Finnish
director Aki Kaurismäki’s Le Havre is
named for the French coastal town where it’s set. Huge metal containers pass
through this port on their way to somewhere else. One such container is full of
African refugees. When the door is cracked, a young boy (Blondin Miguel) makes
a run for it. Stranded, he ends up hiding with Marcel (André Wilms), a harmless
scoundrel known for his love of the vino. Marcel's wife has recently taken ill
(Kati Outinen), and getting the kid to England gives the old man something to
do while she’s in the hospital.
Le Havre has a quaint European affectation that’s
both charming and inconsequential. The quirky small town pulls together to help
Marcel, and they hold a benefit rock concert to pay off smugglers. Even the
police turn a blind eye. The inspector in charge of the case (Jean-Pierre
Darroussin) would rather be solving real crimes than chasing harmless
immigrants. Darroussin is one of the film’s bright spots. With his smart
patter, bowler hat, and moustache, he’s like an extra from Tintin [review].
Only
Marcel's cranky neighbor, played by former wunderkind Jean-Pierre Léaud (The 400 Blows) goes against the
community, though his snitching serves little function beyond instigating Le Havre’s third act. By that time, the outcome of this little
plot is never less than a foregone conclusion, a fact underlined by Timo
Salminen’s melodramatic score in the final scenes. It’s blandly enjoyable, but
really, Le Havre is just old-school
Hollywood cheese filtered through a semi-ironic lens.
Kaurismäki
(Leningrad Cowboys Go America [review]) has
been peddling this same middling tone for several decades now. He’s like a Euro
Woody Allen, dependable and occasionally surprising, but also somewhat dated. Le Havre feels like a leftover from an international film festival circa 1994.
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