Both Sides Of The Blade

And Tattoos

I’m not sure who agrees or disagrees, but Juliette Binoche, Vincent Lindon and Claire Denis all together, scored by Tindersticks, is peak cinema. Claire Denis is the best filmmaker in the world, and in “Both Sides Of The Blade”, this is a master stretching herself out, exploring the upper reaches of her skill set to tell a familiar tale. Sometimes, the great filmmakers decide they can do something wholly original and new, as Denis has done more than a few times. And sometimes, they make something like “Both Sides Of The Blade”, which is Denis showing other filmmakers she can do what they do, but better.

First, you have that gorgeous, legendary French couple. It’s amazing that Juliette Binoche is considered “that Oscar winner from ‘The English Patient’” in America, when she has long overshadowed that film with a long collection of masterpieces. “Code Unknown”? “Cache”? “Certified Copy”? Maybe the most impressive resume of any actor in the 21st century. And then there’s brooding, mature Vincent Lindon, a Gaellic favorite who hasn’t had the same stateside opportunities, but who has nonetheless made an impression in various arthouse classics. Denis alone has elevated Lindon to godhood in movies like “Friday Night” (as perhaps the most seductive leading male performance one could conjure) and “Bastards” (a pitch-black “Taken” riff with Lindon as a combination of Liam Neeson, Robert DeNiro and Michael Fassbender at his most dangerous).

The start of this film finds the couple as a happy and still sexually-active couple. Initially, there is a lot happening despite fairly straightforward visuals. Denis loves seeing their faces, their bodies, tracing the wrinkles of these people. From a classical perspective, this is Denis as a filmmaker finding pleasure and observing these two gorgeous specimens together. It is heightened because, at the end of the day, these are movie stars, even at their elevated ages. When I am in my fifties, I’ll be completely washed. If you’re reading this, it’s likely you’ll find your way into this same designation.

But there’s also the idea that maybe it’s a little much? Denis voyueristically captures the two of them sensuously moving within the same space together, plotlessly rejoicing in their physical affection. After a long while, even the most patient viewer will wonder if Denis has simply made classy softcore pornography. The film is called “Both Sides Of The Blade”. It’s clear we’re seeing only one of those sides. And so, after the camera has revealed a one-track mind, the eye begins to wander. This is not an accident.

This is how we land on the younger man, Gregoire Colin. The younger man, also a star of “Bastards”, is the skeleton key to what lies at the core of the Binoche and Lindon union. Their lovemaking is so passionate and so aggressive because it’s meant to act as a therapeutic erasure of the past. This movie isn’t some sort of backroom mystery, nor does it try to be – you can guess early on what happened ten years ago to create fissures within the relationships in question. Truths are unveiled, first to the viewer and then the couple, as these actors puzzle over the return of the repressed.

It’s something of a filmic test, of course, and Denis knows that – this is a somber drama that is nonetheless one of her most stylistically-playful efforts. That opening half hour or so preys on what a viewer is trained to expect. When we see that these two beautiful people are not necessarily in love, but so obsessed with each others’ bodies, we automatically want to like them. We don’t want to admit that she’s a near-pathological liar. We don’t want to admit he can be a bullying jerk and a fool. We see them tested, and we worry, and then we see both of them make the most foolish choices they possibly could.

Denis, I think, is the most consistently interesting and dynamic director currently making movies. I thought so a decade ago, before I was in prison, and now that I am catching up on her recent work, I have not wavered. This is slimmer than some of her best work, less intellectually rigorous, and it’s still bulbously pregnant with ideas and themes. And she’s still got the best band in the scoring game with Tindersticks, who contribute a similarly luscious, coyly sexual series of musical compositions. This movie tickles just about every fancy I have, and I can’t wait to discuss even more of Ms. Denis’ recent work on this site.

Lindon’s character here is an ex-con, which helps add a bit of color to the movie’s various interpersonal complications. I am a bit surprised that he wasn’t a bit tatted up, however. Tattoos are a massive part of prison. Nearly everyone there has one – I don’t, and I felt like I was standing out in a major way. A lot of the guys who don’t have tattoos are likely to get their first one in prison, with a makeshift needle that you have to hope is properly cleaned. Hopefully, you can hide it – if you have prominent new ink, the officers will notice, and you’re going in the SHU. So is, possibly, your tattoo artist.

I roomed with a tattoo artist briefly, until he ended up with COVID. I was his watchman, sitting on my top bunk where I could see officers coming from each direction. Officers walk, though there’s an unspoken deal that they’ll walk around the unit while their keys loudly dangle from their hips. The officers who want to catch someone (and also draft the proper paperwork – not many enjoyed this) will hold their keys close to their leg, which is why it was imperative I saw in all directions. I was paid well for my skills, and no one ever got caught on my watch.

This also meant that I engaged with a lot of people ready to get their first tattoo, or at least their first case of syphilis from a dirty needle. Some of them would come up with concepts that I wished I could convince them otherwise. One guy wanted Marvin The Martian, but when I asked if he liked Looney Tunes, he acted like I asked him if he tills the soil in China. Another guy was dead-set on “Only God Can Judge Me”, which was ironic considering he was there because he was sentenced by, y’know, a judge. And then there was the man who insisted on “Death Before Dishonor”. This was a man who, like many of us, frequently went to visits where, after being forced to not touch our wives and children, we’d be escorted out, and forced to drop our underwear and spread our buttcheeks wide for an officer who would call him scum before looking deep into his rectum for contraband.