To believe the film’s title, this mid-60’s cinematic endeavor is meant to be a foray into the universal; a story so accessible, so unfailingly applicable, that each and every one of us can, within its framework, see a bit of ourselves. Perhaps a lot of ourselves. Take a man – any man – and yes, a woman – any woman – stir in some longing, some walks along the beach, and of course, an iconic score, and presto, a film for the ages. A Palme d’Or winner. The Best Foreign Film at that year’s Oscars, along with Best Screenplay. Nominations for Best Actress (Anouk Aimee) and Best Director (Claude Lelouch). A film so of its era, so unabashedly adored, that even notorious grouch Pauline Kael is rumored to have sent a little love its way. Yessir, in those wide-eyed salad days before things went all topsy-turvy and turmoil reigned, the consensus was clear – from the man in the street to the highest of ivory towers – A Man and a Woman was a masterpiece. The last, best word on amour, maybe life itself. Everything to follow would be but a pale imitation.
Bullshit. With a side of get fucked. Promised the moon – love and loss as a yarn only the French can spin – I got instead a face full of crap. Betrayal. Two hours of banality masquerading as insight. A film purportedly about those first, tentative whispers of connection in the face of tragedy, what instead unspooled before me was but a kiss or two amidst an endless documentary on Le Mans. For every hug along the shore, or meet-cute with children in tow, we endure “the Man” (Jean-Louis) at the track testing race cars. Over and over again. Without pause. I half expected him (or the director) to break the fourth wall, give us a knowing wink, and spit, “Is good, yes?” Contempt for the audience, by all means, but little more than a sop to compliant critics. It was 1966, after all. The French New Wave still roaring strong; a time when anyone could do anything, slap it between credits, and all would be pronounced as high art. Even Godard thought it was a bridge too far.
Does it have to make sense? Of course not. Should it? Debatable. But what I will not stand for is the standard bait and switch. If it’s love, dammit, give me love. I’ll even forgive a bit of the sentimental. But scene after scene of cars going fast, slowing down, and occasionally crashing? Maybe there’s an allegory at work. Perhaps. When the automobile obsession actually connects to the story (during a flashback, Jean-Louis hits a wall and is rushed to the hospital), it leads to a series of scenes so absurd, any emotional impact is blunted by sheer stupidity.
Okay, Jean-Louis is critical. Stiff as a board and in a coma. Death seems likely. His wife shows up at the hospital and is understandably concerned. She cracks. Cracks big time. Yes, my friends, she kills herself. Before last rites. Before the grim doctor puts a hand on her shoulder. Before anything that even remotely resembles the end. Clearly the bitch was and is out of her fucking mind. So if we are to feel for Jean-Louis (as we flash forward again to his new romance), we cannot help but conclude that he escaped toxicity personified. Sure, he’s a widower, but when the late wife was a Grade A nutter, who the hell cares? Good riddance to bad rubbish, as they say.
And then there’s the matter of Anne’s late husband. Yes, she too had allegedly experienced great loss. And so, with more flashbacks, we meet the poor sap. When he wasn’t being obnoxious, he was idiotic. And when he moved on from that, he decided to sing. A lot. Without pause. Did I mention he was a stuntman? Naturally, his line of work leads to his own death, whereby he steps on an explosive during a shoot. Shocking and sad? Maybe, in another movie, but here, it’s handled with all the restraint of a Monty Python sketch. Maybe I’m hardened beyond salvation at this point in my existence, but I do know that when a great couple is torn asunder by fire and flame, an eyeroll should not be the response. In each case, for our Man and Woman, we rejoice that they now have the opportunity to romance anew. What they left behind was, at best, a ridiculous farce. Sure, each coupling produced a child, but again, never mind. At best, an afterthought.
Hope springs eternal, as always, so as Anne and Jean-Louis find their footing, we feel a tad optimistic. Maybe those deaths were for the best and what follows can be a better, more syrupy course. Again, fine in theory. But in A Man and a Woman, we are given the scraps from the table rather than the expected hearty meal. Stand-ins for humanity should, I believe, do more – much more – than make us long to change the channel. Sure, a scene or two hits home (Anouk Aimee uses her face to greater effect than most actors use their whole body), but all that does is remind the audience that things could have gone much better. Especially for Anne. Instead of expanding her talents to flesh out her character, she stops the movie cold again and again with her incessant longing for a careless dullard.
Sure, you’re allowed to mourn, but if it’s all but impossible to move on, perhaps dating mere hours after the sot was buried wasn’t an idea for the ages. And when she makes love to Jean-Louis at long last, yet can’t shake her demons, what should have been an emotional roller coaster turns into a parody of a feminine hygiene commercial. If her memories of her late husband are assumed to be the peak of passion, we’d all better close up humanity and go home. Unless your strongest memories involve riding bareback amongst the lilacs. Or rolling around in the ice and snow while giggling. Time and time again – even in movies people swear are the classics – great love affairs are continually reduced to antics best enjoyed by children and the mentally deranged. But if staring at someone with unblinking ferocity while waves crash around you is your go-to image as life ebbs, well, perhaps you too will sign on to the A Man and a Woman fan club.
But as I always say, if this is what you want romance to be, it’s no wonder almost all relationships end in resentment, divorce, adultery, or murder. You can’t take shit for granted. Can’t throw us a title and gimmicks and expect our allegiance. You have to prove it. Break new ground. Expand the very definition of love. Use the new standards of a revolutionary decade to demonstrate that we’re more than our forefathers, only with updated attire. Hell, maybe we’ve always been this boring and there’s nothing we can do about it. A man and a woman, thrown together, are always going to let us down. So are a man and a man. Though a woman and a woman can be hot. Whatever the case, shock us. Rock our foundations. Dig deep and stake a claim for the previously unseen. But racing to the train station to set things right? Been there, done that, and no one left alive would ever believe it.