UNDER THE SAND (François Ozon, 2001) R

Reviewed: April 14th, 2002

Here is an astonishing film; remarkable in its deceptive simplicity, shattering in its power and utterly hypnotic. Woody Allen's Stardust Memories contains a sequence during which--using jumpcuts and holding an extreme facial closeup--Allen shows Charlotte Rampling's character undergoing some sort of breakdown. Under the Sand plays as if co-writer/director François Ozon and Rampling took that scene, stretched it out to feature length and expanded upon its genius.

I can say the plot in a few sentences and yet still tell you nothing: A woman goes on vacation with her husband. They go to the beach. The husband goes for a swim and vanishes. The wife deals with the ramifications.

But that setup belies this film's innumerable achievements.

Rarely, if ever, have I seen a movie which deals with grief and loss and pain and sadness in such an uncompromising, forceful, mesmerizing way. Very few filmmakers are making movies as honest, moving and convincing as Under the Sand. More than honest-- courageously not manipulative. This movie is a tonic to heal all the hokey melodramatic wounds Hollywood has inflicted upon us.

I had never seen a film by Ozon before this one. Now I must immediately see all his others. Only 33 when he made Under the Sand, Ozon's ability to establish and maintain a nearly imperceptible, unflinching... feeling, presence, mood, aura--I don't even know what to call it--of unease and mystery, is awe-inspiring. Ozon's visuals are masterful in the ways they explain what words would take much longer to and thus the ways they cut exposition to a bare minimum. He is a director unlike any I've ever experienced and Under the Sand announces him as one of the best currently working. At every step of the way we are on the same page as Ozon, not just the same page but the same sentence, same word, same letter... a truly rare and difficult feat for any filmmaker to accomplish. The audience responds on an innate, basic, emotional level to every moment of this film.

However: as talented as Ozon is, Under the Sand belongs to its star, Charlotte Rampling. She owns this movie. She is in every scene. To see her on screen is to be reminded why movies are the world's most popular art form. To see Rampling on screen is also to be immersed in acting of more (often simultaneous) immediacy and delicacy and desperation and authority and control than you ever thought possible. There is a scene in which Rampling is quite literally called to act with just her eyes (a mask is covering the rest of her face) and the effect blew me away.

You want to save her so badly.

There are long stretches of silence in Under the Sand that are far more captivating than the fastest moving scenes in most other films. This is partly Ozon's doing but probably has more to do with Rampling's performance. Even to simply watch Charlotte Rampling go about her daily routine is to be held powerless under her spell. Having risen to fame in the 60s and 70s, Rampling saw her career decline a bit in the last two decades. Under the Sand proves beyond any doubt that Rampling is one of the greatest actresses in cinema history.

I don't wanna even think about how Rampling failed to be Oscar nominated last year for this film. Her role bears much in common with Sissy Spacek's much-heralded In the Bedroom turn--that of a middle-aged woman consumed with unspoken heartbreak, struggling to make sense of a family tragedy--but it is far more complex and accomplished (if for no other reason than Spacek was a supporting character whereas, again, Rampling is in every single scene). What their performances also share is a spellbinding restraint.

This film is flawless and as precisely crafted as a Swiss watch. Viewing Under the Sand's ending is like taking a master class in "How To End A Film."

At a time when I find myself constantly complaining about films that fail to challenge the audience, here is one that dares to.

I hope I have not made this film sound depressing. It is not. There is a pure, irrepressible joy in watching artists operate at the pinnacle of their mediums that cannot be described. And there are small but great pleasures hidden within Rampling's character.

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