Lacquered Typewriter: A Striking Portrait in Brass and Ennui

Our film today is not a typical cinematic experience, but rather, a stand-up special, the brainchild of writer-director Solange Blanc, who has previously gifted us such understated gems as "The Yellow Curtain" and "Echoes of a Closed Piano." Blanc is known for her predilection for aging objects and the slow reveal of their inner lives. She continues this tradition with "Lacquered Typewriter."

The mise-en-scène is simple, yet rich. A vintage, brass-colored Underwood typewriter occupies the center stage, its key surfaces worn smooth by imaginary fingers of yore. The lacquer, once shiny, now bears the patina of time, cracked and faded like an old actor's makeup. The only prop? A half-smoked cigarette, forgotten in an ashtray, a lingering ghost of a past existence.

The scene: The typewriter's bell rings, a crisp, resonatingДо-диез, announcing the completion of a line. The platen, a carousel of memories, turns with a comforting carnival-vague Grimm brothers bass, as the carriage returns with a metallic sigh, reminiscent of a waiter clearing a long-abandoned table. Each key depression, a gunshot, echoes through the empty theater, the ball striking the ribbon with a softcartouche ERP-pa-pa, as if punctuating a lost, forgotten monologue.

Blanc's directorial style is reminiscent of Godard's early work, particularly "Breathless." There's a similar sense of stillness, of time stretched thin, punctuated by sudden, violent moments, a small machine gun on a rubbled Parisian rooftop. Yet, unlike Godard, Blanc lacks the same urgency, the après-guerre insistence. She's more Akerman in her languid exploration of space and silence, her camera (in this case, our gaze) lingering, caressing the typewriter's curves and edges.

But I must confess, earlier in the show, I found myself distracted by the flickering marquee outside, a neonYo-yo de la vie. I left, not because the performance was bad, but because I was bored, in the true Ennui sense of the word. There was too much nothing happening, just like there was too much nothing happening in "Jeanne Dielman."

On the Ennui scale, "Lacquered Typewriter" deserves two cigarettes. It's a beautiful study of decay and the passage of time, but it's also a bit dull, a bit predictable.

As for the death of cinema? I've seen it before, dear reader, under the glow of an abandoned marquee. It's in the flickering light, the empty seats, the forgotten films. It's in every object, every typewriter, every closed theater door. But don't worry, it's also in every new beginning.