VALLEY OF LOVE (2015): A NOTE ON INCONCLUSIVENESS, ABSENCE AND GEOGRAPHIES OF GRIEF

Gerard Depardieu and Isabelle Huppert reuniting in Guillame Nicloux’s new feature film offering was too tempting to resist. Fantastically, the Wimbledon Curzon cinema had only one other person in the auditorium – either me and this one other person knew better, or everyone else had read the reviews had decided to give it a miss…Telling the story of an estranged husband and wife whose 25 year old son Michael has recently killed himself, the pair meet in Death Valley after receiving cryptic and chillingly-written letters from their son requesting them to do so. They visit a series of landmarks each day as mapped out in the letter, in order that Michael might reappear to them. The first thing to say is that visually, it is beautifully produced. And of course as a Geographer I should mention the landscapes which are – of course – stunning. However, in terms of the more subtle geographies I would want to highlight, they are of a more spectral kind.The atmosphere, one of oppressive, unyielding, desert heat is almost palpable, but more distressing than that is the almost visceral sense of loss. Unlike films which show flashbacks to the childhood of someone recently lost, or the happy relationship pre-breakdown, the film actively constructs its two protagonists using the bare minimum of resources. This is no melodrama. No overblown emotions (for example, when Depardieu announces he has cancer; Huppert replies: ‘I’m sorry that’s happening to you’). Neither of the characters are particularly likeable, and they don’t need to be. The emotional geography of grief is delicately negotiated: through the template of a kind of anti-pilgrimage. It is in some sense reminiscent of Avril Maddrell’s work on mapping grief, in which she posits that there are three genres of grieving space(s): physical spaces, embodied-psychological spaces, and virtual spaces. Whilst obviously located in a specific landscape, the grieving is done in-place, but through Depardieu and Huppert’s ability to ‘convey an aspect of phenomenological rue’ – arguably helped by Charles Ives’ rather unsettling (or, disorientating ?) score.In terms of the physical ‘pilgrimage’ element, neither of the protagonists really understands why they have found themselves where they have, or have much reason to believe there will be some kind of absolution at the end; thus, it is not a pilgrimage of hope in the conventional sense.  (This is echoed by a conversation they have about relationships:  In a kind of circular pattern, they head out to different landscapes daily, returning to the motel at night to their darkened rooms and their own isolated grief. There is a contrast between the profundity of the landscape – well, at least a suggestion of the profound, often quite humorously interrupted by their bickering and the occasional overweight, boorish tourist passing through – and the depressing social architecture of the deserted motel swimming pool and tackily-decorated American bar with its artificially cheerful waiting staff. As Depardieu announces near the beginning of the film: ‘this place is full of assholes’.The film’s main failing, I think, is that it invites the audience into a heart-wrenchingly  realist representation of two grieving parents, whose lives seemed already to be falling apart before their son’s death. However, it simultaneously requests the audience to buy into the possibility of the supernatural. The sense of confusion over whether Michael has come back, whether he could come back is a directorial gamble which seems to distract from the emotional drama at the heart. However, there is an unsettling sense of absent, spectral presence, which is never ‘fleshed out’ (if you’ll excuse the pun). This is to say: it was incredibly frustrating to have a sense of something you were unable to understand or grasp. But it was also, I realised, really, really effective. The consistent lack of clarity at pivotal moments – one of the key scenes, where Michael apparently reappears to his father – is not shown. In the vein of classically ‘realist’ film making so characteristic of Nicloux, there is no artifice, no tidy endings, no resolution. Only a deep sense of loss and confusion, and – actually – futility. I arrogantly felt that I deserved more from the film once it ended (it’s definitely one of those ones where the film ends and its hard not to let out an audible sigh of frustration or disappointment) but on reflection, this actually made the film so, so much better. Through the persistent sense of implied inner-turmoil, physical absence and the template of the anti-pilgrimage – the film recreates in its viewer the numbness and emptiness that is inherent in grieving.

The verdict: well worth seeing, if only for the sense of confusion and disorientation.

Jean Rhys: ladygoals

Frank Worsley, captain of the Endurance on Shackleton’s 1914 Imperial Trans-Antarctic Expedition. One of the most incredible survival stories. Read more here: http://mashable.com/2015/10/10/the-endurance/?utm_cid=lf-toc#oYxXF4wJEkqr

I’m back!

But this time I’m 22, and looking to re-find the inspiration that drove this blog when I started it 5 years ago. So much has changed, and time has moved on but I have this feeling I may have lost something along the way. It’s time to start doing what I want to do, being who I want to be, and mainly just getting some shit done (not my forte, generally speaking). I’ve really started realising that we’re only here for a moment - or, as Will Varley (an amazing folk singer who I’ve seen a few times) says: “we all just drop in for a while”. And it’s true, and it sucks, but let’s make this count. Let’s stop settling for less and get out there, and stop shrinking ourselves down. I’m ready!

I realise I may have been flaring my nostrils in this photo but overall it’s quite a good representation of who I am right now (yes, when I get nervous I seem to flare my nostrils. Why do you get nervous having your photo taken? I literally have no idea. It’s scary seeing yourself printed out on paper, ok?)

Danger – Portrait de William S. Burroughs devant le Théâtre de l’Odéon, Paris, 1959