A textured profile of a oneofakind performer
“Let the Sunshine In,” a wistful grownup romantic comedy by Claire Denis, made its premiere almost precisely one year ago at Cannes — not in the prestigious main competition, where it deserved to be, but in one of the festival’s well regarded but still marginal sidebars.
That slight only underscores the dismissive biases that plague the programming at Cannes, which favors male auteurs and angsty naturalism. It’s easy to see why the festival’s curatorial team overlooked a story of a middleaged woman looking for love and sexual fulfillment as being not serious enough for Cannes’ most soughtafter imprimatur. But that doesn’t make it right.
Juliette Binoche plays Isabelle, a divorced painter living in Paris who, as the movie opens, is in the throes of notquitewonderfullooking sex with her lover Vincent (Xavier Beauvois). For reasons that become evident in that and subsequent scenes, Vincent is not ideal for Isabelle, even though he admires her bohemian ways and commitment to art.
Holding the couple in a steady, squaredoff frame, Denis observes Vincent’s condescension, pedantry and desire, along with Isabelle’s ambivalence, selfloathing — for allowing him to patronize her — and need. All this, in the space of one cocktail at a quiet corner of a bar.
Denis obeys that same sense of decorum throughout “Let the Sunshine In,” which she adapted with Christine Angot from a 1977 book by Roland Barthes. Meeting a series of men and trying them on for size, Isabelle emerges as a fascinating bundle of contradictions: fiercely independent, but painfully susceptible to male approval; robustly and gloriously middleaged (Binoche is 54), but still hanging on to the clothes and behavior of her youth; prone to temperamental outbursts, but smart and supremely selfaware.
It’s Binoche, here delivering one of her finest and most subtly calibrated performances, who imbues Isabelle with the heart and earthy eroticism that makes her far more appealing, even heroic, than the pathetic figure she might have been. This is a funny, candid, sexy and kind of sad chronicle of a woman who dares to demand the kind of companionship and sparkfueled physical intimacy that, by too many lights, is reserved only for far younger women. What’s more, arriving on the eve of Mother’s Day, “Let the Sunshine In” offers a startlingly subversive portrait of a mother who’s far more interested in her own identity and pleasure than in responding to the needs of her 10yearold daughter.
In that regard, “Let the Sunshine In” doesn’t offer a consistently pretty picture. Where some viewers might view Isabelle as a hopelessly stunted victim of selfdeception, others will see an avatar of empowerment and autonomy. In her own carefully controlled but fragmentary and discursive style, Denis provides the space for both kinds of judgment, never showing her own hand. At least, that is, until the film’s audacious final scene, another bold example of flouting expectations, when the title of the film becomes rapturously, even ecstatically clear.
It’s a strange, surreal moment, full of hope and optimism. And, true to the film’s themes, Binoche illuminates it as though lit from within. ★★¼5 Unrated. 115 minutes.
Sophie Fiennes’ combination concert film and intimate observational documentary of musician, actress and cultural icon Grace Jones bills itself as the most revealing portrait of the star yet. It takes viewers behind the scenes and into the life of Jones, who hasn’t historically granted much access to her personal life. But there are times in “Grace Jones: Bloodlight and Bami” where she behaves exactly as you might imagine, complaining that no one parties like they used to; eating oysters in the recording studio jamming to her own songs — just being a lovable weirdo.
Fiennes cuts between familiar images of Jones — performing on stage in her signature costumes, all milelong legs and Philip Treacy fascinators, and that commanding, resonant voice. Interspersed throughout the performances are glimpses into Jones’ per sonal life, bouncing between recording sessions, backstage and, most fascinating, trips to her native Jamaica, where she excavates her personal and family history and investigates how that informs her art, channeling her ancestry and trauma into her work.
Fiennes takes an observational approach to these personal moments. The camera sometimes hangs back, or gets up close and personal, but it’s always laser focused on Grace, who is always fully authentic within her many selves. She codeswitches frequently and fluidly, from language to language, accent to accent, from urbane art diva to nature girl.
The observational style and relaxed structure makes for a film that’s a bit obtuse at times, but it lulls the viewer into a rhythm, from concert to backstage to Jamaica, cycling through Grace’s worlds with the same ease that she does. Ultimately, “Bloodlight and Bami” is a rich, delicate tapestry of a life, where each thread is lovingly woven together to create a full picture.