Divinely grotesque or grotesquely divine? Bruno Dumont walks this tightrope in his latest farce, “Slack Bay,” unravelling three narrative threads around the picturesque Channel Coast like a circus ringmaster. Degenerate bourgeois families blend with cannibalistic fishermen while a toothless, obese detective bumbles around with his assistant, trying to solve a case of serial disappearances in the area. No one but Dumont could direct a premise like that, and his latest serves as something of a successor to his wonderful “L’il Quinquin,” the helmer continuing to cajole his dark tendencies with ornate buffoonery.
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But, he takes it a touch too far here. Whereas ‘Quinquin’ had a strong center around which all of the action revolved, with “Slack Bay” the center doesn’t hold but levitates (literally at one point) and indulges so much in its own eccentricities that you’re often left wondering what Dumont’s point is.
The Bruforts are local fishermen at Slack Bay, a marshland in the French countryside, and during the summer their time is mostly spent carrying city holidaymakers over the swamps. The bizarre and uppity Van Peteghems are one such family; husband Andre (Fabrice Luchini), wife Isabelle (Valeria Bruni Tedeschi), and their two children. They also bring along their niece, the androgynous Billie (Raph), whose questionable gender is a constant point of reference throughout as she slips in and out of dresses, wigs, and trousers.
The Van Peteghems are joined at their ‘Typhonium’ summer mansion (more like a clunk of towering metal that slipped through God’s fingers and happened there by accident from a previous century) by Andre’s sister Aude (Juliette Binoche) – Billie’s mother – and Isabelle’s oddball brother Christian (Jean-Luc Vincent). Meanwhile, a series of disappearances have brought the superbly overweight Inspector Machin (Didier Despres) and his ginger-freckled assistant Malfoy (Cyril Rigaux) over from Calais to investigate. Machin’s introduction is an absolute riot: after confirming that a little red flag by the beach marks the spot where the missing person was seen last, he starts towards it but, due to his immense size, figures it’d be easier to roll over to it. So he does. The most assured example of a barrel of laughs if there ever was one.
These three intermittent narrative threads bob and weave around each other, anchored by the observing and bitter eyes of Ma Loute Brufort (Brandon Lavieville), who rarely misses a chance to express his feelings with a spit and a squint. The French title is, in fact, “Ma Loute” similar to how “P’tit Quinquin” was titled after its most prominent local resident. In this case, however, even while the feeble romantic subplot that develops between Ma Loute and Billie is meant as the film’s emotional epicenter, the English translation is the better descriptor. If anyone is the central character, it’s the swampy environment itself – continuously referred to as divine, beautiful, magnificent by the vacationers, Slack Bay is just normal for the Bruforts. DP Guillaume Deffontaines does a remarkable job of making the grime and mud photogenic in bountiful cinemascope, but the constantly overcast sky and barren quagmires accentuate how ridiculous the Van Peteghems are every time they bellow out their words of praise.
“Slack Bay” is profoundly physical in its nature and affectations, like a drug that gives you a body buzz but leaves your mind blank. Most of its comedic glory is found in the way characters move and gesticulate; creaking, squeaking, squatting, prancing, flailing, chewing, chortling, slipping and slopping. The film owes as much to the sound department as it does to the performers in terms of producing the laughs. As an ensemble piece, every actor seems to love the indulgence of the film’s insistence on liberal exaggerations, but none are as absorbing to watch as Luchini, Binoche and Despres.
As the biggest star of the lot, Juliette Binoche evokes extra special joy – her intentionally over-the-top melodramatic turn practically laughs in the face of every dramatic role she’s known for. It’s Fabrice Luchini, though, who steals the show. Hunchbacked and rubbery, Andre is a gelatinous weasel that awkwardly slithers around the estate and the bay, mumbling profound nothings. It’s impossible to keep your eyes off him. Most of the other actors are first-timers and locals to Dumont’s provincial France (as it was with ‘Quinquin’); this blend of authenticity is a vital ingredient to the film’s appeal, and the it’s constant toying with fantasy and reality.
Dumont’s dark undercurrents surge under “Slack Bay” and its forcefully burlesque facade, but the film does overstay its welcome and crosses the limits of control in one too many scenes. The grotesque divide separating detached city dwellers from resentful provincial locals, the degenerate nature of the rich, and hardships of fitting in are stowed away under the decadent satire, but the thematics simply don’t leave too much of a lasting residue because it all goes just a little bit too far. From the performances to the repetitive jokes and bizarre actions that have little bearing on anything, “Slack Bay” exhausts you with its intense spirit. Still, as you try to zero in on the method to the madness and your crosshairs keep getting blurred just as they’re about to focus, there’s still something fantastically compelling about the ridiculous, excessive, often very funny and relentlessly offbeat “Slack Bay.” At one point, you just have to let go and enjoy the slapstick absurdities. [B-]
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