Loulou

It might seem crude to suggest that "Loulou" was made for the single purpose of getting Gerard Depardieu and Isabelle Huppert, two of the biggest stars of the French film industry then (and now), in bed together; on the other hand, it's hard to think of any other reason for making it (or seeing it). They do share a strong chemistry, and Huppert may never have looked better, but their characters, like all the others, lack interest and depth: all they do is eat, drink, argue and screw, in no particular order. The script is void (there is not a shred of plot, and barely any dramatic conflict, in this 105-minute movie), and the direction is totally pedestrian. *1/2 out of 4.

This is quite a dull movie. Well-shot with realistic performances especially a very good one from Depardieu as a cad and bad boy with realistic locations mood and art-house connotations all over, it fails because the director takes no position, stand or critical commentary on the topic he stipulates. One of France's revered and regular working partner on films with Depardieu - I believe they made 7 together - Pialat fails to engage. It seems to be a treatise on why women fall for the bad boy who will hurt when they have a ready caring boyfriend and good-hearted husband around. Isabelle Hupert who plays the philanderer with nonchalant distinction offers opprobrium answers like "I don't know"; "I like his arms"; "I like the way he makes love" to her inquiring husband who tries to kick her out of the house but palliates and reconsiders because... I assume he loves her. So he accepts and hope for what? That she will one day wake up and come to her senses. Things like this are not answered in Pialat's condescending docu-drama style with long speeches and even longer scenes that don't add up. I know the answers do not add up but please take a stand. Jules et Jim, this is not. The final shot as cold as the movie we have just watched is a heartache and headache only to the most forgiving.

Bored, restless housewife Isabelle Huppert leaves her brutish husband for an overage juvenile delinquent, played by Gerard Depardieu in one of the roles that made him an unlikely international sex symbol. The film is an uninhibited look at the seamier side of romantic Paris, but may be altogether too dark for its own good, and not only in terms of lighting: the script itself is often unforgivably vague. A talented cast gives the largely improvised non-story an almost documentary feel, but with no sympathetic characters (and with a distracting lack of motivation) the film rambles on interminably in no particular direction. In the end it amounts to little more than just another exercise in urban spiritual malaise, complete with stock footage of the cuckold husband blowing a lonely late-night saxophone in his empty apartment, with the TV flickering silently in the background. Not even the most opaque European art-house mood piece can support that kind of cliché.

Director Maurice Pialat's film is more an exercise in star power than any presentation of narrative, with Isabelle Huppert leaving her husband Guy Marchand for the leather-clad ex-con ruffian Loulou played by Depardieu. Even though the tone takes its cue from the character of Loulou as a womanising drifter, the low key seemingly improvised rambling scenes are preferable to the gab-fests of Eric Rohmer, who is responsible for the negative connotations associated with French films by Americans. This film is actually mistitled since although it is Depardieu that is the catalyst for Huppert to change her life, the story is more hers than his. Or perhaps it is that the representation of her crumbling marriage that is more dramatically interesting than Depardieu's "loafing". If Loulou's character is sketched thinly that may to keep him as an enigma, the mysterious bad-boy that women always seem to prefer. At one point Huppert says of Depardieu, "I prefer a loafer who f**ks, to a rich guy who bugs me". And although we can see how limiting Depardieu's world is to Huppert, we also understand her attraction to him, highlighted by a silent image of the couple stumbling down a street in a drunken embrace. Pialat's best moments involve scenes of violence interrupting - a family get together soured by jealousy, the loud music of a disco drowning out shouting, and a brawl between Depardieu and Marchand in a courtyard with a following drink together as evidence of the French form of civilised behaviour. Huppert also has an early scene with Marchand where the camera follows his pursuit and humiliation of her, and here Huppert's anger invalidates the myth of her as a passive performer. The film also shows us footage of her laughing, which is unusual since her situations are usually so glum, and she is funny when she yells in shocked reaction to being hit, in the famous love scene where the bed collapses, and when she falls in the street by accident. Pialat also gives Marchand a laugh by having him resort to playing the saxophone in depression.

Given the exhaustive and thoughtful review by the previous poster, I won't be redundant. This movie contains one of the best lines I've ever heard: As Nelly rides away with LouLou on his motorcycle, Andre poutfully spouts (rough english) "But you can't discuss books with him!"; Nelly replies "I don't discuss books, I read them!".

Priceless.