_The Secret of the Grain_
sept...@millenicom.com
Hours_, comparing it to Jean Renoir. I like the film a great deal,
but
would submit it isn't yet mid-period Tavernier (_A Sunday in the
Country_, _Daddy Nostalgia) when it comes to cinema-of-quality
treatises on family dynamics. I don't mean to attack Assayas here
(let's save the mean-spiritedness for the next post :), but one
problem
with him is clearly that he cannot seem to conceive of happiness,
desire, or spiritual excitement among the middle-aged,
married-with-children set.
The latest worthy heir to Renoir is clearly Abdel Kechiche, not
Assayas. Speaking of comparisons, the supposedly strong woman
roles in recent Almodovar films are no match for Kechiche's
sensational female casts, either. The stormy family gatherings
in _Secret_ and callow youths' confrontations in _Games of Love
and Chance_ have all the barely-controlled chaos of Maurice
Pialat. Furthermore, describing Kechiche's style as purely
neorealistic or cinematic verite, or even Dardennes-like (no
matter how much I admire the Belgians) is an oversimplification.
Jfrom _Games of Love and Chance_ and _Secret of the
Grain_, it is obvious that Kechiche shares an obsession with
the theater (and theatrical acting) common to French masters
like Resnais, Chereau, and Rivette. Finally, unlike Assayas,
to whom "globalization" is an excuse for taking poetic liberty
about the Other, the Tunisian-born Keriche lives in two worlds
and feels the immigrant culture and experience in his bones.
In the dreams and aspirations of Kechiche's down-to-earth yet
larger-than-life (female) protagonist lie our hopes for a
re-energized, racially diverse, and culturally integrated new world.
Kechiche's adults clearly know how to have fun -- perhaps too
much so. The long opening sequences in _Secret of the Grain_
depicting extended Sunday family luncheons and the infant's
potty training do drag on for too long, particularly because I don't
care for family gatherings. (I also convinced a friend to see it,
which always makes me nervous.) It must be said that, in the
best Renoir tradition, all the family members are distinctly
and loving drawn, even if some are not that interesting. But
once the magnetic step-daughter Rym enters the picture, and
the patriarch Slimane's improbable plan for a floating resturant
starts to move forward (no matter how slowly and elliptically),
the film starts to bear comparison with the great _Games of
Love and Chance_. A key strength of that earlier film lies in
its complex fusion of street-slang and Marivaux, emotion and
intellect. In _Secret of the Grain_, the relaxed dinner table
banter contrast with, gives way to sleek business dresses,
computer printouts, and rarefied offices in banks and city
halls. Politically, Slimane's family have perserved over
bureaucracy, ascending from fringe dock-hands to state-
sanctioned business owners. Culturally, their ethnic food
enriches the possibility of French culture. Perhaps one day it
will be like the Americanized Chinese resturant in the U.S.,
flourishing in small town Maine and Colorado where even
Starbucks and McDonalds fear to tread. This is a valuable
civic lesson in the way capitalism and multiculturalism
*should* work.
Of course it is the charismatic women who fulfill that vision.
Rym does all the talking and selling of the proposal while the
tongue-tied Slimane meekly looks on, as withdrawn as Krimo at
the end of _Games of Love and Chance_. Later, with the resturant's
opening in peril, Rym's stunning belly dance and her mother's
resourcefulness save the day. Slimane's biological family
are well cast too. Sabrina Ouazani, who was Sara Forestier's
rival diva on and off stage in _Games_, plays the brooding
youngest daughter. Alice Houri (heroine of _Nenette and Boni_)
is the long suffering daughter-in-law, married to the philandering
elder son who almost single-handedly ruins everything. The
younger son is handsome and makes eyes at Rym, but he is not
exactly the brightest bulb in the room and certainly doesn't
deserve her. Two other daughters, one of whom has married a blue
collar Caucasian, are boisterous and played convincingly and
supplely (if that's a word) by first time actors. But it is
Hafsia Herzi, debuting as Rym, who arrives a full fledged star.
Even before her stunning, extended belly-dance exhibition,
her vivacity and intelligence enchants every scene she is in.
If there is any justice in the world, she should be the next
Isild Le Besco of French cinema.
But the acting is much more than authentic and naturalistic; it
radiates a knowing, premeditated quality. The characters are
aware they are creating a theatrical effect-within-the-film, even as
they are unleashing pent-up emotions. When Alice Houri breaks
down and screams at Slimane about the family turning a blind
eye to her husband's womanizing, she repeats everything twice
like a typical hysterical person, but is clearly aware of, and
enjoying,
the effect this tirade has on Slimane. This is even more obvious
when a quartet of old men (the Greek chorus as my friend
dubbed them) staying at Rym's mother's flea-bag hotel urge
her to talk to her mother. They are certain that her talents with
words can convince the older woman to attend the resturant
opening. Rym resists, but a couple scenes later, sure enough
she unleashes her silver tongue and fake (or real?) tears,
plays on her mother's jealousy of the ex-wife, and gets her
to go. It is one of the best scenes in the film -- hilarious, sly,
sophisticated. But everyone in one way or another gives
different representation of themselves. In the resturant
scene, the banker, the bureaucrats, and the daughters
all dress up and put on their best face, in stark contrast
with the first (few) times we see them in the film. (Kechiche's
long takes allow us to absorb and remember the faces and
personalities, even if we only see them once before the
grand finale.) It is perhaps in this respect that _Secret_
most resemble Renoir and _Rules of the Game_. His
immigrants (and everyone else) aren't just ciphers we should
take pity on; they are intelligent, thinking human beings, and
civilization is made up of the rich interactions between people
like them.
Stylistically, Kechiche has also gone beyond hand-held work
and long scenes. The ill-lucked patriarch literally runs
in circles, ultimately collapsing in futility, as he chases
the child-thugs who have stolen his motor-bike. The scene,
beautifully shot and choreographed at night, signals a
transition towards surrealism. (Again, inner city males
are depicted as dullards and trouble-makers while the women
are the real entrepreneurs). Kechiche's leisurely pacing
however does not suit the ending, where intercutting
between three, four locations is required. If the editing
were tightened and the transitions were progressively
accelerated as the end nears -- much like the heightening
rhythm of Rym's belly dance at the finish line -- this would
have been an almost perfect film.