October 4, 2009
The Army of Crime is based on the true story of a network of twenty-three resistance fighters in Nazi-occupied France and their efforts to liberate the country they called home. Set in Paris, the film follows the leader of the group, an exiled Armenian poet, and the various Jewish-Communist immigrants who are loyal to the resistance cause. Essentially, this is a revenge narrative: each member of the group is fighting back against the various forms of fascism at work in their country. The film’s structure is necessarily fragmented and the first half hour is a little confusing as there are so many characters introduced. It is also fairly long at 139 minutes, a running time that reflects the number of main characters and the director’s efforts to individualise each of them.
This film is the latest in a long line to deal with the subject of Nazi-occupied France following, of course, Tarantino’s irreverent Inglourious Basterds. Yet, whilst the subject matter may draw parallels between the two films, any comparison ends there. This is not only a highly serious film, it is rooted in fact; something that we are reminded of during a credit-sequence post-script.
The Army of Crime is also part of a recent cluster of films, such as The Baader-Meinhof Complex, to explore the idea of the terrorist as hero. Certainly, the focus on the partisans and the way they are personalised is meant to draw sympathy, yet their various acts of violence appear disjointed and, ultimately, a little meaningless. Even the mandatory yellow stars worn by the Jews seem incidental and their humiliation isn’t dwelt upon sufficiently. Thus, whilst history has told us of the horrific crimes committed under the Nazi regime, the film never really gives us an insight into the brutality which motivates the resistance. In fact, the violence which is inflicted upon the ‘army’ is carried out by the French police, who are portrayed as cold and ambitious – if anything, it is their persistent anti-Semitism which seems to justify the resistance fighters’ crimes.
There are good sequences; ones which underline the ethical dilemmas faced by these ‘freedom fighters’ and the ultimate necessity for violence if one is to survive, or resist, a violent force of oppression. The acting, too, is of a high pedigree and the performances make the characters believable, if not fully sympathetic. Particularly good are Simon Abkarian and Virginie Ledoyen in the lead roles.
Ultimately, though, this film just isn’t the sum of its parts: good acting, a clear sense of historical accuracy, visually impressive, an emotive score – yet somehow strangely lacking. Perhaps the use of flashback as a framing device and the publicised outcome of the ‘army’s’ fate are to blame for the lack of tension in the film – either way, this potentially ‘worthy’ subject was simply better on paper, in the history books.
This film is the latest in a long line to deal with the subject of Nazi-occupied France following, of course, Tarantino’s irreverent Inglourious Basterds. Yet, whilst the subject matter may draw parallels between the two films, any comparison ends there. This is not only a highly serious film, it is rooted in fact; something that we are reminded of during a credit-sequence post-script.
The Army of Crime is also part of a recent cluster of films, such as The Baader-Meinhof Complex, to explore the idea of the terrorist as hero. Certainly, the focus on the partisans and the way they are personalised is meant to draw sympathy, yet their various acts of violence appear disjointed and, ultimately, a little meaningless. Even the mandatory yellow stars worn by the Jews seem incidental and their humiliation isn’t dwelt upon sufficiently. Thus, whilst history has told us of the horrific crimes committed under the Nazi regime, the film never really gives us an insight into the brutality which motivates the resistance. In fact, the violence which is inflicted upon the ‘army’ is carried out by the French police, who are portrayed as cold and ambitious – if anything, it is their persistent anti-Semitism which seems to justify the resistance fighters’ crimes.
There are good sequences; ones which underline the ethical dilemmas faced by these ‘freedom fighters’ and the ultimate necessity for violence if one is to survive, or resist, a violent force of oppression. The acting, too, is of a high pedigree and the performances make the characters believable, if not fully sympathetic. Particularly good are Simon Abkarian and Virginie Ledoyen in the lead roles.
Ultimately, though, this film just isn’t the sum of its parts: good acting, a clear sense of historical accuracy, visually impressive, an emotive score – yet somehow strangely lacking. Perhaps the use of flashback as a framing device and the publicised outcome of the ‘army’s’ fate are to blame for the lack of tension in the film – either way, this potentially ‘worthy’ subject was simply better on paper, in the history books.