1973, TSPDT Rank #114
This is probably one of the more elusive films on the 1,000 Greatest Films, so when presented with the opportunity to catch a one-time screening of a 35mm print, I snatched up the chance. I was prepared for a long, dialogue-heavy French film about sex, relationships, love triangles, and pseudo-intellectualism, but what I was not prepared for was how truly unsettling and draining the film would be. The film's protagonist, Alexandre, is a pretentious and hypocritical young bohemian who is the embodiment of the emptiness that he sees in the society that surrounds him. He talks endlessly, but has nothing to say. He attempts to maintain simultaneous relationships with two different women - taking advantage of them physically, emotionally, and financially - while offering nothing but misery to either of them. In fact, Alexandre is such an extreme type of character that viewers of the film could be separated into distinct two categories: those who identify with him and those who find him absolutely contemptible. Most viewers, myself included, would probably fall into the latter category, but it's easy to see how those who identify with Alexandre could come away with a completely different interpretation of the film - seeing Alexandre as a hapless victim instead of as a destructive parasite framed as a criticism of a larger social disease. Still, regardless of your perspective, this film - which was Jean Eustache's debut feature, amazingly enough - is designed to take Alexandre's self-inflicted predicament to its limits, showing both the causes and effects of the damage which he sets in motion with a startling emotional honesty that takes a while to sink in, but is hard to shake once it does.
As with many films which go beyond the three-hour mark despite having a relatively small-scale narrative, the length of the film is a key component of the experience, and I'm sure that watching the film in one sitting makes for a much different experience than watching it in two or three (as most people watching at home seem to do). The first couple hours of the film are relatively light, with an unnamed friend of Alexandre's (who is even more aimless and ridiculous than Alexandre is) coming in at regular intervals for comic relief, as Alexandre's relentless self-absorption and movement between love interests continue on seemingly without consequence. Around the two-hour mark, however, the tone begins to shift very noticeably, as does the nature of the viewing experience. The friction between the three main characters continues to increase, as does the number of long, tortured monologues and lurching transitions from scenes of stifling boredom to frenzied emotional outbursts. Eustache takes each scene all the way to its breaking point before fading to black and immediately launching into the next one. This repetitive raising and lowering of tension, along with the increasingly brutal honesty of the subject matter, becomes almost unbearable as the final hour of the film progresses and the tension continues to rise, eventually culminating in an intense final scene which serves as a frightening mirror image of the opening sequence.
Eustache's technique is merciless but effective, which, along with his use of grainy, documentary-style cinematography, has earned him much-deserved comparisons to John Cassavetes from critics such as Pauline Kael. However, while it's often a less than pleasant viewing experience, The Mother and the Whore is certainly in a class of its own - a singular work which is often as interesting as it is grating, exposing the emptiness and self-destructiveness of its unsavory protagonists in stark, uncompromising detail. It's a film that's worth seeing at least once if the chance arises, if only for those of a certain temperament.
This is probably one of the more elusive films on the 1,000 Greatest Films, so when presented with the opportunity to catch a one-time screening of a 35mm print, I snatched up the chance. I was prepared for a long, dialogue-heavy French film about sex, relationships, love triangles, and pseudo-intellectualism, but what I was not prepared for was how truly unsettling and draining the film would be. The film's protagonist, Alexandre, is a pretentious and hypocritical young bohemian who is the embodiment of the emptiness that he sees in the society that surrounds him. He talks endlessly, but has nothing to say. He attempts to maintain simultaneous relationships with two different women - taking advantage of them physically, emotionally, and financially - while offering nothing but misery to either of them. In fact, Alexandre is such an extreme type of character that viewers of the film could be separated into distinct two categories: those who identify with him and those who find him absolutely contemptible. Most viewers, myself included, would probably fall into the latter category, but it's easy to see how those who identify with Alexandre could come away with a completely different interpretation of the film - seeing Alexandre as a hapless victim instead of as a destructive parasite framed as a criticism of a larger social disease. Still, regardless of your perspective, this film - which was Jean Eustache's debut feature, amazingly enough - is designed to take Alexandre's self-inflicted predicament to its limits, showing both the causes and effects of the damage which he sets in motion with a startling emotional honesty that takes a while to sink in, but is hard to shake once it does.
As with many films which go beyond the three-hour mark despite having a relatively small-scale narrative, the length of the film is a key component of the experience, and I'm sure that watching the film in one sitting makes for a much different experience than watching it in two or three (as most people watching at home seem to do). The first couple hours of the film are relatively light, with an unnamed friend of Alexandre's (who is even more aimless and ridiculous than Alexandre is) coming in at regular intervals for comic relief, as Alexandre's relentless self-absorption and movement between love interests continue on seemingly without consequence. Around the two-hour mark, however, the tone begins to shift very noticeably, as does the nature of the viewing experience. The friction between the three main characters continues to increase, as does the number of long, tortured monologues and lurching transitions from scenes of stifling boredom to frenzied emotional outbursts. Eustache takes each scene all the way to its breaking point before fading to black and immediately launching into the next one. This repetitive raising and lowering of tension, along with the increasingly brutal honesty of the subject matter, becomes almost unbearable as the final hour of the film progresses and the tension continues to rise, eventually culminating in an intense final scene which serves as a frightening mirror image of the opening sequence.
Eustache's technique is merciless but effective, which, along with his use of grainy, documentary-style cinematography, has earned him much-deserved comparisons to John Cassavetes from critics such as Pauline Kael. However, while it's often a less than pleasant viewing experience, The Mother and the Whore is certainly in a class of its own - a singular work which is often as interesting as it is grating, exposing the emptiness and self-destructiveness of its unsavory protagonists in stark, uncompromising detail. It's a film that's worth seeing at least once if the chance arises, if only for those of a certain temperament.
