Murphy is an American living in Paris who enters a highly sexually and emotionally charged relationship with the unstable Electra. Unaware of the effect it will have on their relationship, they invite their pretty neighbor into their bed.
Gaspar Noé is not exactly known for directing conventional, audience-friendly films. Anyone even remotely aware of the provocateur’s oeuvre will know better than to expect pleasant, life-affirming experiences. There are no happy endings in Noé’s raw, shockingly controversial stories. In fact, “Irreversible” twisted the entire concept of a “happy ending” by beginning with a brutal conclusion to a couple’s journey, and then going backward in time to a cheerful opening scene. He likes to make Statements.
Whether I personally respond to that in-your-face, brutal approach to filmmaking, I still can’t say. I do know that “Irreversible”’s utter hopelessness and its horrid images will remain in my head forever (which is quite a feat, considering how desensitized I’ve become to graphic film violence over the years). Yet I also remember being infuriated at having my emotions manipulated so blatantly. Noé couldn’t care less about subtlety (want to see someone’s head bashed in with a fire hydrant? you got it!) – and yet I admire his fearlessness, and he certainly gets his points across.
Point being, don’t expect “Love” to be reminiscent of Claude Lelouch’s understated study of infatuation, the Oscar-winning “A Man and a Woman.” One of the film’s (admittedly attention-grabbing) posters displays a close-up of a penis, with a female hand cupped over it. It’s in 3-D, to further immerse you into an over-two-hour-long experience. I’m surprised the theater seats didn’t vibrate.
Mr. Noé’s latest ego-trip starts with a two-and-a-half-minute static shot of a couple stroking each other to what I assume is a simultaneous orgasm. The story then unfolds through the eyes of Murphy (Karl Glusman), a young American filmmaker living in Paris who wants to shoot a film “depicting sentimental sexuality.” He lives, out of obligation, with his child and Omi (Klara Kristin), whom he loathes (“living with this woman is like living with the CIA”). We hear Murphy’s thoughts, as he delves into depression upon discovering that his ex-lover, Electra (Aomi Muyock), is missing.
Noé, in typical fashion, throws chronology out the window. The film cuts between Murphy’s present despondent state and the backstory of his and Electra’s love affair. We are transported back in time to Murphy and Electra inviting Omi over for a threesome. (“I fucking love Europe,” Murphy comments, in one of the director’s many attempts at “stabs” at the United States’ general ignorance.) It’s to fulfill their “ultimate fantasy, sex-wise,” you see.
And fulfill they do. You want to see some graphic porn? The film is punctuated by frequent sequences of explicit sex, including an orgy, a somewhat-offensive part involving a transgender character, and The Money Shot: a penis ejaculating, straight into the audience, in glorious 3-D.
Some of it is titillating; most makes one wonder why a visual artist like Noé shot it so… banally. That’s not to say his cinematographer, Benoît Debie, did a bad job – au contraire, his stunning shot compositions are one of the film’s saving graces. It’s that Noé, for the most part, makes sex seem mundane, instead of passionate, sweaty, both awkward and magical – not something I expected from the guy who ventured into a vagina in “Enter the Void.”
Murphy and Electra’s relationship is then explored from its origins, the story predominantly confined to their apartments and a few clubs, where they screw, do drugs, have long pseudo-existential conversations, and experiment with infidelity. There is one all-too-brief ayahuasca sequence (during which I prepped up, ready for the director to go nuts) – but alas, the visual flairs are over within minutes, and then it’s back to close-ups of genitals and expressionless faces.
Which leads me to the acting. It would be generous to call the trio’s performances “adequate.” They are natural during the graphic sex scenes, which is commendable – and also about the only positive thing one could say about their work in “Love.” I hesitate to put all the blame on them, since all they’re essentially asked to do is, pardon my French, fuck, in-between delivering lines such as: “Open the door, you selfish cunt!”; “I’m just a dick. A dick has no brain.”; “Hey, what’s the meaning of life?”; “Life is what you make of it. Like a dream.” The script and the acting really bring Gaspar’s already-problematic film down, hard.
The stylistic flourishes barely save the film: frequent black flashes, massive screen credits, a haunting soundtrack, Debie’s mastery with the camera… That said, “Love”’s pretentiousness becomes that much more apparent against the inept line readings. At one point, Murphy and Electra even contemplate calling their baby Gaspar, and Electra’s ex-boyfriend’s name is Noé – if that’s not the epitome of self-admiration – or, more fittingly, mental masturbation – I don’t know what is.
Unless, of course, Gaspar is messing with us. It’s difficult to figure out if he’s making one of his statements, or whether the film’s title is satirical, or if Noé’s just playing an elaborate prank on his audience, a-la Michael Haneke with “Funny Games.” The film really doesn’t amount to much more than a semi-soulful, beautifully-shot-and-scored wet dream.
For a great psycho-sexual study, check out Bernardo Bertolucci’s “The Dreamers.” This film also has an American coming to France, to consequently engage in a tumultuous sexual exploration – but Bertolucci’s film is savvily juxtaposed against the revolution of the 1960s; it’s a nostalgic look at a rebellious, adventurous (both sexually and politically) youth; it has more of a purpose, anchored by a trio of great performances. Gaspar Noé’s film is an act of feckless provocation, a feeble attempt to trace the stages of love through the singular prism of sex. File it in the “Amateur” category.
In select theaters today including the Angelika Film Center in Dallas
[…] Gaspar Noé, recently attempted to approach this level of realism in “Love” (read my review here) but failed at it; perhaps the French director can take cues from his South Korean compadre. The […]