When not collaborating with Wes Anderson as writer on films like The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou and Fantastic Mr. Fox, Noah Baumbach has an affinity for making audiences uncomfortable through disjointed family dramas (The Squid and the Whale, Margot at the Wedding) and bipolar character studies (Greenberg). What I find most interesting is his desire to stir sympathy in the audience for the types of flawed people seldom seen on screen. It is a noble pursuit, and one which is mined to great effect in his latest film, Frances Ha. At once a rich portrait of struggling New York artists and a thorny, humorous and deeply moving character sketch.
Frances Handley is a twenty seven year old dance company apprentice and part time beginner class instructor who still lives with her Vassar University roommate, the horn rimmed, sniffy Sophie (Mickey Sumner). The two spend their time play fighting in the park, dawdling around the F Line—at one point Frances urinates on the subway tracks as Sophie serves as lookout—and gourmet cooking (though Frances seldom cleans up after herself). Once they settle for the night, Frances playfully asks her to recount the story of when they first met as Sophie asks her to take off her socks. The two actresses show such a great level of comfort with one another in these early scenes that I wouldn't be surprised to learn they are in fact playing variations themselves.
However, once a guy named "Patch" starts demanding more of Sophie's attention via her email-capable phone a hairline rift is birthed in their relationship. Eventually, Sophie decides to dislodge herself from France's devil-may-care gravitational pull by bailing on the apartment lease and moving in with him. Now on her own, Frances drifts in the half footed pursuit of refuge. First stop is the company of two pampered comic writers, Lev and Benji.
Under less capable hands, the film could have devolved into navel gazing, but fortunately Baumach never boxes Frances' sociable personality. It is the sort of unpatronizing character work touch reminiscent of John Cassavettes, Jim Jarmusch and Claude Chabrol. There are no expository character moments that facilitate an audience accustomed to Hollywood hand-holding.
In tandem with the digital black and white cinematography, the use of tableaux structure recalls the films of the French New Wave, specifically Agnes Varda's Cleo from 5 to 7, Jean Luc Godard's Vivre as Vie (which is a great deal more cynical than Frances Ha), and briefly, the films of Francois Truffaut (whose 400 Blows can be heard during a couch date between Benji and Frances). Though the film wears its influences on its sleeve, it marries form and function in an unassuming way.
The simple camera set ups, most typically unbroken "one" or "two shots" that favor faces, align with the the core themes of the screenplay. Cinematographer, Sam Levy, simply shoots Frances' mania, the bric-à-brac on the shelves of the homes she visits, and the busy socializing of city bars and streets. In essence, how the constantly in-flux clutter gently wrestles with the static frame mirrors Frances perpetual movement, but stunted maturity. Her refusal to compromise (in the form of serviceable desk job at the dance studio), drives much of the action of the film. There is a brief shot in the second act of her bare feet standing on the pavement that comments on her transient nature.
As Frances' career decisions become increasingly impulsive, and the contrast between she and her seemingly blossoming late twenties friends is further elaborated, more unabbreviated heartbreak was evoked in me than the whole of Baumbach's past work. There were a handful of scenes saturated with the tragic sense of flittering away years of one's life that almost dared me to look away. Luckily, unlike many recent films that go no further than fetishizing caprice and empty pockets, Frances Ha poses a sincere solution too sweet to reveal here. Again, naturalistic movement without the limitation of authorial condescension pave the way for a resolution that is both effervescent and profound.
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The Incredible Burt Wonderstone (dir. Don Scardino, 2013)
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