Tag: French

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Films

The Father

The Father is playwright, Florian Zeller’s directorial debut. He co-wrote the screenplay with fellow playwright Christopher Hampton based on his own 2012 play, Le Père. I’ve read and written about Le Père on several occasions. It’s an important dementia text in its attempts to allow the audience to see the world through the eyes of someone living with dementia. It is a disorientating, confusing experience but also an incredibly powerful one and none of these sensibilities have been lost in moving the play to the big screen. Though the film still feels reminiscent of a stage play -most of the scenes take place within a handful of rooms- Zeller uses the set to his advantage. The London flat in which the film takes place changes subtly throughout: colour schemes blend, furniture moves and is replaced, and the flat’s layout is almost impossible to comprehend. As in the play, Zeller uses the physical environment of his set to convey a sense of disorientation. It is a very effective technique.

The storyline is a simple one. Anthony, (played impeccably by Anthony Hopkins who received an Oscar for this role), is an older man living with dementia in his daughter’s flat. The daughter, Anne, also beautifully played by Olivia Colman, (honestly this is the cast of dreams), is her father’s sole carer and increasingly distressed by the progress of his illness. Anthony runs through a series of in-house carers. He struggles to get on with anyone. He confuses time. He mistakes Anne’s flat for his own and most worryingly sometimes does not recognise Anne or her husband, (a rather mean, Rufus Sewell). Zeller uses different actors to show the audience what Anthony is seeing when he adamantly insists that this strange woman is not his daughter and this strange man isn’t married to her. The technique is so effective and unsettling that I began to feel as if The Father might be classified as a horror movie. Several of the tropes were present. The domestic familiar made threatening. The oppressive lighting and use of colour. The constant undermining of reality. The set, in particular, reminded me of the house in the Australian horror film The Relic where walls move and doors disappear, mirroring the confusion of a person living with dementia. 

The Father is a difficult watch. It’s beautifully executed and almost perfectly acted by all involved. As an experiment in empathetical viewing it’s really ground-breaking. The viewer is pitched into Anthony’s shoes and spends the following 90 minutes as confused and disorientated as he is. However, there’s little in the way of character development. Aside from a small backstory about his dead daughter we discover very little about Anthony as a man who has lived a long life. For the purpose of the film, he is simply a man with dementia and at times I found this a little reductive though I don’t think Zeller’s intention is to provoke sympathy or even soft empathy for a fully-developed Anthony. He wants the viewer to see the world through the eyes of present day Anthony where dementia has become his dominant narrative. I also appreciated the inclusion of both the examples of elder abuse, (from Anne’s husband), and professional care staff treating Anthony with exemplary kindness and dignity. This is a nuanced portrayal of caring which shows both the worst and best aspects of the care system. One last small point of critique. The characters in The Father are very posh and capable of spending enormous amounts of money on professional care for Anthony. It would be nice to see more examples of working class characters navigating the care system. As frequently noted, there is a distinct lack of diversity when it comes to portraying characters living with dementia. 

The Father was directed by Florian Zeller and released in the UK in June 2021 

Categories
Book Reviews

“About My Mother” by Tahar Ben Jelloun

Translated from the French by Ros Schwartz and Lulu Norman

Tahar is sitting at his mother’s bedside listening to her long-hidden secrets and stories unfold. Lalla Fatma has dementia. She is confused about where and when she’s living. As the novel plays out she frequently digresses back to her childhood in Fez in the 1940s. She’s no longer aware that she’s actually living in Tangier in 2000. In a series of snapshots from her past she talks about her three arranged marriages, her children, her extended family and the friendships she’s had across the years. These flashback scenes were my favourite parts of About My Mother. They are rich with detail and offer a real insight into Moroccan culture, illuminating practices and beliefs I’ve never come across before. In the first half of the novel these flashback sections provide a structure for the narrative, separating the past and the present into distinct chapters. As the novel progresses and Lalla Fatma’s condition becomes worse, time becomes a muddier concept. We flick between past and present at a dizzying speed and the narrative alternates between the impressions and memories of Lalla Fatma and her son.

The text is often disjointed and difficult to follow, mimicking the old woman’s confusion. There are painfully accurate descriptions of how the dementia has affected her temperament. She is particularly harsh towards her live-in carer, a close family friend, and struggles to abandon her independence as she becomes more and more dependent on others for her everyday care. There are also a number of very believable but nonetheless upsetting descriptions of how the aging process has negatively impacted Lalla Fatma’s physicality. Her memories of her own early sexual experiences and her young body contrast sharply with the descriptions of how age and infirmity have left her physical diminished, bedridden and incontinent. 

About My Mother is not an easy read. There are very few moments of levity in the text. It is an intense novel exploring both dementia and female identity within a patriarchal oppressive society. However, what shone through for me was the beautiful language and effortless descriptions of Moroccan culture which conjured up a striking picture of a country I’ve only once visited, but instantly loved. I also found the relationship between Tahar and his mother an incredibly moving one. There’s a deep and clear bond between the two which allows them to find points of connection throughout Lalla Fatma’s illness, right up until the moment of her death.

About My Mother was published by Telegram in 2016 

Categories
Book Reviews

“Gratitude” by Delphine De Vigan

Translated from the French by George Miller

Gratitude is the sixth book by French novelist Delphine De Vigan. It’s a slender little novel, I might even call it a novella, and explores one simple idea in a really beautiful and tender way. Michka is an elderly lady living with dementia in a residential care facility. As her life draws to a close and her mind becomes increasingly confused she becomes more and more intent upon tracing the young couple who hid her from the Nazis as a child. She wishes to express her gratitude to these people before she dies. Marie is a young woman who visits Michka in the care facility. She’s pregnant with her first child and as she transitions into her new role as a mother she becomes more and more grateful for the way Michka cared for her as a child when her own mother was incapable of giving her the support she required. Jerome is a speech therapist who visits Michka twice weekly in order to help her retain her fading language skills. He grows fond of the elderly lady and, as she deteriorates, begins to rethink his broken relationship with his own father. Michka teaches him an important lesson about seizing every opportunity to make amends before it’s too late.

I really enjoyed this little book. Each of the characters is simply but powerfully drawn. The emotions are neither over nor under-played. I particularly appreciated the way De Vigan does not shy away from the more difficult aspects of ageing and dementia. Her story encourages the reader to sit with grief and sadness rather than try to avoid it. “Sometimes you need to acknowledge the void left by loss. Abandon distractions. Accept there’s nothing more to say.” And yet it is also an incredibly uplifting book. There is so much warmth and genuine fondness between the characters it is impossible not to acknowledge that Michka’s experience of her last days and weeks is anything other than meaningful. As the title would suggest, this is a novel about being grateful for the life you have been given, even when that life doesn’t turn out the way you’ve expected. It’s about finding peace in the midst of turmoil. It is a novel shot through with hope.  

I also appreciated the close exploration of how dementia has impacted Michka’s use of language. As a speech therapist Jerome is able to give the reader an insight into the aphasia and linguistic confusion Michka has to navigate every time she tries to speak. It’s intriguing and powerful in the English translation. I only wish my French was good enough to read it in the original version. This isn’t a high concept novel. There’s not a terrible amount of plot. It’s all about De Vigan’s exquisitely drawn characters and the way they pivot around each other, grateful for their friendship with Michka and determined to make the most of it.

Gratitude was published by Bloomsbury in 2021 

Categories
Book Reviews

“I Remain in Darkness” by Annie Ernaux

Translated from the French by Tanya Leslie

This slim volume was my first experience of the French author Annie Ernaux, a writer I’ve been intending to read for quite some time. This particular book has been namechecked in so many essays and articles I’ve read in the last few weeks it felt like the perfect opportunity to begin my reading relationship with Ernaux. I enjoyed I Remain in Darkness so much I have already ordered several more of her books. The writing is razor sharp, analytical and incredibly well-observed. Though it’s often painfully focused on the banal, repetitive and unpleasant aspects of watching a loved one’s journey with Dementia the language is so beautiful and each word so perfectly placed it still reads a little like prose poetry.

“My mother’s colour is fading. To grow old is to fade, to become transparent.”

Chronicling a period of four years, Ernaux sketches small intimate portraits of moments with her mother as an Alzheimer’s diagnosis gradually takes over her life. She’s moved from home into a residential care facility where Ernaux visits her frequently and also give us snapshots into the lives and experiences of the other residents. Much is made of the way Dementia removes privacy and autonomy. This is mostly viewed as a negative consequence of the illness. However, Ernaux also effectively explores the interdependency of the carer/cared for relationship. At times she seems to relish the closeness she’s found in being so intimately involved in her mother’s everyday life. She weaves in allusions to her own childhood, when her mother cared for her, the relationship she has with her two children and the way she is now caring for her mother like a child. There is a sense that this interdependency is both natural and at the same time shameful; that people are designed to care for each other, yet the harsh realities of caring are not something to be openly talked about.

“His mother too is suffering from Alzheimer’s; he talks about in a low voice, he is ashamed. Everyone is ashamed.”

Again and again Ernaux writes of her reluctance to write about her mother’s illness so honestly as if, in doing so, she is violating trust. And yet she cannot stop herself. Her own story is so closely tied to her mother’s story in order to understand herself she must explore her mother’s experience. At one point she goes as far as to say, (of her mother’s body), “the body which I see is also mine.” More than any other first person account I’ve read so far, I Remain in Darkness, seeks to place the carer, (and by default), the reader in a position of intimate empathy with the person who is living with dementia. As such it is a deeply upsetting but essential read.

I Remain in Darkness is a meditation on ageing, family, loss, love and memory which does not shy away from recording the more troubling aspects of Dementia. There is an ongoing focus upon the indignities associated with the illness as Ernaux observes her mother losing both her mental and physical capabilities. There is also humour present here, warmth and an attempt to explore both the present and past self of a person living with Dementia. A lot is left open to interpretation and there’s no attempt made to neatly join up the dots or offer a comforting resolution in the closing pages. As alluded to in the title, Ernaux and her mother remain largely in darkness throughout the book, struggling to find each other in the dark. I felt equally lost at times, yet relished the chance to glimpse what life might be like for a person living with Dementia who is constantly trying to find herself. I would recommend this book as an important read.

I Remain in Darkness was published by Fitzcarraldo Editions in 2020

Categories
Book Reviews

“The Father” by Florian Zeller

Translated from the French by Christopher Hampton

With a big screen adaptation forthcoming later in 2020/early 2021 I thought I’d revisit French novelist and playwright, Florian Zeller’s incredible play Le Père, (or in English, The Father). Zeller makes bold, creative decisions with this play which explores the Dementia experience of an older Frenchman named André. André becomes the lens through which we see the world. The characters, dialogue, time frame and set of the play are all deliberately ambiguous as Zeller attempts to capture the confusion of André’s experience on stage.

The play itself is set in what André takes to be his Parisian apartment, although it is also at times his daughter’s apartment. Zeller’s stage instructions convey the confused nature of this space.

“Simultaneously the same room and a different room. Some furniture has disappeared: as the scenes proceed, the set sheds certain element, until it becomes an empty, neutral space.”

Scenes repeat with slight variations, additions and subtractions to the dialogue. This makes it incredibly difficult to follow any linear time pattern through the play. The audience is catapulted into André’s world where time means very little anymore. The past is the present is the past and memories repeatedly come back to haunt him, whilst other details, like the death of his younger daughter, seem to be permanently misplaced. Most worryingly of all Zeller employs different actors to play André’s daughter and her partner so when he does not recognise Anne or Pierre, the audience understands his confusion because we do not recognise them either. These people might be speaking Anne and Pierre’s lines, but they no longer look anything like them.

The Father is a simple and yet hugely ambitious attempt at embodying the Dementia experience in a piece of art and allowing it to be accessible to the audience members as they watch the play. It incites a feeling of confusion, disorientation and frustration not unlike Dementia itself. However, it is also shot through with moments of heartfelt emotion and beautiful, poignant language such as the section towards the end of the play, when André, greatly diminished by his illness and the confusing experiences he’s been through, likens himself to an Autumnal tree.

“I feel as if… I feel as if I’m losing all my leaves, one after another.”

I’m so looking forward to seeing Florian Zeller’s own film adaptation of The Father later in the year and am confident that the all star cast including Anthony Hopkins, Olivia Colman and Rufus Sewell will do justice to this powerful play.

The Father was published by Faber and Faber in 2015.