On the Adamant (Nicolas Philibert, 2023) (Patreon)

At last year's Berlinale, several competition titles were quite well received, including but not limited to Past Lives, Afire, Music, Suzume, The Shadowless Tower, and BlackBerry. But the Golden Bear seemingly took everyone but the jury by surprise. Nicolas Philibert has had an extensive career as one of the world's most reliable documentary filmmakers, producing expansive, humanist portraits of unique communities. His best known films, In the Land of the Deaf (1992) and To Be and To Have (2002), don't often come up in discussions of the greatest documentaries ever made, but then again, I've never found anyone who's seen them that didn't admire them.

On the Adamant is the work of a grand old man, an artist in complete command of his medium, able to make precisely the film he wants to. Perhaps this is what impressed the Kristen Stewart-led Berlinale jury, or maybe it was the subject itself. An intensive look at the goings-on at a floating community center for the mentally ill, On the Adamant shares certain intellectual traits with late Wiseman. It is a loving but straightforward tribute to social services, and possibly a benedictory look at a functional liberal democracy. Philibert, however, is more explicit in his aims than Wiseman, ending On the Adamant with a warning. This center supports one of Paris's most vulnerable populations, but Philibert asks "for how long?"

Although it has been many years since I've seen Philibert's earlier films, On the Adamant reminded me of both the virtues and vices of the filmmaker's style. The documentary is open and discursive, admirably avoiding the narrative-building and fixation on story that's so in vogue with nonfiction film and television. We observe art lessons, musical performances, management meetings, a sewing class, and the operation of a nonprofit coffee house on board the docked ship. Philibert also provides us with leisurely conversations with and between the "patients." (The Adamant is affiliated with a psychiatry program, but it seems that some people may participate on a walk-in basis.) And early on, Philibert and his sound man are more than willing to answer their interviewees' questions, allowing a gentle back-and-forth.

But this loosely structured, all-inclusive approach means that On the Adamant moves in fits and starts. Not all the subjects are equally compelling, and this places the viewer in the awkward position of getting bored with certain "performers." (One canny patient explains that everyone on the ship is performing, but they don't know it.) The opening scene, with musician Francois singing a punk protest song, is electrifying. Later we see him composing an original song at his keyboard, and the combination of pathos and philosophical depth suggests an unlikely combination of Daniel Johnston and Jacques Brel.

But as we recall from Wiseman's Titicut Follies, mental health is not meant to be a talent show. Some of the artists are genuinely gifted, while others are simply manic or agitated. I'm not sure whether this ambivalent response speaks to some odd subtext Philibert is locating in the Adamant experiment. But from a humanist standpoint, all of these people are worthy subjects, all (as they say) children of God. And when some of them are producing intricate Kandinsky-like canvases and others are ranting about how Wim Wenders ripped off his life for Paris, Texas, I'm not sure what to take away from On the Adamant. Some people are presumably healthier than others, but it seems like some of them (like Catherine the dancer) may have been caught at their worst moments. And without a broader structure, there's no way to know who these people really are. And while I don't expect Philibert to spoon-feed me the answers, I also think that On the Adamant should give me a clearer sense of who these men and women are than I would get by simply bumping into them on the street.