Review: Passages

Director:  Ira Sachs

Stars:  Franz Rogowski, Adèle Exarchopoulos, Ben Whishaw

Tomas (Franz Rogowski) and Martin (Ben Whishaw) are in bed having an argument, but it’s no ordinary argument. At least, not cinematically speaking. Tomas has his back to us. The room is dim. Tomas is on the bed, Martin is in it. But thanks to the position of the camera, Martin is completely obscured from view. Tomas eclipses him. And director Ira Sachs keeps him hidden, accentuating the imbalance.

It’s one of a handful of such scenes which use blocking to articulate the disparate notions of space and freedom in Tomas’ relationships, which are multiple, taciturn and catastrophic. He’s a walking, cycling and fucking disaster zone of self-interest, and one of the toughest and most frustrating protagonists to have graced art-house screens all year. Welcome to Ira Sachs’ much-lauded, superbly acted but risibly bourgeoisie ménage à trois.

Tomas has recently completed shooting on his latest film when he meets Agathe (Adèle Exarchopoulos) and they pursue an irresistible mutual attraction. This is a new and exciting world for him, having never had a sexual relationship with a woman before. The manner in which he breezily announces this to his husband Martin is one of the first insights into Tomas’ borderline sociopathic approach. Swept up in his own excitement, Tomas chooses Agathe over Martin and the two men separate. Over the course of a dizzying summer, jealousy and indecision wreak havoc between the three of them, all pirouetting outward from a man who wants everything, regardless of the cost.

Passages is extraordinarily well acted from its central trio. Whishaw stays within the comfort zone he knows so well; Martin is a tender, quiet and thoughtful man. Exarchopoulos continues a welcome run of easily rendered, naturalistic performances as Agathe, and its great to see her thriving on screen currently. Rogowski is, frankly, one of the best actors around presently – one of this writer’s personal favourite screen presences – and he tumbles into Tomas’s chaotic nature with gusto. Sachs keys in on him. Presents him in constant movement – usually on his bicycle – accentuating the character’s freewheeling spirit.

Sachs, an American filmmaker presently enjoying an extended sojourn in Europe, is clearly enamoured with a certain interplay of French cinema here. Passages has the knotty, diaristic feel of Rohmer, while the playfulness with composition harks back to the heyday of the New Wave, when Godard was busy ripping up the rulebook. The forward propulsion, meanwhile, is right out of the Hansen-Løve playbook. But this scrapbooking can feel like Sachs tilting at windmills.

At a later stage in the film it has a beautiful breather. An elegant black man (William Nadylan) sits at a piano and sings, and his voice is like Anohni’s. The characters are in a rustic studio apartment somewhere in Paris. Candles and wine bottles. Vintage clothes. And intentionally or not Passages suddenly felt to me like a daydream of the French middle class, playing out a fantasy of creative libertines that I couldn’t help but question. It’s a wonderfully romantic notion but does it exist? I’m sure such scenes occur in Paris, no doubt. But something intangible about Passages made me question its own sincerity. It felt both natural, beautiful and contrived.

Passages has earned note for its explicit, naturalistic sex scenes. They are indeed well-shot and orchestrated (kudos again to the performers), adding to our understanding of the emotions of the characters (I won’t entertain the Twitter-based argument that sex has no place in movies; grow up). But I wonder, without them, would the movie have garnered anywhere near as much note as it has? If you were to excise them, Passages might largely slip anonymously into the litter of such films that cycle anonymously on and off of MUBI every year.

I’m wrestling still with Tomas; a character I came to hate wholeheartedly as Sachs doggedly kept him our focus here (by contrast Martin and particularly Agathe are barely sketched). Rationally – objectively – I know that a dislikeable protagonist doesn’t equal a bad film (a worrying take I see over and over again of late). But the sense of frustration generated in me by Tomas was seismic. Maybe because I’ve known people who are like him, and because Sachs’ observation that some people just don’t change is true. As a character study Passages is right on the money.

But where can such a film go? What is its trajectory other than a disastrous straight line? Sachs’ last film Frankie had a more talky, middle-aged feel and was greeted with a muted reception. I liked it, and at least it had an ending. Passages seems to just stop, mid-flight, because it seems wise for it to do so, having worn out its good graces.

It is very well made and superbly played, but its also a bit of a terrible time that I wouldn’t much wish on anyone.