Le Havre

Simple story, well and gently told in Kaurismäki's characteristic style.

In the 2011 production LE HAVRE, the Finnish auteur Aki Kaurismäki steps away from his usual Helsinki setting for the first in what will be a trilogy of films in Western European port cities. Always rooting for the underdogs, Kaurismäki this time concentrates not just on the disenfranchised urban lower class, but on a socioeconomic strata arguably lower than them: illegal immigrants. Middle-aged shoeshiner Marcel (André Wilms), who lives in a run-down neighbourhood with loving wife Arletty (Kati Outinen) meets Idrissa (Blondin Miguel), a child who has found his way from Gabon to France inside a shipping container. Marcel decides to shelter the boy and see him on to England, his intended destination, but detective Monet (Jean-Pierre Darroussin) is on their heels. In spite of the French setting, this remains a very Finnish film in its sparse dialogue and deadpan humour. Kaurismäki yet again uses a very drab colour scheme and sets the film ostensibly in the present, but with cars, radios and rock music dating from the 1950s. Like nearly every film he has made, there is a musical performance by an oldies rock 'n' roll band, complete with pompadours and leather jackets. This is getting appallingly repetitive. Basically, if you've seen any two previous Kaurismäki films, then you'll find almost nothing new in the aesthetic and even the plot. That said, this is a more life-affirming film than his last, the absolutely bleak LÄHIKAUPINGIN VALOT of 2006. Kaurismäki is clearly concerned with the plight of those who would escape sub-Saharan Africa by any means necessary, and this leads the viewer to reflection, but his exposé of detention centres and police harrassment becomes heavy-handed at times.

CinemaSerf

Oct 16, 2024

7.0

When a dockworker hears some strange noises emanating from a box recently arrived from Gabon, he's maybe not so surprised to discover that it's cargo is human - and bound for London. Detained by the immigration officials, the young and nimble "Idrissa" (Blondin Miguel) manages to evade his captors and whilst in flight encounters the slightly down-at-heel "Marcel" (André Wilms). The older man takes pity on this nervous new arrival and takes him into his home whilst they decide what's best to do next. It's a small town community and pretty quickly just about everyone at the local pub knows who and where the youngster is, but instead of turning him in, they decide that maybe they can help him. He's no thief, nor malcontent - just a young man bewildered and personable. As "Marcel" begins to learn a little more of his new charge, he determines to try and help him make it to the UK - but with a grudging fifth-columnist amongst their friends and the determined "Insp. Monet" (Jean-Pierre Darroussin) on his trail, things are not going to be a simple case of jumping onto the Eurostar. "Marcel" has other emotional fish to fry, too, as his ailing wife languishes in an hospital facing a prognosis that we, the audience, appreciate but he does not, as yet, know. Choices have to be made and priorities established for everyone as time and circumstances close in. I found there to be a strong and effective dynamic between Wilms and the young Miguel here, and the sparing script allows the characters to breathe and us to observe their respective, and ultimately conjoined, predicaments as the lad struggles without any real roots. At times it has a slightly documentary-style look to it, which adds a little authenticity to the investigative aspects of the drama - a policeman who does his job efficiently, but does he relish it? It packs quite a bit of food for thought into ninety minutes, and does ask us a few questions about our own attitudes - "There but for the grace of God" sort of things. It doesn't attempt to deliver much by way of the relative merits of illegal immigration nor of heinous people trafficking, per se, but again we are presented with a canvas that's drawn by just about everyone - friend and foe - but not much by the young man himself.