Breathless (directed by Jean-Luc Godard)
by Kevin Murphy
It’s secretly satisfying to mimic a gesture plucked from the hero of a famous movie; what’s even better is when you don’t mean to do it. So when I caught myself running my thumb across my lips, I had to smile and pay a quick homage to Michel Poiccard, the hero of ‘Breathless.’
And paying homage to Michel means paying homage to Humphrey Bogart, the hound of lore to whom Jean-Luc Godard splatters attention in his volcanic debut as full-length film director.
Bogart had a knack for dragging his digit across his sullen numbers. The gesture was a performance of contemplation, executed with the slow deliberation of a man acknowledging heavy circumstances. In ‘Breathless,’ Michel does it like a cinema-lush smitten with the champion of rainy days, pausing to gaze at a poster of ‘The Harder They Fall’ while evading capture for killing a cop with a pistol shot to the gut.
You see, Michel’s an impulsive guy unwilling to sacrifice his desires for civility or grace. When he needs a car, he simply steals one, dashing off to his next destination without a care or caution. He manages to swipe money in a pinch and chain smoke cartoonishly large cigarettes up and down the streets of Paris, maneuvering across the traffic with the dire agility of a tainted urban angel. He is French through and through, a sensual lover of women, existential to the bone, brittle under pressure but smooth facing adversity. He’s capable of pole vaulting from one philosophical parlor to the next, and does so only after polishing his shoes with the International Herald Tribune. He adores Patricia, his sometime girlfriend and bullseye of relentless lust, and would happily lick the sidewalk if she’d only accompany him to Rome. He’s obtuse and calculating, romantic and a boor, a spot of dander mixed with restraint. But with all these traits and circumstances he manages to remain undefined, a mishmash of numerous influences convoluted to the point of fracture, a man destined for nothing greater than the comprehension of his ever-changing personality.
But again, you have to wonder where he’s hiding that personality. After he steals a car and waxes on about the French countryside and the cowardice of women drivers, a policeman stops Michel. Without hesitation he pops one into the cop. He flees, leaving in his wake a dead authority figure and apparently any hint of responsibility, reflection or remorse. In a short time he’s huffing after Patricia, more committed to his cause with her than with the need to escape or surrender.
So at root he should be determined a slouch, a young guy without morals or direction, but there is within him a redeeming quality (he is the hero after all), and throughout the film a sense of freedom and vigor override any forecast of defeat.
Perhaps this quality stems from Michel’s lack of everyday morals. He is driven not by the guilt of his crimes but by a deeper intangible, a spirited rebellion that defies all that intrudes upon the salvation of his individualistic existence.
Of course with Michel we’re talking existentialism, and he seems to have inherited each of his philosophies throughout the production of this film. Present here is not a traditional narrative in which a character is compromised and ultimately dealt the moral blow of justice. Instead, in the end, when Michel does taste the pucker of his sins, it is an act of simple occurrence rather than redemptive contrition. He is not forgiven or granted sympathy, he merely ends, just as the movie does, with one final burp of what he’s eaten his entire life.
This holds true for the character of this film’s direction as well. When first released in 1960, Godard’s vision was a cannonball. It introduced jumpy edits, characters speaking to the audience, natural lighting and handheld cameras. It was an extension of what was happening in the story, a new line of life cast into the cinematic sea with all the reckless strength of a daring original.
The film pops with a jazzy soundtrack; it has the illuminated dance of the Paris streets as its set and does not flinch when it announces things are going to be different from here on out.
Much like Camus’s writing, though, existentialist ideals are crammed into oddball exchanges of dialogue and plot lines; there’s the sense of being brainwashed, utilizing a movie or book as a backdrop to a more imperative aim, and in the end, if the messages don’t rub you the right way, ‘Breathless’ can be like a pretty girl who won’t stop talking about her ex-boyfriend.
Ultimately though, it’s a film that will help you recognize your cinematic tastes. Today’s successful performances seem to be offered with subtle grace, roles in which actors seamlessly transform and export their character’s intellect and blood without charging the audience a courtesy toll. Here though, everything’s a dupe, a caricature of admiration and aspiration. It’s melodramatic and teeters towards overkill, an obvious attempt to zap an unapologetic jolt into what was judged a sleepy period in French film, but it’s supposed to be like that, and it’s what gives this movie a unique appeal.
For me, this movie’s charm lies in its ability to strip film of its grandiosity. It delivers inspired, heavy-handed and honest performances. It shimmies through a simple plot with excitement and improvisation, and introduces challenging directorial techniques that refresh a viewer’s experience by getting closer to the entire production’s essence. In the end, it’s a twisted, vibrant celebration of film and all its piercing machinations.
