Breathless x2

Breathless (1960)

Breathless (1983)

Bonjour my petit readers! As May gasps its last breath and I finalize my double feature selections for Pride Month, I’d like to close out this month with one of my favorite kind of double features—one where the films share the same name. This has only occurred once before, when I did my Obsessive Fans double feature with two different films titled “The Fan.” While differing in premise and tone and levels of depravity, these films both offered similar stories of para-social relationships gone violently awry, and it was fascinating to see their respective takes on the topic. These films became grouped under the same name simply by coincidence, but tonight’s double bill was made entirely by design, by ambitious filmmakers who sought to tell the same story, or, at least, a version of the same story. As a fairly new film scholar, I have yet to see many mandatory films that are seemingly required-viewing for cinephiles and fellow pretentious enjoyers of cinema. But as I explore the hundreds upon thousands of films created throughout human history, I often find myself avoiding the time, country, and genre that basically birthed cinephilia and film fanaticism: the realm of French New Wave. While people have been writing about, chatting about, and over-analyzing films since the silent era, it was really after WWII when film-viewing became a worldwide, accepted, and at times, highly-esteemed pastime. In the decades following the ending of the occupation of France by the Nazis, a very large amount of films that were withheld by the regime suddenly were released, sparking screenings and discussions and the invention of film clubs and discourse. The youths and beatniks of the 40s, 50s, and 60s, were instrumental in initiating widespread interest in film, and as France became an epicenter of culture and cinema, the whole world began to take an interest as well. This ushered in the French New Wave, where filmmakers like François Truffaut, Agnés Varda, Jacques Demy, and Jean-Luc Godard made names for themselves with their fresh, offbeat, and often experimental films. Through my viewing of various French horror films and one season of Drag Race France, I’ve learned that the French sense of humor is not always for me (except for Amélie.) This, compacted with a somewhat subconscious FOMO I hold onto for never having been to France, has not inspired me to watch a lot of French films, though I am well aware of their impact(s) throughout the history of film. But just as I overcame my fear of atrocious English-dubbing in Italian giallo films last October, tonight I am facing the French New Wave head on, by watching one of the most famous films from this era, and the insane American remake of it that was released twenty years later. Jean-Luc Godard’s 1960 film Breathless is not just the main film that one might associate with the French New Wave, it is one of the most famous films of all time—especially to those self-proclaimed cinephiles. Godard developed the script with fellow writer Truffaut, who’d gotten the idea for this story after reading about a car thief named Michel Portail and his American girlfriend Beverly Lynette. After somewhat tricking producer Georges de Beauregard out of writing a different script, the two created a treatment that became Breathless, though Godard mostly wrote this script as he went along in the filming process (and we know how messy that method can be.) Breathless stars Jean-Paul Belmondo as the petty, womanizing thief Michel, and Jean Seaberg as his American girlfriend Patricia, in the span of just a couple of wild, weird days. After Michel steals a car in Marseille and confidently speeds off, he is chased down by the cops—one of whom reaches Michel just in time for Michel to shoot and kill him. Panicked, Michel drives to Paris and meets up with his favorite of his girlfriends, Patricia, who is studying abroad and trying to break into journalism. She has very little time for Michel’s trifling, sexist, lazy ass, and yet she still gives him the time of day after he breaks into her apartment and shows up, unannounced. Jean Seaberg speaks French mostly the whole time, but she is also seemingly fluent in dirtbag, as she consistently puts up with Michel’s rude and repugnant behavior. He insults her (and all women, quite frankly), he minimizes her intelligence and her beauty and her humanity, he badgers her about having sex with him, he begs her for money, and he talks shit about much of her identity—from her nationality to her fashion to her makeup to her standards, which he mistakes for prudishness and uptightness. And while Michel has classically good looks, pouty lips, and an affinity for Humphrey Bogart, there is zero charm whatsoever emanating from this person. As they roam the bustling streets of Paris (in what would probably seem very romantic with the dialogue muted) Michel sees his face as “wanted” in the newspaper, and narrowly avoids the cops several times. It was one thing when Michel was just stealing cars, but when Michel killed that cop, he became enemy number one. Jean looked exquisitely chic in her iconic striped shirt and sleek glasses, and only sometimes clapped back at Michel’s hateful diatribes, which was not enough for me. You may think I’m being dramatic by taking offense to Michel’s cocky, verbal onslaughts, but between him telling multiple women that they’re ugly, slutty, not slutty enough, threatening to strangle his girlfriend if she doesn’t smile, and his disgustingly-smarmy behavior like shining his shoes with newspaper and pissing in a sink, I couldn’t find any aspect of this character to be likable. It’s not that we’re necessarily meant to root for this man, but I found myself increasingly disinterested in his schemes of trying to find money and an escape route as the film dragged on. The cinematography was lovely of course because, well, PARIS, and I can see how the use of quick-cuts and sharp, experimental editing became an inspiration to other filmmakers, but boy, was I not into this film. While it may seem like I enjoy being a hater and a harsh critic at times, I promise you that I take zero pleasure in watching a widely-beloved film only to realize that it is not for me, and that was the case with Breathless. I guess what mostly disappointed me about Breathless, was how unpleasant and unsexy it was for a film that so many regard as romantic. Romantic? Really?? Maybe a tall Frenchman telling you that you make him want to puke is hot to you, but it was not hot to me, no matter how attractive the two leads were. But to my knowledge, Breathless is known as a classic and tragic story that many consider sweet and soulful and earnestly romantic, and my question to those people is, who hurt you? Why is a man poking at and pissing on Jean Seaberg for 90 minutes attractive to you? I mean, there’s like a five minute sequence where Patricia interviews an author, who in his very brief time on screen says far more romantic things than Michel and I guess Godard are capable of, and it was far too fleeting. After seeing how simple and sweet a romance can be with Moonstruck last week, I’m quite simply confused how this film is considered romantic. Breathless has an iconically tragic ending, but the entire film was such a boring bummer that to me, I was relatively unaffected by the climax. Now, I wasn’t necessarily moved, but I was far more affected by tonight’s second film, an American remake of Breathless that came out just twenty-three years later (it just celebrated its 41st anniversary), starring the king of the 1980s: Richard Gere. Loosely and generously categorized as a romantic neo-noir film, director Jim McBride switches up the formula of Breathless, and imagines Richard Gere as a petty car thief named Jesse Lujack, and Valérie Kaprisky as Monica Poiccard, a French student studying architecture in Los Angeles. We first meet Jesse under similar circumstances as when we met Michel, as he is speaking to one of his many girlfriends. The first major difference in the 1983 Breathless, other than setting, is Richard Gere’s absolutely insane and bizarre 1970s prom wardrobe. Jesse is on his way from Vegas to LA, blasting the music of a fellow menace and bad person Jerry Lee Lewis, when he is confronted on the road by a cop, and eventually Jesse shoots him. Just as in the original, Jesse makes his way to his gal’s apartment, uninvited, and picks the lock to get inside. He’s greeted by the gorgeously colorful furniture and playful design of her apartment, and proceeds to use her shower, her toothbrush, and tear up a photo of her and another man, only to replace the photo with a selfie he takes on her polaroid. You know, just normal stalker behavior. After Jesse tries and only somewhat fails to sabotage Monica’s final architecture presentation, he whisks her away for a day of wasting her time and trying to sleep with her, just as in the original film. All the while, the police are looking for Jesse, and he is able to somehow evade arrest at several points in this lazy cat-and-mouse adventure. This sleazy iteration of Richard Gere was a far departure from his breathtakingly sexy and smart presence in American Gigolo, and while it seemed like he was having fun while filming it, it was pretty off-putting to see Gere act just as foolishly as the original protagonist. Jesse is a user, a loser, a bit of a racist, and now he’s a killer. And while Monica is just as annoyed as Patricia is in the original Breathless, here she puts up with even more shenanigans, but perhaps less insults. What was so shocking and entertaining about the 1983 Breathless, other than the full frontal nudity of both male and female parties, was the fact that almost all of the script was verbatim the script from the original. So many remakes seek to abandon the details of the source material from which they took inspiration, but this Breathless was basically word-for-word the same as its predecessor, which was fascinating, to say the least. McBride’s Breathless was absolutely terrible. It was amazing. It had Richard Gere bathed in neon, which is his sexiest mode. It ultimately underscored the clunky oddity of the French humor and sensibilities of the original film, which is left entirely intact here, just with the volume and Richard Gere’s cock on full blast. It was phenomenally awkward and yet perfectly fun, which I can’t personally attribute to the original, and felt like some sort of pseudo-prequel to the Grand Theft Auto video game series in all of its vibrantly-colored, audaciously-performed stunts and scenarios. This remake would seem appalling to anyone who hadn’t seen the original, and to those who love the original, it is probably appalling to hear that I liked the remake better, but I promise you that I did not anticipate this. But what was I supposed to feel about the original Breathless? Charmed? Delighted? Awestruck? Because I felt extremely off-put by it. It was like opening a gift wrapped in lovely paper only for the gift to be a massive let down. But with the 1983 Breathless, in its obvious, bold, brazen, sex-infused neon aesthetic where Richard Gere’s Jesse is for some reason stuck in the 1960s fashion and gimmick-wise? There was much, much less room to be disappointed. I knew what kind of movie I was in for, and I was far more compelled than I expected to be, so in that sense it was much better than I’d expected. And even with the offensive insults and stereotypical accents he would do, even with his odd obsession with the Silver Surfer comics, Richard Gere’s version of this protagonist was just more attractive and easier to like. When Jean Seaberg mused over William Faulkner, as her disinterested half-assed side piece pretended to listen, I was annoyed with the trivializing simplicity of this woman’s characterization. It was as if Godard was able to access Google, searched for American novelists, and chose the very first one he saw to represent the entirety of this complex woman’s interiority. But in the 1983 Breathless, when Valérie Kaprisky utters the exact same Faulkner anecdote, tits out and eager to reveal her inner thoughts to her love interest, it felt oddly correct for such a silly, simple scene within such a silly, simple premise. I guess the black-and-white, experimental nature, Paris-of-it-all is enough to classify a film as “art”, but if this is the case with the original Breathless, why can the same moniker of “classic” or “art” be applied to this remake, where Richard Gere uses a tv remote like he’s shooting a gun at high noon while his French girlfriend works at her architecture desk? When we reach the final act of this film, and the iconic climax begins, Richard Gere’s Jesse is far more chaotic but still easier to root for than Michel. But what’s hilarious, and American and so very not French, is the fact that this film doesn’t exactly end in tragedy. Allegedly, test audiences for this film were unhappy with the unhappy ending, so the final result wound up far more ambiguous than planned. Also in very American fashion, the cops looking for Jesse and antagonizing Monica are far more cruel in this film than in the original. It was fun to see a young James Hong briefly but significantly appear, and it was fun to see Los Angeles and, specifically, Venice Beach at this point in time. This film seemed to pay special attention to the cool art and design of the structures and buildings around town that I desperately want to see next time I’m there (if they’re still around.) Listen, I’m not gonna call Breathless (1983) a masterpiece, but after watching films like the ambitious and messy Grease 2, it was fun to watch an ambitious and messy movie that didn’t pretend to be anything more than it was capable of. I haven’t given up on watching films from the French New Wave, but after this attempt, I’m just very wary of the moping and meandering and maudlin misfires this era of multicultural mumblecore is capable of. Well, I’ve pissed off enough film nerds and French people for one blog post so I should probably wrap up here, but thank you for reading along this week, mon cheri. I hope you’re ready for Pride Month, dear readers, because I’ve got a fuck-ton of fruity cinema planned. Pardon my French. Au revoir!