Michael Haneke’s 'Happy End' Is Austere, Darkly Comic & Stunning Cinema [Cannes Review]

Shutting the blinds on the warmth that shined through his previous critically-lauded opus “Amour,” Austrian arthouse maestro Michael Haneke is back to doing what he does best: peeling the decadent, bourgeois layers off the European upper class to uncover its festering core full of lies, deceit and misery. The director’s immaculate compositions and sui generis brand of thematic depth suspend “Happy End” with the violent undertones of a high-strung piano wire, creating a nourishing cerebral treat that will nestle itself in the back of the mind to grow forevermore as yet another brilliant entry in the filmmaker’s intimidating catalog. Its sardonic title teases a continuation of the sentimental nuances we’ve seen in “Amour,” but there is no nostalgic side of Haneke to be found here. Instead, this is very much the furious and enraged Haneke we’ve seen in “Benny’s Video,” “The Piano Teacher,” and “Caché,” exposing society’s superficiality and paralysis through a dissection of its emblematic rich class.

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The opening scene, of a woman mysteriously following texted commands while going through her mundane bathroom routine, is shot in a smartphone aspect-ratio and instantly sets the tone of discomfort that will go on to pervade throughout the entire film. You’re not sure whether to laugh at the ridiculous orders (“Brush your hair,” “apply cream,” “piss”) or get disturbed by the blind adherence. More voyeuristic smartphone scenes follow parallel to the opening credits, each more disturbing than the last, until a liberating wide shot lets you breathe — except that the frame is now a video recording, and there’s dead silence. The establishing shot is of a rusty, polluted construction site, moments before a partial wall collapses, injuring a worker. We hear our first off-screen piece of dialogue – “Merde” – coming from the man who’s been watching the scene unfold, and “Happy End” begins. Haneke is unmatched in the way he seamlessly sets his signature ominous tone and methodical rhythm of his films; we’re not five minutes in and voyeuristic alienation has already planted its roots in the film’s ideological construct.

In this toxic environment, we are introduced to the Laurent family. The company in charge of the construction is owned by curmudgeonly 84-year-old Georges (Jean-Louis Trintignan) and handled by his daughter Anne (Isabelle Huppert), who must now cancel plans with her British fiancé (Toby Jones) to try and diffuse the situation. Meanwhile, her brother Thomas (Mathieu Kassovitz) is dealing with a more personal matter: his 13-year-old daughter Eve (Fantine Harduin) must stay with him at the family estate in Calais because Eve’s mother, Thomas’ ex-wife, has been hospitalized. What’s meant to be a natural family reunion turns into a palpably awkward scenario because Thomas hasn’t seen his daughter in years, and lives in Calais with his second wife Anais (Laura Verlinden) and their newborn baby boy. Anne, meanwhile, has her own familial demons to fight with her grown-up son Pierre (Franz Rogowski), who is severely depressed.

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The charade of a functioning family continues while attempted suicides, secret emails full of dark sexual perversions, and pathetic karaoke numbers reveal the misery beneath the facade. There is a clear divide within the Laurent household between those who see and those who are blind: Georges has had enough of it all and, battling dementia, forges a bond with the outsider Eve – who is our silent observer. It is mainly through her that the absurdity of the adult world is revealed, and while the generational estrangement between her and Georges is another one of Haneke’s layers adding to the theme of disjointed connection between relatives, it ultimately builds toward a remarkable conversation where kindred spirits gaze at each other in solemn, defeated recognition. Pierre is the Shakespearean fool of the group who exposes the family’s greatest sins in grand public gestures; a late birthday scene involving the family’s meek and infallibly servile Moroccan cook Jamila (Nabiha Akkari) immediately comes to mind as one of the most excruciating family gathering moments in contemporary cinema. Percolating in this fashion towards its outrageous and sizzling climax, “Happy End” weaves a multitude of threads into a collective noose through its characters and, in pure Haneke style, leaves you reflecting on an entire universe based around our devolved, dehumanized, ugly human ways.

Working with trusted collaborators in DP Christian Berger, editor Monika Willi, the always reliable Huppert (who has at least one clear-cut insta-classic scene to add to her career highlight reel) and the brilliant Trintignan, Haneke moves the Laurents like pieces on an aesthetically-pristine chess board. The camera is either gliding along with them or stuck frozen in place to reveal (in many cases, purposefully avoid revealing) the tragedy unfolding on screen. All throughout, Haneke’s awareness of our spectating gaze is as surgically precise as ever; conversations are drowned out by traffic, key moments are kept in the far foreground, and faces are kept off screen. “Happy End” pulsates with purpose in every frame.

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As with classical composers who build and nurture their musical signature throughout their career, thematic elements, symbols, and situations from every previous Haneke film crash into each other like a glorious symphony in “Happy End.” But thanks in large part to a revelatory standout performance by Harduin, the youngest actor in the formidable ensemble, the film still manages to balance out the old with the new while avoiding turning into pastiche. As disturbing as it is, it also happens to be Haneke’s funniest movie to date and the smartphone aspect ratio, which makes a few comebacks after the impressive opening shots, firmly places the film in the contemporary context of our technology-obsessed world. As an austere and darkly comic family drama, and a scathing commentary about the kind of world our children are living in, “Happy End” is stunning cinema. [A]

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