Sanity flies out the window, along with facial hair in
La Moustache
.
La Moustache
is an existential dreamscape in which no singular truth presides. The film follows Marc (Vincent Lindon) as his marriage and personal life cascade down a rabbit hole, all brought on by the seemingly mundane act of shaving off his mustache. Those close to him
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reveal they never noticed he had one, and mounting questions of sanity and conspiracy cause Marc to flee his home. In a foreign land his anonymity washes over him like a shield, affording him a comfortable space in which to find himself and perhaps a way back to the woman he loves.
By director Emmanuel Carrère's own admission,
La Moustache
is an exercise in cinema of which not even he knows the meaning. The film is an impressionistic still-life of sorts, frustratingly ridiculous to some, sublimely meaningful to others. It appears as an appealing representation of something commonplace but on closer examination reveals volumes more. Softly luminous and set in Paris,
La Moustache
imposes a reliance on image and gesture, keenly enhanced by the snug frames and smooth camera design of Patrick Blossier. A David Lynchian
Mulholland Drive
wrapped in Francophilian silk, Carrère expands the barriers of reality by employing complete subjectivity while never quantifying the film as a mental fantasy.
La Moustache
is entirely a depiction of what is perceived, felt and thought by the character Marc. Lindon's sensitive performance of a man on the verge of a nervous breakdown endears him and his plight as sincere and almost plausible. In contrast, his wife, Agnes, exquisitely played by Emmanuelle Devos, is only seen and heard through him and therefore comes off as equal parts loving wife and deceitful psychopath. The portrayal of this dynamic is so successful that on occasions when she confronts him with his dementia, it is questionable who is in fact crazy.
It is through Marc's actions that his true personal state is revealed. He prefers to dig in the garbage for bits of his mustache hair and awake Agnes in a rancid frenzy than confront her with pictures of him with a mustache. Characters that confirm his views flitter suspiciously in and out of film in the form of a lovely, blonde policewoman and an implausibly dressed or upset Agnes-representations of the story layers existing in Marc's own mind. Though self-reliant, he places great trust in his wife and, through her, illustrates his own misgivings about himself. She reciprocates with earnest attention and care, the love between them palatable even under the increasingly upsetting circumstances.
Those who prefer tight plot development and a conceivable ending will not find it in
La Moustache
. Some may feel confused by the way characters become engrossed with what, to others,
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would be a humorous personal interaction. Others will feel slighted by the third act of the film, which finds Marc wandering the ferries of Hong Kong, blissfully absorbing his isolation. When his wife magically appears in his
Chinese hotel room, one is not sure how to take it. On one hand, it is a relief that they are reunited, a signal that his wandering has brought him home. On the other, it is a disquieting scenario, through its very existence implying the instability of what he has found.
The film, overall, is enchanting, a journey through a labyrinth of human experience that provides unexpected thrills and adventures. A haunting violin concerto by Philip Glass effectively replaces the need for words, effortlessly conveying the desires and emotional levels of the characters. Stylish yet unobtrusive production design spans an upscale Parisian apartment and a Chinese country inn with equal success. With
La Moustache
, Emmanuel Carrère has taken himself out of the familiar throes of his literary beginnings and successfully established himself as a powerful
auteur du cinéma
.
