Tell No One
But I’m telling you.
The "New York Times" did an article on the summer’s best movies. Not the biggest, the ones hyped by the talking heads and magazines that live off their heroes and heroines’ exploits, but the best…the sleepers, the secret pleasures.
I’ve given up on the movies. But like Loudon Wainwright III says on his new album, movies are a mother to me. They entice me, they soothe me, they open my horizons so I see the real world differently, with experienced eyes.
But that song was cut in the seventies. When we were addicted to movies. And rock and roll.
Both existed in the sixties. Some believe music took a turn for the worse in the new decade, but films positively flourished. I once saw four flicks in a day. Two was not unusual, three frequently. And I even went to see Marcel Ophuls’ epic documentary "The Memory Of Justice", which required me to bring lunch in order to endure its 278 minute length.
I did not bring lunch to the Landmark today. I had a Hebrew National hot dog in the lobby before the film began. But this film, which was not brief, did not allow hunger pangs, any outside stimuli to intrude. I was riveted by "Tell No One" from its very first frame.
Which was of an outdoor dinner in the French countryside. Akin to Woody Allen’s depiction of the Catskills in "A Midsummer Night’s Sex Comedy", but with a lot more wine, and even more soul. Because the French are about living.
But not long into the movie someone dies.
The protagonist and his wife go for a late night swim. In an unprotected pond where you fear people are going to drown. But no one drowned. And then it was eight years later.
Alex is now a doctor. Is this a French comedy?
No, this is a thriller, with enough plot twists to be eager for the flick to end, so you can turn to your partner and ask…WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED?
My mother told me she couldn’t figure half of it out, but I chalked that up to age…Â Until.
That’s what got me to go. The article in the "New York Times" caused me to bring the film up to my mother, who let out an exclamation when I mentioned the title that had me knowing it was a winner. And at dinner, Daniel Glass’ eyes bugged out recounting his experience of seeing the movie earlier in the summer. Can you imagine, he had to go to a gig right thereafter!
But we didn’t go to see "Tell No One" right away. We sent to see "Frozen River" first.
On my birthday I went to see "Forgetting Sarah Marshall" and "21". The former wasn’t funny and the latter was a remake of too many pictures I’d already seen. If this passes for Hollywood filmed entertainment, I’m out. But I thought the indies still had soul. Until I was disappointed by "Frozen River". Sure, the performances were great, but there was the script of about half a movie. Makes me crazy. I don’t want my money back, but my time. Even more, I still want to believe there are artists, who are shooting for excellence.
That’s what’s lacking not only in film, but music, excellence. If only the records everybody e-mailed me about were that good. You know greatness. You’re drawn in immediately. You want to play the record again and again, you don’t want the film to end.
I was fearful "Tell No One" would end with no resolution. Actually, that’s one of the few problems, the complete explication in the final minutes. You’re about to get angry, feeling this is another French art film with no resolution. But you don’t get the right to make that complaint. Still, it’s hard to put the flick in an American genre.
The characters are three dimensional. The life depicted feels real. There’s tedium and suspense. Well, not much tedium, but it’s not constantly whiz bang, like in American flicks.
But there are American film elements. Like the chase scene. I didn’t see that coming. In the middle of a French thriller that appeared to be more of a psychological drama? The king is "Bullitt". Runner-up is "To Live And Die In L.A.", wherein they drive against traffic on the freeway. There’s a freeway element in "Tell No One", but it’s harrowing in a way no prior film chase is. You’re not sure what the lead is thinking. You expect one thing to happen, but it doesn’t, then it does…
We live in a dumbed-down society. We’re supposed to lower our expectations. Say something is good because it makes a lot of money, or the audience it appeals to has never been exposed to the classics. At some point you feel you’re just too old, you’ve seen it all. You won’t fall for the machinations of the Hollywood apparatus and you seem to be saying no more than yes.
But you’ll say yes to "Tell No One".
The paper said it was only playing for one more week. So we schlepped to the Landmark, where we sat on a couch and experienced a pristine image better than the one on Felice’s Samsung, which is rare. The sound system was loud enough without making you feel like you were reliving July 4th. And the musical choices… Jeff Buckley’s "Lilac Wine" never sounded that good…
I lost myself on a cool damp night
Actually, it was a typically warm, sunny L.A. day. But with the lights down in the theatre, you could feel the French air.
I gave myself in that misty light
The darkness was pregnant with possibilities. Who was the murderer? And why?
Was hypnotized by a strange delight
At some point in the future, they’re going to remake "Tell No One" with American stars. People you’ve heard of, who you know intimately from the gossip pages. Maybe George Clooney or Brad Pitt. The chase scene will be so over the top as to be completely unrealistic. The gangster will look like a runway model. And the villain will be so one dimensional, so evil, so bad, that he’ll be more of a cartoon than a real person. Grosses could be good, but probably won’t be, despite the hundred million dollar cost. Because it takes an auteur, creating something for the very first time, unrestricted, bending and integrating genres, to come up with something truly new and riveting. Go off by just a couple of degrees and you’ve got crap. Get it right and the audience has a eureka moment, can’t stop talking about the film, needs to tell everybody about it.
Like me. Please go see this movie. If you don’t like it, then I don’t like you.
