There is no definition of sexuality than can be exposed as essentially true. There is always the taste of new beginnings alongside the creation of something novel in François Ozon’s take on life. The New Girlfriend can appear as courageously outlandish at first sight, but with any thoughtfulness, it is really a stadium of delicacies, complications and desires flung about in a representative fashion that gives one a resounding connection. Your thoughts bounce along a treacherous path spread out by Ozon’s ability to mix fully puffed amusement with gasps of the wonderfully curious. Temptation must be Ozon’s mantra.
An opening sequence assigning the breadth and charm of friendship spreads like butter across the screen as two girls grow from seven years of age to wedded ladies of the household. There time together does not wither until the moment death comes knocking on Laura’s door. This comes as no surprise, but might just break the record for your quickest teardrop in movie history. Laura’s best friend Claire (Anaïs Demoustier) will never forget this woman and serve the pledging duty of casting a watchful eye over the now late husband of Laura and her unforgettable baby boy. Touching scenes are squeezed in of father and son learning to walk amid the occasional close-up featuring the infant complex – the face of widespread joy and innocence, yet so quickly redirected by desperate cries. I’ve always wondered what the core cause for such fraught tears in babies is – it is surely driven by angst, a cry of why oh why have you bought me into such incomprehensible existence!
The film is not all bread and butter, as unmistakably surprising discoveries must be made. Late husband David (Romain Duris) has a secret of his own that once unclothed he is more than happy to share with dear Claire, and consequently lead a course between unchartered territories. Demoustier is utterly desirable in her ability to balance an act of lust and empathy. Her eyes tell conflict as she moves from a rather repressed individual to something far deeper. The act is unparalleled in the film, but Demoustier consumes enough space to focus most of one’s attention. One becomes wholly dependent on her phenomenal performance. Duris has a sure fire way of achieving what he needs and is ever so close to reaching an equal counterpoint, though he isn’t given the easiest of circumstances, to say the least.
Ozon is in full command here, I imagine him to be a toxic romantic with a passion for the psychologically displaced. He puts the audience in such unexpected situations during instances like stringing close-ups of make up being applied to a face only to reveal the same features attached to a body placed in a tidy coffin. He is not telling the simple stories that one may at first believe, but instead there are always openings where small wounds need attending. To my dismay, a final act burnout seems required to add some punch to the film, but it only seeks to hinder the elegance of that which has come before. Nevertheless, the entire experience should considerably outweigh any particular event or device, though not to be confused with the specific rendering of a powerful image. The mind will always hold onto something novel or unfamiliar. Novel is positively a blend of François Ozon.