Film studies

I saw three films at the cinema last month. The first was a French-made job, with subtitles, called A Prophet. It was awarded the accolade of ‘best film’ at Cannes in 2009 and I drove the 20 miles to the arthouse cinema full of optimism. In the café beforehand for a cup of green tea and a slice of carrot cake (I know, I know — ponce), I asked the woman behind the counter if she’d seen it and what it was like.

The still-handsome, slightly intimidating woman in a green apron must have been a real stunner when she was young. She looked at me carefully before answering, as if deciding whether I was worth an honest opinion or not. She’d seen it in London, she said. What had stood out for her was the violence. It was a violent film from start to finish. If I wasn’t prepared for it, I should brace myself.

I wasn’t pleased that she’d put me down as the sensitive type. Oh, violence was fine by me, I said, airily. In fact the only reason I went to the cinema, I said, was to see violence. Violence and maybe special effects. Otherwise I had a low opinion of the medium of film as an art form, and I certainly didn’t take it seriously enough to become emotionally entangled by it.

A Prophet was indeed a violent film. When a homosexual encounter concluded with one chap’s throat being slit with a razor blade, about one in four of us audibly gasped. One thing about the film that truly surprised me was its lack of a discernible moral. Maybe it was too subtle for the likes of me, but I couldn’t think of a single possibility.