I can be forgiven for anticipating that the latest film from Cédric Klapisch – simply titled “Paris” — would be just a picturesque postcard to the French capital with little to say. Previously, in “The Spanish Apartment,” he told the trifling story of a graduate student’s amorous exchange year in Spain. (When the soundtrack and editing are the two most overpowering artistic impressions, it generally does not bode well for the narrative, and the conclusion to the 2002 release was more foisted than justified.) It was a slideshow of a pretty picture that could have been called “Barcelona.” But with this new movie, Klapisch proficiently juggles a captivating multi-arced story with the contemplative viewpoint of an ailing central character as the jumping off spot. The subplots of numerous city dwellers — some who are very close to the protagonist, most only tangentially connected, at best – are told chiefly with depth, grace and illumination. This time, in “Paris,” the camera is more than a view finder scanning a beautiful, bustling city.
Pierre (Klapisch regular Romain Duris) is a professional dancer in his early 30s who learns he has a serious heart condition and is confined to his modest bachelor pad by the illness as he waits for a transplant. He rests his arms on the balcony railing of his Montmartre apartment, no less than five stories high, and gazes plaintively and admiringly upon the streets fanning out like spokes on a wheel. His older sister, Élise (Juliette Binoche), moves into his small space with her three pre-teen children, to care for Pierre. Élise visits the local outdoor market on a daily basis, getting to know the vendors of the fruit and vegetable stalls, incrementally. (In compelling scenes taking place without Élise, Klapisch, who also wrote the script, keenly reveals the hearty and sometimes thorny after-hours social interaction of these four men and the saucy, beguiling ex-wife of one of the merchants. An early-morning sequence later in the film set in a massive wholesalers’ warehouse is flirtatious and bittersweet.)
Earlier this year, Binoche appeared as the transatlantic travelling sister in Olivier Assayas’ “Summer Hours,” a drama which hinted at more than truly explored the dynamics of mortality weighing upon an affluent family. With Élise, Binoche is provided with a more complete, understandable character as she deals with a myriad of recognizable challenges: caring for the brother she dearly loves; striving for honesty with her children; coping with her job as a social worker; and facing her own romantic vulnerability caused by an ex’s betrayal. It’s a refined, robust performance from Binoche.
From his perch, Pierre sees a radiant young woman, Laetitia (Mélanie Laurent from “Inglourious Basterds”), who lives in a building cater-cornered from his, walking along the street with a carefree, sensuous gait which denotes the freedom he is denied. (Duris is a striking actor and he perceptively captures Pierre’s regularly simultaneous feelings of wonder and wistfulness). Laetitia is a student in a Parisian history class taught by a middle-aged professor named Roland Verneuil (Fabrice Luchini, “Intimate Strangers”). Priggish and bitter, Roland bristles about irksome colleagues and initially derides a TV producer’s overtures to host a program. However, money and vanity sway him. He becomes a television academician appearing in “It was here”-style documentaries, where he recites lectures as he strolls through palatial landmarks while live, costumed historical figures loll about in the background.
Back in his classroom, during a student’s dull presentation, Roland is fixated by Laetitia, and she stirs a dormant poetic fancy, first expressed, cheekily, through text. A fling commences. The curmudgeon vanquished, Roland is rejuvenated; he has the giddy air of Michael Caine’s Elliot in “Hannah and Her Sisters” when he burst “I’m walking on air.” In an uproarious scene at his home, an unrestrained Roland dances in front of Laetitia to a thumping Wilson Pickett tune; he’s in rhythm but out of control. Roland bops with complex, unselfconscious gyrations like an intoxicated Charlie Brown cartoon kid. The invigorated teacher becomes unrecognizable to his younger, architect brother (François Cluzet, “Tell No One”). Luchini handles Roland’s transition wonderfully, his impish eyes twinkling with delight. Laetitia, who has a leather jacketed boyfriend with the sexy ugly allure of Javier Bardem’s younger brother, is merely bemused.
Dancing features in a lovely, sensual and poignant sequence for Pierre. At a crowded, lively party thrown together at his place by Élise, he is joined on the makeshift dance floor by two fellow dance company members performing sultry, precisely choreographed moves to a hypnotic beat. Duris exhibits a sinewy flow to his body, and his face simmers with joy in a clearly ecstatic moment. Intimately photographed by Christophe Beaucame, the camera discovers Pierre gingerly sitting at the end of a couch catching his breath; the hips of others still sway to the music as again, Pierre, sadly, is demoted to the role of spectator.
The film builds upon these scenes, so that the characters’ actions, attitudes and decisions – whether the journey to peace of mind, or the courage to trust in a relationship, or the acceptance that an affair has ended — seem grounded in genuine development. (The least fleshed out episode is the cursory and, ironically, the most attractively shot story which follows the quest of a Cameroonian relative of one of Élise’s clients to reach Paris through perilous travel from Africa.) Unlike “The Spanish Apartment,” this movie earns an affinity for the characters. When the film ends, it’s not a conclusion. “Paris” feels like a terminus a quo.
