The French surrealist comedy "Avida" is best appreciated as a series of darkly comic vignettes and not as a narrative whole. Frankly, it wasn´t until I read the back of the box that I became aware the film even possessed an ostensibly cohesive story, but its episodic nature was compelling enough to have kept my interest throughout its duration.
The plot, once understood, is summarized easily enough: a trio of zookeepers (Eric Martin alongside co-writers and directors Benoit Delepine and Gustave Kervern) kidnap a wealthy woman (French plus-sized model Velvet D´Amour) and her dog and retreat into the mountains.
But this is a movie where the main thrust of the story is incidental to its overall purpose, which is an exercise in satirical nonsense. The film may make perfect sense in the minds of its creators, but from a viewers´ standpoint, it´s more like sifting through dirt and occasionally finding a gold nugget.
The film´s proverbial nuggets are its moments of comedy and satire. Though the film is rooted in absurdity, it is not so awash in nonsense as to render it indecipherable. "Long live death," a character announces early on, setting the film´s macabre and ironic tone.
In one of the film´s great scenes, we witness a business-type make enter his modern home. He sits down and listens to music. Through several large windows in the background we watch one of the zookeepers (Kervern) try to manage the man´s guard dogs. A fire is started and the man´s technologically advanced home becomes a deathtrap. I won´t reveal the hilarious fate he awaits, but it is a very effective scene both in terms of physical humor (watching Kervern wrestle the dogs is a joy) and satire (see what reliance on technology gets you?) Also, the largely silent sequence is evocative of Jacques Tati.
Tati is not the only point of reference. There´s also the dream logic of David Lynch, the unrestrained fantasy of Crispin Glover (I speak of his work as a director), the early surrealism of Luis Bunuel (and his collaborator Salvador Dali, who is referenced here overtly), John Waters´ predilection to depict society´s outcasts (particularly having a fat woman as a major character) and the mountainous landscapes of Alejandro Jordowsky.
By listing all of these references, I in no way mean to characterize "Avida´s" creators as plagiarists. Rather, like many artists, they draw on what has come before them and make it their own. I wish that all of the film were as successful as the early home scene, or the black humor of the zoo scene (where visitors can eat the animal they´ve just seen), but a lot of the movie appears to be odd for oddness´ sake, which doesn´t do much for me. The last third in particular takes on a verbosity and languidness that do much to sap the fun out of the adventure.
The French surrealist comedy "Avida" is best appreciated as a series of darkly comic vignettes and not as a narrative whole. Frankly, it wasn´t until I read the back of the box that I became aware the film even possessed an ostensibly cohesive story, but its episodic nature was compelling enough to have kept my interest throughout its duration.
The plot, once understood, is summarized easily enough: a trio of zookeepers (Eric Martin alongside co-writers and directors Benoit Delepine and Gustave Kervern) kidnap a wealthy woman (French plus-sized model Velvet D´Amour) and her dog and retreat into the mountains.
But this is a movie where the main thrust of the story is incidental to its overall purpose, which is an exercise in satirical nonsense. The film may make perfect sense in the minds of its creators, but from a viewers´ standpoint, it´s more like sifting through dirt and occasionally finding a gold nugget.
The film´s proverbial nuggets are its moments of comedy and satire. Though the film is rooted in absurdity, it is not so awash in nonsense as to render it indecipherable. "Long live death," a character announces early on, setting the film´s macabre and ironic tone.
In one of the film´s great scenes, we witness a business-type make enter his modern home. He sits down and listens to music. Through several large windows in the background we watch one of the zookeepers (Kervern) try to manage the man´s guard dogs. A fire is started and the man´s technologically advanced home becomes a deathtrap. I won´t reveal the hilarious fate he awaits, but it is a very effective scene both in terms of physical humor (watching Kervern wrestle the dogs is a joy) and satire (see what reliance on technology gets you?) Also, the largely silent sequence is evocative of Jacques Tati.
Tati is not the only point of reference. There´s also the dream logic of David Lynch, the unrestrained fantasy of Crispin Glover (I speak of his work as a director), the early surrealism of Luis Bunuel (and his collaborator Salvador Dali, who is referenced here overtly), John Waters´ predilection to depict society´s outcasts (particularly having a fat woman as a major character) and the mountainous landscapes of Alejandro Jordowsky.
By listing all of these references, I in no way mean to characterize "Avida´s" creators as plagiarists. Rather, like many artists, they draw on what has come before them and make it their own. I wish that all of the film were as successful as the early home scene, or the black humor of the zoo scene (where visitors can eat the animal they´ve just seen), but a lot of the movie appears to be odd for oddness´ sake, which doesn´t do much for me. The last third in particular takes on a verbosity and languidness that do much to sap the fun out of the adventure.
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