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A wildly charitable viewer might chronicle this as an ecological documentary. Less than 90 minutes spellbind us from the primordial cuteness of the American South-West (a Good Thing) to the squalor of a Manhattan rush hour (a Remorseful Thing); and in instance you placid don’t become enthusiastic about the message, there’s plenty of dated-lapse photography to arrange people look like machines, and an apocalyptic short by Philip Glass to tell you below average for mettle to awaken visual pleasure in New York’s skyline. At once maudlin and doggedly derisive, the peel gives you the uncomfortable furor of being condescended to by an idiot; it is, transparently, a product of the advanced technology it purports to despise. The title, by the way, is pilfered from the Hopi tongue and means ‘vacuous hippy’.

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Bruno Dumont's latest takes languid look at cop's psyche

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Friday, June 23, 2000

DON'T BE suspicious of Bruno Dumont's "Humanité" because it's an
other long, winding meditation, seemingly on length itself, that won big
at Cannes last year. The film is staggering, gorgeously ambiguous. It's also
terrestrial, languid, bizarrely erotic, remote and happy to wear its
existentialism like a set of designer rosary beads. Read: vociferously in search
of greatness – or rather in search of having greatness thrust upon it. Either
way, in spite of its invitation to inflict cynicism upon it, it's ultimately
extraordinary.

With his opening long shot of a body stalking from one end of the frame to
the other, Dumont tells you that he'll be taking his time pushing "Humanité"
toward the breaking point of art-house-ness. It turns out the man is a cop in a
small working town in the northern France, and his name is Pharaon de Winter,
played by a piercing, subdued Emmanuel Schotté. Minutes later we discover that
the stain on his psyche is a dead girl, whom we see splayed in a nearby field.
The camera lingers on it

long enough to understand why Pharaon spends the rest of the film sporting
that lost, helpless look. Did he do it? Does he think he did it? Dumont raises
the question as pure philosophy: asking what the consequence is for such
urgently spongelike sensitivity. You're never certain whether Domino (Séverine
Caneele), the strapping factory worker a few houses down, with the joker
boyfriend (Philippe Tullier) has aroused his concern or some combination of his
libido, his heart and his curiosity. The three spend a great deal of time
together doing nothing, just the same.

With his large, absorbent eyes and slow, deliberate, softly childlike
manner of speaking, Pharaon seems far less a cop that an easily traumatized
Sisyphus, trying to salve evil, evidently to no avail – although, we do see
Pharaon conquer a grueling hill on his 10-speed. We also see his interior life,
the way his innocence and his anger coalesce into a joy to be alive that
guiltily can't quite bring itself to beam: There is still too much suffering in
the world.

Dumont has his sights on the tradition of great "slow" directors like
Tarkovsy, Kiarostami and, most blatantly, Kubrick – men often in pursuit of a
handsome shot of ugliness. Also important for Dumont is the overlapping of the
senses in the formation of perception. Pharaon doesn't have a sixth sense, but
the five he possesses are so intense, they take on a bewildering
metaphysicality. Dumont himself has chosen tactility as the film's primary
sense: Pharaon comes to understand that which his flesh has touched. He is the
flip side of the redeemed racist cur in Dumont's first film, 1997's "Life of
Jesus." Casting Pharaon in a quietly Messianic glow, Dumont appears to be making
soul-stirring reparations for false advertising in "Jesus."

Movie Review

'Humanité'

CAST Emmanuel Schotté, Séverine Caneele, Philippe Tullier

WRITER-DIRECTOR Bruno Dumont

NOT RATED

THEATER Lumiere

EVALUATION * * * 1/2 <

This article appeared on page

C – 3

of the Examiner

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God-forsaken 'Humanité' winds its way into one man's mind
Articles
DON'T BE under suspicion of Bruno Dumont's "Humanité" because it's an other yearn, winding meditation, seemingly on length itself, that won big at Cannes last year. The cover is staggering, gorgeously ambiguous. It's also…

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While Rudy Giuliani’s designate is not in the least pronounced, the references to the former mayor-turned-national hero’s tenure as top inhibit of NYC are cloudless in “People I Be informed,” whose bitingly critical scrutiny of the days might disclose why Miramax’s still-pending U.S. release has been continually pushed back. But this compelling 24-hour odyssey into the life of a world-weary Gotham publicist, driven by a vivid performance from Al Pacino, deserves some theatrical disclosure (although pic has already popped up on airlines). Consideration sensitivity over its portrayal of the rotten underbelly of repute, politics and the power elite, knowledgeable urban audiences both in the U.S. and abroad should tap into the textured drama’s incisive script and fascinating characters, fueling arthouse mileage.

Shot in early 2001 and just completing post when the events of Sept. 11 changed the rules overnight regarding screen depictions of New York, this brooding character study-cum-thriller couldn’t have come along at a more inopportune time. The much discussed shot in which Pacino’s drugs and booze-addled character, in a post-binge haze, sees the World Trade towers lying on their sides has been removed. But even with that strategic cut, the film’s cynicism could hardly play more abrasively against the mood of renewal and rehabilitation in wounded Gotham.

A not-so-distant relative of Sydney Falco in “Sweet Smell of Success,” Eli Wurman (Pacino) is a Georgia Jew whose youthful involvement in the civil rights movement, along with his morality, has been put aside to serve a now-depleted client list. Moth-eaten and almost washed-up, he’s angling to redeem himself by organizing a benefit for imprisoned Nigerian immigrants without green cards.

Eli is distracted, however, when Cary Launer (Ryan O’Neal), one of his few remaining movie star clients, calls for crisis management. Launer’s affair with druggy TV starlet/model Jilli Hopper (Tea Leoni) causes problems when the girl lands in jail.Launer asks Eli to bail her out and put her on a plane before the scandal can damage his chances in the upcoming Senatorial race.

But Jilli drags Eli downtown to a luxury Wall Street opium den and sex club. Before being thrown out, Jilli reveals she has a recording gadget with downloadable images of the club’s high-profile clientele including Jewish civic leader Elliot Sharansky (Richard Schiff). Back in Jilli’s hotel room, Eli is on the verge of passing out when an intruder overpowers the girl and sticks her with a fatal overdose.

Unsure of what he witnessed, Eli avoids police to focus on the benefit. Led by the Rev. Lyle Blunt (Bill Nunn), the black community is up in arms about the mayor’s persecution of underprivileged minorities and incensed over the lack of support from the city’s well-heeled Jews.

Eli corners both Blunt and Sharansky and gets them to speak at the benefit. Strong-arming Launer into attending, Eli dangles the star as a carrot to entice the two reluctant adversaries.

Sleep-deprived, ailing and becoming visibly unhinged, Eli underestimates the danger from his knowledge of Jilli’s murder and possession of the incriminating recording device. His vulnerability is further heightened by the presence in town of his widowed sister-in-law, Victoria (Kim Basinger), for whom his feelings clearly run deeper than friendship.

Adopting a colorful Southern accent and looking distinctly haggard, Pacino conveys a very cogent sense of Eli’s drained state. Also palpable is the self-loathing over the direction his life has taken, squandering his Harvard law background to be a celebrity lapdog. Ranking alongside “The Insider” as Pacino’s best, most controlled work in some time, it’s a pained, exposed performance that rivets attention even as playwright Jon Robin Baitz’s script veers at times into murky ambiguity.

The drama’s kinship with ’70s anti-establishment thrillers is underlined by a poster on Eli’s office wall for “The Parallax View.” But the information on manipulation of the Senate campaign by Sharansky and his cronies is too sketchy. Likewise the pic’s ending, which cleverly aligns Eli’s downfall with his media triumph and represents an audaciously downbeat conclusion rather than a Hollywood-style cop-out, but under-defines certain key climactic events.

Generally, however, the screenplay is taut and intelligent, sizzling with enough sharp dialogue and dark humor to coast over its flaws. In addition to the unseen mayor, clear parallels between fictional characters and their real-life counterparts add to the caustic edge. Womanizing, politically ambitious Cary Launer appears inspired by Warren Beatty, while Rev. Blunt owes much to Al Sharpton. Eli himself is believed to be modeled after legendary press agent Bobby Zarem, who has publicly denied the similarities.

Director Dan Algrant (”Naked in New York”) keeps a propulsive grip on the action, communicating a dizzying sense of Eli’s determination while working on diminishing reserves of strength and lucidity and trying to sidestep entanglement in politics.

Cast is uniformly terrific. In a small but significant role, Basinger radiates tenderness, intelligence and hope; Leoni shapes a raw but nuanced character out of the jaded party girl; and Schiff brings chilly authority to Sharansky, amusingly playing off Nunn’s performance of empowered umbrage as the black reverend. O’Neal combines professional public-profile charm with self-centered focus, and Mark Webber registers sympathetically as Eli’s put-upon assistant.

Peter Deming’s gritty lensing puts an appropriately seedy gloss on the Manhattan settings, while Terence Blanchard’s cool, jazz-tinged score quietly fuels the suspense.