This short film successfully bridges the gap between literary narration and film. It begins with Madeleine Peyroux‘s lilting cover of Bob Dylan’s “You’re Gonna Make Me Lonesome When You Go.” The song, coupled with an elegant title sequence that evokes the Moirae of greek mythology, is a stunningly effective entrance to the film. From Wikipedia:
“The Moirae or Moerae (in Greek Μοῖραι – the “apportioners“, often called the The Fates), in Greek mythology, were the white-robed personifications of destiny.
The Greek word moira (μοῖρα) literally means a part or portion, and by extension one’s portion in life or destiny. They controlled the metaphorical thread of life of every mortal from birth to death.”
I once stood for forty-five minutes in front of this painting by Sir William E. Reynolds which depicts a Moirae at work above two careless lovers.
This subtle and beautiful metaphor of the thread of life guides us into the film.
Plot / Themes
Manon has an accident while riding home on her bicycle. While lying paralyzed in the street, she becomes omnipresent and reflects on her friends’ reactions to her accident and the final events of her life leading up to it.
The film is reminiscent of the ending of American Beauty, where Kevin Spacey’s character, floating above his suburban neighborhood, comments on death;
“I’d always heard the entire life lasts in front of your eyes the second before you die. First of all, that one second isn’t a second at all. It stretches on forever, like an ocean of time. For me, it was lying on my back at Boy Scout Camp, watching falling stars. And yellow leaves from the maple trees that lined our street. Or my grandmother’s hands, and the way her skin seemed like paper.”
Manon Sur le Bitume expands upon these themes of eternal return. The film transcends it’s own sentimentality through very careful writing and filmmaking. Manon’s observation that her panties may be showing, or close up shots of her lovers neck, are a few of the gems in this film that push it out of pablum.
The Literary Structure of “Manon sur le Bitume”
As in American Beauty, this film makes heavy use of voiceover narration. During a relatively long introduction we see each of Manon’s friends as well as her mother going about their daily lives. Only at the end do we move to Manon. When we finally see her, the Madeleine Peyroux song fades away into the ominous sounds of traffic. After a fade to white we enter silence and a bird’s eye view of Manon on the asphalt; she has been hit by a car. We linger for a few shots until we move back into her blurred perspective.
“It must be serious,” she comments.
Then we are introduced to the scene of the accident and Manon’s reaction to it. The action comes before any information about her character; the film’s intention is to reveal her through her final moments.
Manon reflects that “someone must be told,” and from here we move to her next-door neighbor. Confronted by the police, he is given the difficult task of informing Manon’s friends of what has happened. Manon narrates his progress with a strange detachment in her voice, conveying her surprise and curiosity; for the moment she is on the same level as the audience.
After the neighbor proves too upset to inform her mother, Manon thanks him and we return to her lying on the street. She observes the people around her, transitioning to the friends we met in the beginning with “I should tell the others.”
The friends sit around in a friend’s apartment discussing what happened. The accuracy of Manon’s narration is remarkable. She knows each of her friends precisely, almost omnisciently. She answers her own question of “What will they do?”
“They’ll all get together. At Jasmeen’s, her place is bigger. I have the feeling they’ll talk about me. Jeanne will rehash high school stories. Yasmeen terrible parties. Francesco will repeat that life is shit, in his outrageous accent. For once, they’ll all agree. And they won’t even laugh at his accent. Everyone will bring up their own memories.”
From here we make a subtle transition to a time when Manon was alive and well. Everyone sits around talking about what might be HBO’s “Six Feet Under,” calmly removed from the images of death they describe. It was to be their last dinner.
From here we move back to the apartment with the friends. Mehdi sits staring out the window, perhaps remembering that last dinner;
“He’ll smoke, and for once Jeanne won’t get pissed off. Antoine will want to do something amazing, in homage. But everyone will think it’s stupid. In the end, he’ll think it’s stupid too. So he’ll stop talking, and toy with his crappy old phone.”
The phone marks another fluid transition to Manon failing to figure out how to use her own new phone.
Tolstoy once wrote that the most important part of writing is transitions. In this very literary film, more of an illustrated essay, the transitions are perfectly placed. We see visual transitions, thematic transitions, and dialogue transitions between scenes and moments.
These carefully connected jumps in time aid the idea that Manon’s memories are chaotic, that pieces of her life are coming up all at once. It is a remarkably effective use of stream of consciousness in film. Normally a literary form, it becomes acceptable here through the paralyzed narrator, similar to that used in The Diving Bell and the Butterfly, another pensive, static, beautifully reflective french offering.
From the cell phone Manon realizes that if she had known what was going to happen, she could have left each of her friends something. She lists them off: an Olive Tree for one, a beach ball for another. I am struck here by the illustration of the idea that we are all formed by those closest to us. As Manon imagines giving a gift to each friend, we realize in turn that her personality and interests are shaped by the people she could share them with. As I pack up my life in Berlin, I realize all the small gifts I have received from people over the years, and remember the circumstances in which they were given to me.
And now we come to Matthieu, Manon’s lover. We see him at this moment in slightly blurred, unbearably beautiful extreme close-ups. It is as if we were as close to him as Manon was, within kissing distance. She reflects that she never told him how happy she was with him, though she almost did once. We see the first time they met, and the precision of her narration is heartbreaking;
“I didn’t beat my record, you’ll never be my longest.”
We return to the asphalt to see Manon fading, remembering the last time she talked to her mother. She was in a rush, and terribly rude. She apologizes.
We hear the dates of her last trip to the beach and the last time she made love. She sees Matthieu on her way into death. From here we jump back into the past, guided by the return of Peyroux’s Bob Dylan, to see each of Manon’s friends being informed of what happened. Some answer their cell phones, others are busy and say they’ll deal with it later. With this we close the set-up from the beginning, answering the question of why they were all there; to be informed of their friend’s death.
Lastly we return to Manon’s apartment, to her cheery voicemail. It’s Matthieu; he’s wondering where she is, late as always.
This film is a beautiful example of how to use literary narration in film. As mentioned earlier, this film is more of a photo-essay, along the lines of Chris Marker’s La Jetée, than a classical dramatic piece. It’s tone of nostalgia is effective and elegant, but probably not for everyone. For the others, it’s a film you’ll leave with a sudden appreciation of life; who you are, what you have, and what you hope to be.
