Jean Eustache’s unwieldy first feature “The Mother and the Whore” — a transfixing 215-minute talkathon, as well as a cause célèbre since its world premiere at the 1973 Cannes Film Festival — feels less like a masterpiece than a rogue asteroid careening toward your particular home planet.
Shown at last year’s New York Film Festival, the 4K digital restoration is screening at Lincoln Center June 23-July 13 as part of a full Eustache retrospective.
Eustache, a onetime critic for Cahiers du Cinéma, considered “The Mother and the Whore” autobiographical. Set in the aftermath of France’s May 1968 civil unrest, it concerns a ménage-à-trois. Alexandre, a voluble slacker played by the embodiment of Parisian youth, Jean-Pierre Léaud, is being kept by the slightly older Marie (Bernadette Lafont, herself a New Wave signifier) while he pursues a young, sexually liberated nurse, Veronika (Eustache’s former lover Françoise Lebrun).
Alexandre is a creature of impulse and a monster of insistence. Adopting and discarding attitudes, he is given to absurd, self-hypnotizing rants that fascinate Veronika, charm Marie, and appall the viewer as when he holds forth on the satisfaction of washing dishes while watching Marie perform the chore.
A dandy who reads Proust and listens to Édith Piaf, Alexandre is obsessed with the past, mainly the aborted revolution of 1968. He is also delusional. “What novel do you think you’re in?” exclaims a former girlfriend whom he has ambushed to make a manic proposal of marriage.
Marie, sufficiently grounded to own a boutique (although she and Alexandre live like students with a mattress on the floor), is indulgent and emotional. Veronika, self-contained and frank about her active sex life, is perhaps as crazy as Alexandre. Certainly, as her final soliloquy reveals, she is the most desperate of the three. A neophyte actor caught between two icons, Lebrun delivers an extraordinary performance.
“The Mother and the Whore” is largely conversations, in cafes, parked cars and bed. It is filled with movie references but, as suggested by Alexandre’s ex, feels as dense and psychologically resonant as a novel — maybe one by Dostoyevsky. Viewing despair through the prism of sex, the movie has things in common with “Last Tango in Paris,” including Léaud. It is, however, a more anguished and compassionate film. In not quite the last word, a petulant Marie puts on a scratched LP to serenade us with the jaunty bitterness of Piaf’s self-reflexive “Les Amants de Paris.”
In 1974, “The Mother and the Whore” was brutally reviewed by the New York Times critic Nora Sayre, who lambasted the film as a reversion to “the movie-sludge of the nineteen-fifties.” There’s nothing particularly ’50s here except the black-and-white cinematography, but Sayre’s complaint is telling: “The discoveries of the last decade have been erased. Or else the sixties never happened.” Exactly. The movie is a eulogy.
Eustache made several more personal features before killing himself in 1981. The French critic Serge Daney called him “an ethnologist of his own reality,” adding that Eustache gave a face to the “lost children” of May ’68: “Without him, nothing would have remained of them.”
The Mother and the Whore
Through July 13 at Film at Lincoln Center, Manhattan; filmlinc.org.
