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Festivals

Sor­ry Angel – first look review

11 May 2018

Words by David Jenkins

Two smiling people embracing in an office setting with bookshelves and artwork.
Two smiling people embracing in an office setting with bookshelves and artwork.
This elo­quent and expres­sive gay romance from Christophe Hon­oré is one of the director’s finest achievements.

There was a point in the mid-2000s where Christophe Hon­oré was all set to become knight­ed as a house­hold name among a beloved pha­lanx of urbane, crowd-pleas­ing French auteurs. He had a stock­pile of great ideas, a iron­ic sense of humour, an ency­clopaedic knowl­edge of art and pop cul­ture, and a one-film-a-year work eth­ic. And then, at the moment of his inau­gu­ra­tion, he just didn’t turn up, scur­ry­ing back to the fringes for close to a decade of noodling, exper­i­men­ta­tion and films which felt more like play­ful sketch­es than robust artworks.

Well, as you can prob­a­bly guess from this some­what hack­neyed (re)introduction, Honoré’s back, baby, and his new film, Sor­ry Angel, sees him new­ly invig­o­rat­ed and mobil­is­ing all of his qual­i­ties as a mak­er of droll, qui­et­ly affect­ing and per­cep­tive human dra­mas. What’s ini­tial­ly strik­ing about this expan­sive new fea­ture is its rich, almost nov­el­is­tic screen­play which takes time to lav­ish in the detail of intense con­ver­sa­tion. Inter­ac­tions here are hard-fought: a per­son who is deserv­ing of more than a way­ward glance also deserves the rare joys of a refined and extend­ed dialogue.

Ail­ing bisex­u­al author Jacques (Pierre Deladon­champs) rarely decides to pick up his phone, leav­ing his many lovers and para­mours to plead their case on his answer­ing machine. It’s the ear­ly 90s and, as the film opens, he has yet to bare the full phys­i­cal and psy­cho­log­i­cal brunt of his Aids diag­no­sis. He man­ages to tran­scend the stig­ma of the dis­ease, float­ing cheer­i­ly through life as an cos­mopoli­tan man of let­ters and still doing his utmost to keep his sex life inter­est­ing. At a film screen­ing of Jane Campion’s The Piano, he meets cute with lit­tle Bre­ton queer” Arthur (Vin­cent Lacoste), a free spir­it with an unabashed sen­ti­men­tal streak.

The film loose­ly charts the com­pli­ca­tions of their romance, though it deals in small incre­ments rather than broad strokes. It’s far more inter­est­ed in the almost mil­i­tary logis­tics of bur­geon­ing pas­sion – the ques­tion of how far Jacques should allow Arthur into his life – than any con­ven­tion­al strains of lugubri­ous melo­dra­ma. There’s prob­a­bly not a sin­gle scene or sequence which stands out on its own, but that’s per­haps part of what makes this film so good: its ded­i­ca­tion to a del­i­cate­ly height­ened form of real­ism which nev­er pulls you away from the inten­si­ty of the moment.

Despite its poten­tial­ly gloomy sub­ject mat­ter, Sor­ry Angel is an affir­ma­tive and some­times jubi­lant film. It says that there are no com­pli­cat­ed peo­ple, only com­pli­cat­ed sit­u­a­tions, and it’s heart­en­ing to see a dra­ma based around com­bustible stand-offs which are all resolved (or, at least, alle­vi­at­ed) through care­ful expres­sion and cap­ti­vat­ing repartee.

Jacques makes for a for­mi­da­ble cen­tral char­ac­ter, one who is trapped in a moment where both past and future are vis­i­ble to him though those in his per­son­al orbit. He dis­plays a giant poster for Rain­er Wern­er Fassbinder’s swan­song, Querelle, in his lounge, and maybe there’s an over­lap in these two lone­some souls whose lives are sud­den­ly enveloped in, and quick­ened by, the prospect of pas­sion and death.

Visu­al­ly the film does what it needs to do, and Hon­oré uses care­ful fram­ing and edit­ing to keep the lengthy dia­logue exchanges engag­ing. There are hot sound­track cuts by such anglophile 90s favourites as Ride, The Sun­days, The Cow­boy Junkie and, of course, there’s M|A|R|R|S’s Pump Up the Vol­ume replete with funky body-pop­ping. There’s a beau­ti­ful moment where Arthur, tak­ing a tourist trek through Paris, vis­its the grave of François Truf­faut, plac­ing a ten­der hand on the cool mar­ble as if griev­ing for a fall­en parent.

Yet this film’s sur­feit of com­pas­sion, and the way it chan­nels human dra­ma through social his­to­ry, con­nect it to the linage of anoth­er French mae­stro who is very much still alive: André Téchiné.

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