Pas sur la bouche

Alain Resnais, darling of the avant garde, continues his journey back to the mainstream and, let's face it, BEYOND the mainstream, with this lush photography of even lusher decors and costumes by Vanity Fair out of Vogue. Nothing wrong with that, of course, if you can get past the hypocrisy. Here we have, set in the twenties, that old standby the second husband who has to cut a deal with his wife's ex, a sister-in-law and two ingenues thrown in for good measure with everyone breaking into song at the drop of a lorgnette. Pierre Arditi does suave as if he invented it and whether by design or accident contrives to sound like Charles Boyer on medication;Mrs. Resnais, Sabine Azema does style as effortlessly as Astaire and Audrey Tatou has cornered the current market in gorgeous. This should be enough to either encourage or deter you. 6/10

Resnais, wow! The genius who brought us Hiroshima Mon Amour takes on the challenge of making a 1930s French musical in vibrant colour. The opening voice-over with old, embellished inter-titles was a nice touch. Then the camera aperture opens (like the old hand crankers) on a black & white placard. The camera backs off (or rather, up), suddenly showing us the surprisingly brilliant colours of an elegant table set for a tea party. This is all in the first 60 seconds.

Then the music starts. A rather banal and forgettable diddy featuring an unconvincing chorus of 3 girls blabbering some nonsense which has no relevance to the film (and yes, I speak French, so I can't blame it on the subtitles). Those characters whiz out the door and are replaced by more people who break into an even more forgettable song. Then they leave, and finally Audrey Tautou appears and we hear our first appreciable dialogue 15 minutes into the film.

I'm not sure what Resnais intended by starting off with such a yawning waste of time & musical cacophony. But the effect on the viewer is to make you want to hurl skittles at the screen and storm out. I endured.

It didn't get much better. I'll tell you why. There is absolutely no familiarity with any of the characters. We don't even see their faces half the time (as Resnais seems too intent on showing off the expensive scenery to care about the actual people in front of the camera). People flit on & off stage like moths around a lamp, and we the audience are unable to focus on any particular person or plot. It's as if you were to take every episode of the Brady Bunch and cram it into a 2 hour movie. With bad songs.

The only thing that kept me watching as long as I did (1 hour) was that I was looking at the camera techniques, lighting and scenery which were all, I admit, excellent. But is that enough to hold your attention for 2 hours? Not me. Maybe tomorrow I'll try watching the end. Aw, who am I kidding. I have more important things to do. I'm sure you do, too. Skip this.

Alain Resnais was extremely comfortable with opulence in 'Last Year at Marienbad', and Alain Robbe-Grillet felt right at home in this, with his serialized writing. I hadn't thought that much about this taste for luxury till I saw his 2003 film of Andre Barde's 1925 operetta, 'Pas Sur la Bouche.'

This is easily one of the lightest, most exquisite filmed musicals ever made, and quite as unexpected a thing as possible in this age. There are some modern aspects: the luxury is greater luxury than in the past, but does not ever seem like gluttony; it is not like an exhibition of 100 Burne-Jones paintings, for example, which was about the number in a 1999 exhibition at the Metropolitan Museum here--and that many at once makes one fairly sick.

All of the songs are charming, and even the one ugly one is (but only because it is only one; it is truly unpleasant to the ear and could have been styled better even with such meager material): this is the song that Eric Thomson (played by Lambert Wilson) sings with Arlette (Isabelle Nanty) when he is discovered to be doing business with George Valandray (Pierre Arditi) as well as being Valandray's wife Gilberte's (Sabine Azema) first husband (their American-produced marriage was not recognized upon her return to France, although her reasons for dissatisfaction with him are not made entirely clear). Thomson's French seems to have disappeared and he keeps responding to Arlette with "Whaddya say?" and "Whaddya know?" and this is irritating and does not even particularly form a purposeful dissonance with the rest of the graceful and casually elegant Parisian-style music. However, it is followed quickly by a group song when everyone is about to sit down to a "simple meal," which looks rather more as if composed by Escoffier or Pelleprat, and, very campily, Thomson's French reappears as if by magic as he joins all the French people in their tuneful paean to the repast they will consume (in silence, one wishes, but cannot hope for.) This "magical device" is subtle enough to be a considerable improvement over the "spontaneous" bursting into song by the wedding party at "I Say a Little Prayer for You" in 'My Best Friend's Wedding.'

The luscious orchestrations of the songs remind one of the Marguerite Monnot-Alexandre Breffort score for 'Irma La Douce'--as in "Dis-donc," and decades of this kind of sound at the Casino de Paris, at the Folies Bergere.

There is a lot of red, many plummy reds, in the lavish sets, but it is not discordant. One does notice that the film is almost entirely set in interiors, and the courtyard of witchlike (and sublimely hilarious) Mme. Foin (Darry Cowl) is about the only contact with a little remembrance of sky one sees; but this is usual for sex farce.

Everyone is involved with everyone, and it's so silly that only in the viewing does it have life; in the retelling it doesn't have a grain of substance, so I am not going to bother. The players are uniformly characterful and theatrical, and Sabine Azema is superlatively middle-aged-sexy and spirited, while Jalil Lespert has the biggest Frenchest face since Maurice Chevalier: He's truly a major talent. Audrey Tautou seems to be imitating Twiggy in 'the Boyfriend' sometimes, which is cool enough.

In my opinion, I didn't know that this was a musical comedy. The French make the best films around with character driven story lines. This film has a first rate cast but I didn't care for Lambert Wilson's performance as the American, Eric Thomson. I did love Isabelle Nanty as Arlette, the old maid. She was perfect and memorable. Arlette's sister, Gilberte, has a problem. She has three men in her life including her unsuspecting second husband who thinks he's her first, her first American husband, Eric Thomson, who comes to Paris on business, and a young male artist/teacher Charly who prefers older women. The film is first rate in art direction, costumes, music, casting, and writing. I felt Lambert Wilson was out of place and out of tune as the American. But still, this film has memorable characters and can cheer you right up.

Alain Resnais, like a lot of brilliant people, can be interesting even when he's not very entertaining. But in Not on the Lips, he's not even really that interesting.

I liked the way the movie began, with the cute credits and the opening shot with the women singing. At that point I had high hopes. As the empty-headed characters chattered, I thought perhaps this was an Oscar- Wilde/Noel Coward sort of thing that would mock the upper classes.

But as I watched further, I began to feel that instead, this was just a rather tedious trifle that has nothing to say. So I looked it up on wikipedia, which says it's an old operetta and that Resnais purposely made it as originally intended. Apparently that chatter was supposed to be interesting.

I rather liked the music, although it's disconcerting when the subtitles don't bother to rhyme (sometimes they do, sometimes not). It's got a nice look to it. But about a third of the way through I just couldn't see how I could stand anymore of this superficial claptrap, and I stopped watching.