Mademoiselle Chambon

In Stéphane Brizé's restrained fourth film (which he's adapted from a 1996 Éric Holder novel) a tight-lipped mason named Jean (Vincent Lindon) in an unnamed provincial French town meets his little boy's schoolteacher, the Mademoiselle of the title (Sandrine Kiberlain) and his world subtly changes. He loves his wife Anne-Marie (Aure Atika), who works in a print shop, and little Jérémy (Arthur Le Houerou), but Mademoiselle (her name is Véronique, but Jean never gets beyond the formal "vous" with her) has a refinement, a delicacy. And she plays the violin -- classical music that Jean seems unfamiliar with but delighted by.

At first Mademoiselle asks Jean at the last minute to fill in and speak to her class (and his son's) about his work, an experience that also gives him great pleasure. Perhaps he enjoys indirectly telling this refined maiden lady who attracts him about his basic, satisfying work, building houses that are always different and will last, as one child asks, "for your whole life." Then when she asks help with a broken window at her flat, he takes a look and then insists on being the one to replace it. Then comes the music. He insists that she play; photos and the violin tell him of her former profession.

This film has only a hint of sex, and no raw physicality, but it works with the body, with silence, and with gesture. Throughout it shows Lindon acting the part by doing hard construction work on screen, breaking up paving with a pneumatic drill, mounting the window, laying bricks of a wall, and so on. He even walks like a skilled laborer. Anne-Marie is always ironing, cooking, shopping, making lists. Mademoiselle Chambon reads, rests, places her hand delicately on her neck. Jean tenderly washes the feet of his old father (charming veteran Jean-Marc Thibault).

Finally the teacher plays a recording of chamber music at her place for Jean and as they sit together listening they slowly hold hands, embrace, and cling together as if at home, but afraid to go further. This carefully paced sequence is one of the film's most effective. However many "make-out" scenes you may have seen, this one still feels fresh. Lindon is like a fine mason in his acting, slowly, patiently laying the bricks of gesture. A silence and a pause can speak volumes.

Both Véronique and Jean fight their attraction. And can it go anywhere? But it keeps growing, despite gestures in the opposite direction. Jean tells Mademoiselle that her CD's interest him even though he hasn't listened to them yet. She usually changes schools every year, but tells him, in a key scene, that she's been asked to fill in for someone and stay on. But instead of expressing enthusiasm, Jean blurts out that his wife is pregnant.

This is one anchor to the family: one child, and another coming. Another is Jean's father. Jean and Anne-Marie are planning a big birthday party for the old man at their house with family members coming from all over. Family matters. But Jean shows how far his feelings have gone in another direction -- even though we've seen only those restrained moments -- when he invites Mademoiselle Chambon to come and play the violin for his father. It's not certain that his wife has suspected anything, but she has noticed that Jean seems bored, indifferent, irritable. And she might suspect why now.

What follows is surprising -- agonizingly suspenseful -- and quite familiar. We've seen this kind of story before. We've seen these characters before. But we've rarely seen more delicacy than Bizé brings to his treatment of the story, which is haunting in a classic way without feeling in any way retro -- though perhaps the provincial setting was chosen to avoid that, to have events unfold in a place that's less aggressively modern and hip than Paris.

Lindon and Kiberlain are husband and wife, though now estranged, which may help explain the magnetic energy in their scenes together. There are plenty of lines here, but there's a distrust of language, together with a touching desire to use it properly. "I'd like to hear more tunes," Jean tells Véronique. "Is that right, to say 'tunes'?." At the outset, Jérémy poses a homework problem to his parents to find the "direct object" in a sentence and they haven't a clue, but patiently figure out what this means. Bizé is great with the children. Arthur Le Houerou as the son is unfailingly alive and natural; and his classmates are spontaneous and charming (though primed, as classes are) when they excitedly ask Jean about his work.

If there is a weakness to the film it's the danger that the differences of class and culture are pelled out a little too clearly. Lindon is a magnificent actor, but as a man with many illustrious relatives and one-time suitor of Princess Caroline of Monaco he is not exactly drawing on personal experience in playing a mason whose father was also a mason. Nonetheless he is for the most part utterly convincing. It's the film itself that plays on broad differences that a screenplay of 90 minutes duration cannot quite adequately delineate. Lindon has a harried, careworn, but solid quality that fits a working man in need of reawakening. Kiberlain seems held inward, decent but tragically needy. You wouldn't know that she's been around the block with the actual Lindon and had a child by him; she could be this uptight maiden lady on the brink of lifelong spinsterhood. There's a sadness about her, a sweet sadness.

Opened in mid-October 2009 in Paris, this film is part of the Rendez-Vous with French Cinema at Lincoln Center for 2010. What a contrast with the mad body-presses and adulterous whirlwind of another film in the series, Cédric Kahn's Regret. When it comes to the varieties of love, the French have the bases covered.

The Twilight series specializes in teen longing, hours of vampires, were-wolves, and civilians longing for each other without much in the way of sex. That is dull viewing. But the French seem to get matters of the heart right, as in the full length film about longing, Mademoiselle Chambon.

Jean (Vincent Lindon) is a builder with an adorable boy and loving wife. Figuratively he has built a satisfying life, yet the opening shot is of tearing down, specifically a floor but contextually his life. Into this life comes his son's attractive teacher, Veronique Chambon, all violin playing and the sweetest disposition this side of the Virgin Mary. When he fixes her window, he also begins building a relationship hanging around the edges of adultery.

The longing comes from multiple shots with no dialogue, typically European, and specifically French, because there is an artistic joy in the languid shots. The actors express their sweet frustration with small movements of their eyes and mouths, and the camera stays with them for many seconds longer than the longest American takes.

The climax comes when Jean's pregnant wife sees Veronique play violin at his father's birthday and sees Jean's very sympathetic response. The final act has the most action, and that's not much, and not necessarily what you expected. However, it's done with the greatest subtlety as the tortured Jean makes his choices and the patient Veronique sheds just a few tears, but meaningful ones, so underplayed is her part.

It's all quiet and slow, just like most of our lives. Director Stephane Brize's love of this love affair and gentle Jean's attachment to his family is apparent from the opening sequence with the family figuring out what a "direct object" is to the low-key final trip to the train station.

Like Citizen Kane's Bernstein longing for the girl with the parasol, Jean will probably never be the same having experienced the tyranny of lyrical love, adulterous or not: Mademoiselle Chambon.

This movie is deliciously silent, bursting with tension at every take. Against the backdrop of parochial France, two apparently incongruous beings find respite in each other in spite of an excruciating difficulty: schoolteacher v parent. Amidst the trial and tribulations, however, two souls delight in a certain serenity, calling into question our feelings about relationships which cross boundaries.

The father of a primary school boy meets and warms to his son's teacher, Mademoiselle Chambon. She is delicate, warm but uncertain of her future. A tender, insightful look into the nature of human relations.

I am not a romance films lover. I prefer brutal, thrilled and action movies; not for the squeamish. But this one, totally different, is a masterpiece for me. A real monument of fineness, sensibility and emotion. Kiberlain and Lindon were, not so long ago, a couple in real life. That explains everything on the screen. Some sequences are outsanding.

When shy Lindon asks shy Kiberlain to play a disc of HER music, and when they listen to it, side by side, I felt warmth under my skin. An unforgettable moment. Pure emotion. At one hundred per cent.

And the sequence at Lindon's father's anniversary, when Kiberlain plays violin, her eyes closed, plunged into her music, her world, her soul. At this moment, Lindon's wife stares at her husband's face, and Kiberlain's one. And she understands. Everything. But keeps this for her.

I won't spoil the end of this real gem. But, believe me, all long this story, I felt my eyes wet.

This is a simple story on kind people: Jean tries his best to live his life as a good person. When he describes his mason's job, we understand he likes it deeply and is quietly proud of it. His simplicity moves the teacher and the watchers. She invites him to see a problematic window in her flat. This change of window is like a symbol of what will be happening to them: Jean asks her to play the violin for him, and music will bring him elsewhere, beyond his today's limits -the classical music itself plays an important part, Jean is deeply moved by this discovery too, not only because she is playing the music herself-. This moment is for me a pure beauty. On her side, she is also brought to a new area in her life where there is someone who loves when she plays music, who is eager to learn and to open himself, someone who cares about others and about her: this is building confidence in her and adds a new depth in her interest in people and in life, although we understand there will be pain for both of them!No one wants to hurt any one around! The choice will have to be done and these good people will prefer being hurt themselves than their beloved around. When Jean asks her to accept and play the violin for his father' birthday party, he is so straightforward, so daring for a simple -nearly shy- person, that it seems clear he has reached also a new confidence, he has gone behind the window. We also think about what is exactly loving someone: Jean' wife understands so simply it means letting the other one be happy, grow and develop himself without trying to pressure him and use guilt. She is also building a new confidence in her husband and thus in life... This moment has been a very fulfilling for me: thank you Monsieur Brize!