For many centuries, stories revolving around lonesome cabins and the great wide wilderness have been continuously circulated and reinterpreted throughout the history of contemporary cinema. From horror films to tranquil nature documentaries, notations on atmosphere and hazy moods preoccupy their narratives of seclusive enlightenment. Especially in recent memory, filmmakers from Canada have been diligently toiling with the tropes of the obscure sub-genre. Denis Cote's That Kind of Summer and Charlotte Le Bon's Falcon Lake both brilliantly exhume the melancholia and humid melodrama cultivated by the shorelines of the Québécois archipelago. Whilst the locations and familiar shooting environments are undeniably similar to one another, each new interpretation of the Canuck peninsula represents different areas of the human condition. Whereas the aforementioned titles expertly survey the natural reckoning of their respective scenery, Philippe Lesage's latest French-language endeavour peculiarly regresses in the face of Mother Nature's grasp.
Largely imposed by Lesage's immaculate eye for languid oners and minimalist cutting methods, Comme Le Feu opens with a silent sequence of ambiguous tension. A droning ambient-heavy score accompanies the uncut magnitude of the Canadian outback. The level-headed introduction is undeniably alluring, albeit derivative by the film's end. Lesage's methodology is frequently abused for the sanctity of spectacle. Whereas the blocking, performances, and composition of Lesage's formalist instincts restlessly push the boundaries of a conventional Canadian indie — Comme Le Feu unfortunately crumbles at the feet of its middling screenplay. The film's undercooked timeline is a nightmarish descent into the pettiness of first-world melodrama; where a group of selfish & snobbish artists attempt to reconcile with their nonsensical preoccupations for nearly three hours.
Lesage's meta-text is reminiscent of the work of Turkish auteur Nuri Bilge Ceylan; whose films often relish in overtly extravagant runtimes and a plethora of intellectual conversations. Unlike Ceylan's oeuvre, Lesage lacks the same multifaceted moral-ambiguity at the crux of his drama. Comme le Feu is succumbed by surface-level motivations from his cast of naive characters. There's a distasteful predictability to Lesage's narrative progression; as involuntary celibacy detours the moral interplay. The veil of politeness in the film's opening act evolves into a farce on mall-mannered artists; as conversations revolving around traditionalism, modernity, commerce, and authorship attempts to reanimate the largely lifeless narrative. Lesage attempts to provoke his viewers even further, by breaking the conventions of a traditional three-act structure with a series of ambitious cinematic ideas and fourth-wall breaks. However, in each new iteration which attempts to push his artistic voice, the rehashed observations wanes the impact of his aesthetic-based provocations.
Perhaps the most egregious aspect of Lesage's dull coming-of-age tale is the film's sudden attempt to recontextualise the chronology of events through a feminist lens. In the film's final scene, Aurélia Arandi-Longpré's Aliocha reads a passage from Emily Dickinson's They Shut Me Up in Prose. In an attempt to demonstrate the shallowness of a patriarchal empire, Lesage's script instead reinstates the obvious from afar. Comme Le Feu is too afraid to fully indulge in the wavering psychology of its female characters. In return, the beauty of the Québécois archipelago turns into an eye-candy trap. Readers beware! Don't let the beautiful landscapes of the lush Canadian forests fool you. Comme Le Feu wastes its stunning vistas on a haphazard screenplay; inattentive at the potential of its rich cinematic canvas.
