(France,
111 min.)
Dir. Gilles
Bourdos, Writ. Gilles Bourdos, Michel Spinosa, Jérôme Tonnerre.
Starring:
Michel Bouquet, Christa Theret, Vincent Rottiers.
They say that beauty is all in the eye of the beholder. It’s
a tricky assessment. Prone to subjective guidelines and convenient
rationalizations, declaring something beautiful inevitable shapes how another
onlooker might assess it in in turn.
The same adage could go for the Academy’s kooky process for selecting contenders in the category of Best Foreign Language Film. Each nation is faced with the difficult task of declaring which one film from their country’s output might seem the most beautiful to American voters. It’s a tricky and inevitably flawed process. Just look at Renoir, France’s surprising (if not bizarre) selection to represent the country in the 2013 Oscar race. Renoir isn’t a bad film by any means, but it is comparatively less beautiful than are some of the films France could have sent instead. (It’s no In the House or, from the sound of it, Blue is the Warmest Colour, which might simply have to wait until next year due to restrictive release dates.) Renoir nevertheless provides a fleeting sense of beauty, so one can see what makes it an appealing choice to the film gurus of France.
Gilles Bourdos’ Renoir
is a lot like a beautiful painting. Saying a film is like a painting is,
admittedly, a backhanded compliment if there ever was one. Renoir is a beautiful feat of composition, but it’s a flat canvas
without much life to it.
The lighting and cinematography of Renoir is stunningly gorgeous. A savvy art dealer could easily take
a hi-res screenshot of virtually any frame of the film, mount it on a matte,
and hang it in a gallery. The colours of Renoir
have a painterly grasp for colour, texture, and hue. Bourdos and cinematographer
Mark Ping Bing Lee display a masterful hand at capturing subjects in artful baths
of natural light. Renoir would be proud.
A film needs a lot more than eye-catching compositions,
though, to bring a film to life. Renoir
is a safe and respectful snapshot of its subject’s engagement with his art, but
the film doesn’t really have much of a point. Renoir misfires into the My
Week with Marilyn territory of missed opportunities as an intriguing subject
becomes muddled—and reduced—to a fleeting love affair.
The film chronicles the relationship between Pierre-August
Renoir, played by a serviceable Michel Bouquet, and his model Andrée, played by
an attractive Christa Theret, as they work together on a series of nudes in the
romantically picturesque Côte d’Azur. Renoir and Andrée muse a little about art
and life as the painter renders his model’s ample breasts with fine strokes of
his brush. A little—and only a little—of Renoir’s philosophy arises as he
creates some of his masterful paintings. One stirring debate sees the painter
argue with his subject that the only true work one can create must be done with
the hands. Andrée, an actress, counters that art exists in the ephemeral,
intangible moment in which a work or performance connects with a viewer. It’s
all in the eye of the beholder, Andrée might say as Renoir uses her as a muse
for lushly and ethereal, yet physical art.
It’s in moments like this that Renoir has the workings for a masterpiece. There’s a good debate
about the foundations of art between creator, subject, and spectator, and it’s
all dramatized in an aesthetic nod to Renoir’s great work. Little else lives up
to this fleeting moment, however, save for a few scenes of Renoir painting amongst
nature, which grow tiresome rather quickly.
Good art becomes little more than a backdrop for a little
love story, though, as Renoir takes
Andrée from being the muse of Renoir and makes her the object of affection for
another. Andrée piques the interest of Renoir’s son, Jean (Vincent Rottiers),
who grew up to become the acclaimed director of films such as The Rules of the Game. Film buffs eager
to learn about Jean Renoir’s period of blossoming love and inspiration with Andrée,
who became his eventual wife and onscreen muse under the name Catherine
Hessling, might be disappointed. Renoir
offers less insight into the son than it does into the father. They’re both
consumed with passion for the girl with the great breasts, but the tension
offers little more than a slight Oedipal complex as the final muse of one
artist becomes the first of another.
Perhaps the real problem with Renoir—other than its wildly unfocused plot—is that it does little
with its central muse besides asking her to strip and pose in heavenly light. Renoir rarely depicts Andrée as more
than an objet d’art. The only time
she gets to voice her own wants and desires, Andrée comes off as a hysterical,
plate-smashing ninny. Renoir
ultimately leaves the audience with a story about an objectified woman, a dirty
old man, and a jealous son. Film buffs and art aficionados in search of a great
tale about our relation with art might best rent Olivier Assayas’s Summer Hours, which also boasts some magnificent
painterly composition with natural light. (The Renoirs might prefer that film,
especially on Criterion.)
Renoir looks like
a work of art, but it’s fairly artless. As a flat and dramatic, if sumptuously
conveyed, film, Renoir leaves it up
to the viewer to discern the beauty. Watching the film is like observing a
canvas in a museum and mulling over the impressionistic colours. One doesn’t
need to stare at a painting for one-hundred and eleven minutes, though, to find
its beauty. Renoir, on the other
hand, leaves one digging for beauty after its nearly two-hour running time is
over. Renoir pays tribute to two
great artists with a work that’s only art-ish.
Rating: ★★★ (out of ★★★★★)
Rating: ★★★ (out of ★★★★★)
Renoir is currently available on home video.
