Vendredi Soir

Saw Vendredi Soir. It opens on beautiful shots of the rooftops of Paris. They are deliberate, slow, and kind of cold. We pan slowly to street level to see the chaotic motion of sped-up cars and pedestrians. The slow, measured shot was in fast motion the whole time. The film is like that, a collection of interesting little contradictions. The film is lyrical and ever so slightly magical but always a bit chilly, a bit remote.

The plot follows a woman who is moving. She packs up and takes stock of her possessions, she loads her car full of boxes, and instantly gets stuck in horrible, miles-long bumper-to-bumper traffic. On a generous whim she invites a man into her car. There's a feeling of isolation, like their car is an island at sea and they are the only man, the only woman. We see into shops and into other cars which are their own plexiglass islands with their own inhabitants. The man and woman in the car are together and apart from the world. They are attracted to each other but their romance has a desperate feel to it. Less a consummation of passion than a sharing of loneliness.

The woman is the central character and she's often shot like a figure in an oil painting, beautiful and composed, but still and kind of arid. We are let inside her imagination here and there. At one point the logo on the bumper of the car in front of her dances to the music on her radio. A lampshade magically jumps onto a lamp, which turns on. There's a bit of whimsy and delight which saves this from being an absolute existential bore, but the black of night hovers nearby and things never really get truly heart-warming.

I admit, I fell victim to my favorite vice of nodding off while watching this slow, deliberately paced film, so my analysis may be a bit off (or, you know, I'm just not seeing what's right before my eyes, as usual) but I found the film very pretty, ever-so-slightly magical and interestingly cold.