Laura Calamy runs for her life, in a sense, and for the live of her children. There is no monster or serial killer out to get her: the challenge of this divorced mother of two, who has dropped long ago out of her career to raise her offspring, and now has to eke out a living by working as a chambermaid, is to make ends meet. We are in Ken Loach territory here, but À plein temps couldn't be more different, and frankly it's heads and shoulder above most of Loach's works. For a start, it's shot like a thriller: it's fast paced, and dry. It doesn't hector or guilt-trip the spectator; it doesn't depict its protagonist like a saint either: Julie Roy is as flawed as most people are. She is smart, can even be crafty, but has no time for moral refinement: for her, it's sink or swim, and she is determined to not sink (her only moment of genuine doubt arrives in the last third of the movie, in the scene at the station. The camera lingers on her back in one of the rare long shots in the film, and yet somehow we can read her thoughts -- this is the work of an author who truly masters their craft).
What put Julie in this situation is ultimately left to the spectator to decide. Has she at least partially brought it onto her by buying into a 50s-style suburban life myth? Is it society who has lost all empathy? Is there hope for her? I won't spoil the ending, but suffice to say, it's as powerful and dry and hard-hitting as the rest of the movie.
À plein temps is giving me hope for French cinema. It's a great movie. Don't miss it.
