vonWeisstadt

Is it art to simply show ordinary life as it really is, without any metaphors, generalizations, attempts of explanation, or dramatizations? I argue: no. To see the so-called real life one does not need the cinema or the literature; it is enough just to live it, or read about other real lives in the newspaper. Or at most, see a documentary, on less accessible aspects of it. In any case one does not need an artist on the other side of the medium to depict it, a mere "reporter" is enough. From "art" one, I believe rightfully, expects more.

That is why "The measure of a man", the last product from mostly French speaking film world that shows the raw and often banal reality, is simply boring, with its long, and at best, trivial, and at worst, painful scenes, of a decent person down on his luck. In fact we never even learn much about the main protagonist, except that he has been laid off some time ago from his job, that he has an invalid child at home, and that he pretty stoically deals with everything unpleasant that happens to him. Naturally we feel sympathy, and blame the impersonal forces of society for his troubles. The film makes some valid points about the absurd sides of search for work today, with all of its time-wasting unemployment services, "insightful" CV writing instructions, distressing Skype interviews, etc. These are all true and worth knowing about, but unfortunately the film does not add anything beyond what is quite generally known to almost any adult in western society. There is simply not enough dramatic material in these for a feature film. The result: boredom and detachment. Every single scene is stretched beyond its conceivable dramatic function, so that the whole film soon becomes as engaging as waiting in the doctor's office for a check up.

There was a hope of a dramatic upturn when the main character finally found a job as a security guard in a supermarket. It does not quite happen, but the film does become slightly more interesting with its depiction of the depressing distribution of wealth in today's France (or almost any other modern country): too many people are ready to risk major humiliation for ridiculously petty sums. This itself offers a plenty of material for some other filmmaker to work with. The present one, unfortunately again does not feel he needs to move beyond several long scenes, which all seem to say the same depressing thing, without offering any salvation. I understand that this may exactly be the point, but I doubt that anybody needs such a long exposure to get it.

Vincent Lindon, the single professional actor in the film indeed feels real and believable, but not obviously any more so than all other non-professional supporting actors. Nevertheless, for the present reviewer Lindon's acting was the strongest side of this otherwise rather thin film. Which just goes to say that films should, in spite of recent trends, be left to professionals.