Director: Anna Morawska & Astrid Davtian
Writer: Anna Morawska & Astrid Davtian
Cast: Isis Calje, Andrew White, Delphine Ural, Andy Cowie, Gustavo Ruben Valenzuela
Running time: 1hr 26mins
Freddy Shepherd was not a particularly wise or nuanced thinker, but following Newcastle United during my youth, I found a number of his oafish truisms stuck with me, for better or worse. One in particular barb, relating to the final sale of one of the club’s great white elephants, came to mind as the final credits of Deja Vu rolled.
“They say you should only say good things about people when they’re gone. Marcelino’s gone. Good.”
Films like Deja Vu are difficult to review, not because there is nothing to talk about (if anything there is too much) and not because I don’t have a definitive opinion. It’s very clear when a film features supposedly linear scenes where characters have cut off their beard only to miraculously regrow it seconds later; jaunty piano music blaring over the revelation of a death; or a ‘whimsical’ stalker for a protagonist, what such a work will score on Indy Film Library. It just feels bad to say it out loud.
The problem is that while being technically and thematically inept in every department, Deja Vu (presumably pronounced deh-juh vu since it comes without the accents) comes across as utterly, inescapably sincere. It seems like all of this was born out of an abundance of ideas and creativity, a determination to tell a huge and sprawling story that in the minds of its creators would be a high water mark of modern cinema. There is something almost pitiable about just how badly they have got it wrong in that regard – saying anything mean about it feels like stamping on a baby bird that’s fallen out of its nest. But really that’s probably the meanest thing I could possibly say, so there’s no more point in treading on eggshells here.
As it provides the deformed skeleton around which all the film’s other failings hang, let’s talk about the script. Anna Morawska and Astrid Davtian’s narrative is a strange, half-baked fever-dream of a story, disastrously lacking in social context or self-awareness. It follows Angela Ipkins (Isis Calje), a young make-up artist / singer / window-cleaner / locksmith / identity-thief, as she attempts to insert herself into the life of a man, who she once glimpsed at a bar somewhere in Amsterdam. She does this by following him to his home, and either lying to get in, or cracking the lock, at multiple points in the film. During these escapades – as well as a particularly grim trip to lurk on the edges of a graveyard – she learns that the object of her ‘affections’ is recently bereaved, that his deceased lover had red hair. She immediately invests in an out-of-the-box wig – which everyone somehow mistakes for real hair – and hurls herself at the unsuspecting David (Andrew White).
It initially works, possibly in part because as we will come to, David has a lot going on to distract his better judgement, but also because we’re being implored by the film’s authors to believe they have created the most intoxicatingly intriguing character in cinematic history. Why? Because she just is, OK? It’s very 50 Shades…, very Twilight, very unengaging. Aside from one ham-fisted conversation around the mating habits of the praying mantis, however, our two leads never come close to the kind of banter needed to actually believe either of these people are interesting.
Coming back to David, he is a character who is somehow simultaneously over and under-written. A professional divorce lawyer, engaged in a will-they-won’t-they with one of his clients, an alcoholic, and he also happens to be a former member of a cult – but never comes close to clarifying what any of his motives are among any of this. At various moments, he pushes people away, claiming to be “confused”, which is about the most relatable thing anyone has to say amid this unmitigated carnage – but that is very much the only relatable thing about him. Particularly when he is threatened by the husband of his current client, a distinctly British politician who is apparently running for office in the Netherlands.
The MP orders David to sabotage the process, and to persuade him to do so, shows him a picture of the broken necklace of David’s late girlfriend. At first, it reads as a threat – “I’m a powerful man, perhaps I had a hand in her death. Perhaps I could have a hand in yours…” – but soon it becomes clear that actually, the item itself is his leverage. If David would like to have the necklace the MP randomly acquired, he will need to spike the drink of his client, and pose her in compromising positions for photographs the MP will then use as blackmail material. The fact he caves so quickly to this demand, not only destroying his reputation as a lawyer, but committing a sexual assault in the process immediately renders him one of the most grotesque characters in the film. But, spoilers, he realises what he is doing is wrong, and – after it has led to his client getting into a near-fatal car-crash, which briefly causes her to have amnesia until it is inconvenient to the plot – he apologises, and ends up in a relationship with her.
But what of dearest Angela? Well, in the meantime, she has narrowly avoided being assaulted by her manager (a bloated French man who seems to be doing a Brian Butterworth impression), accidentally joined the same cult which it turns out killed David’s girlfriend, and become the lead-singer at a local nightclub. In the end, after all these impossible threads have been tied together in obscenely rushed scenes, she finally learns that most important of lessons: to just be herself. And also, that stalking is a criminal offence. But mostly, to be herself.
All of this sounds like something which should have landed this film in our infamous collection of Unrated films. Believe me, I thought about it. The only thing keeping it out of that particular rogue’s gallery is that both main characters do see the error of their ways – just in time for the film to end. The idea that either storyline was ever considered suitable for a semi-comedic, romantic melodrama by the filmmakers is preposterous, as is the fact it took them until somewhere amid the third round of reshoots (where David has shaved his beard, and started to wear a shocking blond wig to disguise the severance of his man-bun) to realise that it wasn’t a good look. But at least they did realise it?
Aside from that, the only salvageable aspect of this film, is that it might serve a party as some relatively interesting viewing on a ‘so-bad-it’s-good’ movie night. For those of that persuasion, this has all the classic hallmarks – terrible delivery of bad dialogue; blunt-force-trauma-style editing which lands us, dazed and confused, with the same actors at the same time of day, but apparently several months later; overly-loud stock music (some of which fans of Half in the Bag will recognise at a particularly unfortunate moment); stupendously misjudged ‘qualities’ of lead characters who are supposed to be the greatest thing since sliced bread, but are actually monsters. Take your pick.
Having said all this, there is of course a possibility that I have completely misread Deja Vu. Film is subjective, after all – and with its disorientating edits, sudden losses or gains of facial hair, and the alarming treatment of its protagonists’ genuinely abusive behaviour as ‘cute’, it does occur to me that Deja Vu could actually be a treatise on the horrors of memory loss, from the perspective of the poor woman who is run over in the middle of the film. If that is the case, bravo. I retract everything, this is absolutely the most appropriately confusing thing I have ever seen, and it deserves five stars. If not, though, the creators would do very well to just focus on a single narrative theme, if there is a next time.