in this case inevitably towards Sri Lanka and the civil war, “that I had totally ignored, and that was not at all represented or covered by the French press.”7

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Essaying the conflict itself, though, is less important to Audiard than showing how that past tells upon his characters as they attempt to start new lives, under assumed identities, in a Parisian housing estate. The director looked to the Tamil community in Paris to cast his film, and there found his Dheepan in writer and ex-Tamil Tiger Antonythasan Jesuthasan. Jesuthasan, who has lived in France for 23 years, reportedly auditioned for a minor part, but was promoted to lead when Audiard discovered how closely his life story matched the script. Radicalised by the events of Sri Lanka’s Black July in 1983, a 17-year-old Jesuthasan joined the Liberation Tigers of Tamil Eelam, fighting with them for seven years until his group was all but wiped out. With fake documents, he eventually made it to France, where he worked a series of odd jobs and embarked on a new career as a writer of Tamil fiction.8

Audiard, however, is keen to point out the similarities are merely serindipitous and Dheepan is not Jesuthasan, as should really be clear by the film’s conclusion. That’s because Dheepan switches into a new gear close to the end, dispensing with what has been an almost documentary style in favour of kinetic action – gunfire, explosions and “macho heroics à la Sylvester Stallone”9. Some have attributed its “abrupt” narrative turns to an unfinished edit, assembled for Cannes and fixed forever once it won the Palme d’Or10. Indeed, the elision that swoops a bloody Dheepan from the ninth floor of an embattled apartment block to behind the wheel of a London taxi is clearly jarring.

However, whether a visual pun is intended or not, the image certainly recalls another film in which a psychologically troubled outsider descends into vigilantism towards certain death, only to find himself miraculously granted something approaching a fairy tale ending.11 Roger Ebert wrote of the much debated final scenes of Scorsese’s Taxi Driver (1976) that, “the end sequence plays like music, not drama: It completes the story on an emotional, not a literal, level.”12 If that comparison is instructive at all, it’s up to the audience to decide whether or not it contradicts or complements Audiard’s own view of his dramatic conceit: “the history of love constructed in front of our eyes. In the beginning it is a lie, a fiction, but we go from a lie they pretend to something that becomes real.”13

Sean Welsh, April 2016
This article was originally commissioned as a programme note by GFT.


Footnotes

1. David Jenkins, ‘Dheepan – first look review’ Little White Lies
2. Jacques Audiard, interviewed by Jonathan Romney, The Observer, Sunday 3rd April, 2016
3. Jacques Audiard, interviewed by Fabien Lemercier
4. Jacques Audiard, interviewed by Katie Kilkenny, LA Review of Books, 10/12/15
5. Jacques Audiard, interviewed by Kenneth Turan
6. Jacques Audiard, Kilkenny, ibid.
7. Jacques Audiard, Kilkenny, ibid.
8. ‘Dheepan’s Antonythasan Jesuthasan: from Tamil Tiger to star of a Palme d’Or winner’ in The Guardian, Thursday 31st March, 2016
9. Ginette Vincendeau, Dheepan review, Sight & Sound, May 2016, Volume 26 Issue 5, p61
10. Ibid.
11. In their recent interview with Antonythasan Jesuthasan, The Guardian curiously notes the ‘Taxi Driver-like poster in the foyer’.
12. Roger Ebert, Taxi Driver review, 2004
13. Jacques Audiard, Turan, ibid.

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