Magic wands aren't always where you expect them.

Sometimes I'm wrong. Sometimes, but not often. As of late, I've taken to admitting when my mouth runoff is in the wrong. For example, last Wednesday I thought that the water being pumped through our bathroom had a disgusting yellow tinge to it, and so I put off showering as long as possible in the hopes that clarity would return. To my surprise upon closer inspection, the water was, and always had been, clear. I stunk for no reason, but acknowledged that maybe I should have just showered in the first place (Ahem...). The fact that I didn't shower has almost nothing to do with this week's Cinema 10 showing of Les plages d'Agnès (2008), except that my apprehension toward the water in my room was about as justified as what was felt upon entering the theater.

To this humble blogger, the description provided for the film suggests a certain degree of arrogance. I expected just under two hours of self-praise, scene after scene of director Agnès Varda talking about how awesome her life is and how influential her fifty-year film career has been. On the contrary, what I found is that the film was comparable to Ray Bradbury's "Zen in the Art of Writing," which is not a how-to-write guide. Rather, it is a guide to finding the inspiration to write. And that's what "The Beaches of Agnes" is: a glimpse into the director's life and how she has used her experiences in her art. It is a two hour documentary of Varda chasing her muse. In a a scene nearing the end, she films each living member of her close family, during which she beautifully states that she doesn't know or understand them; she just goes towards them. She doesn't always comprehend her ideas, but she follows and uses them to the best of her ability, often creating something beautiful and open, allowing for a great deal of viewer interpretation.

The film was not at all what I had expected. To be perfectly honest, I wanted to hate this movie because I assumed it was pretentious. And - as is fairly consistent in the art of assumption - I was mistaken. The audience needn't any prior exposure to the director; the film stands alone as a portrait of the nine (or more) muses. It is not an attempt to pat herself on the back. If anything, Varda marginalizes her role, though her soothing French is ever-present. Rather than make an attempt to flex her movie knowledge, the fact that she had seen only ten films before making her first is presented without hesitation. What she has chased and how it has been used is the focus.

I didn't find myself caught up in the quirky stylistic choices, either. Nor am I now reflecting upon the color schemes, or wondering at the use of mirrors. Their implementation is fairly obvious, and to dwell upon them infinitely would only detract from this film's purpose. They are unconventional, certainly. But the film's not about how unconventional Agnès Varda is. It's about how important the people around her are; the shots of loved ones are the most crucial and advance the (loose) plot more than a million shots of beaches ever could.

My only gripe is the use of special effects at the end. After we learn of the death of her husband, Jacques, a few shots have particularly strange overlapping effects. A shot of her back to the audience with waves crashing over her shirt is odd and seems like something out of a PBS documentary.

Verdict: Surprisingly Stoked. The audience actually clapped after the credits. Hm. Next week: Everlasting Moments (2008). I'll try to keep an open mind before I sit down in the theater.