Bird People

This one's sneaky.

About halfway through, as Gary (Josh Charles) decides to abandon his responsibilities, I was thinking, "okay, this would make a much better novel, I need to know what this character is thinking, why is he acting this way, apart from the panic attack, more detail, more psychology, without said value-added information, this film's becoming desolate, I have no reason to sympathize with him, no reason, to care."

I thought the film was awful but there were signs that director Pascale Ferran wanted me to think this, a number of shots, including one of Audrey (Anaïs Demoustier) standing by a window, which seemed like extraordinarily well captured moments of unconcerned bubble-gum bliss, like ads for soap or candy bars but exceptionally well done, bearing artistic imprints, working with the content, their exceptional qualities tenderly embracing the beautiful, finding art in lives where banalities pervade, revelations, serendipities, flowing with the material while subtly standing out, making a statement without suggesting anything, banality dematerialized, the life hidden within surfacing, rejoicing.

Then there's this, what?, are writers Ferran and Guillaume Bréaud on acid?, switch, which seems ridiculous and totally out of place at first, but then, as the subsequent action progresses, it's like this is incredibly beautiful, so much fun to watch, to take part in, logic and preparation be damned this is one of the coolest surprises I've seen in a film in years, joyous while remaining vigilant (there's a cat), so glad I didn't walk out, you can see why it's playing at Cinéma EXCƎNTRIS.

Patient, delicate, exploratory, curious, a continuation of the voyeuristic theme that doesn't seem intrusive or flighty.

It's a very cheeky film yet illuminatingly subtle, Ferran playing with her audience, setting it free from predictable preconditioned patterns of observation, tempting it to embrace something new, a soothing transformative catalystic swoon, the art of mesmerizing, discourses of the beautiful.

Wrong

Small talk.

Having the time.

Honestly expressing oneself.

A hard day's work.

The first film that I've seen that takes banal quotidian frustrations and places them generally within a framework resembling something like a bourgeois displacement of Twin Peak's Black/White Lodge, wherein neuroses and hyperanalytic tendencies proceed, full-speed-ahead, even as corporeal and material structures inexplicably change shape and regenerate, the insignificant theoretically becomes essential, and declarations of counterproductive antisocial lassitudes bifurcate, with explanations required and clarifications sought after, a face burned by acid, a formula for hard wiring permanent love, detectives hired to figure out what's already known to have taken place, figure 13-d, it (Wrong) could be qualified as Kafkaesque but the transitions, the hilarious transitions, director Quentin Dupieux isn't only a master of framing confused asymmetrical curious yet despondent facial expressions, again and again and again, it keeps working, he does the same thing when transitioning from scene to scene, meaning that something ornery takes place, the mood becomes anxious, and then we're back to a comfortable pastoral cheery suburban image, overflowing with stability and integrity, happiness and relaxation, there's no job but the bills are paid, let's start again fresh, like you're having a picnic in a meadow, lakeside, surrounded by elk wearing glasses, before hero Dolph Springer (Jack Plotnick) must once again attempt to socially interact, and everyone's notable lack of expertise, or bizarre exhaustive supernatural comprehensions, violently yet sweetly cover things up, like a thunder storm bombarding an idyllic mountain stream.

Pets are important.

Routines are important.

It's important to ask questions.

Scientific exploration has no limits.

Caught somewhere between the anal retentive and the blissfully vacant, Wrong appreciates the ways in which the extroverted ideal (see Susan Cain's informative Quiet: The Power of Introverts in a World that Can't Stop Talking [I love this book!]) has been adopted by oh so many people who were not born to embrace it, but still adamantly attempt to do so.

The key seems to be to buy a pet.

Love it.

End up crushed when it disappears.

And revel in ecstasy when it returns.

Magic: the magic.

Best comedy I've seen in awhile. Stand Up Guys is just as good, but Wrong does it without star power.

Accept for William Fichtner.

Who is now one of my favourite actors.

Almost forgot about the final song.

Still laughing. I'll be thinking about this film and laughing for months.

Dependability.

Wrong defines dependability.

It does.