Under the Sand

Summer. [July 20, 2001, specifically.] It's a great time for fans of stupid entertainment. There's never more quality stupid entertainment around than during summer. But even the most ardent devotee of explosions, potty humor or wacky romantic complications occasionally needs a cinematic breather - a film in which the characters have real depth, a film in which good and evil are not opposing forces so much as malleable concepts, a film which comes to an uncertain conclusion from which no obvious moral lessons can be drawn.

One of these films is "Under the Sand," a recent import from France, the world capital of this type of filmmaking. While it is not perfect, the stunning contribution of actress Charlotte Rampling and the general ambiguity and realism of the whole enterprise make it both a perfect antidote to the excesses of summer and a fine film indeed in its own right.

The plot is very simple. Marie (Rampling) and Jean (Bruno Cremer) have been married for a long time, and each is used to the little pleasures, oddities and silences of life with the other. They take a holiday at a country cottage, and their relief from the daily grind is palpable. They go out to the beach and, after rubbing sunscreen on his wife's back, Jean goes for a swim and never comes back.

The remainder of the film follows Marie as she attempts, with varying degrees of success, to re-enter the daily grind without her husband. There are things in this re-entry which do not make a lot of practical sense, whose meaning must be interpolated by an audience willing to make the attempt. Unfortunately, some of these things are rather familiar, such as Jean's cameo appearances from under the sea in Marie's mind.

Fortunately, Rampling gives a performance which clears away all objections to the plot: expressive, sensual, taut, and vital by turns. She commands deference when the camera is on her (i.e., all the time) with a control and poise that mask her art; we do not perceive Rampling the actress but Marie the character, even at moments of strain or erotic transcendence. The film treats her like a mature beauty, too, and she is that; even with her flair dampened by the recent events, we can see why other men might want to try their luck with this fifty-six-year-old.

Director Francois Ozon controls the tone of this film effortlessly by making very few attempts to control it. The film itself seems mostly interested but disinterested, not "rooting" for Marie to overcome her grief but merely (merely!) observing her attempts to do so scrupulously and fairly. When he does actively create emotion, he does so skillfully, as in the heartbreaking scene of Marie riding the fluorescent-lit Parisian Metro accompanied by one of the simpler, sadder Chopin Preludes.

But mostly, Ozon's direction lets Rampling's performance blossom, and blossom it does. There is nothing easy about this film: there are no therapeutic "breakthroughs," no answers provided from a multi-choice list, no judgments made as to how one can make meaning for oneself. That is because none of these things exist in real life, either. Marie navigates her new existence without obvious direction or purpose, simply trying to stay afloat and move somewhere; Rampling makes this unnervingly, painfully clear. It is this achievement, seemingly modest but quite powerful, that we should celebrate by taking a brief break from "Action Movie #487" and seeing "Under the Sand." After seeing it, you might just find that you've learned a little more about life outside the theater.

OUI, ET ON NE S'ARRETE JAMAIS

I always feel like I have to really clearly explain why French movies are good because I spend so much time making fun of the French otherwise. Hey, France: love your movies, cheese, food in general, art, music, architecture, literature, and long, distinguished history. Now stop pretending that socialism is a real economic system and that (most) postmodern scholarship is useful for anything but getting tenure for postmodern scholars. Merci beaucoup.

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