Audrey Tautou’s three year break from her mainstream outing as Coco Chanel in Coco Avant Chanel has been almost torturous, for there is no modern actress–French or otherwise–with as much charisma and natural beauty. It never seems to matter what role she is inhabiting as she can make any character seem interesting. In co-directors Stéphane Foenkinos and David Foenkinos’ Delicacy (based on David Foenkinos’ novel of the same name), Tautou is showcased at her best: As a vulnerable, uncertain widow unsure if she can trust that true love is possible for a second time in her life.

Promotional poster for Delicacy

Nathalie Kerr (Tautou) has had the rare privilege of finding the love of her life in François (Pio Marmaï), a man who shares her every passion and desire. As the film opens with a long shot of Nathalie serenely walking down a cobble-stoned road to make her way to a cafe, the self-possessed pacing of the film is established. When she finally arrives at the cafe, we see her walk past François, who we assume Nathalie has not met yet. When she sits down, we hear François run through all of the possible drinks she could order in his mind. He promises himself that if she orders an apricot juice, he will talk to her. Of course, this is the exact beverage she chooses. Later, when Nathalie is leaving the cafe, François follows her out and grabs her by the arm to kiss her. It is then that we realize they are celebrating the anniversary of the day they met each other.

The bliss of being in love is shared with Nathalie and François' (Pio Marmaï) parents.

With their relationship at its strongest, François proposes to Nathalie, using his key ring to slip on her finger as an engagement ring. Once they are married, Nathalie gets a job at a firm specializing in Swedish products, largely, it would appear, because of the Director of Operations’, Charles (Bruno Todeschini), attraction to her. Nathalie is able to ignore this glaring fact until François is hit by a car while going for a run and Charles is allowed the opportunity to tactlessly make his move on the now grieving widow.

Nathalie at work. Clearly fond of suffering.

As Nathalie deals with a new life that excludes the person who made it worth living, she is forced to bluntly tell Charles that she may never be capable of being with someone again, but if she was, it definitely would not be with him. Reluctantly, Charles accepts her feelings, still furthering her advancement within the company by promoting her and putting her in charge of an important project that requires her to oversee a group of both Swedish and French employees. One of the Swedes, Markus Lundell (François Damiens), is especially shy and cautious around Nathalie. So it comes as a huge shock to him when, one day–out of nowhere–Nathalie rises from the chair in her office and kisses him. For Markus, it is a kiss of death, causing him to become completely and utterly consumed with the thought of her.

In the wake of her husband's death, Nathalie permits herself a rare moment of release.

When Nathalie acts as though nothing has happened between them, Markus confronts her about it. She apologizes and explains that she was daydreaming when he walked in that day, and wasn’t conscious of her actions at the time. Not willing to just let the incident pass, Markus asks Nathalie to let him take her to dinner. He promises that if she still wants to forget about the kiss after their date, then he will never mention it again. To Markus’ delight, Nathalie agrees. Just as surprised by the date as Markus, Nathalie finds that she is actually enjoying herself at dinner. She even shares personal details of her past that she never would have considered sharing with anyone else (e.g. her obsession with Pez when she lived in the United States as a child).

Both Nathalie and Markus are caught off guard by their attraction to one another.

In spite of their undeniable compatibility, Nathalie is not one for rushing into something just because it is the first time in three years that she has felt any kind of emotion for a man other than François. Mirroring the process of bereavement itself, Delicacy can feel drawn out at times, but, ultimately, every plot point has a purpose: To make Nathalie’s ability to move on seem more authentic.

Regardless of being ousted by the Iranian film, A Separation, in the category for Best Foreign Picture at the Academy Awards, Footnote is an incisive study of the classic battle between father and son, especially when the father and son in question are members of the same competitive profession. As the fourth feature from writer-director Joseph Cedar, Footnote is a story that could only be told by someone who has inhabited the alternate world of Jerusalem. Being that Cedar was born in New York and then moved to Jerusalem where he studied at a Yeshiva High School and later went on to serve in the Israeli Army as a paratrooper, the depth and clarity with which Footnote is conveyed could not have been better suited to any other filmmaker.

Promotional poster for Footnote

As rival professors at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem, Eliezer Shkolnik (Shlomo Bar’aba) and his son, Uriel Shkolnik (Lior Ashkenazi), both take a different approach to their Talmudic research. However, Uriel’s methods have actually gained him recognition and favor among scholars and students alike, whereas Eliezer’s methods have merely alienated him from almost everyone. What is more, Eliezer’s most fervent nemesis, Professor Yehuda Grossman (Micah Lewensohn), is the person in charge of deciding which of the elected candidates in the realm of Talmudic research studies will receive the coveted Israel Prize. Grossman is also, incidentally, the man responsible for eradicating Eliezer’s lifetime of work after confirming the results of his studies before Eliezer had a chance to publish them.

Alternate promotional poster for Footnote

For this, and numerous other reasons, Eliezer holds nothing but contempt for those in the field of philology. In spite of this contempt, he is still at war with the concept of being accepted and revered by the members of his profession. Thus, when he receives a phone call from the Minister of Education informing him that he has won the Israel Prize, Eliezer suddenly becomes much more open to the credibility that comes with rising from obscurity.

Driven to madness.

Unfortunately, the adage, “If something is too good to be true, it is,” proves to be correct in Eliezer’s case as the Israel Prize committee contacts Uriel the next day to discuss an urgent matter with him. Irritated by the secrecy, Uriel complies with the committee’s request to meet with them immediately. Upon arriving at the microscopic meeting room (a setting that allows for comedic gold to ensue), Grossman and the other committee members tell Uriel that there has been a mistake and that the prize was intended for him, not his father. Knowing full well the ramifications of this error, Uriel insists that they all go on as though the prize was meant for Eliezer. Grossman, on the other hand, is vehemently opposed to such disrespect toward the honor of the Israel Prize. Nonetheless, after much arguing (including coming to actual physical blows), Grossman agrees to let Eliezer have the prize so long as Uriel types the judges’ recommendations and promises to never submit his own work to win the prize again.

At odds.

In the wake of letting Eliezer believe he is the true winner, Uriel learns how easy it is for his own father to betray him by slandering his reputation in an interview printed in Hebrew newspaper Haaretz that deems Uriel’s work cursory and childish, essentially amounting to nothing in the Talmudic studies field. Regardless of his father’s callousness, Uriel maintains the secret, sharing it only with his mother in a moment of rage. Unluckily, Uriel fails to realize the obsessiveness with which his father can study a phrase. It is through Eliezer’s meticulous attention to detail that he figures out his own son wrote the judges’ considerations. This epiphany sends him over the edge in a sequence surreally delivered through Cedar’s direction.

Tormented by the reality of his situation, Eliezer acts as though he is out of his body in the moments leading up to the award acceptance ceremony. Whether or not Eliezer gives in to his vanity and takes the prize is left at the viewer’s discretion. And it is this ending that makes Cedar’s study in character so fascinating. For Eliezer to willingly receive the award knowing who the true recipient was meant to be would make him the ultimate hypocrite and go against everything he stands for. But to admit the truth would be to admit being more mediocre than his son.

Taika Waititi, known for his work with fellow New Zealanders Jemaine Clement and Bret McKenzie on Flight of the Conchords, has returned with his sophomore feature, Boy. Succinctly titled, the story is emotionally complex–a juxtaposition against the simplicity of the title. Set at the height of Michael Jackson’s popularity in 1984 (the year Thriller came out), Boy is one of the most non-trite coming of age tales to emerge from any country–New Zealand or otherwise–in a long time (or at least since Richard Ayoade released Submarine).

Promotional poster for Boy.

Nicknamed “Boy” (James Rolleston) of his own volition, Alamein (derived from his father who was named, presumably, after the town of El Alamein in Egypt), has a talent for embellishing scenarios with his vivid imagination. Those scenarios are also generally somehow centered around Michael Jackson. Considering the desperate and destitute existence he lives with his brother, Rocky (Te Aho Aho Eketone-Whitu), it is no small wonder that Boy has a tendency to make shit up. Especially to his pet goat, Leaf.

The fantasy Boy has of his father coming back to see him actually comes true.

Although most of what he tells people is an overblown form of reality, one of the falsities he spouts actually comes true: His father, Alamein (Tahikia Waititi, looking more and more like Julian Barratt from The Mighty Boosh every day), really does get out of prison and comes back with two of his friends (a gang he calls The Crazy Horses)–though the motive for doing so is somewhat impure. What Alamein really comes back for (apart from the smokescreen of bonding with his sons) is a stash of money he buried; the only problem is, he can’t remember exactly where on their vast property he buried it.

Boy's father is perhaps more of a child than Boy himself.

Boy, however, doesn’t seem to notice any of his father’s foibles until being first abandoned by him again and then publicly shamed by him when he returns. It is at this point that Rocky and Boy’s sentiment toward Alamein shifts–Rocky, who initially expressed no interest in getting to know his father, now has a more vested concern in keeping him around. Boy’s conflicting emotions about Alamein are compounded when he finds the money and stashes it away in a defunct car in front of the fence where Leaf is usually penned up. Since Boy doesn’t find the money until after Alamein takes off, he conceals his discovery from anyone else–after spending a generous portion on popsicles for his friends.

Opposing paternal views.

When Alamein returns for the second time, he resorts to selling weed after Boy brings him a handful of it that he found among the plants in the field near their house. As Boy tries to be more like his father, he starts to stray away from his original group of friends, including Dynasty (Moerangi Tihore), who, upon learning of Boy’s ties to the drug selling scene, cautions him not to become like the others as ”they laugh at nothing at cry at everything.”

In terms of Waititi’s development as a director, Boy is a story that seems much more personal than his campy debut, Eagle vs. Shark. As one of the most prominent figures in the filmmaking industry in New Zealand, his attention to detail in portraying one of the most underrated countries is unmatched. The quirk of Flight of the Conchords is present, but there is an added blend of seriousness and kitsch. Obviously, that is the  only description you really need to be sold on the goodness of this movie.

Miss Bala is not your typical beauty pageant movie. Granted, there are often drugs and clandestine violence involved in U.S. beauty pageants, the nature of how a pageant is run in Baja, California deviates somewhat from the norm. While, obviously, Miss Bala was intended to address a serious subject matter (drug trafficking in Mexico), I can’t help but wonder what a more satirical version of the film might have entailed–specifically in the vein of Michael Patrick Jann’s 1999 masterpiece, Drop Dead Gorgeous.

Promotional poster for Miss Bala

The heroine of Miss Bala, Laura Guerrero (Stephanie Sigman), starts out as a naive and unwitting sort of contender, much like Amber Atkins (Kirsten Dunst) in Drop Dead Gorgeous. Her friend, Suzu (Lakshmi Picazo), tries out for the competition with her, and when both are accepted, Laura believes she really has a chance to positively represent Baja. What she doesn’t realize is that being at the wrong place at the wrong time will change her life forever. Kind of like Tammy (Brooke Elise Bushman) after Becky (Denise Richards) blows up her tractor.

Writer-director Gerardo Neranjo’s action-packed script, paired with his equally fast-paced directorial style, leaves little room for dialogue. Had it reflected the tongue in cheek mockumentary created by screenwriter Lona Williams in Drop Dead Gorgeous, there might have been more room to poke fun at the absurdity of Mexican drug/gang lords. And in any case, the out and out violence method can never be surpassed by Fernando Meirelles’ 2002 epic, City of God.

The other problem with Miss Bala is how much it strays away from the beauty pageant angle until the third act. The very title of the film suggests that this would be the crux of the story. Naturally, it would be difficult–but not impossible–to convey the intent of the movie without focusing on the drug/gang lord in question, Lino Valdez (Noe Hernandez), who develops an overt obsession with Laura, making awkward sexual advances toward her and forcing her to cross the border with a fuck ton of money strapped to her stomach so that she can give it to Lino’s cohort in the DEA, Jimmy (James Russo). In many ways, Lino’s sort of like the Kirstie Alley figure in this movie: Out to destroy whoever gets in the way of his reign.

A reluctant accomplice

The tragic conclusion of Miss Bala is designed to awaken its audience to the horrors of the Mexican drug trafficking industry (which, according to the epilogue, nets 25 billion dollars a year). With both Diego Luna and Gael Garcia Bernal attached as producers of the film, the subject was obviously a personal one to all parties involved with it. I just think a little suffusion of beauty pageant mockery meets the innovative ways that drug traffickers come up with to smuggle their contraband could have been a nice touch.

Somewhat disappointingly, Pedro Almodóvar’s latest cinema gem is not a demented concoction straight from his mind, but one based on a play called Tarantula by Thierry Jonquet. It is disappointing merely because it is so tailor made for Almodóvar’s canon of work and would have only served to further impress audiences at how balefully inventive he is. But I guess acknowledging the auteur’s genius in adapting the play must suffice on its own.

Dr. Robert Ledgard (Antonio Banderas) takes skin seriously.

Opening with Dr. Robert Ledgard (Antonio Banderas) giving a seminar on the importance of a person’s facial structure, particularly a burn victim, it is instantly evident that this is a man in a position of power within the medical community. That power fuels his subdued arrogance, the belief that he can experiment as freely as he wishes–setting the tone for what is to come.

A new kind of voyeurism

As far as revenge stories go, only Almòdovar possesses the courage to “go there” with regard to the level of derangement it takes to fully elucidate Ledgard’s fury over the death of his only daughter, Norma (Blanca Suárez). A calculated and precise man who has already endured the colossal tragedy of losing his wife essentially twice—once when she left him to run away with his brother (though he never finds out that Marilia, his house servant, is his mother, and thus never finds out that her son is his brother) and got in a disfiguring car accident, and a second time when she killed herself upon seeing her reflection in the mirror in the aftermath.

On the set

Incidentally, her body landed in front of Norma, still only a child at this point in time. This event, naturally, scars Norma for life, causing her constant anxiety and a general mistrust of anyone she encounters. After being released from a psychoneurological observation facility (which is just a fancy way of saying loony bin), she ventures with her father to a wedding—her first interaction with a mass amount of people in quite some time. At first, it all goes swimmingly and, as Robert watches her leave with a group of peers, in particular a guy named Vicente (Jan Cornet), he feels confident in his daughter’s recovery. That is, until he realizes she has been gone for an extended period of time.

Marilia (Marisa Paredes) explains Robert's tragedy to Vera

When he finds her (sequestered deeply in the woods), he notices a motorcycle fleeing hurriedly. Reviving her from her unconsciousness, Norma automatically associates her father with Vicente, her rapist. So sets in motion Robert’s quest for vindication. He kidnaps Vicente and tortures him passive aggressively by leaving him in chained isolation and only refilling his water when Vicente is asleep, so that he has absolutely no human interaction. After Norma commits suicide as a result of the rape trauma, Robert ups his sadistic game by giving Vicente a vaginoplasty, the first step in an intricate gender reassignment process that transforms Vicente into “Vera Cruz” (also the name of a prominent member of Andy Warhol’s Factory posse).

Robert's creation

Initially hateful of her imprisoner, Vera seems to develop an acute case of Stockholm Syndrome that is solidified after Robert’s brother, Zeca (Roberto Álamo), rapes her, prompting Robert to shoot him in the back while he’s still on top of her. What would an Almodóvar movie be without these elaborate, telenovela-like plot points?

Freaky deaky love

The perverse quotient intensifies as Robert finally gives in to the fact that he has created Vera in his dead wife’s image. Vera, familiar with his past thanks to his house servant and undercover mother, appears to be fine with going along with the charade. After all, what can Vera really go back to now that she is no longer Vicente? But, of course, the final twist in the film is what reveals the heights of human determination and endurance–even when the most surreal and unpleasant circumstances are thrown in our path.

So few movies detail the (apparently) angst-ridden lives of Welsh youth. Submarine, directed by Richard Ayoade (who you may know better as Maurice on The IT Crowd and as the glorious co-writer of Garth Marenghi and The Mighty Boosh), however, does just that. Taking a helping hand from Joe Dunthorne’s 2008 novel of the same name, this foreign amalgam of Juno, Thumbsucker, and Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind focuses on the humdrum existence of Oliver Tate. In Oliver’s mind, he is objectively chic, intelligent, and alluringly aloof. In reality, his classmates think he’s kind of a pretentious tool.

Oliver, exuding the standard emotions of most students trapped in a classroom setting.

To distract himself from the drudgery of Wales, he hones in on a girl named Jordana Bevan (Yasmin Page), who he believes is his equal in terms of social status. Somewhat mean-spirited and not at all the sentimental type, Jordana is at first immune to Oliver’s attempts at reeling her in (chiefly, bullying a fellow classmate named Zoe Preece, played by Lily McCann, who is often tormented based on her weight and her refusal to pass notes in class). But when Jordana stumbles upon Oliver stopping at Zoe’s house to bequeath a handbook on how to evade further torture, she uses the information to blackmail Oliver into kissing her as she takes pictures of them with his Polaroid camera. She then instructs Oliver to put the photos in his journal and leave it at school for someone to find so that her ex-boyfriend (who cheated on her) will find them.

If I was a gambling woman, I would say this lot definitely listens to The Smiths.

Her plan to make the silly berk jealous doesn’t quite work out as she had hoped, and Oliver ends up getting the shit kicked out of him for refusing to call Jordana a slut. This unexpected defense of her honor is what changes Jordana’s mind about Oliver. She kisses him under non-blackmailing circumstances as he walks her home after the fight is over, prompting him to ask immediately, “Does this mean you’re my girlfriend?” She responds, “I’ll think about it.”

That young lost look.

Oliver and Jordana quickly slip into a montage of contentment–literally. Oliver views their initial two weeks together as a Super 8 clip show of good times. It is at this point when Oliver’s school friends (acquaintances really) start to goad him for not having slept with her yet. Jordana, who is no maudlin prude, is receptive to Oliver’s proposition and agrees to go to his house on the night his parents, Jill (Sally Hawkins) and Lloyd (Noah Taylor), go to the cinema. This particular plotline provides an altogether different subset of problems for Oliver as his mother agrees to bring their next door neighbor, Graham (Paddy Considine, whose shiteous mullet makes him almost unrecognizable from the In America days), who also happens to be Jill’s ex-boyfriend and first love. And thus, to quote Bridget Jones, “It is a truth universally acknowledged that when one part of your life starts going okay, another falls spectacularly to pieces.”

Promotional poster for Submarine.

This is why, after having sex with Jordana (the first time awkwardly and the second time successfully), Oliver fears his mother is teetering dangerously close to infidelity. It is also around this time that Jordana, now feeling comfortable enough to express emotion to Oliver, informs him that her mother has a potentially fatal brain tumor. Feeling her issue trumps his, Oliver keeps his own parental conundrum to himself. In taking on the burden of spying religiously on his mother, as well as routine searches of his parents’ bedroom, Oliver begins to neglect Jordana in her time of need; this negligence includes not showing up to the hospital on the day of Jordana’s mother’s surgery after she specifically asks him to be there. As is often the case when shit gets too real, Oliver could not resist the inclination to bail.

In their happier days.

Consequently, Jordana breaks up with him in a letter, leaving Oliver utterly heartbroken and full of regret. The issues between his parents having resolved themselves (though his mother “gave a hand job to a mystic”), Oliver can now only think of Jordana (who already has a new bloke. Bitch works it.) and all he has lost as a result of his waffling. His parents console him by telling him that none of this will matter when he’s thirty-eight (I’m guessing that’s the age they are, so that’s why they pull that number out). Oliver allows this small comfort to placate him for a time, but then ultimately decides that this will matter when he’s thirty-right. Because he genuinely and truly is in love with Jordana (what do you expect? Wales has a very minuscule population).

A knowing glance.

The romance of Submarine is accented by the scenery of a country that is often relegated to the role of being a poor substitute for England. I mean, fuck, if the U.S. had half as much picturesque coastline, there would be a new love story in theaters every week. But no, most of our backgrounds feature a Wal-Mart. Also adding to the romance factor is Alex Turner of Arctic Monkeys comprising most of the film’s soundtrack. So yeah, it’s a double threat of romance. Be careful. You might get the idea that it could happen to you.

One does not usually associate Catherine Deneuve with satire. The illustrious siren of French cinema is more often than not known for her salacious roles in films like Belle de Jour, Zig-Zag, and Luis Bunuel’s La Femme aux Bottes Rouges. But perhaps with age comes greater concern with the statement a film makes rather than how one’s physical appearance will come across in it. Written and directed by François Ozon, the youthful Frenchman who also brought you Swimming Pool and 8 Women, Potiche is set in the year 1977 at the height of communist tensions in France. As you can imagine, this setting is rife for Ozon’s parody.

Suzanne Pujol (Catherine Deneuve) is branded "Chipie," the French word for a spoiled person.

Opening on Suzanne Pujol running through the woods in a color coordinated running suit (what could establish her trophy wife status more accurately?), she stops in a clearing to write an unbelievably maudlin poem about a squirrel and then scampers back to her stately manor where Robert Pujol (Fabrice Luchini), her surly husband, awaits her. Already miffed by the fact that Suzanne has given the maid more time off, Robert tells her it isn’t her place to make breakfast. Suzanne then asks, “If my place isn’t in the kitchen or at Badaboum [a strip club her husband frequents], where is it?” This is the query that presents the entire thesis of the movie: Where does a woman belong? And it is a query that is still as relevant in 2011 as it was in 1977.

Madame Pujol enjoys writing frivolous poems in the woods.

As tensions amid workers at Robert’s umbrella factory mount, they take Robert hostage, refusing to release him until their nominal demands are met. Desperate to ensure her husband’s freedom, Suzanne turns to her old flame Maurice Baubin (Gerard Depardieu), the current mayor, for assistance.

Fils à Maman: Mama's Boy

Maurice and Suzanne’s reunion reignites old passions, especially after Robert suffers a breakdown and goes on a cruise to Greece, leaving Suzanne to take over in his stead. Maurice starts to think that Suzanne is genuinely in love with him, but, when Robert returns from his forced bout of R&R, the details of Suzanne’s less than unblemished past begin to surface, revealing that she is not exactly as pure or fond of marital fidelity as everyone had previously thought. As a matter of fact, her son is not even Robert’s–that’s how much of a trick she is. But, trick or not, this trophy wife knows how to adequately run an umbrella factory.

Promotional poster for Potiche

Ozon’s inspiration for Potiche stemmed from the play that the story is based on, written by Pierre Barillet and Jean-Pierre Grédy, and originally slated the narrative to be more of a commentary on the recent political career of Nicolas Sarkozy. Ozon chose to write the story in the backdrop of the late 1970s because of how incredibly divided France was politically at that time, both classwise and ideologywise, making it easier to create as many over the top scenes and lines of dialogue as possible.

At the Venice premiere of Potiche.

The culmination of the film is intentionally hokey, following the rise of Suzanne’s hastily patched together political campaign in the wake of being ousted out of her 55% share of the umbrella factory by her own daughter. Ozon, who has turned to Deneuve in the past to carry a film, shrewdly chose the screen goddess to enhance the incongruousness of Madame Pujol as the answer to France’s governmental woes.

With the last installment in the incredible tale of Jacques Mesrine, Mesrine: Public Enemy #1, it is easy and somewhat impossible not to draw comparisons to the style of Quentin Tarantino. To begin with, the story has two volumes, just as Kill Bill does, and the bloodshed can, at times, seem to be displayed just for the sake of display. The entire motif of guns, girls, and gangsterdom kind of falls into the early Tarantino realm as well. But this is a French movie and, as much as the French may respect Tarantino’s characteristic approach, they rarely appreciate comparisons to others, least of all Americans. So back to Mesrine.

Always able to find a willing partner in crime.

When we last left him in Mesrine: Killer Instinct, he had just fled from yet another prison after he and his girlfriend were extradited to Quebec for the kidnapping of a millionaire named Georges Deslauriers, who had previously employed him as a chauffeur. Public Enemy #1 finds us in 1979, the year of his death, just before he is about to be essentially executed by the French police. But before this happens, director Jean-Francois Richet flashes back to 1973, in yet another instance of Mesrine being apprehended by French authorities. He was not to stand for being caged for very long though. That’s the thing about bona fide criminals: When you cage them they’re liable to implode or explode. Mesrine preferred the latter action, affecting everyone around him with his knack for cultivating and severing alliances as new situations arose.

A juxtaposition of film posters

Once Mesrine is contained and put in a maximum security prison called La Santé (which ironically translates to “the health”), he meets one of those strategic alliances, Francois Besse (Mathieu Amalric). Besse, too, has miraculously beaten the odds of maximum security prisons and broken out three times, the same amount as Mesrine. The two formulate a plan to escape together, biding their time until the right moment, which comes five years into Mesrine’s twenty year sentence.

In true Mesrine fashion, he finds hisself a lady after checking out of the clink early.

Never contented with his achievements, Mesrine cannot simply enjoy the success of being prematurely free–he has to engage in some type of crime again. His methods start to wear on Besse, especially after Mesrine meets and romances Sylvie Jeanjacquot (Ludivine Sagnier), a much younger woman who he picks up in a bar one day after following her through the streets for several blocks (and yeah, that is as creepy as it sounds, but French people make unbridled lust seem way more acceptable and just plain natural). Without Besse to harness in Mesrine’s antics with the press and his erratic decision-making, the illustrious bank robber’s days look as though they will be one-digited.

Driving to his doom in disguise, Mesrine and Sylvie could never have prepared for the shootout that was about to take place.

What differentiates Public Enemy #1 from Killer Instinct is that the former gives far more insight into the nature of Mesrine’s persona and what inspires and spurs him to the insane courses of action he takes. In an interview with a French reporter, Mesrine is asked, “Why are you doing this?” The response is shockingly akin to how a large majority of law-abiding, menial job-holding people must feel: “I don’t like the laws and I don’t want to be a slave of the alarm clock my whole life. I don’t want to spend my entire life dreaming. I don’t want to always think how I have to work half a year just so I could buy something.”

The crowning final moment of Mesrine, with the final line being, "It's over. He's dead."

And so Mesrine does not. He does not live a life of ordinariness and silent contempt. But he pays a price for it, just as normal citizens of the world pay a certain price for allowing themselves to be herded like sheep. Yet somehow, Mesrine’s price seems slightly lower than ours.

What defines a good person? I’m not sure. In fact, I’m probably the last person you should ask, but I do know that Jacques Mesrine, the notorious French gangster whose specialty was in executing bank robberies (usually peppered with a bit of assault and murder) is not quite the best candidate for humanitarian. But then, that’s what makes him such an interesting character to watch come to life onscreen. The first film in the dyad about the life of Mesrine is entitled Mesrine: Killer Instinct or, if you’re French (or want to be, like me), Mesrine: L’instinct de Mort. With the artful combination of Abdel Raouf Dafri’s writing and Jean-François Richet’s stylized directing, Mesrine actually transforms into a character we want to see evade the law, who we can forgive for pointing a gun in his wife’s mouth in front of his son.

Vincent Cassel as Mesrine

Rather than addressing Mesrine’s brief period of normalcy before joining the French army while the Algerian War was going on, giving him a taste for what it felt like to kill, Dafri chose to commence the film in 1959 when he was just getting out of the army. This leaves out the subject of his first marriage to Lydia De Zouza in 1955, a union that didn’t last for more than a year. I suppose I can’t blame Dafri for leaving some of Mesrine’s women out of the story; there were, after all, a litany of them. But in leaving out this piece of information, it makes less sense why Mesrine would have a predilection for living a life of crime. Had there been a brief scene of him being miserable with the conventional beforehand, it would be more understandable why he would jump at the chance to work for Guido (played by Gerard Depardieu, who will never die and will somehow always crop up in every French movie in existence), a major player in the crime underworld of France.

Promotional poster for Mesrine

Once he gets involved, it becomes easy to see why he would find the life of a gangster so alluring: Free money, no specific work schedule, prostitutes who like him so much they don’t charge, and access to a gun. But there is a theory–and don’t ask me what it’s called because I don’t know (I might just be fabricating it that’s why)–that once you get away with something, you’ll only keep escalating until you get caught. This is most definitely the Mesrine’s affliction. After marrying a Spanish woman (named Sofia in the movie), Mesrine has two children with her, yet this does not slow him down or make him think twice about returning to the seductiveness of delinquency.

Mesrine with his wife Sofia (played by Elena Anaya)

His second wife ultimately leaves him (and why wouldn’t she? This is the one who got a gun pointed in her mouth), allowing Mesrine to fully lavish in his depravity. On one particular spree, he meets a woman named Jeanne (Cécile De France) who is just as game as he is to wreak havoc, inspiring them to knock off a casino together. This, unfortunately, does not go unnoticed, and the owner’s minions unsuccessfully try to take a hit out on Mesrine, who is merely shot in the shoulder, but otherwise unscathed. In the wake of the attempt on Mesrine’s life, Guido encourages him to leave France with Jeanne until the incident is forgotten.

Dastardly and dashing: The finest blend of characteristics in any gangster

At this point, you might start to comprehend the need for a follow-up to Mesrine: Killer Instinct, called Mesrine: Public Enemy #1. The story is just too epic to conclude in one film. Fuck that Scott Pilgrim shit about an epic of epic epicness. This ribald tale of violence, evasion of authority, and transcontinental mayhem far surpasses any “action” movies of the past year. And even though one of the best lines is already delivered in the first installment, “Nobody kills me until I say so,” one is left with the sense that Mesrine (who Vincent Cassel is, let’s just say it, way too sexy to play) has quite a few more tricks up his bullet-riddled sleeve.

Italy has struggled in recent decades to recapture the film glory of Cinecittà. The infrequency of quality films from the country that once put everyone else to shame with its bold and innovative productions is rather saddening. So when a film like The Sicilian Girl comes along, it really floors you, or at least me anyway since I have something of an obsession with my Italian heritage. But even for those who have no kindred ties to the country, this movie will still affect you in a pointed and incisive way. The ubiquitousness of the mafia in Sicily at this particular time in history is something that everyone should be cognizant of, because factions–and the inescapable hopelessness wrought by those factions–can form anywhere.

The somewhat disturbing promotional poster for La Siciliana Ribelle, indicating how much of what protagonist Rita sees is edited by her mafioso father

The film opens in a choppy, overly edited manner, showing snippets of Rita (Veronica D’Agostino) as she reluctantly gives her father Michele’s (played by Marcello Mazzarella) gun to her brother Carmelo (played by Carmelo Galati) so that he can use it to kill the man responsible for Michele’s death, Don Salvo (I know, everyone has badass names, right?). After this brief introduction, we are taken back seven years to 1985, just before Michele was killed. At this time, Rita is twelve, still naive to the corrupt and crime-ridden world around her, in spite of the fact that Don Michele is at the forefront of this criminal activity. For all of Don Michele’s underhanded dealings, there is no dubiousness about his love and affection for Rita, which is not something that can be said for Rita’s mother, who seems to loathe her even in the innocence of childhood. One example is when Rita writes on one of the sheets that is hanging out to dry on the clothesline with tomato sauce. As Rita’s mother chases after her to give her a beating, her father comes out onto the terrace to interfere. Rita tells him, “I’m learning to write.” Don Michele turns to smile at his wife and say, “That’s a good thing. Do you want her to be as ignorant as we are?”

The most despondent scene of the film: When Rita has to watch her father get shot and witness everyone around turn a blind eye and run inside.

The bond Rita has with her father is cut short after a run-in Don Michele has with another mafioso named Fiorebella, who intimates that the mafia is moving toward crime that is centered around drug trafficking. Even though Don Michele tries to squash that notion by killing Fiorebella in an intricate way that involves some rope, Don Salvo retaliates by having Don Michele killed in a public square of their small town just before Rita’s communion. Rita is the only one who rushes to his side as everyone else retreats into their homes or shops to avoid becoming a party to the conflict. From this moment forward, Rita is consumed with avenging her father’s death.

Rita ultimately turns to the state for help in prosecuting key members of the Sicilian mafia

When Carmelo tells her that Don Salvo is responsible, she yells at him, saying he is a coward for not gunning him down on sight. But Carmelo convinces her that they must bide their time and wait for the right moment. It is at this juncture that the film flashes forward again to 1992. She and Carmelo anxiously sit at the table as their typically subservient mother glides in and out of the kitchen to bring them food. During her absences from the table, Carmelo excitedly tells Rita that the time has finally come: He is close enough to Don Salvo’s clan to make a move. Rita shares his excitement but is uncertain about whether he should jump at such an uncertain chance. Carmelo cannot wait any longer, however, assuring Rita that everything will go as planned. So naturally, it doesn’t. The next morning, Carmelo’s body washes ashore and Rita’s boyfriend Vito (played by Francesco Casisa) has to restrain her from killing Don Salvo on sight. Vito, who is also closely knit to Don Salvo’s clan, betrays Rita by telling Don Salvo that Rita has gone to the chief prosecutor in Palermo to report the incident. To redeem himself though, Vito warns Rita that she must leave Sicily immediately.

On trial in Rome, Rita was one of the only Sicilians in history to break the Omertà, or mafia code of silence

Under the custody of the state, Rita is relocated to Rome under the new name of Silvia. More unsettled and dejected than ever, Rita has no one to turn to or confide in except the chief prosecutor who she risked everything to tell her story to. One of the best moments of Rita’s voiceover occurs during this period of loneliness, when she remarks, “People say time heals your wounds. But it really just gives them time to grow deeper.” Before justice can be administered, more carnage and loss must transpire in the already tragedian life of someone so young (Rita was seventeen years old in 1992).

The anti-mafia magistrate (left) in The Sicilian Girl was based on the real life Paolo Borsellino, whose car was wired to explode by the mafia during the trial

True to the events that happened, writer-director Marco Amenta concludes the film with Rita’s suicide. But before she jumps off the building of her fake apartment that belongs to her fake life under another fake identity (this time the witness protection program changes her name to Elena), she tells Vito, “This time, the mafia loses. This time, I win. Rita wins.” It couldn’t be a better way to state how much she sacrificed to take a stand against the sordid, cruel world of the mafia.