THE MOTHER AND THE WHORE (80)

Directed by: Jean Eustache (1973)

Starring: Jean-Pierre Léaud, Françoise Lebrun, Bernadette Lafont

The Pitch: Charming, irresponsible young man lives with one woman but loves another. Or is it that he loves them both in different ways?

Theo Sez: Who are these people? Relics, certainly, for all their slangy talk and pun-strewn dialogue, living in a scratchy black-and-white world of old-movie references and outdated romanticism : Edith Piaf warbles on about the "lovers of Paris" even as our heroine, in her dingy apartment, accepts hero's marriage proposal while vomiting into a bucket. Parasites, without a doubt, living an entirely indolent life - swigging whisky, dabbling at this and that, hanging out in coffee shops and one-room apartments, talking endlessly about relationships, running away from problems (rather like the girl whose left signal is broken on her car, but "I have a system: I never turn left"). Narcissistic creeps if you're out of sympathy with the constant navel-gazing, but also victims of History, shaped by a tide of change - the  revolution of 1968 (and cinematic revolution of the French New Wave) - that's moved on and left them high and dry, with no firm structure and nothing to believe in beyond the self. Léaud in particular is totally selfish, and it may be one of the best performances I've ever seen, lifelike yet also - unlike Mathieu Amalric in the 90s equivalent, Desplechin's MA VIE SEXUELLE - larger-than-life : centre-stage throughout most of the film's 3 1/2 hours, he preens outrageously, rants about everything (including the mysterious disappearance of the word "limonade"), plays entire scenes for eccentric comedy, flashes wounded little-boy eyes, purrs hypnotically as he declares his love or tells stories of the strange and wondrous things he's seen on his early-morning walks around Paris, yet always makes it clear this charming, charismatic man is also spoiled and immature. In some ways it's a film about the unknowability of people, like the ex-girlfriend who turns out to be a murderess or Lebrun as the 'whore' who reveals (in a riveting climactic monologue) unexpected depths of self-loathing and a yearning for love over sex ; intimacy, thinking you know someone, is a sham, which may also be why the characters address each other with the formal "vous" even as they're fondling each other, revealing innermost secrets or spitting in each other's face - all we really ever have is the self, other people doomed to remain a mystery. Now and then, esp. when the characters are in repose, listening to a song - or e.g. the great real-time bit where the two girls make each other up then turn, giggling, to Léaud, dabbing his sulky face with makeup as a moody classical piece plays on the soundtrack - it comes close to a deep, seldom-spoken part of being human, the feeling of being adrift in Time ("I don't do anything," admits our hero; "I let Time do it") and connecting powerfully with people not for themselves but just for being there, part of the same stray moment, like fellow travellers bumping shoulders on the same mystery train to the same unknown destination. Other times it's just three people talking endlessly, in black-and-white, for three and a half hours ; to quote David Thomson - though he means it in a good way - "Beware".