When Mathieu
Kassovitz's electrifying new film Hate (La Haine) opened in France last year, it not
only caused quite a sensation , it also broke box office records.
Unprecedented numbers of Frenchmen -- not just the kids, but older, middle-
and upper-middle class folk -- flocked to see this elegantly brutal,
bleeding-wound, raw-nerve-of-a-movie about racial tensions and urban violence
in the Cité (the bleak, working-class housing projects in the Paris suburbs,
but very much the equivalent to our own inner city variety). Alas, Hate will not break box-office records here in
America, which is too bad, because it should be required viewing.
The story is minimal: three pals -- Vinz (Vincent
Cassel), white and a Jew; Hubert (Hubert
Kounde), black; and Sayid (Said
Tagmaoui), an Arab -- wander the streets and otherwise hang out
during the 24-hour period following just another ordinary riot with the
police. On one hand, it's business as usual amongst the disenfranchised youth
who float through a meaningless present of petty crime and drugs with
absolutely no hope for a future. On the other hand, the stakes are a little
higher this time: a friend arrested in the riot has been brutually beaten by
the police while in custody and now lies in a coma in the hospital. Vinz has
found a gun lost by one of the police, which he threatens to use if the friend
should happen to die.
And so, the stage is set for a fascinating social indictment
which refuses to divide itself neatly along racial lines. How could it? The
three racial groups represented, traditionally antagonistic from an American
perspective, are here presented not only as absolute equals in the same boat
but also as very good friends. The result is a complex treatment of reality;
rarely found in American films covering the same territory.
The mapping of this terrain may seem arbitrary, if not downright
plotless.
A drug connection here, a car theft there. Crashing a party. A run-in with
some skinheads. But, in fact, throughout these seemingly aribtrary wanderings,
and in subtle, almost imperceptible increments, the fate of Vinz, Hubert and
Sayid is decided before our eyes. And in a very profound and devastating way, Hate ultimately reaches a climax that seems
hellishly, even tragically, pre-ordained. Therein lodges the key to the film's
power: its frighteningly logical illustration of the old adage (which one
character quotes at one point) "hate breeds hate."
Mr. Kassovitz is a stylist. The
black and white images are gorgeous, and the editing rhythms are as jazzily
syncopated as the cutting-edge music on the soundtrack. There are also
suprising moments of sudden lyrical poetry. Certainly, the influence of Godard
hovers over every frame. But Hate is never a
matter of recycled, second-hand style. It speaks -- no, shouts --in a clear,
original voice that stunningly captures the raw energy of being right out
there in the streets. Tremendous credit for this must go to the actors. They
speed through the script's up-to-the-minute Cité slang -- so different from
standard French that Frenchmen have trouble understanding it -- with such
fluency that you have to pinch yourself to recall that these are actors and
not the real thing. In a larger sense, Hate
is the real thing: a very real wake-up call that should be harkened.
Do make a point of seeing Hate. But also be prepared to need a stiff drink
afterwards.