LA HAINE Review
- Jack Eureka
- Sep 22, 2023
- 2 min read
"Small wonder, then, that this century sunned itself in its own accomplishments and looked upon each completed decade as the prelude to a better one. There was as little belief in the possibility of such barbaric declines as wars between the peoples of Europe as there was in witches and ghosts. Our fathers were comfortably saturated with confidence in the unfailing and binding power of tolerance and conciliation. They honestly believed that the divergences and the boundaries between nations and sects would gradually melt away into a common humanity, and that peace and security, the highest of treasures, would be shared by all mankind." — Stefan Zweig,The World of Yesterday, 1942
Sound: helicopter blades, adopted anthems for new revolutions, ticking clocks. Sight: young, seemingly fatherless men fighting in unchanging wars. Feel: hilarity, anxiety, beauty, awe.
The young drawing dividing lines at block and avenue. Uniform and reputation. Age and race. But time also spent just being boys. Entering friends houses and doing as they please, fucking with each other incessantly, confident about everything while knowing absolutely nothing. All the antidote to the environment surrounding. Seeing the entire world through a violent lens suppled by nature or nurture, and it mattering not all the same. Old enough to understand a cause, but young enough to be thoughtless of its actual price. Boys of puffed chests reciting lines as revolutionary war cries, while caving to impulse in spite of consequence on their/the future.
This built around a kinetic, orbital camera. Gorgeously composing banlieue life for three young men. Long takes that never feel forced. Constantly in service to character and place. Elongated malaise countered by spastic edits of violence. Chaos cuts of erupted anger juxtaposed with that boredom before another battle. Minutes, and then hours spent bragging about forged accomplishments masquerading as capital-T, "party time" trophies, only for masks to be ripped off when actual opportunity strikes. A stunning blend of masterful technicals and remarkable naturalism.
A film so fully formed it causes aphasia. Like looking at the Eiffel Tower and trying to articulate how to build it alone, your head gets scrambled in that kind of awe. Kassovitz, Cassel, and Koundé hitting atmospheric highs via talent, fate, or divine hand — I don't know. But I do know it's a miracle. An update on a war cry as old as time: revolution. And of pants falling down again.
The above was taken from my Letterboxd review.