Review: Bastards

Les Salauds, or Bastards in English, is a perplexing Gallic Noir from French filmmaker Claire Denis. Recreating a more macabre Raymond Chandler novel, Vincent Lindon stars as the weary Humphrey Bogart lead. He is Marco, a hardboiled sailor who abandons a prodigal, nautical life when his brother-in-law commits suicide. At the same time, his self-harming niece has been discovered wandering the Parisian streets naked, dazed and bloodied. So begins the revenge of Marco.

The pace is slow and contemplative, eschewing a one-thing-leading-to-another narrative in order to drip-feed details. Mood is conjured through atmosphere instead of events. Bastards certainly has buckets of atmosphere. There is good use of lighting, music and speed. In this regard, the film is in the mould of Drive. The effect that this has is to stimulate an emotional rather than rational response. Personally, it made me feel a little mentally ill. The secrets that our macho maritime champion uncovers are not pretty.

Marco is a laconic observer, moved to quick action when need be. He can handle a gun and he can handle himself. The sailor is often seen smoking pensively in his vast, empty French apartment in the early hours of the morning, lit atmospherically by street lights filtering through the blinds. Marco exudes the self-contained gravitas of a man who takes care of business – like any pulp protagonist. The villain of the piece is Edouard Laporte, a rich puppet-master of power and perversion. As sinister as he is, the character is lifted straight out of Polanski’s Chinatown. Much as Marco has replaced Jack Nicholson’s investigator, so has Laporte assumed John Huston’s role. But so utterly identical is the match that it’s a cliché. As will happen in cinema, Marco becomes involved with the neglected mother of Laporte’s child, isolated in ivory tower luxury. Raphaëlle is played by Chiara Mastroianni, daughter of Italian screen legend Marcello. She has her father’s look of detached thoughtfulness which is well-suited to the depressed and lonely Raphaëlle.

The main drawback of Bastards is its structure. Denis has clearly muddled a perfectly simple plot to heighten the suspense or mystery or whatever. But the lack of clarity doesn’t make it cleverer, it just annoys. Marco seems like he has a plan and the films appears to be going somewhere. But it doesn’t, it just fizzles out. Denis has taken Chinatown’s bitter finale and reduced it into a tasteless spoonful of nothing. The characters are so distant that we don’t really care.

France has its own impressive history of Noir cinema. Themes of revenge, murder and injustice have been played out through the chiaroscuro Parisian landscapes a thousand times before. It is these conventions which Bastards tries to subvert, but instead shoots itself in the foot. What could have been a dark, twisted masterpiece, examining the evil depths of humanity, is needlessly turned into a puzzling enigma. And not in a good way. Nonetheless, the style, acting and soundtrack must all be commended – a film for those who like this sort of thing.

Le Suspense