Amateur (1994, Hal Hartley) (Patreon)

62/100

Second viewing, last seen during its original theatrical run*. At that point, I hadn't yet connected with Hartley, and Amateur didn't change my mind (Henry Fool would be my gateway); it was among the first bunch of films I "reviewed" upon launching my website later that year, and I pretty much shrugged: 

Hartley has a substantial cult following, but I've never gotten more than the mildest enjoyment from his films. I was hoping Amateur might be the exception, but once again I found pleasure only in isolated moments—a brief exchange of dialogue here, an off-kilter composition there. The deadpan style of acting Hartley favors is supplemented here with a fair amount of what can only be called Zaniness, and I just didn't find it as funny as many others seem to. Your mileage may vary. Parker Posey and an actor whose name I didn't catch [2023: Dwight Ewell] appear in my favorite scene.

A bit surprised that I knew Posey by name, as I'd seen her only in Dazed and Confused. Though she does make an impression. Anyway, having subsequently been knocked on my ass by another look at Trust,I'd hoped for a similar revelation here, and am sorry to report that it failed to materialize (though I do like the film significantly more now; my previous estimated rating was 53). To oversimplify matters in a way that I'll be contradicting momentarily: Elina Löwensohn + Damian Young = uproarious, whereas Isabelle Huppert + Martin Donovan = huh? My original complaint about Zaniness can only refer to Edward's deranged pantomime after he's been electrocuted and left for dead, which consistently cracked me up this time around—outright howled at the chaotic choreography of Young stumbling in and out of frame as if the entire world were a ship on stormy seas, his hair zapped into the heavens, herky-jerkily shooting the remaining bad guy (as he stumbles in a straight line) from multiple angles. Other overtly comedic elements, e.g. Pamela Stewart's overly empathetic police officer and the superior who keeps yelling at her to toughen up, likewise delight. Hell, Amateur even more or less tied Tarantino—Hartley's film premiered at Cannes '94, just down the Croisette from Pulp Fiction—for chatty hit men who regale their victims with philosophical bullshit. ("A 'useful thing,' in terms of classic capitalism. I studied economics, I know what I'm talking about." [Rips her nylons so he'll be able to take pliers to her toes.]) Not that either one invented that trope, but you get the idea. Primo peak indie stuff.

Isabelle, on the other hand...I dunno. Meaning both the character (likewise named Isabelle) and Huppert herself. I should note that Amateur was in effect my introduction to this legend, as I had yet to see any of her work in France, or even Heaven's Gate; in '95, I knew her solely as the elegant woman who inexplicably has an affair with Steve Guttenberg in The Bedroom Window, which isn't what you'd call a memorable showcase. And while I suspect that Hartley wrote the role with Huppert in mind, given that he used her own first name, his sensibility proves a challenge for an actor, however great, to whom English doesn't come naturally. Most of his dialogue only works when it's blithely rattled off, and you can't do that in a language you haven't completely internalized; when Thomas asks Isabelle who the hit men are, and she replies "They work for a highly respectable yet ultimately sinister international corporation with political connections," Huppert's slight hesitation with the verbiage (she throws in pauses) kinda kills the humor. On top of which, the whole idea of a porn-writing nymphomaniac who's never had sex feels overly precious, even by Hartley's absurdist standard. She's a goofy cipher played bizarrely straight, and Huppert frequently looks lost. Donovan, an old hand at Hartley World, fares much better, but he's playing someone whose predicament is arguably weightier than the antic tone of this movie can bear. An amnesiac who slowly discovers that he was a horrible person, and has to wrestle with the question of whether or not said individual still lurks within him—that's quite heady, and Hartley doesn't devote much time or energy to exploring it, being too busy juggling everything else. Which gives Amateur a big ol' vacuum where its emotional core ought to be. 

Until the final few minutes, that is, which unexpectedly walloped me. Turns out Hartley could afford to give "Who is Thomas?" short shrift because he knew he was building toward not just one but two absolutely perfect endings, one right after the other. [Spoilers follow. Also sweetness.] First, the cop—same one who'd repeatedly upbraided Officer Melville for getting weepy; previously a purely comedic figure—kneels down to look at Thomas' corpse, then sadly tells the shooter, "This isn't him" (because they were looking for Edward). Couldn't imagine a more perfect final line, answering the existential question with tragic irony...and then Hartley tops by it with the truly gutting final exchange, which does in fact demand Huppert-level dramatic chops and retroactively makes me understand why he cast her, even if it doesn't strengthen the performance as a whole in hindsight. "Excuse me, miss. Do you know this man?" How many takes did it require, I wonder, for Huppert to produce a single tear running down her cheek between "Yes," her look down at Thomas, and raising her head again? "I know this man." Neglecting your primary theme for so long and then bringing it home with such power with literally seconds to go qualifies as a minor miracle.

* At the Angelika Film Center in NYC...which was highly amusing, as the café scene with Sofia and Edward was shot in the Angelika's lobby (which doubles as a café). First time I'd ever watched a movie and seen the very location at which I was doing so suddenly show up onscreen; I can only recall one other such instance—some Woody Allen film ca. 2000–2008 (probably Hollywood Ending) features a screening-room scene that was shot in...I've forgotten the name of the room in the Brill Building, but that's also where I saw it. Anyway, not sure whether the Angelika has since been remodeled to such an extent that it's no longer easily recognizable in Amateur (a friend who moved to New York within the past decade didn't ID it), but I fuckin' lived in that theater ca. 1992–95 and can still remember first wondering just from the riser visible below the windows. (You can't really see that it's a riser, but people would sit on it while waiting.)

And then this out-of-focus poster behind Damian Young was not set dressing—it's a vintage foreign-language movie poster that was just inside the Angelika's front doors (and might still be, for all I know; don't recall it coming down prior to my leaving the city in mid-2009). Wish I could remember which film it was. 

But the clincher occurs a bit later, when Sofia calls Jacques while standing next to one of the Angelika's structural pillars ringed with a handy metal surface on which to rest your bag, cup of coffee, whatever. Probably spent cumulative hours leaning against those while waiting for my movie to be called. (The theaters themselves are downstairs, you wait upstairs.) I feel like they must still be there unless whatever remodeling occurred was very very extensive indeed. 

This has been a needlessly specific footnote for New Yorkers only.