Un Prophète

 Bonjour madame et monsieur. The so called ‘first masterpiece of the decade’ escaped into London cinemas this weekend, I’ve been deliberately avoiding all the reviews, write-ups and thus managed to pull off a very successful embargo, even when it was unexpectedly previewed ahead of both The Book Of Eli and Up In The Air I averted my gaze and turned up the ipod – clearly this is a project whose distributors feel could warrant that elusive breakthrough status as that is quite an unusual strategy for a subtitled movie with no discernable stars, not even the likes of Depardieu or Cassel to pull in the more educated patrons. Being a man of leisure I rolled a new cinema visit into this viewing, quite aptly I went to see Un Prophète at the Instiut Francais down in deepest Kensington, quite the apropos choice considering its gallic pedigree. It was playing at my local cinema but I thought it would be more appropriate to see this at an art cinema with the diminished possibility of unruly patrons, my decision paid dividends as there was only about four other punters and the cinema itself was quite an efficient little space with a larger screen than was expected, also a bargain at a mere £7.  I may be being presumptuous, it being not yet a month into the year, but just to chime in with all the plaudits Un Prophète is destined to be one of the films of the year, it’s a magnificent piece of work that is utterly riveting from beginning to end.

Not exactly dispelling certain stereotypes I rang up to book a ticket before making the sojourn over to West London, I’m pretty sure it wasn’t going to sell out but I was recently burned with leaving tickets to this to the last minute which then sold out so I’ve learnt my lesson –  looking at that video is an annoying glimpse of what I missed. Anyway, once I’d got through and explained I wanted a ticket to the matinée the response was ‘oh no, monsieur, you don’t have to book tickets for that…’ – Hmm, then I’m curious why you’d have an box office phone line then eh? Don’t you think? Anyway, in terms of context some years ago, with time to kill before meeting friends I quite rarely went to see a film I knew absolutely nothing about, I was around Leicester Square and having checked out the competition I settled on the Prince Charles cinema and some weird sounding French drama they were playing – I picked well as the film was Read My Lips which I’m looking forward to seeing again as like the intervening The Beat That My Heart Skipped director Jacques Audiard is carving quite a career as one of the most amazingly talented French auteurs working today.

Our anti-hero is the teenage Malik, a young Arabian man who is sent to a ferociously grim burghaljail for an unspecified crime, snippets of dialogue subtley revealingthat he may have been involved in an affray with a police officer. Thrust into this modern-day Gehenna Malick is given a grim order, to murder a snitch whose activities threaten a Corsican gang faction led by the merciless César (Niels Arestrup) who ruthlessly explainthat he either kills or is killed, his forced acquiescence subsequently providing him with the protection of this powerful cabal whose tendrils control much of the minutia of prison life – the drugs, the food, the porn, the basic luxuries that alleviate the remorseless suffering. After one of the most shockingly brutal scenes of European cinema for quite some time Malik finds himself under the wing of his new found comrades, the film however does not deviate into the artificial esprit de corps that this type of tale can slip into, Malik (in a magnetic performance by Tahar Rahim) understanding that survival in an environment that is so deeply segregated along the ethnic lines of Corsican and Arabic factions can be manipulated to his advantage as his efforts at self improvement – learning new languages and keeping his mouth shut – mirror his progress through the criminal dominion.

What an experience. Audiard has a reputation for being a tough, no-frills macho director, a modern emulation of Sam Fuller or Robert Aldrich and make no mistake Un Prophète is a gruelling experience that will keep you utterly gripped throughout its epic 155 minute run time. The sense of incarceration is signalled by an urgent, hand held shooting style that is encapsulated in claustrophobic angles, framing through cell bars and tiny spaces, expanding the canvas when Malik is permitted day release expeditions due to his apparent good behaviour. The metaphors and allusions are there if you want them, there is a sense of possible redemption and the religious connotations are frequent but not bludgeoned into the narrative, instead they are intrinsically weaved into a very immediate vivacity, submerged in a very convincing tableau of violence as Malik’s ghosts return to haunt his achievements. There are frequent, muted references references to shoes (walking in my footsteps?) a 40 day penance sequence toward the end of the film and the masterstroke of exemplifying Malik’s formal education – he is illiterate upon induction to the prison but demonstrates his intelligence by learning not only French but also the Arabic and Corsican argot that essentially forms the spine of his criminal success.

In that sense the film is an excellent companion piece to the rags to riches trajectory of Scarface or the Machiavellian instincts of The Godfather with Michael Corleone’s intellect of forward planning, crucially you’re never particularly certain of Malik’s enigmatic ambitions, you become sympathetic with his achievements and as usual with these films you illicitly want him to succeed and prosper. Audiard makes certain to signal a vague moral compass to our confused and desperate protagonist early in the film as he attempts to avoid the murder he has been coerced into discharging by reporting his dilemma to the authorities, only to find that the level of corruption in the prison extends to the protectors and agents of the state leaving him with no option, no escape – an apt axiom to the films claustrophobic ambitions. The politics of an uncertain, uneasy multicultural France fester in the background, a grapnel of social reality that give the film a very prescient mood of its time, a reality cemented with the films reproduction of a functioning prison in a disused warehouse for the films production locale, all complemented with a sound design whose ambient effects were apparently culled from genuine recordings of authentic prison environments. Masterfully constructed, utterly ruthless, electrifying and absolutely essential viewing.

So then, prison movies. It’s quite a rich category, there are the more obvious candidates of course with some less observant examples that also mine the essential ingredients of the genre, all serving the same intrinsic drama to a myriad, diffused effect. Finally, here is one of the webs best film sites accumulation of some of the worlds best film writers favourites of last year – I love how on the one hand I’ve only heard of perhaps 65% of the movies and more entertainingly how some critics loathe the likes of Basterds and Antichrist whilst the next critic will qualify them as the best of the year – diversity is fun and they have a pedigree with this sort of activity…