Ricky

Ricky

89 Minutes








Ricky is unextraordinary and tedious in every sense; a movie that feels like an imposition. François Ozon's latest is an attempt at a modern, allegorical fairy tale, but its indecisive approach makes it undesirable to connect with. I realized while watching it that, unlike most bad movies I see, I didn't really want it to be good; I felt no sense of compassion towards it. Fuck it, you know? I don't hate it, because it's not vile or ugly, but I mean it in the most sincere and neutral sense of the phrase, like a powerful shrug. It comes into your mind and it takes up your time, and it's basically like being forced into a 20 minute conversation about the weather or something - you just feel it entering the fabric of your life as purely superfluous material and if you're lucky enough to not have to stay there with it you can just walk out of the theater.

It opens with a long, uninterrupted close-up shot of Katie (Alexandra Lamy) talking to a social worker about the possibility of giving up her baby for adoption. It's pretty intense, real "European gritty realist," and completely singular within the scope of the film. Some credits roll and we're taken "several months earlier." Not only is the moment not revisited again, but it's not actually consistent with the movie that follows. Once Katie hits the part of the story where she could conceivably, even off-camera this time, have found herself in that position, the emotional tenor of the situation never remotely occupies that space again. There's nothing there to hint that we're supposed to take it as a sign that what's going on with her internally goes beyond what we're seeing on screen, the opening is a complete red herring. The film is full of them, trying to cover so many things at once that it doesn't do anything at all.

The story, meanwhile, is abrupt and messy - Katie meets Paco (Sergi López), a supervisor at her factory, and has sex with him in the bathroom. Then she's pregnant and a few scenes later he's moved in. All of these events wash over you and the characters become outlines instead of people. The film doesn't give its audience the tools to read it, because it doesn't have a clear sense of grammar. The first 40 minutes are just kind of shaky and cold - Katie's young daughter, Lisa (Mélusine Mayance, the best performance in the movie), is growing to realize that she can't count on her mother, Paco joins the family, then leaves the family when Katie accuses him of hitting their baby (Arthur Peyret), and then, at the 40 minute mark, Ricky takes a silly, totally expected and transparently telegraphed supernatural twist and our little titular child grows wings - those bruises were them sprouting! The rest of the movie vacillates awkwardly between continued stylistic pandering to festival audiences and inspirational Spielbergisms without the visual flair or budget. Eventually people see Ricky flying and paparazzi start chasing the family around, because isn't it true that we overscrutinize and thusly stifle and smother greatness through parasitic spectatorship? You bet. Here come the strings.

by Andrei Alupului