In a year that celebrates the closed-mouth, open-eyed history of film by handing a Best Picture nomination to Michel Hazanavicius’ silent masterpiece The Artist, it seems only appropriate that we’d get another film from Finnish writer-director Aki Kaurismäki. Throughout his distinctively oddball indie film career (Leningrad Cowboys Go America, Drifting Clouds, The Match Factory Girl, The Man Without a Past), Kaurismäki has always shown a greater kinship to the silent film technicians of yesteryear than to the media-savvy moviemakers of today. His latest effort, the alternately gritty and whimsical modern fairy tale Le Havre, plays out like a politically minded remake of Charlie Chaplin’s The Kid.
Idrissa soon becomes the pet project of Marcel’s hardscrabble little neighborhood. Shopkeepers, bakers and bar owners unite in hiding the kid and helping him find his way to England. Good thing, too, since an intrepid police inspector (Jean-Pierre Darroussin from A Very Long Engagement) is hot on Idrissa’s heels.
France is a country with a far more divisive immigration problem than even America. (We’re talking full-on riots in the streets.) Kaurismäki’s film touches on a number of these hot-button issues. Despite certain ripped-
Kaurismäki is not for all tastes. His works border on the absurdist, and his dry-as-Sauvignon Blanc sense of humor will often slip by if you aren’t paying attention. But Le Havre is one of the warmest, most accessible films on the man’s résumé—a love letter to the rewards of basic human kindness. It’s a real treat for fans and a great starting point for those who can handle a little melodramatic wishful thinking.
(Thanks to Wikipedia.)
Le HavreFinnish director Aki Kaurismäki (Leningrad Cowboys Go America, The Man Without a Past) takes us to a French port town for this sentimental fairy tale about an elderly shoeshine man (André Wilms) secretly helping a young African immigrant (Blondin Miguel) to reach his family in England. Like an offbeat, politically minded remake of Charlie Chaplin's The Kid, this half-silent farce milks laughs from deadpan awkwardness and drama from overt theatricality. 93 minutes (Opens Friday 2/3)