Any film with Daniel Auteuil and Sabine Azema is, for my money, worth watching. They are two of the world's great actors, capable of reaching across the full range of the acting spectrum, from explosive emotions to farce to whimsical or dark introspection, as they do in Peindre ou faire l'amour.
Auteuil, he of that magnificent Gallic face, plays a retired meteorologist who, from force of habit perhaps, slips into regular, inane (and humorous) asides about the weather. As his beautiful wife, Azema is a talented landscape painter. They're both in their late 50s, and they decide to retire to the country and live out their golden years in idyllic examinations of wondrous nature and the philosophy of being.
Anyone living in retirement (this writer for example) knows this is a noble idea, but it rarely, if ever, works. Boredom and ennui creep in very quickly after one retires, despite the bullblip and smarmy insurance company agitprop to the contrary. Retirement means disorientation, a separation from routine and self, and the characters in Peindre, etc. demonstrate this very well.
Enter Sergei Lopez, an edgy and terrific actor who so convincingly played the violent and obsessively jealous husband in the Spanish film Sole Mia. In Peindre, etc., he is a blind man who captivates Azema through his disturbing mystique and his super-sensitivity to smell and sound. Lopez's wife is the lovely Amira Casar, and they're called Adam and Eva, not exactly a subtle choice of names by writers-directors (and brothers) Armand and Jean-Marie Larrieu. Lopez and Casar, in the non-Biblical sense, metaphorically create a new world for Auteuil and Azema.
Lopez's character is deceptive; he appears kind, caring, gentle, but beneath it there's mischief, if not malice, brewing: he 'sees' much more than the merely sighted, and he quietly manipulates both Auteuil and Azema, so much so that they begin to alter their lives because of him.
Both couples just casually fall into an adulterous relationship that is done with such minimalist matter-of-factness by the Larrieus that you really wonder if it's happening at all. The mini-'swinging' is done with an unusual lack of fuss -- you won't see the usual (and, these days, hopelessly overdone) surfeit of moaning, writhing and sweating bodies. The adulterous act, a first for Auteuil and Azema, is initially traumatic, but then becomes a galvanizing force in their new, 'retired' lives.
Questions arise: what does love really mean when partners 'switch' for sexual purposes, while still professing profound love for each other? Are they, in fact, REALLY in love? In the midst of their carnality, who are they really deceiving other than each other? Does sex really have any meaning other than self-satisfaction or self-absorption?
I liked this understated film because it skillfully handles difficult subject matter and raises very human questions. The moods of the characters and the film's premises are complemented by magnificent scenery (light, shadow and dark are regularly examined and contrasted). The aesthetic visions of both the artist and the sightless man, who cannot 'see' beauty in the literal sense, but articulates it through other heightened senses, lead you to ask once again the ageless question: what is art?
The haunting music of the late Belgian 'cafe' singer Jacques Brel is a tremendous bonus. Both he and Canada's Leonard Cohen are unmatched in expressing powerful visceral and cerebral poetry in songs that probe the eternal mystery of love and why we somehow, through the eons, have never really understood its source or its power.
Auteuil, he of that magnificent Gallic face, plays a retired meteorologist who, from force of habit perhaps, slips into regular, inane (and humorous) asides about the weather. As his beautiful wife, Azema is a talented landscape painter. They're both in their late 50s, and they decide to retire to the country and live out their golden years in idyllic examinations of wondrous nature and the philosophy of being.
Anyone living in retirement (this writer for example) knows this is a noble idea, but it rarely, if ever, works. Boredom and ennui creep in very quickly after one retires, despite the bullblip and smarmy insurance company agitprop to the contrary. Retirement means disorientation, a separation from routine and self, and the characters in Peindre, etc. demonstrate this very well.
Enter Sergei Lopez, an edgy and terrific actor who so convincingly played the violent and obsessively jealous husband in the Spanish film Sole Mia. In Peindre, etc., he is a blind man who captivates Azema through his disturbing mystique and his super-sensitivity to smell and sound. Lopez's wife is the lovely Amira Casar, and they're called Adam and Eva, not exactly a subtle choice of names by writers-directors (and brothers) Armand and Jean-Marie Larrieu. Lopez and Casar, in the non-Biblical sense, metaphorically create a new world for Auteuil and Azema.
Lopez's character is deceptive; he appears kind, caring, gentle, but beneath it there's mischief, if not malice, brewing: he 'sees' much more than the merely sighted, and he quietly manipulates both Auteuil and Azema, so much so that they begin to alter their lives because of him.
Both couples just casually fall into an adulterous relationship that is done with such minimalist matter-of-factness by the Larrieus that you really wonder if it's happening at all. The mini-'swinging' is done with an unusual lack of fuss -- you won't see the usual (and, these days, hopelessly overdone) surfeit of moaning, writhing and sweating bodies. The adulterous act, a first for Auteuil and Azema, is initially traumatic, but then becomes a galvanizing force in their new, 'retired' lives.
Questions arise: what does love really mean when partners 'switch' for sexual purposes, while still professing profound love for each other? Are they, in fact, REALLY in love? In the midst of their carnality, who are they really deceiving other than each other? Does sex really have any meaning other than self-satisfaction or self-absorption?
I liked this understated film because it skillfully handles difficult subject matter and raises very human questions. The moods of the characters and the film's premises are complemented by magnificent scenery (light, shadow and dark are regularly examined and contrasted). The aesthetic visions of both the artist and the sightless man, who cannot 'see' beauty in the literal sense, but articulates it through other heightened senses, lead you to ask once again the ageless question: what is art?
The haunting music of the late Belgian 'cafe' singer Jacques Brel is a tremendous bonus. Both he and Canada's Leonard Cohen are unmatched in expressing powerful visceral and cerebral poetry in songs that probe the eternal mystery of love and why we somehow, through the eons, have never really understood its source or its power.