A lame cop out ending aside (surely, plodding Pierre merits being in the gutter, albeit perhaps gazing at the stars), Rohmer's first full feature is as good an advert for the perils of trusting to astrology as any committed to celluloid. It could also be filed as an unofficial 'Moral Tale' advising against sloth.
Pierre is a feckless, reckless, soon-to-be penniless musician in Paris begging, borrowing and stealing on an anticipated inheritance that doesn't materialise. Yet.
Born (he thinks) under a lucky star, our superstitious, work-shy, anti-hero parties like it's 1959 with his Parisian posse of hangers-on, including a young Jean-Luc Godard putting a needle on the record. Again. And again.
When he's turfed out of his flat and proceeded to flip out several hoteliers for non payment, including a delectably irate Stephane Audran, our Pierre takes to tramping the streets. The heart of the film follows peripatetic Pierre wandering like a prospective damned soul in some kind of Parisian purgatory. As he wilts physically and metaphysically under the pounding August sun, Rohmer does some sterling work in depicting Paris as a sort of outdoor stone prison weighing in on Pierre. The irony of his name is not lost as he ends up cursing the very stones the tourists all around him flock to see. The relentless camera pursues Pierre with such voyeuristic, detailed precision one could be forgiven for thinking Bresson, not Rohmer, were directing.
Notwithstanding the perversely bathetic ending; we should be cheering but we don't as we, well, I for one, simply feel foolish Pierre simply doesn't merit the windfall. He's suffered, sure, but this wasn't any Greek tragedy with the gods pulling the strings. No, Pierre was simply a dolt with a notion for unfounded, unproved quack nostrums. And there's always that nagging question hanging over the whole film: why didn't he simply go out and earn a few coppers busking for his supper if he was that desperate? Well ...?
Pierre is a feckless, reckless, soon-to-be penniless musician in Paris begging, borrowing and stealing on an anticipated inheritance that doesn't materialise. Yet.
Born (he thinks) under a lucky star, our superstitious, work-shy, anti-hero parties like it's 1959 with his Parisian posse of hangers-on, including a young Jean-Luc Godard putting a needle on the record. Again. And again.
When he's turfed out of his flat and proceeded to flip out several hoteliers for non payment, including a delectably irate Stephane Audran, our Pierre takes to tramping the streets. The heart of the film follows peripatetic Pierre wandering like a prospective damned soul in some kind of Parisian purgatory. As he wilts physically and metaphysically under the pounding August sun, Rohmer does some sterling work in depicting Paris as a sort of outdoor stone prison weighing in on Pierre. The irony of his name is not lost as he ends up cursing the very stones the tourists all around him flock to see. The relentless camera pursues Pierre with such voyeuristic, detailed precision one could be forgiven for thinking Bresson, not Rohmer, were directing.
Notwithstanding the perversely bathetic ending; we should be cheering but we don't as we, well, I for one, simply feel foolish Pierre simply doesn't merit the windfall. He's suffered, sure, but this wasn't any Greek tragedy with the gods pulling the strings. No, Pierre was simply a dolt with a notion for unfounded, unproved quack nostrums. And there's always that nagging question hanging over the whole film: why didn't he simply go out and earn a few coppers busking for his supper if he was that desperate? Well ...?