Breathless (USA) by Clyde

Forward:

Today is a very special day for two reasons: (1.) I'm posting something to The Erection of Disbelief, and (2.) It's by a new commentator, Clyde, a film major who among other things works at a theater. He might even be more qualified than I am, what with the appropriate film citations of actor's names and years of movies and such. Judge for yourself. Also, for the record, I don't particularly like the original Breathless, which makes me inclined to agree with Tarantino based on Clyde's gloss.

Breathless (USA)

by Clyde

Year: 1983
Director: Jim McBride
Leads: Richard Gere, Valerie Kaprisky
Classification: Remake, Romance

While Godard’s Breathless (1960) holds a secure place in the canon, few know what to make of that film’s American remake. Its mix of self-reflexivity, pop culture artifacts, and Richard Gere’s penis has confused and angered friends that I’ve subjected to it, but Jim McBride’s Breathless (1983) has aged well and stands as the ballsier movie. Fuck jump cuts, this movie ends with Richard Gere, cornered by the police, suddenly breaking into song and dance while screaming “Breathless!”

The remake, or, as the French would say, A Bout de Souffle Made in USA, opens with petty criminal Jesse (Richard Gere) stealing a car in Las Vegas and shooting a cop in the desert soon thereafter. He flees to LA to hide out with his French girlfriend Monica (Valerie Kaprisky) and tries to plan their getaway but keeps getting sidetracked by sex in pools, showers, and the kitchen sink. I have to clear up a popular misconception about the remake: it is not simply a straight-up Hollywood version of a deconstructionist French movie. The remake may look like a trashy 80’s thriller, but it is actually a very funny movie, and not accidentally so. Prior to remaking Breathless, McBride made a name for himself with the faux documentary David Holzman’s Diary (1967), which sent up cinema verite’s tendency toward self-infatuation. With McBride’s use of music (Jerry Lee Lewis’ “Breathless” and a kick ass punk cover by X), rear-projection driving sequences, and placement of kitschy elements throughout the film, McBride is clearly signaling that he’s in on the joke.

Creating camp on purpose often fails because it can come off as smug and distanced, but McBride manages to avoid this pitfall through brilliant casting and (mis)direction: Richard Gere does not appear to be in on the joke. He mugs his way through the movie with a sex-fever intensity recognizable from his other movies, but uncomfortably long stretches of the film are devoted to Gere muttering to himself variations on “whoo-eee,” “Mon-i-ca,” and, of course, “breathless.” Responsible directors would have called cut long ago because Gere has clearly run out of things to say, but McBride leaves him floundering in front of the camera, and in these moments we see glimpses of Gere as the inarticulate, feral, sex-driven goon that lurks just below the surface of the persona he has crafted throughout his career. In one of his explanations of feeling “breathless,” Gere simultaneously defines what the word means to him and the differences in the meanings of the title. For Godard, Breathless was a joke about how much Belmondo runs in the movie. For Richard Gere, “breathless” refers to how his love for Monica leaves him… BREATHLESS. Whereas self-reflexivity is often marked by detachment, the remake oscillates between loneliness, confusion, and filthy horny passion.

Quentin Tarantino has cited his preference for the remake over the original, which makes a lot of sense given the aesthetic similarities. Breathless’ romanticized lovers on the run, surf rock soundtrack, sunny LA backdrop, and bizarre Silver Surfer obsession are all elements that pop up a decade later in Tarantino’s work, albeit in a less radical form. After experiencing the last decade’s glut of empty genre pastiches, McBride’s Breathless comes as a welcome alternative.