Documenteur

"Me, that's all I see - faces. They seem real, more real than what's conveyed by words."

"The ocean washes from the sand the footprints of parted lovers."

"This pain can't last. I'll wake up soon and then, like before, I'll do all those things, and it will simply be my life. Simply my life."

"Now I don't need to live with him anymore. He knows, wherever he is, that I'm crazy about him. I love him. Wherever he is, I'm crazy about him."

"Desire, you brought me to the shores of rapture. I drift away. I want the shore."

"I like it when we're sad, and then we say we'll go outside and dance. Don't you?"

...

There is such a loving look at humanity in all of the simple downtrodden faces we see here, as well as in the relationship between this newly divorced mom and her son, that it melted my heart. Despite the film's simplicity, or perhaps because of it, Agnès Varda had me in the palm of her hand from beginning to end. Her gentle wordplay in the narration managed to touch on the simple aspects of the human condition that we don't often think about, and her imagery of common life and the ocean's waves continuing to roll in unperturbed by it all felt profound. The intense ache of separation from a loved one is rendered hauntingly, and yet with incredible restraint. Meanwhile, Sabine Mamou is fantastic as the mother, and if you have any doubt about that, just watch the emotions on her face when she tells a friend of her breakup over the phone. I loved the little bits from 'Mur Mur' and the female perspective of the memories of sex as well. Just a wonderful, touching little film, and a snapshot of an emotional time for both Varda and her character.

Out of the few films that I've seen from the iconic French New Wave director Agnes Varda, "Documenteur" is probably the one that I found to be her greatest accomplishment. There's something about it's strange, cold atmosphere that really stuck with me, and the film is so well made that I'm surprised how little people ever discuss it. If it were a bit more popular, I bet "Documenteur" would be analyzed countless times and get as much praise as more well known Varda films (like "Cleo from 5 to 7")

The film mixes a realistic documentary-like style with a strange, borderline surreal atmosphere, creating a bizarre and experimental treat that made me feel oddly moved and, in one way or the other, kind of uncomfortable. It basically tells the story of a woman and her son living in Los Angeles, and that's really it. But it is made in such a way that it feels like its actually something much more than that. It is a film that is about emotions as much as it is about a mother son relationship.

It's also very well made, from the lovely camera movements, various experimental editing techniques, and brilliant use of voice-over, it truly is a mystical experience.

This has to be one of the most underrated film in the history of cinema and for sure among the best films to come out of the 80s.

Documenteur starts where Agnès Varda's Mur Murs ends, but they have very little in common and do not need to be seen together.

Mur Murs is all about the external life of people. What we put on the outside of your walls. Documenteur is about our internal life, what we hide.

The title may suggest that it is a documentary but it is not. It is filmed in a documentary style, very much like Abbas Kiarostami did in his Koker trilogy. It is also inspired by her own life and Agnès Varda even uses her own son and her own editor (Sabine Mamou) to play the roles of Varda's assistance (but in reality both are a stand in for Agnès Varda and her own son). In one scene Sabine Mamou reads the narration for Mur Murs and when it is played back, we hear the voice of Varda. Sabine Mamou asks if this is really her voice and is told that we usually don't recognize our own voice. Agnès Varda was making a film about her own life but did not realize before much later that she had made a self biographic film. She did not recognize her own voice. Art imitates life.

This is a hauntingly beautiful film. Poetic, ambivalent, melancholic and meditative. It takes place in LA and a lot of the shots are at the shore. The west was a symbol of hope. But what happens when you can't go any farther west? When you are at the shore and you have lost hope, you are full of desires you can't fulfill, your life is fleeting way and you feel like you are drifting farther and farther from where you want to be.

There is almost no story here. The film focuses on emotions, a state of mind. If you like atmospheric and poetic films then this masterpiece is your cup of tea. Watch it and spread the good news. This film needs to be seen!

Varda continues to travel with just a camera, content to film with no larger narrative in mind other than to approach things, here motherhood, breakup, loneliness. She's in LA here, I was initially keen for just that aspect; how would she see that place of dreams?

In a previous entry, Daguerrotypes, it was the senile old wife of a Parisian perfume maker that captured her the most, looking achingly lost in the small shop as she sat by the door, not fully there anymore, like time was blowing through her from an open window somewhere. What life here?

It's the same lostness she returns to. A mother alone with her son in LA, after breaking up with the father, wanders and ruminates. What it says about Varda's marriage to Demy is a guess, but it matters I think that she presents on screen a grieving woman alone with her son.

It's Varda's own son actually, the French woman a surrogate for Varda, a way for her to have a body in the stream of images.

We can glean more about the 'real' Varda in other ways, I'm more interested in perceptions and how they give rise to self. It's telling for me here that she gives to herself the role of a typist, typing and retyping pages before a beach, a favorite place for her. Varda could have plainly chosen to portray her as anything, she chose a job where words, expression, have been reduced to a mechanical task without meaning.

In the beginning she ruminates on the meaninglessness of words, how words and images lose meaning, faces look strange, when you're shut out from the life that gives everything its place. Meaning is use linguists would say. It's itself the attitude to find meaning I would add, how you place yourself in things.

It gives an overwhelming sense of melancholy in the end, which is how Varda places herself here, fecund absence, waiting without reproach. Her friend Chris Marker, it reminds of him in spirit, but he also finds bemusement in many small things. She's shut in her own self here, it was probably a time for it. It strikes a simple note. Oh but she's so adept with echo, I've carried it with me for two days now.

This is Varda staring out from that window that time blows through. I'm setting my eyes ahead to a time when she has left this room.

I see where the reviews below are almost equally divided between Varda lovers and haters. So let me perversely fall somewhere in the middle with perhaps a slight predilection toward the adoration side of the spectrum.

God knows the haters' case is easy to make. Exhibit A is the bad acting from the subsidiary members of the cast. I mean the gal who plays the waitress friend of the mom and the guy who plays her ex are so stiff and without nuance in their line deliveries it is almost as if Varda directed them to be crappy. And exhibit B is that pseudo profound narration by the mom which Varda wisely soft peddles about halfway through, as if she realizes it's boring as hell to listen to.

But, hey, I lived in pre gentrified Venice at about the time this thing was made and it really took me back, so I'm pre disposed to like it. And as lousy as the co stars were the two leads, played by Varda's kid Matthieu Demy and especially Sabine Mamou, were excellent. And finally, and most importantly, I was taken by the film's understated, but stronger for that, message of indomitability in the face of adversity. Quite a stark contrast with the working single mom protagionist of "Jeanne Dielman", directed by the current darling of the avant garde, Chantal Akerman, whose instinct, first last and always, is to give up.

Give it a B minus.