nefarious rabbit

Deep down I yearn to be Juliette Binoche, or at least the characters that she plays in movies. I, too, would like to abandon my country’s military in order to take care of one withering, enigmatic patient, especially if this means holing up in an abandoned church in the Italian countryside with landmine disarmers and a year’s worth of opium. At some point, I would like to admire lost architectural beauty by light of flare while hoisted from the disarmer’s harness (The English Patient). I, too, would like to fall in love with a French street artist and cruise the Canal St. Martin with fireworks on a speedboat (The Lovers on the Bridge). I, too, would like to induce enamor through my food in a quaint village and feed Johnny Depp chocolate wonders (Chocolat).

I would even like to be the character that she played in the film Caché, which I saw over the weekend. Sure, it wouldn’t be too bad to live in a modest French flat surrounded by books and films and to host dinner parties with my publisher and my successful television personality husband. Even if on occasion a voyeur leaves video recordings of my flat on my front doorstep enveloped in charcoal drawings of young boys and chickens covered in blood. Even the prank phone calls. I am already bothered by telemarketers on Saturday morning, so it wouldn’t bother me too much.

That’s why, after sitting in the theatre for two hours, I wasn’t thrilled at all with Caché. So she and her husband are stalked by someone who knows something about his past. What’s so bad about that? But what is bad about the past, especially for this film, is that it isn’t concrete and the threat is anything but imminent. Overall, the film is anti-climatic and eventually trails into a whimpering denouement. After her calls to the police and trouble with her pre-pubescent son, I at least deserved a chase scene in bare feet on a Parisian sidewalk. But, no, not even that.

The direct translation for cache is “hidden.” And this title probably best sums up the film. Everything in this film is hidden -- the plot, the tension, the motives, ad nauseam. In fact, the whole point of the film is so well hidden that the audience leaves the theatre empty. At one point, I felt the great divide between international and American film as best described by Eddie Izzard where characters run through hallways, opening doors, saying “Quoi?”. I yearned for explosions, or a chase scene in Paris in a Mini Cooper around the Eiffel Tower…but I was left with nothing except a hint of conspiracy during the closing credits, which most people would not understand because they probably left before the credits rolled. And if they stayed, they would have to search for this connection.

To the film’s credit, the one element that I did enjoy was the stationary camera that would blankly capture nothing on film but perhaps a breeze in a tree or passing cars. The blank canvas that this perspective created gave the audience an opportunity to participate -- whether it was to think about the direction of the film, silently fume at the lack thereof, or meditate on ordinary life.

After thinking about Caché, I came to the conclusion that the tension created by what is hidden is important, especially in today’s world (did I forget to mention that there was a conflict between Binoche’s husband, an upper-class Frenchman, and his former childhood friend who happened to be Algerian). Often we are dealing with an invisible enemy, whether this exists internally or ideologically. Our ultimate inclination is to define it -- to give it a face or a name or a social class or political affiliation or racial profile. By defining our source of fear (read: terror), it can then be silenced or eradicated. In the end, it doesn’t matter what is done to oust the conflict, but how we handle it -- as rational human beings dealing with reality or as tyrants lashing out at what is imagined, usually the manifestation of our own fears.

Overall, I probably wouldn’t recommend this film to the average filmgoer -- it isn’t too extraordinary by means of directing, acting, or writing. It is thought provoking if you allow it, but by no means does it invoke thoughts other than frustration.