REVIEW: Playful Alain Resnais Gets a Bit Lost in His Wild Grass

With the end of middle age within tippy-toe reach, Georges Palet (André Dussollier) has pulled into a kind of defensive crouch; he's not going willingly, and open to distraction. Alternately resigned and bitterly combative, he is treated by his wife Suzanne (Anne Consigny) like a recently released mental patient, which might not be that far off: When we meet Georges he is being driven to thoughts of homicide by a passing woman's visible panty line. But then the stream of consciousness can run pretty wild, and is subject to theoretical whims as brutal as they are benign. The roots of romantic feeling, as explored in Wild Grass, Alain Resnais's jazzy ode to cinema and the love impulse in later life, are equally, spectacularly random.

Eighty-seven years old and not above a little au courant product placement, Resnais opens the film with a sequence which finds Marguerite (Sabine Azéma) heading to Marc Jacobs to pick up a new pair of pumps for what we are told are a pair of highly singular feet. On the way out of the store Marguerite's purse is stolen -- in dramatic slo-mo -- though she postpones reporting the incident, being French and rather philosophical about these things.

Georges has also just completed a retail transaction -- buying a new battery for his Hamilton watch -- when he discovers a bright red wallet by his car in the parking garage. The wallet quickly moves from an object of fascination to an existential burden, with Georges agonizing first over the two photos the wallet contains (one a little somber, the other less so) and then over exactly how he will initiate the phone call with its owner.

Working in a style that feels both mannered and improvised, Resnais adds playful details and doo-dads to every scene. Irises bloom in the corner of the screen, animating a character's thoughts or peeking in on a parallel plane of action; the 20th Century Fox theme plays twice over self-consciously cinematic moments; a mild interrogation by two police officers is given the Keystone cops treatment; the word "Fin" is slapped onto the screen twice, the first time to ironic, Looney Tunes-y effect. Resnais heightens and toys with a story that is itself about heightening and toying with standard fare: Georges seems to will himself into love with Marguerite, stoking an obsession from pretty damp raw materials -- a coincidence, a couple of photos, and a pilot's license.

After turning the wallet in to the police (specifically an officer played with grave wit by Mathieu Almaric) and curtly receiving the call Marguerite makes to express her thanks, Georges is moved to write to her, then begins leaving confessional phone messages. The outlet is addictive, and somewhat predicated on Marguerite's refusal to respond. After he slashes her tires -- hardly an innocuous or quirky situation for a woman, and one of the moments in which the film's trickster tone falls flat -- Marguerite takes action, reporting him to the police. Georges is appalled, and his fever is broken; he will not contact her again.

Of course this will not do: Marguerite promptly contracts a counter-fixation. A dentist who shares a practice with another woman named Josepha (Emmanuelle Devos), she too seems to be suffering from a form of is-that-all-there-is ennui. When Georges's heated interest is withdrawn, the economy of desire is sparked. "Don't start shouting," she warns Georges in one of their heated moments, "because if you do, I will too." The whimsy of the film's take on romantic desire is edged with darkness: If not only our behavioral impulses but our most crucial experiences are just a matter of a powerful response mechanism being engaged, then couldn't one -- whether one is very bored or a little on the sadistic side -- simply concoct a romance of cinematic proportions out of thin air? Attention is a powerful thing; it must be paid responsibly.

Or not. Late in the film the bizarre love triangle comprising Georges, Marguerite and a quizzically compliant Suzanne sprouts a new angle quite suddenly. Josepha accepts a tipsy pass from Georges and the balance shifts again, driving Marguerite even further into unrequited territory. It all seems bound to crash and burn -- this is a movie, after all -- and because it is a Resnais movie it does, quite literally. We do get one gratifying encounter before it all goes to pot. "You love me, then?" Georges asks Marguerite, upon finally setting eyes on her. It's a sublime moment -- filled with both wonder and cynicism -- and marks the first direct address made in a film that traffics in agonized equivocations and tortured throat-clearing. Daring audiences to love him and then refusing their expectations could sum up much of Resnais's career; the articulation of that strategy is also the highlight of this otherwise minor addition to his storied résumé.