Blue is the Warmest Colour

Dear Monya Galbi, First Assistant Director,

Many people are obsessing over the lesbian sex scenes in Blue is the Warmest Colour. They’re too graphic! Too long! Too hetero! The media focus, meanwhile, has shifted to extratextual analysis about the on-set treatment of the actresses by director Abdellatif Kechiche. But you seem to have escaped the controversy. Not surprising, perhaps, since many people outside the industry don’t understand the role of a First A.D. Well, lucky you. Because this film deserves to be seen and discussed, but you should probably also bear some responsibility for the faults.

As you know, in filmmaking the director is the top of the creative food chain. He or she, therefore, receives an unbalanced percentage of the praise and criticism when a film is released (and shifting that balance is the very reason we write these open-letters). Blue is the Warmest Colour is receiving uncommon levels on both accounts – winning the prestigious 2013 Palme d’Or at Cannes but now suffering backlash from the story’s original author, the actresses, and even parts of the LGBT community. It would be almost impossible for anyone to see the film right now without having heard something about that. Too bad, because that shouldn’t be leading the discussion (or a review, for that matter); but it is. So let’s clear the air.

You’re obviously a trusted collaborator of Kechiche, having been an assistant director for his past three feature films: Games of Love and Chance (2003), The Secret of the Grain (2007) and Black Venus (2010).  You know how he works, and can no doubt anticipate his demands better than anyone. This is important, because you’re the one responsible for the mechanics of the shoot, like overseeing the management of the set-ups, the schedule and the actors. If someone ever needed to pull the director aside because he was being unreasonable, it’s you. However, if you treated your role more like an obedient servant, well then you probably thought anything goes in the service of art. Which it sounds like you did. So the next logical question is, was it worth it?

Speaking as a critic, yes, it was (if I was in the labour union, it might be another story). The emotional complexities Adèle Exarchopoulos delivers are quite mesmerizing. If Kechiche obsessed over her performance as much as his camera lingers on her face in close-up, then it’s no wonder the process felt so invasive. The film refuses to let her escape our gaze, from numerous shots of her sleeping, eating, and, of course, having sex. Her expressions and even physical appearance appear to morph before our eyes as her character struggles with her blossoming sexuality. The blue-haired object of Adèle’s affections, played by Léa Seydoux, is equally able in her role as an emerging artist and confident individual. Though her screen time is much more limited, it’s the interplay between the two that wins the day.

Yes, Blue is The Warmest Colour is a film all about relationships (both on- and off-set, it seems). But this powerful and effective emphasis can be a problem for both the characters themselves and the filmmaking. The art direction, for example, is often painfully lazy. During a picnic scene, it feels like the whole art department gave up and just went blue – from jean jackets, to shirts, to pants, to backpacks, to hair.  The characters also lose sight of their professional ambitions when their relationship gets in the way. And in that vein, maybe you felt too close to the director to ever say no to his demands.

Yet ultimately, for Blue is The Warmest Colour, the ends may have justified the means. But on a thousand other films where actress will be pressured to give more and bear more, that won’t be the case. So please, don’t be afraid to step in next time.

Sincerely,

Christopher 

Status: Air Mail (4/5)

Machete Kills

Dear Elise and Electra Avellan, “Actors”,

How do I put this nicely? Without even knowing who you were, I could smell the nepotism the second you appeared onscreen in Machete Kills. Put bluntly, it was your lack of sex appeal. You play nurses dressed like…well, actual nurses (the kinds that help people, but with machine guns). Unfortunately there’s just no place for that kind of conservative reality in this exploitation universe. But this kind of mistake is typical when family members are cast. Your beloved uncle has castrated his earlier vision of the Mexican vigilante with boring violence, recycled gags, and silhouetted sex scenes. Machete has become a bloody Austin Powers ripoff. Unacceptable.

The worst offense of all, of course, is the film’s lack of nudity.

Female nudity, particularly. There’s none. I know that we’re not supposed to come right out and say it (as esteemed film critics), but it’s true. The original Machete was a testosterone paradise of bullets, blood and boobs. And, yes, all three are equally crucial to the success of the genre. Comedies need to create laughs. Dramas need to create empathy. Horror movies need to inspire fear and science fiction needs to inspire awe. So when it comes to BIG DUMB B-movies, one needs to create a world where boyish fantasies come true. Not just with a hero-saves-the-day story, but the naughty stuff. The look-over-your-shoulder-in-case-your-parents-suddenly-walk-in experience. I can’t tell you how many movies me and other young men have sat through on the mere titillating prospect.

Unfortunately, Chekov’s proverbial machine gun bra never does come off.

So why am I directing this complaint at you? Because you’re close to the film’s director/writer/producer/editor/cinematographer/composer Robert Rodriguez.

As his nieces, you’re probably too close – and that’s the problem. He needs to hack away the guilty conscience that obviously interfered with the making of this film. You were both in the original film (fully clothed, of course), and that film really hit the right balance of parody and excitement. But something has changed. The fun is gone and Machete Kills is simply going through the motions.

For example, Alexa Vega is all grown-up and sexed-up in the film after starring in four Spy Kids movies with Rodriguez. However, as confidently as she fills out the full metal bra and assless chaps, there’s a clear guilt in his camera’s male gaze that refuses to linger. I don’t think she even gets a line of dialogue. His regret of giving her the Spring Breakers/Miley Cyrus treatment is obvious. He’s starting to feel like a dirty old man, and we can tell.

Well, tell him to move over. Because some of us have clearly not grown up and want our B-movies back.

Pouting in the corner,

Christopher

Status: Return to Sender (2/5)

Lovelace

Dear David Beneke, Dental Prosthetics,

Hey, watch the teeth!

That’s a phrase nobody involved in a porno ever wants to hear—even back in the 70s. Same thing applies to a film that’s about making porn in the ‘70s. It just ruins the magic. Kills the vibe. Makes the whole thing feel forced. Frankly, if someone has to say it: you’re doing a sloppy job.

The good news is, I never once noticed your teeth. You performed like a pro. Just like Linda Lovelace in the X-rated blockbuster Deep Throat. Which also worries me— were you horrifically taken advantage of, too?

Hey, it’s possible. With so many stars on set, who’s to say you weren’t pressured to do a few favours on the side? Maybe a courtesy polish for Amanda Seyfried, who was probably looking for any excuse to smile after recreating the abuse and rape that her character endured in real-life? Maybe James Franco needed some help scraping the residual plaque from his Spring Breakers grill to portray Hugh Hefner? Maybe Peter Sarsgaard begged for a total orthodontic reconstruction so he’d never have to portray another snaggle-toothed creep ever again? The stories you must have! I can hardly wait for your inevitable tell-all book that reveals everything that went on behind the scenes of Lovelace.

I expect you’ll take the lead of co-directors Rob Epstein and Jeffrey Friedman by telling us the whole tale the way we expect it happened. It will be an artistic rendition, with straightforward but pleasing cinematography, well-designed period details and comfortable pacing that allows the characters to feel like the flesh-and-blood counterparts they’re portraying. The first half of the story will only hint at the mistreatment. Then, at the midway point, we can go back to fill in the gaps and see how glossed-over the first story really was.

This is the most fascinating aspect of Lovelace. But the problem is, like a set of dentures, no matter how accurate the molds and fittings they’re still artificial. The film never acknowledges Lovelace’s tendency to contradict her own statements, her pendulous back-and-forth swing in and out of the feminist movement, and it certainly fails to mention her involvement in the bestiality film Dogarama that preceded Deep Throat (I guess there are some cavities best left unfilled).

So get to work. If Deep Throat could make $600M dollars, I’m sure you can cash in on the public’s oral fixation too.

Keep your chin up,

Christopher

Status: Standard Delivery (3/5)