2017 Tarkovsky Prize Runner Up: Miles Byrne

LA HAINE - Life in the Banilue by Miles Byrne

Of all the art forms, cinema is the most liberating, able to capture and censor reality as it pleases, to stitch together stories and disassemble them, it’s hundred or so years of existence abundant with creative permutations and new ways of expression, from the haunting, angular imagery of German Expressionism to Godard’s anarchistic, free-flowing violations of film form, slashing through the unspoken rules of celluloid with jump cuts and exaggerating the line between seen and unseen, self-reflexive usage of music, editing, and dialogue, producing legendary proto-meta-sequences, like the dancing from Bande a part and the satirical, side-scrolling tracking shots of Week-End .

As time progresses, filmmaker’s have bigger pools of influence to draw from- now, the solemn social realism of postwar Italy could be amalgamated with Nouvelle Vague’s modern sensibilities to craft cinema that reached more deeply into the ethos of its characters and their environments. La Haine is such a film, a shadow of French society that flicker’s and dances with the heartbeat of it’s characters, in a violent waltz to the uncaring cadences of their urban environments. It’s clipped, clean cinematography captures the urban atmosphere with skill and precision, blending hard-hitting social commentary with a definite sence of cinematic style— jump cuts, borderline surreal sequences , and varied lens choices underscored with hip-hop beats are pervasive and integral to the gritty vibrancy of the film’s atmosphere.

What immediately stands out about La Haine is it’s episodic narrative structure- a ticking countdown lends a sense of progress and significance, as well as tension, to events that might otherwise have no meaning- in this case, the listless exploits of Vinz, Hubert, and Sayid. The notion of a “plot” is subverted and reinvented- the events only become noteworthy because they are leading up to a conclusion, the natural conclusion of the flame of hatred that scorches the whole film- the 20 or so hours leading up to Vinz’s demise are important not so much of because what transpires, but because they are the 20 or so hours leading up to Vinz’s demise. Each of it’s chapters, composed of the many brief moments in a day, lead to one brief moment— Vinz’s death.

These chapters are also split down the middle by a two clear-cut halves: the character’s day-to-day life in the banlieues (suburbs) of Paris, and then their excursion into the city itself. The first half introduces to us to Vinz, Sayid, and Hubert— Jewish, Arab, and Black, representative of France’s immigrant population, but also vibrant characters in their own right. Hubert’s thoughtfulness sits opposite Vinz’s rashness and violent tendencies— Sayid quite literally the middleman.

While following these three comrades on their daily routine through the banilue , a sense of community and relative security is established. They amiably greet many of their friends, also ethnically heterogeneous, shown to be at home in their environment, with varying degrees of satisfaction. Hubert, for instance, believes the only way to improve his life is to improve the poverty-stricken banilue , while Vinz believes it can’t be improved. Vinz is shown to be a product of his environment— he often compares himself to others, choosing jail over community service because “everyone has done time.” He is influenced by the hardship around him, and by movies themselves— many American films are mentioned, he mimics Travis Bickle, and ducks into a movie theater at one point to gain some respite.

Almost exactly halfway through the film, a definitive period of communal unity is reached. The rooftop scene has the three friends comfortable with their community, enjoying hot dogs and trash-talking the authorities from above. The police eventually tell them to leave the rooftop-turned-hangout, and its inhabitants— a diverse set ages and ethnicities— are unified in their refusal, any other petty quarrels set aside. This segways into the film’s most expensive set piece— a tracking shot of the whole banlieue, set to a live mixing of ‘Nique la Police,’ a remix of the American track ‘Sound of da Police.’ Here, there is a culture, an amalgamation of differences, observed by the gentle gliding of the camera over people and buildings, and the multilingual, sonically eclectic sound of music that is now as French as it is American.

The second half is differentiated from the first by an immediate aesthetic change. The first half is shot with a wide lens, bringing the character’s closer to the environment. This reflects the closely knitted nature of person, place, and community, particularly in the place where they have been grown up and raised. The second half is shot with a longer lens, illustrating the distance of the characters from their environment- in this case, urban Paris, where people stand out from the background. The sound design reflects this as well— early on, a healthy concoction of human voices, barking dogs, squealing motorbikes, traffic ablaze with car horns— these echoe around buildings, expand into empty spaces, and familiarize the viewer with the ambient noises that occupy the lives of those living in the banlieue.  In Paris, the sound is far less prominent and feels distant from the characters- just snatches of voices and music, the familiar texture of the banilue gone.

The entrance into this second half is marked with a dramatic dolly zoom- the background changes before our very eyes, the characters do not. As Paris shifts into shallow focus, the characters gain importance. The only identifying feature of Paris is the Eiffel Tower, which blinks out, leaving the three friends alone with the cops and skinheads in the dark. The camerawork shifts as well- careful, structured compositions that denote a sense of order and place, complemented by purposeful tracking shots that feel at home in their environment disappear. A new, cinema-verite style emerges, favoring close-ups and hesitant, unsure handheld camerawork, the characters the only constant as they traipse through art galleries, restrooms, and shopping malls, scorned by Paris natives, skinheads, and police alike. It is clear they are not welcome here.

The dynamic between Vinz, Said, and Hubert is crucial to understanding La Haine . Each character is developed through their separate reactions to their environment, but it is when they move as a group of three that the balanced portrait of France’s youth in the banlieues is created. Hubert vies to escape his life, but sells drugs to support his mother, little sister and his brother in jail. His burnt out gym exemplifies the results of a burnt out society; it is here, boxing away at solitary punching bag, where we are introduced. He comments that ‘Vinz probably had a hand in the riot burnings-’ Vinz’s aggressive, self-centered demeanor reflects ‘the malaise of the ghetto’, as commented by an unnamed Parisian. He in turn perpetuates this malaise, the unorganized rioting damaging his own community more than helping it, much like his quest for status and respect within his community rather than working to improve it. Sayid represents the middle ground, more or less content with life in the banlieue . He is most animated, and chooses to accept the poverty and drugs around him as the way life is. These are attitudes follow the characters around; when trying to pick up girls at the art gallery, their amorous, cloutish behavior is rejected- ‘With that attitude, how can we respect you?’ the girls respond.

This is the essential dilemma that La Haine presents: youth, disenfranchised by living among hardship and hatred, unable to assimilate properly into Parisian society, only at home in the very environments that are destroying them, wasting precious time until tragedy strikes. In the case of La Haine , Vinz’s murder at the hands of incompetent police. The government does not help the banlieues , only sensationalizes, condemns, and then returns the violence. ‘Hatred breeds hatred,’ Hubert tells Vinz, before he is drawn back into the fray he has fought to escape. Each character approaches their struggles differently, but the end La Haine is not a film concerned with answers, only stories and their endings.

In this case, a tragedy and the moments that precede it, moments in which the banlieues’ bitter truths are laid bare, by way of drawing on a century of film history- from three second sepia captures of society’s mundane to full-fledged portraits of the modern era. France’s unique cinematic identity melds with an unsentimental neorealist narrative- it encapsulates the fears and furies of it’s leads, but what’s more it grounds them in a real environment, celebrating cinema’s remarkable ability to glimpse the lives of others, factual or fictional, and understand a little more about how to break that vicious circle.