"The perfect date movie ... if you're dating a nun!"

That is my official 'blurb' for the German documentary "Into Great Silence," a behind-the-scenes look at the daily lives of a group of cloistered Carthusian monks living on a hillside monastery in the French Alps. I welcome any publicist to use my quote to promote this film to a wider audience.

(It was either that or "A must-see movie for anyone considering joining a monastery!"--but I didn't think that would apply to as many in the movie-going public).

It's a hard sell to begin with: imagine spending 162-minutes with a bunch of Frenchmen who pray all day. That's what's in store for you when you buy a ticket to Philip Groning's work -- no narrator, no interviews, no musical soundtrack -- but I do recommend it as a tonic to both modern life and modern (i.e. Hollywood) movies. Every time I watched a novice kneeling in prayer on a wooden pew in his 'cell', I couldn't help but think how many CGI-laden shots Imust be missing in a comparable length of celluloid in 'Spiderman 3.'

The movie has a simple-enough structure: intercutting scenes of daily chores around the monastery with scenes of solitary prayer and group services. So a chapel service illuminated only by candlelight precedes scenes of chopping wood, shoveling snow, and feeding a group of feral, and in their own way, cloistered cats. (Even they don't make a sound).

The deliberate pace of these monks as they carry-out their mundane chores (I had had enough the second time the monks had their heads shaved) slowly reveals that even in these simple acts they reveal devotion and commitment to the lives of service they have chosen. The film's beauty lies in the details: chopping celery on front of a magnificently sunlit window; cutting fabric for vestments that will clothe the novices who are about to enter into this strange world; the snow; the stars; the Alps. The cinematography renders these scenes into something more profound

But the camera angles and lighting are sometimes too conspicuous by their artistry. At the same time, Groning's unyielding commitment to stay at a respectful distance, even in the rare glimpse of what these monks do to 'unwind' (sliding down a snow-covered hillside, still in their vestments); the camera stays a good quarter-mile away, rendering inaudible their shouts of joy. This detachment ultimately undermines the filmmaker's intention: we never gain an understanding of why these men have chosen to renounce modern society; what goes on in their minds day after day; what are they praying-reflecting-thinking about these countless hours, while the rest of humanity continues on with their lives, literally just beyond the walls of the monastery?

Groning doesn't allow the audience to learn more about these men by not engaging with them in any way -- an interview with the blind monk nearing the end of his life is too short, and arrives much too late -- by not even sharing with us the moments where they do interact (they have not taken a vow of silence, so they must communicate with each other). In spite of the length of time you spend with these remarkable men (and throughout the film, you get to stare directly at each one of them for a nice, Warholian moment), you walk out of the theater wishing your last 3 hours of observation provided more insight into the men you were observing.

The state of world cinema -- Part Trois!

I've been promising this post for the last six months--but now is the perfect time to blog about French Cinema! Mas oui! My brother tried to boost the stature of Latin cinema by denigrating the recent contributions of the French. To that I answer: Le cinema francais--c'est magnifique!

[This post is dedicated to the two best French speakers currently residing in the great state of Oklahoma: my nephew, Blaine Palmer, and Marie-Luce!!]

True, I will be the first to admit that the French entry into the Academy Award sweepstakes was a disappointment: Daniele Thompson's Fauteuils d'orchestre (that's Avenue Montaigne to us Americans -- because the distributor apparently doesn't trust us to want to see a movie called "Orchestra seats"). When the best attributes of a movie are the street scenes of Paris--well, then it's simply a travelogue. The charming lead performance by the slightly androgynous (I mean that in a good way!) gamine Cecile de France cannot save this far-fetched, too-cute snapshot of Parisian life. Are we supposed to care about the scary-looking theater usher who listens to bad French pop music (is there any other kind?) on her iPod during classical music concerts? I sure didn't! And what is Sydney Pollack doing in this movie!?!? He looks more uncomfortable here than he did in Eyes Wide Shut!

But this movie is The Sorrow and the Pity compared to Francis Veber's latest French 'comedy' La Doublure ("The Valet.") In spite of its clever opening credits and a great cast -- with a cameo by Karl Lagerfeld hisownself-- this movie has all the weightlessness of Pret-A-Porter, which also tried to slide by on its mise-en-scene (might as well use all my French expressions while I have the chance). It reminded me of the cute Fifties-throwback "Down with Love", only I don't think Veber was aiming for nostalgia here. Veber is clearly running out of ideas, as this movie limps to a conclusion without ever mining its comic potential, in spite of the star-studded contributions of Daniel Auteuil ("Cache"), Virginie Ledoyen, and Kristin-Scott Thomas ("The English Patient"). I say comic, yet I only got one of its in-jokes: a mistaken identification of a young hot model of today to the Eighties model Ines de-la-Fressange (I remember her!) by a clueless middle-aged character. And the contribution of that same pianist-(not model)-turned-actress, Alice Taglioni, proves once and for all that the most beautiful French model can have all the personality of your typical American model; i.e, none! Sacre bleu!

Even the latest French import to generate a buzz -- the lamely-titled "The Page Turner" -- is a major disappointment: all set-up, without a satisfying payoff! I'm not wishing the creepy young girl go all 'Fatal Attraction' on her nemesis (even though the filmmaker practically leaves a breadcrumb trail for that scenario) but to have it end with such an unsatisfying, wimpy conclusion is such a sucker-punch to the audience, you have to think the director deliberately set you up for a Hollywood ending, then pulled the rug out from under you, you silly Americans!

But I am here to praise French cinema -- not bury it! This past year we saw the triumphant return to US screens of both the restored Rules of the Game and Army of Shadows: two supreme classics by Jean Renoir and Jean-Pierre Melville, respectively. Sure, forty years is a long time between classics, but the list of promising French directors with the potential to create a classic is long: Francois Ozon, Cedric Klapisch, Andre Techine, Lucas Belvaux, Laurent Cantet, Bruno Dumont, Claire Denis, Cedric Kahn, Claude Miller, Patrice Leconte, Arnaud Desplechin, even enfant terrible Gaspar Noe. I won't deny that the most-compelling movies in French of late are not by Frenchmen: Micheal Haneke's Cache and La pianiste; Indigenes; the Dardennes brothers of Belgium. But the old timers still have some life in them: Claude Chabrol, Jacques Rivette, Eric Rohmer (all admittedly past their prime), and my favorite, Patrice Chereau.

So I stick by my conclusion: The State of French Cinema? C'est si bon!