In
Amour, Austrian filmmaker Michael
Haneke points his characteristic brilliant formal tact and penchant for thematic
brutality and unemotional candor to the last days of an octogenarian couple. A paean
to love, loss, illness, and decline, the film, without a trace of uplift or
warm humanism, is as much about life as the as it is about the stark, inexorable
truth of death. The movie is unsentimental, unconsoling, unflinchingly serious,
and superbly crafted, and, for the first time in his career (The White Ribbon, Funny Games), Haneke manages to turn his chilly pessimism, intellectual
grimness and detachment into something resembling empathy, tenderness, and
compassion.
The
opening credits roll over ascetic silence, and almost immediately we see the
dead body of a woman lying on a bed, surrounded by wilted flowers. Life and
beauty have faded, and throughout the film we see them diminish, wither away, and
finally disappear. This kind of cold realism can hit close to home, reminding us
of our grandparents, parents, even ourselves.
The
woman is—or was—Anne Laurent (the frighteningly fantastic Emanuelle Riva), who,
as the movie leaps back in time, lives in comfortable domestic intimacy and
peace in an upper middle-class Parisian apartment with her husband Georges
(Jean-Louis Trintignant). They are both retired music teachers, and the
refined, restrained elegance of their lives is reflected through Haneke’s
understated, austere style and cinematographer Darius Khondji’s low-key
lighting.
Early
into the film, they go to a concert of one of her former students, young pianist
Alexandre Tharaud (playing himself). This marks the only time they will leave
their home in the two hours’ running time. The long corridors and
high-ceilinged rooms, the physical representation of their confinement, will
become as familiar to us as the faces of the actors.
As
they return home from the recital, the sense of order created through Haneke’s
meticulous compositions and steady framing is breached when they find the lock
on their front door has been broken by a would-be burglar—a theme of intrusion
that will haunt the film, as unexpected guests, nurses, and even their daughter
seem to invade their self-contained universe.
That
night Anne sits up awake in bed, and at the breakfast table the next morning she
temporarily falls silent and freezes, staring but unseeing, unaware of anything
around her even as a worried Georges tries to bring her back. In a few moments,
Anne returns to normal and seems to have no recollection of the episode. She
goes to pour herself some tea and misses the cup. This is the first symptom in
a series of strokes that mark her last painful months. We, like Georges,
helplessly witness her demise, and Riva (nominated for an Academy Award she
should have won) changes before our eyes, her features hardening into a mask of
grief and suffering as her mind softens into the painlessness of senility.
“All this is a bit new,” Georges tells their well-meaning
but self-absorbed daughter, Eva (Isabelle Huppert). “It’s all terribly
exciting,” he says in deadpan monotone. The middle-aged woman is more concerned
with what she thinks her father should be doing then what he is and the pain
and heartbreak that comes along with it. She offers to help, but doesn’t sound
like she means it. “We’ve always coped, your mother and I,” he reassures her
and himself.
All
the glamor is stripped away from these giants of French cinema until they are
almost unrecognizable. Their natural, nuanced performances are what make the
movie worth watching through the pain and sadness. “C’est long, une vie,” Anne
says in a rare moment of clarity while looking through their photo album, and
we understand they’ve had a full, rich life together.
True
love is not equated with any grand romantic gesture. It’s a lifelong struggle
(as the pigeon that keeps flying into their apartment will attest); it’s changing
diapers, spoon-feeding, listening to wordless mumbles and howls day and night,
and taking unthinkable actions of almost spiritual sacrifice. If that sounds
difficult to watch, believe me, it is, but Amour
is a piece of high art that, like all of the director’s works, requires effort.
One
of the opening shots is from the point of view of a stage, regarding the
appreciative audience at the passionate piano recital. There is life and beauty
in this image, the auditorium full and animated, meant to mirror the movie
audience. In the theater I saw Amour,
the grand sum total of audience members—other than myself and the man I was
with—was a staggering one, a man perhaps a few years younger than Georges. I
understand, of course, why the film’s subject is not exactly box office hit
material, and it is about as far as one could come from a crowd-pleaser or
feel-good movie, but there is something so desperately touching in it besides
the impeccable craftsmanship, that I can’t but be sad that people are not willing
to put a bit of emotional effort in.
Haneke
aims his insistent, loving, yet level gaze at the indignities and quiet
desperation of growing old and dying and creates a movie filled with simplicity
and feeling. It is almost too painful to bear, but not quite. Amour is beautiful, terrifying, moving, and
confusing; it’s the closest the filmmaker has ever come to trafficking in the
sentiment of the title.
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