Frantz – first look review | Little White Lies

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Frantz – first look review

03 Sep 2016

Black and white portrait of two individuals in profile, a man and a woman, both wearing formal attire.
Black and white portrait of two individuals in profile, a man and a woman, both wearing formal attire.
François Ozon returns with a full-bod­ied tale of stunt­ed romance and the pained lega­cy of warfare.

Guilt, sor­row and regret hang heavy in the air of the cob­bled streets of Quedlin­burg, Ger­many in 1919 where we meet a young woman all dressed in black as she makes her way to the grave of her late fiancé. She stops to admire the fab­ric of a drop-waist dress in a shop win­dow, pick­ing up flow­ers for her week­ly rit­u­al, her heels clack­ing loud­ly on the pave­ment. And so the scene is ele­gant­ly set for François Ozon’s reimag­in­ing of Ernst Lubitsch’s 1932 film, Bro­ken Lul­la­by. It’s an epic and roman­tic exam­i­na­tion of grief and the hos­til­i­ty between France and Ger­many in the post World War One era that also paus­es to admire the cul­tur­al rich­es from both nations.

Anna (Paula Beer) is in mourn­ing for Frantz Hoffmeis­ter who was killed in the war less than one month before it end­ed. Liv­ing with his par­ents she offers what com­fort she can, but their loss is over­whelm­ing. When a mys­te­ri­ous French stranger, Adrien Rivoire (Pierre Niney) appears in town claim­ing to have known Frantz while he was study­ing in Paris, the fam­i­ly wel­come him in, ardent­ly lis­ten­ing to splen­did sto­ries about their son. The truth is, Adrien is har­bour­ing a secret, but the mys­tery of what exact­ly it is isn’t revealed until the mid-way point, and Ozon, as ever, keeps his audi­ence guessing.

The film plays out most­ly in crisp black and white, occa­sion­al­ly switch­ing to colour when warm­ing tales of time spent with Frantz are wist­ful­ly remem­bered. The first time this hap­pens, Adrien speaks of a tour of the Lou­vre where the pair of friends admired Manet’s work togeth­er. Sump­tu­ous images of art and archi­tec­ture are accom­pa­nied by orches­tral music, all adding to the pitch-per­fect ambi­ence of this pre­cise and poet­ic peri­od piece.

Com­pos­er and long-time Ozon col­lab­o­ra­tor, Philippe Rom­bi, weaves his cus­tom­ary mag­ic, with music play­ing a huge part in Adrien and Anna’s com­plex and evolv­ing rela­tion­ship. They duet, with Adrien play­ing vio­lin and Anna tin­kling the ivories, and each fal­ter in their abil­i­ty to per­form due to their grief. They waltz, recite poet­ry and wan­der along the precipice of cliffs over­look­ing shim­mer­ing and invit­ing water. When they vis­it Frantz’s grave­side a breeze rus­tles through the leaves. The recur­ring motif of the wind of change may be on the nose but it’s in fit­ting with Ozon’s vision.

When Adrien even­tu­al­ly reveals his secret to Anna he flees from Ger­many and she is left to deal with the con­se­quences. From this point on, you’re con­tin­u­al­ly root­ing for them to reunite and so Anna begins a jour­ney of her own, with Beer mak­ing the switch from naïve wid­ow to con­fi­dent explor­er with ease. Niney doesn’t entire­ly hold his own against Beer, but their bond is grace­ful­ly shaped. His con­trolled dis­plays of thorny emo­tions occa­sion­al­ly lacks for the sim­mer­ing pas­sion that would’ve invest­ed in Adrien’s noble quest with meaning.

The col­lec­tive sad­ness of the sto­ic fathers’ who sent their sons to war is con­veyed through still­ness, with the men seen sit­ting in the local bar sip­ping on steins and drown­ing their sor­rows. A scene where the locals turn on Frantz’s father, due to his accep­tance of Adrien, details their anger and dis­may through quiv­er­ing of lips and sus­pi­cious glances.

Ozon has craft­ed a haunt­ing but hope­ful por­trait of how for­give­ness can ease pain and love can over­come the heav­i­est of bur­dens. It’s an affec­tion­ate and melo­dra­mat­ic, mus­ing on the things we lose in war and the futil­i­ty of it all.

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