Dear Shaded
Viewers and Diane,
Amour, Love. In his most recent, most deserved Palme
d'Or Mr. Haneke softens his touch to enter the very private rooms of the heart,
where indeed permanent love resides. Amour
is an indoor pain, so intimate and so very human, so quiet and terrible and
miraculous, and the camera moves gently through its few doors, like a caress on
an deep open wound. Haneke wonders love in its final act, when death comes in
calmly, slowly, in no dramatic or aesthetic way, the attenuated, inevitable
betrayal of the body. It's love through the gradual loss of dignity and
memories, kept safe between its solid walls with Paris firmly out the window
but for a pigeon or two. Emmanuelle Riva, who was already flawless 53 years ago
in Hiroshima Mon Amour, meets once again
and just as perfectly the difficult themes of memory, love and loss. Jean Louis
Trintignant is her husband Georges, who with no kisses nor tears reveals an
emotion that has never seemed so true. Where The White Ribbon could vaunt the sharpness of its black and whites,
Amour melts into pale, soft nuances
of beiges and grays, soothing and delicate, and yet ever so tenderly sad.
Later,
Silvia
