The Second Act (Quentin Dupieux, 2024)

The prolific filmmaker Quentin Dupieux, whose movies include Rubber, Smoking Causes Coughing, Daaaaaalí! and Deerskin, has developed a highly singular style; his work often blends black humour, absurdity and surrealism as it deals with thought-provoking themes.  Dupieux's films are known for their originality and often challenge conventional narrative storytelling, and his latest effort, the elaborately structured The Second Act, certainly upholds the director's reputation as a purveyor of quirky, offbeat fare.  Dupieux seemingly has no trouble attracting big-name actors, with his previous films featuring stars including Jean Dujardin, Anaïs Demoustier, Gilles Lellouche, and Adéles Haenel and Exarchopoulos.

True to form for Dupieux, The Second Act features a stellar cast, one led by Louis Garrel, Vincent Lindon and Léa Seydoux.  Garrel's David is first seen imploring his friend Willy (Raphaël Quenard, best known as the title character in Dupieux's Yannick) to make a play for the clingy Florence (Seydoux), who happens to be besotted with David.  David and Willy are heading to the restaurant of the title, where they plan to meet with Florence and her father Guillaume (Lindon); as they walk, David mentions that they're being filmed, and it seems that the pair are actors in a movie.  Upon arrival at The Second Act, David, Willy, Guillaume and Florence sit at a table where a jittery extra (Manuel Guillot) attempts to pour wine.

As the overwhelmed extra—whose name is Stéphane—persists with his lamentable efforts, the film's stars do their best to get him to relax, with little success, and the episode ends badly—very badly.  But just as we think we've got a grip on proceedings, Dupieux pulls the rug from under us again, and it's revealed that these scenes with Stéphane are also part of the film-within-a-film, which, in a world first, is being directed entirely by AI.  The Second Act is a film for which the label meta-textual is woefully insufficient; it ends much like it begins, with two men walking along a road, but by this stage we are even less sure of who or what we've been watching (in this sense, it recalls Leos Carax's confounding Holy Motors).

The self-reflexive The Second Act includes several statements concerning the ephemeral nature of cinema—although Florence vehemently argues in favour of what she sees as the essential service provided by actors—and the film itself deftly illustrates such claims.  While both Deerskin and Rubber also used the Droste effect conceit, The Second Act is much more pointed in this regard.  Dupieux's slippery film is as inconsequential as it is entertaining, a shaggy dog story in which the director and his game cast have a great deal of fun as they highlight the artifice of filmmaking; this wickedly clever divertissement stands as one of the most effective examples of mise en abyme cinema in recent years.

Darren Arnold

Images: Diaphana

The Shrouds (David Cronenberg, 2024)

David Cronenberg's new film The Shrouds is a highly personal and strangely moving meditation on grief, love, and the double-edged sword that is technology.  Inspired by the 2017 death of the director's wife, Carolyn, the film follows Karsh (Vincent Cassel), a bereaved Toronto-based widower who invents an intricate camera system that allows people to observe their loved ones in the grave.  This unnerving innovation becomes both the centre of Karsh's funeral business and a marker of his monomaniacal desire to cling to the past, with his devotion to the dead recalling that of Julien in François Truffaut's The Green Room.

While Truffaut cast himself as the lead in that Henry James adaptation, Cronenberg, who has stepped in front of the camera on a number of occasions, stops short of such a move in The Shrouds—although he does goes as far as to furnish Cassel with a coiffure that bears an uncanny resemblance to the director's distinctive shock of white hair.  Cassel, collaborating with Cronenberg for the third time following the pair's work on A History of Violence and A Dangerous Method, makes a fine job of balancing cool detachment with simmering obsession, as Karsh is sucked into a world even darker than the one he signed up for.

Diane Kruger, who replaced Léa Seydoux just a month before filming commenced, is equally impressive in her triple role as Karsh's wife, sister in-law, and AI assistant, and Guy Pearce is very good value as a jittery IT whiz.  But when the film changes gear and moves into areas such as industrial espionage and corporate conspiracy, these admittedly fun elements prove slightly distracting.  Visually, The Shrouds is stunning, with cinematography (from Douglas Koch, returning from Cronenberg's previous feature Crimes of the Future) that frames characters in a way that underlines the crippling isolation that accompanies mourning.

David Cronenberg's calling card, body horror—an important, if sometimes overstated, aspect of his work—is present here, although it never overshadows the film's emotional core.  Given that the past year has seen The Substance comprehensively out-Cronenberg the Canadian auteur (at least superficially), it's refreshing to witness how latter-day Cronenberg only employs body horror to serve the narrative.  The Shrouds, which was originally envisaged as a Netflix series, is a richly compelling work, one that prompts viewers to carefully consider both the normative emotions of grief and technology's relationship with human values.

Darren Arnold

Images: Pyramide Films

France (Bruno Dumont, 2021)

Some months ahead of the autumn 2019 theatrical release of Bruno Dumont's Joan of Arc, the director declared that his next project, On a Half Clear Morning, would star Léa Seydoux and Benoît Magimel.  Obviously, much has happened in the world since that announcement was made, and while Seydoux remains at the heart of Dumont's latest, both the film's original title and male lead were jettisoned along the way; the movie now carries the somewhat inferior title of France, while Magimel has been replaced by Benjamin Biolay.  In case you've somehow managed to avoid the news, Seydoux has seen another of her films fall victim to pandemic-induced delays; by this time next week, we should know whether the 25th entry in the James Bond series has been worth the wait—or if it's much like the previous 24.  With her casting in France, Seydoux joins the handful of big-name stars who have topped the bill in a Bruno Dumont film; while Dumont's previous ten feature films (and two miniseries) have largely featured non-professional performers drawn from his native Flanders, he has diverged from this tradition on a few select occasions—most notably in his work with Juliette Binoche and Fabrice Luchini, both of whom have two appearances for Dumont in their sparkling filmographies.  

As France begins, Seydoux's eponymous news anchor is attending a press conference given by French president Emmanuel Macron, while her producer Lou (Blanche Gardin) cheerfully mugs away in the hope that these antics will tickle France (spoiler: they do).  This opening quickly establishes France's lofty status: she's a very big deal in the world of journalism, and even Macron knows her name.  There are some awful chroma key effects here, and it is doubtful that many will be convinced that Seydoux and Gardin are in the same room as Macron.  As it transpires, this isn't the last example of terrible greenscreen to feature in France, and the penny soon drops that known perfectionist Dumont is deliberately employing sub-par process shots, presumably in order to illustrate how so much that is fake is assumed to be real.  For France is about how news is presented, and we witness the title character's efforts to stage situations so that they make for the best TV—irrespective of whether she's reporting on migrants attempting to cross the Mediterranean or the plight of Tuareg rebels.  As someone who manipulates stories that are subsequently broadcast as straight reportage, France is clearly not viewed with any sympathy by Dumont, and this same disdain extends to those who eagerly lap up crass journalism.  Here, such consumers are symbolised by the gaggle of adoring fans who continually tail France in the hope of a selfie or an autograph; while France usually obliges with such requests, she's quick to mock her followers once they're out of earshot. 

Although much of the film focuses on France's professional life, we do get to see both her opulent apartment and her family: husband Fred (Biolay) is a novelist, and although he's someone who has enjoyed some success in the creative arts, he's much less famous than his wife.  Fred and France have a young son, Joseph (Gaëtan Amiel), and it is while on the school run one morning that a distracted France is involved in a minor collision with Baptiste (Jawad Zemmar), a young man on a moped.  France makes a real effort to befriend and compensate Baptiste and his family, and something seems to have shifted in the presenter's demeanour; she decides to take some time out from her glittering career, and checks into an exclusive Alpine retreat.  There, France meets fellow guest Charles (Emanuele Arioli), and it is an indiscretion with this seemingly charming young man that will prove to be very costly for her.  Having engineered countless news reports of her own, France now finds herself at the centre of a contrived scandal, and the outlook is bleak; live by the sword, die by the sword, etc.  Yet even worse is to come for France, and a queasy, showstopping scene slyly illustrates the ghoulish sensationalism so prevalent in bottom-rung news reporting. 

While it may not be particularly accurate to describe France's title character as a straw target, there's a seeming obviousness to the film that will initially wrongfoot viewers accustomed to Dumont's work; it all feels a bit on the nose.  Yet as the film progresses, it becomes apparent that there's something else at work behind the superficial, garden-variety swipe at the media; France is used to both playing to the camera and crying on demand, but as the post-accident version of her becomes more prone to moments of introspection, her tears appear to be genuine.  Not for the first time in a Dumont film, the director films his star in striking close-up as they look skyward; while this moment explicitly recalls Joan of Arc, it also has much in common with the closing scene of Dumont's very first feature film, The Life of Jesus, in which the main character stared at the heavens with a newfound awareness.  Given all that's preceded this shot, it seems almost unthinkable that France might entertain the notion that there's something more important than herself, yet, although this isn't what could be described as a Damascene conversion, it appears that something inside France has changed for good.

Seydoux, clearly aware that she's playing a caricature for much of France's lengthy running time, is good value in her role, and her presence no doubt contributed to the wide distribution the film enjoyed on its domestic release in late August.  Biolay isn't given a great deal to do—although he is involved in one huge scene—and largely appears to be channelling his part in On a Magical Night.  As France progresses, it becomes increasingly Dumontian, and Jawad Zemmar gives the sort of performance so typical of non-professionals in the director's films—as does Fabian Fenet, who was so good in his substantial role in Joan of Arc.  Fenet has a smaller part this time around, yet he features in a pivotal scene, and his presence—alongside Léa Seydoux and Blanche Gardin, no less—provides a welcome reminder of how adept Dumont is when it comes to getting a tune out of these untutored actors.  With much of France set against the backdrop of the big city, there's a welcome change of scenery in the final reel as Dumont moves the action to the Opal Coast he knows so well, and it is here that we experience the film's most moving scene.  For this brief stretch, Dumont is both literally and figuratively on home ground, and as France takes in the windswept landscape, she states simply: "It's beautiful here".  Indeed.

Darren Arnold

Images: 3B Productions

Kursk (Thomas Vinterberg, 2018)

It's hard to believe that next year will mark the 20th anniversary of the Kursk submarine disaster, which saw 118 men lose their lives during Russia's first significant naval exercise since the fall of the USSR.  Although only on a training mission, the Kursk was carrying a full complement of live weapons, and these were the source of an accidental explosion which saw the stricken vessel sink to the bottom of the Barents Sea.  Shortly after settling, a second, much larger explosion - which registered 4.2 on the Richter scale - was recorded.  It was hours before anyone realised that the submarine was missing - its rescue buoy, reportedly welded in place, had failed to deploy - and many days before a rescue team was able to get inside the vessel; by that stage, as we all know, it was far too late.  The Russian government came under much criticism for its handling of the incident - after locating the submarine yet failing to attach a diving bell to it, the government rebuffed a number of offers of help from other nations including France, Germany and Israel, with President Putin - who at that point had been in his role for just a few months - eventually accepting help from the UK and Norway.  The British-Norwegian teams of divers worked to help access the submarine and facilitate the recovering of the bodies.

The real horror at the heart of the Kursk story lies not with the deaths of those who perished as a result of the initial explosions and subsequent flooding - although that is horrific enough - but in the submarine's ninth compartment, where 23 men managed to hole up in the dark and cold.  In this area, the men had an air pocket that would have sustained them for a while, but nothing like the time it took for help to arrive.  The released parts of a letter written by a Captain-Lieutenant, who fumbled his way around the page in the dark while using his illuminated wristwatch to note down the time, are the only real personal glimpses we have of what it was like for these men who, as it turned out, were hideously unlucky to have survived the explosions and their immediate aftermath.  The Captain-Lieutenant is played by Matthias Schoenaerts, an appealing and dependable actor who captures the essence of someone who was both liked and respected by his men, and who did his best to keep everyone's spirits up in the face of a clock which was always going to run out.

Kursk, a production from Luc Besson's EuropaCorp, sees Schoenearts reteam with Thomas Vinterberg, with the two having previously collaborated on 2015 literary adaptation Far from the Madding Crowd.  Vinterberg's roaring success of a debut feature, Festen, was released before the Kursk even sank, and in the intervening years he's largely struggled to live up to his first film, although his Oscar-nominated Jagten was terrific.  He is, however,  a consistently interesting filmmaker, and one who has always worked fairly steadily, although a fairly orthodox film like Kursk provides him with few opportunities to apply the kind of off-kilter flourishes we might expect from this director.  The pan-European cast also features Léa Seydoux, Colin Firth and Max von Sydow; if nothing else, the production, which may well be dismissed by some as a Euro-pudding, stands as a display of international co-operation that's in sharp contrast to both the belligerence at the core of the Kursk story and the current global political climate.

That the sinking of the Kursk (which, like the Titanic, was widely considered unsinkable) comes early in the film and not at the climax tells us much about the scale of the terror here; in many movies, the critical explosions would come after a long buildup.  Kursk proves to be a tough watch - as a film based on terrible real-life events, its preordained outcome hovers over the entire running time; matters are made much worse through watching the near-miss of the diving bell as it fails to lock onto the sub.  Some of these men came so close to being saved, but the tragic tale sticks to its awful path, as it must; it's like Open Water on a much larger scale.  Kursk is a competent if rather workmanlike film, yet one which grows more disturbing once you've seen it; it's only in the hours and days after seeing the film that the sorry fate of these men will really haunt you.  EuropaCorp's films - outside of Besson's own directorial efforts - tend to be fairly generic, and the starry Kursk is no exception.  But regardless of its merits, Kursk's very existence serves as a reminder of a disaster many of us won't have thought about for some time.

Darren Arnold

Images: EuropaCorp