One Paragraph Movie Review: Hiroshima Mon Amour
Two hundred and thirty-first film: Hiroshima Mon Amour, a 1959 French film which, on the surface, is about a French actress having an affair with a Japanese architect in Hiroshima. Deeper down though — and it is intensely, relentlessly deep — it’s about comparing a big tragedy experienced by thousands of people to a personal tragedy experienced by one, with a bit of mobius-strip timeline mixed in. Apparently the Frenchiest, newest, and waviest of the French New Wave, there’s some shocking bits, some sexy bits, some up-its-own-arse bits and some deeply poignant bits, all drenched and dripping in endless discussion and contemplation. There’s a heap of self-reflection and wallowing in the past which is not especially my bag, but still manages to be fascinating enough that I repeatedly cocked my head like a kelpie hearing opera for the first time. Leaping from real footage of gruesome post-bomb injuries to softly-lit post-coital coffee and a nod to the madness of grief quickly and brutally, this is worth a watch if you feel like ticking off some significant bits of artsy film history. You’d get something out of seeing it — a weird knot in the pit of your stomach and the urge to drink very small glasses of beer, especially — but won’t feel like you’ve missed out if you haven’t. Two and three quarter amateur village haircuts out of five.