By Digby Warde-Aldam

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There’s a phrase I hate perhaps more than any other, partly due to its patent falsehood, and partly due to the connotation with half arsed upper middle class parenting. Sure, there are some strong contenders for the title of the English language’s most irritating maxim (a solid runner up would be “a stitch in time saves nine”- what the fuck does that actually mean?), but this one takes the biscuit, throws it up, and proceeds to repeat the action with the rest of the family-sized packet. I this hear this wearisome platitude a lot on my regular mid-afternoon trips to the discount section in my local Waitrose. Genteel second-time mothers of a certain age, pushing their ludicrously over designed Cameronite prams look down at their complaining, Boden-bedecked firstborn as they reach for a re-up of organic grana padano from the precarious upper climes of the deli section.

‘I’m bored, mummy’ whines the Bedales-bound genetic photocopy.

‘Only boring people get bored, darling,’ she sighs in reply, with a look of prolonged resignation that no amount of Jamon Iberico or freshly sourced Guava puree can possibly assuage. I snigger a bit, and wonder whether wearing a ratty old tie will give me the requisite professional air to purchase alcohol without showing ID.

Anyway, before I describe any more of the rolling tedium of my existence, I’ll get back on the brief; we’ve all been bored at some point. Some of us aren’t boring. In fact, I know a number of people who, for better or for worse, are incapable of ever even approaching dull. On the contrary to this well worn parental riposte, you don’t need to be boring to be bored- you just need to watch a lot of French films.

I know, I know, I’m really rolling out the standard blokey English cliches here, and would sound like an unfunny Jeremy Clarkson were it not for the fact that I have actually watched a lot of French films. Jean Luc Godard and Alain Resnais may have been pretentious and incomprehensible at the best of times, but in no way whatsoever were they ever dull. The films I’m referring to are not the products of the Nouvelle Vague, themselves admittedly acquired tastes, but the work of the so-called “quality” directors of the last 15 years.

Maybe it’s due to the contrast with our own country’s appalling cinematic output of late, but as I see it, there’s a concrete routine for English film reviewers when discussing the new releases from across the Channel. They seem to swoon at the overlong dramatic pauses, ejaculate at the inevitable moment of labored dramatic climax, and bathe in the sheer tedium and predictability of yet another film about rough sex and lonely women.

Take, for example, Philippe Claudel’s critically arse-licked Kristen Scott-Thomas vehicle Il y a longtemps que je t’aime. Pretty much fuck all happens. Kristen, gaunt, “mysterious” (doesn’t say much: gets angry at predictably unpredictable moments) and very pleased with herself for being one of only two major English actresses who can pass for a Frenchwoman, goes to a job interview, reveals that she’s spent time in jail, argues a bit with her bourgeois family, and eventually comes over all saintly as she reveals that she ‘fessed’ up to a crime she didn’t commit. I saw it in Notting Hill when it was released back in 2008. In an audience of about six oh-so-cultured cultured couples, I counted four heads arched back over the red seats, mouths agape, their snoring drowned out only by the interminable paroles of Claudel’s semi-realised characters. I think it’s safe to say that the other two insomniacs in the audience were having as much fun longing for some wet paint to watch drying as I was by the time the bore-fest ended.

Four out of five French art movies of the last decade follow much the same route. Take Francois Ozon, for example; his films follow the above template pretty closely, but with some wife-beating thrown in for good measure. These may seem like sweeping generalisations, but, really, trust me: I studied French film.

Anyway, this is why I’m so excited about Un Prophet, Jacques Audiard’s new one. Audiard, best known for The Beat my heart skipped, with Romain Duris, is a true great. His films seem to turn the most tired old cliches into something genuinely new and exciting. Take his 2001 film, Sur mes levres; Vincent Cassel and Emmanuelle Devos play the classic odd couple. He, a pathologically violent ex-con with a plan for one last big heist, and she a deaf, dowdy goody-goody who works in the offices of a large construction firm. That it’s almost entirely predictable is half the point- a lot of great films (a good example being the grand-pere of modern French cinema, Godard’s A bout de souffle) have one-dimensional plots, but are executed with such skill that they can bring an audience to the edge of their seats, and reduce their fingernails to nothing through sheer dramatic attrition. The throbbing sexual tension between Cassel and Devos elevates the will they-won’t they tropes to a time-bomb of repressed passion, and the violence, when it does occur, is genuinely painful to watch. In a good way, that is.

Anyway, I’m writing this on Friday 15th January, which, coincidentally, is the English release date for Un Prophet. I’m going to the cinema tonight. If you’re reading this and haven’t yet made the acquaintance of Audiard’s oeuvre, then I suggest you do the same, and if it’s no longer showing, blow the rent money on a complete set of DVDs. Believe me, it will almost be worth becoming homeless for…

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Digby is a journalist, student and film fanatic from South London. He writes for his local newspaper, drinks cider and eats chikpea based soups, followed by entire packs of smuggled Russian cigarettes. He contributes monthly film columns to this ‘ere blog. Enjoy.