Hotel (Mike Figgis, 2001)

If nothing else, Mike Figgis’ Hotel chomps with relish on creative possibilities: it has the resources to bring in the likes of John Malkovich and Burt Reynolds for a day or two’s work, thereby swimming in six-degrees-of-Kevin-Bacon oddities; it plays with split or four-quadrant screens (in the latter respect building on Figgis’ immediately preceding, more tonally conventional movie, Time Code), sometimes to observe the same action from different perspectives, at other times to counterpoint the main action with art-house erotic or otherwise alluring distractions; it crams in references from both high culture (preeminently The Duchess of Malfi) and.low (celebrity gossip TV). The film has a foot in Grand Hotel-type territory, drawing on the location as a site of criss-crossing lives and possibilities, but primarily focuses on movie-making itself, on a Venice-set production of Malfi, temporarily derailed when its near-feral director (Rhys Ifans) is shot and sent into a kind of coma, eventually replaced by its producer (David Schwimmer). The movie at various times evokes vampirism and cannibalism and lycanthropy, all of them potential metaphors for the less convivial aspects of movie-making; at other times it evokes cinema’s dance-like aspects (the apparent ultimate power behind the film, played by Reynolds, is identified in the credits as “Flamenco Manager”) or jazzier free-form connotations (bolstered by Figgis’s light, pulsating score); the final scene identifies itself as a “trick,” but it’s one underlaid with menace and foreboding. For all its attributes, the film often feels overly dour and withholding and pleasure-starved (it cites the Dogme mentality, a big thing at the time), no doubt taking some impish satisfaction in being among the least conventionally ravishing productions ever set in Venice. Hotel may have more or less marked the end of Figgis’ commercial viability – since then his filmography is mostly a stream of under-seen shorts and obscurities and one-offs – but that only adds to its defiantly reckless allure.

Alexandria...Why? (Youssef Chahine, 1979)

 

An early scene in Youssef Chahine’s Alexandria…Why? might sum up its likeable haphazardness: a group of friends goes to the movies in 1942 to see Ziegfeld Follies, a movie which wasn’t made until 1946, and which is represented here in part by scenes from a different movie, and in clips lifted from a 1970’s That’s Entertainment compilation, even leaving in a snatch of Gene Kelly’s voice-over narration about Eleanor Powell. It’s an early tip-off that the movie is best taken as a tumble of unreliable memories, one in which basic narrative details are frequently unclear; the extreme over-reliance on stock footage is objectively a weakness, but one which embodies the often uncomprehending distance between people and the events that shape their lives. The main focus is on teenage Yehia, fixated against the odds on becoming an actor (his specific obsession with studying at the Pasadena Playhouse would seem weirdly arbitrary, absent the knowledge that Chahine himself studied there and is channeling his own life experience); the quest made all the more quixotic by Mohsen Mohieddin’s often wild overacting in the role; other plotlines include a wealthy uncle who abducts a drunken British soldier and then falls for him, a Jewish family that leaves for Palestine, and various bits of espionage and resistance. The storytelling is often extremely choppy, major demarcation points coming and going, characters and concerns popping in and out, ultimately all ending in rushed celebratory fashion as the family and its contacts works every angle to help Yehia fulfil his dream, excess sentiment held at bay by an utterly goofy final shot. In terms of the evolution of Chahine’s work, the film holds up less well than its immediate predecessor Return of the Prodigal Son, which exhibits many comparable weaknesses/oddities while attaining greater overall resonance, the memory of its astounding, bitter blood-spattered finale causing Alexandria…Why? to feel almost like doodling by comparison.

Bleak Moments (Mike Leigh, 1971)

 

Almost too aptly titled, Mike Leigh’s debut film Bleak Moments revolves around Sylvia, a thirty-something secretary in a small accounting firm who lives with her developmentally-challenged sister Hilda, being very slowly and ineffectually wooed by Peter, a teacher. Anne Raitt is fascinating as Sylvia, sometimes strikingly severe looking, as if about to step into a Gothic melodrama, probably overly reliant on cigarettes and sherry, but with ample hints of a playful inner life, a faint smile drifting across her face as she softly tweaks the conversation with comments that don’t quite find an audience (such as introducing herself as the President of Venezuela, or asking a visitor if he wants some nuts before admitting she doesn’t have any). The lives on display are all highly constrained: by their drab and cramped living and working spaces; by inescapable circumstances (Sylvia’s colleague and friend Pat joylessly cares for her bed-ridden mother); by hang-ups and anxieties (Peter seems to find every word a struggle, regurgitating things he read in books without conveying any deep engagement with them); by sexual naivete and inadequacy (there’s no sex in the film, but that’s the point). It frequently shudders with awkward silences: a date night between Peter and Sylvia, depicted in excruciating detail, moves from the most atmospherically challenged Chinese restaurant imaginable to a strangulated and somewhat poignant aftermath in Sylvia’s living room. But Leigh also allows glimpses of small beauty and possible transcendence: Sylvia and Hilda are both captivated by the tentative but sincere singing and guitar-playing of a man who rents their garage, and Pat is drawn to a faith-healing group, becoming convinced that Hilda might find a cure there. Sylvia vehemently opposes this fancifulness (it’s the most emotion she displays about anything) but the ending suggests she may be tacitly allowing Pat to take a shot, a concession more likely however to extinguish one of the film’s few shards of hope than to fulfil it.

Benedetta (Paul Verhoeven, 2021)

 

It’s not hard to see why Paul Verhoeven’s Benedetta was viewed in some quarters as blasphemous or insensitive or offensive; the director’s lusty approach to religious-themed material all but invites those judgments. But by the same token, its vividness and brashness, its embrace of the shocking and scandalous, gives it the feeling of playing for high stakes: in depicting a devout believer who nevertheless embraces transgression (particularly in matters of sexual pleasure), then it posits faith as something full and complex and, for all its deprivations, scintillating (in this respect at least, Bunuel sometimes comes to mind in watching the film). Set in the 17^th century, the film starts with Benedetta’s childhood admission to the convent: as a young adult, evidence of her potential saintliness accumulates, and she’s eventually named Mother Superior; one of the film’s delicious ambiguities is that while the Mother she displaces (Charlotte Rampling) is more correct in her behaviour and her devotion to the institution’s well-being, Benedetta (despite her highly reciprocated sexual desire for a novice nun) is the truer believer and more likely instrument of God’s will. The film is as propulsive and gripping as any of Verhoeven’s high-voltage Hollywood works, with action scenes of comparable impact (several of them built around visions of a very dynamic Jesus); the lead actress Virginie Efira is extraordinarily and fully present, not least in the very frank love-making scenes. The film’s intense physicality manifests itself in multiple ways: the deep-rooted fascination of stigmata (amplified here by unanswered questions about whether Benedetta’s bleeding wounds are self-inflicted, and even if they are, does that inherently reduce their God-given significance), a focus on bodily orifices and excretions, on the details of sexual pleasure, on the can’t-look-away horrors of the plague that threatens the surrounding country, all contributing to a startling overall viewing experience.

Aspen (Frederick Wiseman, 1991)

 

Frederick Wiseman’s 1991 Aspen differs from comparable studies like the Boston-set City Hall and Monrovia, Indiana in spending little time on the community apparatus: there’s nothing here of council meetings or ski resort management discussions, and the de rigueur aspects of the project (ski slopes, ski lifts, skiers) are dispensed with fairly cursorily. Instead, Wiseman’s emphasis is on spiritual questioning and searching, taking us into several extended discussions and lectures on such topics on reconciling oneself to divorce from a religious perspective, or on whether capitalism can be reconciled with religious teachings on justice (inevitably, the contributions to these discussions occasionally carry a note of anxious self-interest). Some of what we’re shown is unseemly or borderline absurd, such as a rather ridiculously mentored art class in an over-the-top house, or a plastic surgery presentation seeming to disproportionately focus on undesirable “ethnic” features; others, like a lively discussion of a Flaubert short story, are sincere and committed, if disproportionately populated by seemingly well-to-do retirees with ample time on their hands. In contrast, a fortieth wedding anniversary party held in an apparently much more low-budget and functional location reverberates with genuine human warmth and spontaneity, whereas a group of immigrants worries even about the availability of basic housing (and, again, about the relative advantages of having paler skin). The film’s final sequence, an eloquently conceived and delivered sermon about the building of religious community, provides a note of hope that these disparate outlooks and circumstances might somehow find common purpose (an optimism unfortunately not much borne out by subsequent decades). In a tiny concession to Aspen celebrity-spotting, the film includes a brief shot of CBS newsman Ed Bradley amid others in a local gym, and (I think) British newsman Jon Snow among those playing a cozy (and somewhat ribald) game of charades.

Baba Yaga (Corrado Farina, 1973)

 

Corrado Farina’s two best-known directorial works, They Have Changed their Face and Baba Yaga, both feature supernatural themes in a modern-day setting (vampires and witches respectively): a quirkier similarity is that they both contain pseudo-intellectual citations of Jean-Luc Godard and feature odd parodies of product commercials (for LSD and detergent respectively). The former is the more narratively robust work, its slow build-up of Nosferatu mythology taking a sudden swerve into sharp corporate satire, but Baba Yaga is, if nothing else, the more stimulating visual experience. The film’s most direct reference is Antonioni’s Blow-Up: another photographer (in this case a woman, Valentina, played by Isabelle de Funes) who hosts a succession of models in her home studio: the studio is an eye-candy marvel, from the zebra skin on the wall above the bed to the transparent telephone to the library-worthy stock of art books. Walking alone one night, Valentina encounters a strange older woman (Carroll Baker, with very few lines, which is probably just as well) who rapidly takes a close, sensuously-tinged interest in her, including giving the gift of a creepily-staring doll which may have the power to come to life and cause mayhem; it’s all somewhat hampered by brevity though, Valentina and her boyfriend extricating themselves in 80 minutes more easily than seemed likely, and without any very meaningful explanation or aftertaste. Still, it’s an arresting exercise in competing female willpowers, contrasting de Funes’ open, searching appearance against Baker’s Gothic witchiness, Valentina early on asserting her sexual self-determination, and thereafter fighting to retain the power of the look against a reality perpetually disrupted by fantastic visions (paralleled by how the film itself is regularly disrupted by series of still photographs or comic book frames, or in one instance by a sudden digression into gangster action, which turns out to be the aforementioned commercial shoot).

The Palace (Roman Polanski, 2023)

 

Roman Polanski’s The Palace is at once anarchic and exhausted, familiar-seeming while aggressively withholding much fulfilment, let alone closure: its relentless ugliness and complete absence of eroticism jarringly contrasts with What?, perhaps its closest cousin in Polanski’s oeuvre, but one in which its lead actress Sydne Rome was almost constantly completely or partially nude (as if to underline the point, Rome briefly shows up in The Palace too, far less strikingly). The film partially draws its ruined mood from being set on New Year’s Eve in 1999, with some characters believing the Y2K bug will strike and do its worst, others oblivious to it; the film reminds us that it was also the day of Boris Yeltsin’s resignation, providing clips of an impossibly benign-seeming Putin on his first day of succession. The film seems to suggest that the end of the world, or at least this corner of it, might be a proportionate response to humanity’s dreggy state: virtually every wealthy female face (and at least one male one) made grotesque by plastic surgery; one off-putting display of entitlement and obliviousness following another; rampant financial corruption; a degraded focus on petty whims and indulgences. But of course the end of the world fails to arrive, and the same goes for narrative closure: the film’s most intriguing structural element is its open-endedness, perhaps suggesting that one layer of idiocy will always be replaced by another, perhaps implicitly chiding the audience for even hoping to extract superficial clarity from such underlying wretchedness. Still, the point would probably have been better made by more sprightly writing and handling, for example with less focus on human and animal excrement, and with more energetic casting (for instance, the no-longer-funny John Cleese achieves little as an ancient Texan billionaire, although his performance gets more enjoyable once his character dies and starts getting lugged around in the manner of Weekend at Bernie’s).

Monrovia, Indiana (Frederick Wiseman, 2018)

 

Donald Trump is never mentioned in Frederick Wiseman’s Monrovia, Indiana – there’s barely any sign of politics at all – but one's sense of the film surely shifts with the knowledge that it’s located in a county where Trump won some 76% of the vote in both 2016 and 2024. The town appears to be no duller or uglier than the vast majority of small towns, and hence an embodiment of a certain kind of good place to live: the town council diligently works to balance growth and sustainability, spending extensive time on such matters as the placement of a new bench or the availability of fire hydrants; the grocery and liquor stores are well-stocked in the modern consumerist manner. And yet there are ample signs of an insularity that could easily become malleable. The community is startlingly homogenous (at least by modern urban standards), with only the slightest sprinkling of non-white faces; the town’s gun store may have a wider range of inventory than its restaurants have menu choices. The film observes a Masonic event at which a member receives a fifty-year pin, rendered inadvertently funny since no one seems capable of getting through the ornately prescribed wording and ceremony without stumbling; later, a preacher prompts a funeral gathering to sing Amazing Grace, which falls flat as he’s seemingly the only one who knows the words, at least to the second verse. These hollowly executed rituals don’t suggest much active questioning of parameters (in addition to the many who seem to have lived in or around the town forever, there are references to others who moved away and are now returning): the highest cultural activity on display is a school band rendition of the theme from The Simpsons - and yet those council meetings are intelligent and well-informed; the preacher’s sermon is articulate and even moving; whatever we might think of all that Trump support, the film doesn't suggest it would be based entirely in callousness or ignorance. As always, while Wiseman doesn't aspire to tell an entire story, the one he tells is satisfyingly complex and implication-heavy.

Deception (Arnaud Desplechin, 2021)

 

At least for most English-language viewers (those more familiar with the Hollywood convention of, say, a Napoleon filmed in English than with Fassbinder’s German-language Western) it may not be easy to orient oneself within Arnaud Desplechin’s adaptation of Philip Roth’s Deception: the film is set in London, depicting the relationship between a Jewish-American author called Philip Roth and a British woman, both played by French actors (Denis Podalydes and Lea Seydoux) in a film that feels entirely French despite the odd scene in the pub and suchlike. The effect could be somewhat distancing, if not for the vivacity of the performers, and for the many striking points of specificity and immediacy: a recurring preoccupation with Judaism and Israel, and also with Czechoslovakia, embodied both by the author’s cherished memories of past travels and by ongoing relationships in the present. The film’s “reveal” of sorts, not an unfamiliar one in an age of meta-reality concepts, is that Seydoux’s unnamed character may be imagined (at least that’s what the author tells his wife when she reads his notebook and reacts with outrage); the beauty of sorts is in how little it matters whether or not that’s true, how the purely imagined may be more truthful and piercing than the mundanely “fact-based.” For instance, early on in the film, the woman with her eyes closed is able to describe the studio in which they meet and have sex in improbably precise detail, which paradoxically bolsters the sense that it may be imagined; the final scene introduces further distance and displacement, intermingled with tenderness and delight. The film overall isn’t as transporting as Desplechin’s grander canvases, its energy level necessarily lower (notwithstanding various moments when Podalydes seems to be channelling the director’s signature actor, Mathieu Amalric) but it’s enjoyably elegant and fluid, engaging most intelligently with the challenges of adapting Roth.

The Vampire Happening (Freddie Francis, 1971)

 

At the start of The Vampire Happening, the Hollywood star “Betty Williams” flies to Transylvania, surrounded by passengers who are being titillated and shocked (in those pre personalized viewing days) by a screening of one of her own raunchy movies; she’s returning to reclaim her ancestral title of Baroness, notwithstanding that a previous holder of the title continues on in an undead state, the two soon criss-crossing paths as the area’s vampire population steadily grows. Blood isn’t the bodily fluid that most defines the movie’s tone though: it has sex on the brain to a rather endearing degree, deploying whatever might cross its path (desserts, tree branches, stick shifts) in the most suggestive way available, and taking particular pleasure in depicting the corruption of an adjacent Catholic seminary. The film has a few modern trappings (it culminates in a party where Count Dracula arrives in a helicopter, which one would like to take as a small tribute to Demy’s Donkey Skin, but presumably isn’t) but feels largely displaced, set in no plausible time or place; it often has the sense of setting out mainly to amuse itself. That’s bolstered by the bland yet tragic lead actress Pia Degermark, the last time she would star in a film, gamely taking on not one but two roles defined primarily by undressing and ever-changing wigs, but not in truth making a very lasting impression (she’s marginally more striking as the dead woman than the live one). And then, for further curio value, the film’s director is Freddie Francis, who according to IMDB has exactly the same amount of cinematographer and director credits (37 of each), the high-end double-Oscar sheen of the former barely seeming connected to the lurid genre-trolling of the latter. The Vampire Happening may not be his directorial highpoint, but it’s well-sustained on its own low-end, sheen-deficient terms.

The New York Ripper (Lucio Fulci, 1982)

 

Lucio Fulci’s The New York Ripper is an exercise in dualities, starting with the strange tension between the heavily stressed authenticity of its locations (especially enjoyable in the time capsule shots of the Times Square region, with marquee attractions ranging from Carbon Copy to Revenge of the Bushido Blade) and a gratingly dubbed soundtrack (interiors were filmed in Rome) consisting largely of curtly declamatory dialogue. The film constructs its narrative on a standard sicko killer premise (the weird casting of British stalwart Jack Hedley as an absurdly hard-bitten detective creates its own sense of displacement), while also seeming largely sympathetic to the spectrum of human desire, whether manifesting itself in middle-class thrill seeking or in obsessive porn accumulation; its graphic depictions of knifing and blood-spurting and maiming exploit human frailty and capacity for pain while denying the audience any protective distance, with the unseen killer’s weirdly duck-like speaking style all the more destabilizing for its absurdity. The film’s strangest and most productive tension may be between impulse and deliberation: the killings (for instance, inside a car parked inside a ferry during a crossing; in the back room of a sleazy sex club) look like the opportunistic outbursts of a madman, but are ultimately attributable to a poignantly damaged back story, to a wrecked psychology exercising its revenge on the world in a complexly mediated manner (inevitably, the ultimate explanation is overly rushed and not likely to address all the viewer’s questions); the sense of multi-layered threat borders on the Fritz Lang-ian. In a film preoccupied with looking, there’s a strangely ethical quality to Fulci’s cinema, his brutality feels almost scientific in its precision, and the film insists on the validity of female desire and self-determination (albeit of a submissive and/or doomed variety). Even so, the nastiness rapidly becomes draining, and the film isn’t exactly enjoyable, but it never feels easily dismissable.

Breakout (Tom Gries, 1975)

 

Within the first fifteen minutes of Tom Gries’ Breakout, we see Mexican authorities set up a murder and then swoop in to arrest American businessman Jay Wagner, who in what appears to be the sketchiest and most evidence-deficient trial of all time is convicted and sentenced to twenty-eight years in a Mexican prison; we rapidly learn that some unspecified aspect of Jay’s approach to business threatened the interests both of the company headed by his grandfather Harris and of the CIA, the old man collaborating in framing his grandson on condition that he be kept alive, however meagrely. The fact of Jay being played by Robert Duvall and his grandfather by John Huston might have lent this highly shaky set-up a patina of class and persuasiveness, but their presence in such low-grade, functional roles remains bewildering to the end. The primary focus is on pilot Nick Colton (Charles Bronson), engaged by Jay’s wife (Jill Ireland) to get her husband out; Bronson is genial and amused, at the centre of much easygoing banter and knockabout comedy, his portions of the movie in no way coalescing with the conspiracy-heavy framework. The film lacks much atmosphere or tension, with a highly sanitized portrait of the prison, its deprivations mainly conveyed through a sense of Wagner’s strength ebbing away (although in this case that’s hard to distinguish from actorly disinterest); the action scenes are crisply executed but hardly plausible, and the ending strangely fails to close the loop on the overriding narrative, lacking for example any confrontation between Wagner and the conniving old man. The film slightly departs from the usual Bronson-Ireland paradigm in firmly attaching her character to another man, but then can’t resist hinting at a mutual attraction between her and Colton; Ireland’s stiffness is far outshone though by Sheree North in the role of another team member, even if much of what she’s given to do and say is distinctly demeaning.

Oedipus Rex (Pier Paolo Pasolini, 1967)

 

Pasolini’s version of Oedipus Rex is as mesmerizing as any of his works, seeped in his extraordinary visual vitality: his people intensely and vividly present, all the more so for their lack of actorliness (even the film’s star presence, Silvana Mangano, is used primarily as a blankly impassive canvas), the settings and trappings tangibly present in all their dusty, sweating, crumbling, threadbare glory. The film’s boldest device places the historical recreation within a modern-day framework, underlining the story’s eternal urgency and ominousness, the relevance of its implication that societies built on myth-based idolatry will collapse into perversity and corruption, and also (in how the closing modern-day section emphasizes people going about their business, with even Oedipus’ guide distracted by kids playing soccer and the like) the near-impossibility of ensuring that such a message will reach the ears of those who need to hear it. For all the story’s reliance on coincidence and oracular revelation, Pasolini emphasizes rationality and investigation, spending no time on the reign of Oedipus the king, but patiently setting out the events and exchanges by which he learns the truth of his past, and how the prediction he took such steps to avoid – that of being destined to sleep with his mother and kill his father – ensnared him nevertheless (the long sequence in which Oedipus’s encounter with a party of travelers turns murderous indicates that Pasolini could have cut it as a director of action). But the film doesn’t particularly dwell on the incest: in this rendition the details of Oedipus’ fate are perhaps less impactful than the dawning sense that his self-determination was always illusionary, that his great choices and acts of courage were irrelevant to a predetermined entrapment that gradually reveals itself, Franco Citti’s Oedipus visibly straining to understand how this could all be, his ultimate self-imposed blindness an inevitable (if inadequate) response to a world far beyond his capacity to understand or to shape.

Skip Tracer (Zale Dalen, 1977)

 

The most abiding impression left by Zale Dalen’s 1977 Vancouver-set drama Skip Tracer is of basic cheerlessness – there’s perhaps not a single scene in the film when anyone seems to be experiencing any very deep or meaningful pleasure (even the scene set in a strip joint is about as drab as they get). The film focuses on John Collins, collector for what we take to be a predatory lending agency (the title fits a little oddly as the film doesn’t depict too much difficulty in tracking down his targets, and it seems his workload also encompasses taking loan applications); he’s won the company’s “man of the year” award three straight times and is gunning for a fourth, but there’s little sign that the relative success does much for him, as his vehicle and apartment are both fairly non-descript and there’s no sign of a meaningful personal life. In the somewhat over-conventional closing stretch, Collins is faced with brutal evidence of the human cost of his efforts and quits after a final act of rebellion; the details aren’t particularly convincing though, either in terms of his own moral awakening or those of the actions he takes (from today’s perspective, it’s poignant to note the relative modesty of the delinquent amounts for which lives are ruined). The film is at its best in depicting the deadening office culture, in which women are habitually called “sweetheart” and there’s never a vague suggestion they might fill anything more than support roles, and in which Collins one day finds that his coveted personal office has been taken away at the behest of the unseen “kids with business degrees” who seemingly treat the experienced (but not formally educated) likes of Collins merely as manipulable data points. And as in so many Canadian films of the period, one strongly senses that the malaise and drabness extends far beyond the film’s narrow parameters.

Out 1, noli me tangere (Jacques Rivette, 1971)

 

Jacques Rivette’s twelve-hour-plus Out 1, noli me tangere richly justifies the investment made in watching it (and that even goes for multiple viewings - I’ve completed it three times), even if it’s confoundingly difficult to summarize how that is. To make just a few random and inadequate points, the great length, and large blocks of time in which very little happens (nothing at all by conventional narrative measures) exists in tension with a sense of temporal fluidity and uncertainty: for example, the fact of so many characters wearing exactly the same clothes in scene after scene suggests a recurring state of stasis (while also constituting a kind of coding, and also channeling the recurring sense of limited economic resources); even more than usual, a cut from one scene to another in no way indicates here that the linked events are taking place simultaneously. The film follows two sets of characters working on classical texts, differing in their methods but neither seeming to approach a performance (the leader of one group, Thomas, mentions at one point that three days have gone by without really dealing with the material); the tightly focused nature of these projects contrasts (and intertwines) with two other characters preoccupied by hints of a mysterious group of thirteen that may or not actually exist, and if it does, may or may not be of much import (we eventually learn that the group did exist in a formative stage but is now dormant, its purpose never fully formulated, the fact of the investigation itself possibly inadvertently prompting it back to a kind of life), their efforts likewise carrying recurring aspects of play and performance (the film at various times references chess, solitaire, numerology, secret messages, dress-up and other forms of play). Likewise, while there’s no sex in the film as such, the rehearsals often crackle with erotic possibility (even from the very first shot); conversely, the few scenes that most seem to be heading toward carnal intimacy usually trail off into stilted, melancholy-tinged game-playing. There’s a constant sense of reinvention: a character wins a million francs and briefly speculates dizzily on what might change before the money is stolen, he and his friends then channeling their efforts into searching for the perpetrator, a project carrying, in an albeit limited way, a renewed sense of experimentation and improvisation (in these scenes, as in many others, we’re often aware of passers-by staring at the film-makers, which adds to the sense of vivid engagement with the possibilities of the immediate). Ultimately, the film confirms certain aspects of possible conspiracy while leaving others open (the prime mover “Pierre” is never seen or heard, although it’s tempting to think he’s in effect director Rivette, or an avatar or derivative thereof); it moves closer to intimations of the supernatural; it positions some characters for apparent fulfilment while leaving others dead or bereft, with a final shot reminding us of something we witnessed (much) earlier and which was never adequately explained, indicating that the end of the film, even one as long and stimulating and mind-altering as this one, is a merely contingent thing.