Cars may have once been proud emblems of modern industry and progress a hundred years ago, and yet Jean-Luc Godard proves them to be nothing more than pathetically inept status symbols in the absurd odyssey of Weekend, whisking us through bizarre, dystopian landscapes that take down France’s materialistic bourgeoisie with deconstructive post-irony.
Jean-Pierre Melville’s character study of a lonely, dead-eyed hitman hunted by both sides of the law is one of exceptionally intensive focus, matching Jef’s pragmatic efficiency with an equivalently methodical narrative and austere visual style, and developing the Paris of Le Samourai into a city of crushing isolation.
Jacques Tati’s bizarre, elaborate vision of Paris in Playtime is an intricately stacked construction of modernist architecture and comedic set pieces, sending up the soulless conformity of commercial society with a cinematic vision as monumentally ambitious as it is methodically delicate.
In the small city of Rochefort seven hours outside of Paris, the entwining paths of young and old lovers alike wind these dreamy idealists up in some remarkable force of fated romance, joyously orchestrated through artistic expressions of dance, music, and outrageously beautiful colours by French auteur and musical devotee Jacques Demy.
In straddling a line between pulpy violence and sophisticated visual artistry, Point Blank astonishingly transcends all genre trappings, as John Boorman’s confounding, non-linear narrative extracts a dizzying fever dream from the vengeful quest of a wronged man across formidable urban landscapes.
Mel Brooks’ irreverent satire of the entertainment industry’s grotesque exploitations wastes no time in zooming from one plot point to the next like a Marx Brothers routine, using the great comedic talents of Gene Wilder and Zero Mostel to not just match his brisk pace, but to push it even further.
