Gay Film Moody Review #1!

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Le Temps Qui Reste   dir. Francois Ozon.   I have been extremely fascinated with the films of Ozon  for some time, partly as an eager and willing spectator of his simplistic and beautiful vision and partly as a horrified voyeur to some of the deeply troubling ideas and emotions he sometimes deftly communicates underneath the serene surfaces. There is also the gay factor, which supplies another great push-and-pull factor for me as a viewer: he is clearly unabashed in his appreciation of the (gay) male form, but sometimes his portrayals of gay life hit so close to home in their intimacy that they are unnerving. For other more stable fags out there, this might not apply, but that’s how I was left feeling especially after his alluring and very harrowing short film, La Petite Mort (The Little Death).   Photography and death, two themes that figure in the short, are present here again in Le Temps Qui Reste (The Time that Remains), the story of a vibrant 31 year-old fashion photographer who learns he has but months to live due to a particularly viral cancer. As far as I’m concerned, only in Europe can a major production attempt subject matter such as this, since back in the States when a movie tries to take death head-on we end up with something resembling Stepmom (a film during which I cried buckets, but that was after having come out to my mother – different story). The problem in Hollywood, of course, is the obligation to have a ‘lesson’ injected into the narrative, a value-giving moment or turn of events which makes the characters’ lives comfortably worthwhile. This is a factor that still often remains missing in foreign film, and it can be refreshingly realistic. Sometimes life just happens, and it’s there for you to take (or leave, but that’s harder). There are some American films that have touched on this (The Ice Storm for example), but they’re few and far between.   This film is surely not one of Ozon’s best, and has definite hits and misses, since it just manages to skim by without falling into the above trap. But it does succeed in handling very risky material (even the doctor taking off his glasses and saying “you have three months to live” is in there) without getting mired in ‘the meaning of it all’. The main actor, relatively unknown but from some of Ozon’s earlier work, is strong and carries his burden as well as can be expected. The more technical problem lies in how his development is portrayed; cancer is a bitch, we all know that, but the progression of the disease, even during a two hour film, should be handled very carefully and gradually. Having a scene where he suddenly leans against a lamppost, out of breath, just no longer suffices and reminds me of Barbara Hershey in Beaches (saw that when I was 9 – my first introduction to the concept of death – yet another story).   A strange and continually fascinating aspect of Ozon’s material lies in his treatment of intimate relationships, and how the familial and romantic can sometimes cross and bleed into one another. This is not to say he suggests anything incestual in the film, but manages to retain his characters’ sexualities even when they are interacting amongst family members. This comes out, surprisingly enough, in the poignant and well played interlude between the protagonist and his grandmother, played tenderly by Jeanne Moreau. Their implicit relationship is one of sheer and complete honesty, and the filmmaker stops at nothing (not even awkwardness) to show it. Another brilliant digression in the film involves a waitress trying to have a baby with her infertile husband, and (without giving too much away) the intimacy and sexuality that follows is harmonious, eloquent, and perhaps the beautiful heart of the film. I like this director for taking the time to pay attention to his sex scenes, using them as story tools to advance his characters and not just to get them naked and spice things up a bit.   The end of the film lost me a bit, since again the problem of gradualness comes into play as we begin to see our character take his last, inevitable steps. Here he is, ready or not, and as the viewer I wanted to be with him, feeling it, but I was having trouble imagining how he got there, so I felt relegated to the slightly sad onlooker. Maybe I was feeling a bit relieved that I wasn’t watching Angels in America or And the Band Played On, which are heartbreaking tales of gay men dealing with AIDS. Here is a story of someone dealing with (an abstractly portrayed) cancer, who happens to be gay. Somehow, in a perverse way, it gave me a bit of an emotional ‘out’. I wonder what that means.   I admired Le Temps Qui Reste, mainly for resisting the urge to shove down the viewer’s throat what the sick man learns and gains. He surely does do these things, but as with much of Ozon’s work, it is more often than not accomplished in a subtle and sea-change sort of way. This is a film to see if you are in the mood for a tear jerker, but not a Hollywood one – this one might take a little mental energy to get there.  Le Temps qui Reste is still playing; but get out now and go see it because the theatres will soon be making way for the real gay film du jour racking up all the awards and to be reviewed right here next week (can’t wait to see it – damn the delay in French release dates!)       Dan’s Moody Reviews    
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