robert-temple-1
We commonly speak of 'the elephant in the room'. But what about the elephant on the screen? Gerard Depardieu, talented and magnetic personality that he is, has now grown to such a size that he really should out of delicacy keep himself from public view. The idea of him being even remotely romantic is absurd. In this film, his slender and attractive wife (Marie Bunel) shows him great loving devotion, they are always kissing and cuddling, and he is constantly feeling her in the intimate places of her anatomy while she appears to be thrilled by this attention. But how convincing is that? His stomach is now so gigantic that he appears to be pregnant with sextuplets. In one ludicrous bedroom scene, his wife leaps on top of him while he is lying on his back, and ends up hopelessly stranded on top of his gigantic tummy like a beached ship. I can only presume that Claude Chabrol, in this last film which he made in the year before he died, was having his little joke. Depardieu's face has expanded into a full moon, and one has to struggle to recognise him. Everyone knows that in what passes for 'real life', Depardieu likes his food and wine, but really, one has to choose, and since he has chosen to become so immensely fat through showing no restraint in his inordinate consumption, he must face the fact that his days as a screen Lothario are over. Indeed, it is even difficult to take him seriously now as a character actor. It is such a pity, because he is such a good actor. Perhaps he needs one of those stomach operations to restrain him, as it is probably too late for dieting to accomplish much. However, turning to the film itself, it is even more complex than usual for a Chabrol film. The ostensible story turns out not to be the real story at all. It is not the mystery which the detective tries to solve which is the purpose of the film, but the detective himself who has to be solved by the viewers. And this is also Inspector Bellamy's own greatest challenge as an investigator, to understand the riddle of himself. The film is so multi-textured, with hints and strands running everywhere, that people who enjoy solving puzzles will have a great time. Murder and betrayal are in there, as they appear to have been twin obsessions of Chabrol. But most deeply rooted in this film is the motif of self-detestation because of terrible deeds one has done in the past, which have remained secret, and which have devoured one from within over decades. Depardieu conveys successfully a man destroyed by regrets so bitter that they can never be repaired. His feckless half-brother, a drunk and dropout who stays with Depardieu and his wife during their break from Paris (where Depardieu is said to be a famous detective inspector, and in any case he keeps his gun in a drawer in his kitchen, so he must be a detective), is played with poignant and embittered despair by Clovis Cornillac (how amazing to have the first name of a Merovingian king!) The multi-tasking Jacques Gamblin, who was so brilliant in Chabrol's COLOUR OF LIES (1999, see my review), here plays no less than three characters. Perhaps Chabrol was doing an essay not only on double-identity but triple-identity. Whatever his intentions in this intense and bizarre film, Chabrol certainly was reaching for some profundities, some of which he reached, and some of which remained beyond his grasp. It is as if a drowning man were searching for the ultimate answers to the things which most troubled him and, his hands stretching from the water which is about to engulf him, managed to grab hold of some last insights just before he sank. I suppose the film is ultimately unsatisfying because it is somewhat self-indulgent, but there can be little doubt of Chabrol's earnest intent, so we must respect that. A man making his last film is not struggling for effect, he is gasping for meaning. I can understand some people saying they did not like this film, because it was not made for entertainment purposes, it was made for Chabrol's peace of mind, a kind of anguished testament perhaps. The film contains continuous references to the marvellous song-writer and singer Georges Brassens (1921-1981), as well as repeatedly mentioning his grave at the southern seaport of Sète (a town where they have the most delicious and authentic fish soup, which I highly recommend), which was his home town. I did not 'get' all of this, but it doubtless had a meaning to Chabrol deeper than mere admiration, and for all I know there may be countless Frenchmen who could recount at great length the importance of Brasssens to this story. Brassens could perhaps be described as 'the Leonard Cohen of France', and he has a large and devoted following. He sang with that extraordinarily charming accent of the South which one hears in Marcel Pagnol's old black and white films. The insistence with which Chabrol hammers away at the Brassens motif, his tomb, and its association with a murder, must mean something to someone, though it is all too subtle for me. One also wonders why Chabrol is so obsessed with cars going off cliffs? There must be so much more to all this than meets the uninformed eye. Perhaps some day someone will solve the mystery of Claude Chabrol, or should I say the many mysteries of the man, and why he himself seems to have been so haunted a personality. Or has this already been done by some eager French cinéaste and I just don't know about it?
tedg
I was never a champion of Chabrol, but I am amazed at what he left as his last film. The film is superficially framed as a detective story but as it progresses it slowly turns inside out as it becomes a discovery about the nature of the detective. This is done so surreptitiously that you hardly notice until toward the end you will ask in amazement what just happened?You will be disturbed because not much seems to change and the mystery seems solved early in the film. There are numerous situations where we expect emotional explosions from the detective but the film skitters out from under them. Some of this is vague enough to be a dream and such has a very clear marker midway when our detective wakes from a dream and non-dream dialogue follows seamlessly. The story we are supposed to think the main story involves the discovery of a burnt body. It is not who it seems to be. The killer who confesses to Bellamy early on is not who he seems to be. A quirky, fun shopgirl plays an unexpected role that leaves our detective thinking at the end that he (and us) have been fooled. We will never know how that con worked. The mirrored story involves the detective and his dark step-brother. The two are a stark contrast, and emotions are wound tight throughout. As we move through this with other magical tones that get added by his watching, it becomes less important whether the brother actually exists. The brother dies at the end like the mystery man of the beginning. And there are other similarities. The whole thing flattens into his own complex set of brilliant strategies to hide and eventually kill half of himself. This dynamic is played not between him and his mystery, nor him and his brother, but between him and his wife. He is now old and obese and prepared to focus all his amorous attentions on his patient wife. She guides his life in subtle ways, using this power. The effect within the film is that we enter expecting to have Bellamy's eyes be ours and for those eyes to bring narrative coherence.Instead, we end up knowing nothing. No mystery is solved, at least those we expect. Instead. We are moved off our path in a ways that we cannot quite see, but that creates incredible tension. It is as if Chabrol decide that on his way out, he would show that he is such a master of narrative suspense, that he could create it by removing narrative elements instead of adding them.I am reminded of a game. The participant is to enter a room of known people and continuously direct the conversation without being detected and by saying the absolute minimum.The script plays some games with names. It it the only misstep, being childishly obvious.Ted's Evaluation -- 3 of 3: Worth watching.
airfoyle
I suppose when I rate this movie more highly than many other people it's because I haven't had enough exposure to Claude Chabrol. For me this falls under the category "French movie," not "Chabrol movie." So those who are less discriminating may like the movie as much as my wife and I did.European movies are better than American to the extent that they show ordinary people's lives lived at any ordinary pace. They're worse when they indulge in incomprehensible or surrealistic profundities. "Bellamy" teeters on the edge of the latter now and then, but gives us many pleasures of the first kind. It's a murder mystery, sort of, but more of the "what happened?" than the "who did it?" variety. In addition, it's a view into the life of Inspector Bellamy and the people in his life. His relationship with his wife is simple but enviable (perhaps improbably so). Marie Bunel is perfect as the wife.The film does have some irritating attempts at profundity, but they are not too distracting. It's more distracting wondering how Gerard Depardieu, the Inspector, can have a brother played by an actor 20 years younger that he supposedly grew up with.
robert-642
Where do I start? I have watched nearly all Depardieu's films over the years along with his compatriot Daniel Auteil. I was so looking forward to watching this but now rather than it joining my collection it has gone in the trash can.What was this giant of an actor (Jean De Florette and 36 Quai Des Orfèvres) doing in such a dull and meandering film? What was it's purpose? Was it a romance - drama? Was it supposed to be a peculiar crime thriller? Was it a last fling from the ancient Claude Chabrol? No, it was none of these, it was downright embarrassing and cringe worthy.Given the fact that Depardieu is not short of a few million Euros - he owns three restaurants in Paris and a few vineyards - one can't say he was doing it for the money. Maybe he's turning into a sado-masochist in his old age and enjoys regurgitating turgid scripts. Whatever, it was one of the the most miserable and clumsiest films ever. Poor lighting, wooden acting - except for the talents of Marie Bunel and the gypsy eyed Vahina Giocante who attempted to bring it to life - give up girls. And then there was the plot. Plot is also a term used for a small piece of land. That's what the film represented, an uncultivated plot with an abundance of weeds.And finally. What was the downright nonsense with the lawyer singing in court? Was that Chabrol trying to ridicule the viewer? Was it some 'in-joke'? Regardless it didn't fit in with the film - unless Chabrol wanted it to be a musical but senility won the day and he forgot what the film was about.I can't close without making an observation on Depardieu's excessive weight. What is he doing to himself? The man is gi-normous! If he doesn't slim soon he won't be making any more films. Get it together Gerard!
