This movie tries so hard to be funny, yet it falls flat every time. Just another example of recycled ideas repackaged with women in an attempt to appeal to a certain audience.

There are moments that feel comical, some horrific, and some downright inspiring but the tonal shifts hardly matter as the end results come to a film that's perfect for this time.

This is a gorgeous movie made by a gorgeous spirit.

There's no way I can possibly love it entirely but I just think its ridiculously bad, but enjoyable at the same time.

Famed Taiwanese auteur Ming-liang Tsai ventures into France to deliver a love poem to the works of Truffaut in the form of an opaque slow- flowing visual poem, devoid of a conventional story, instead harbouring its message of collages of images. The slight frame of the script focuses on the filming of a movie by a foreign director (Kang-sheng Lee), arguably the most proclaimed participant of a quasi-plot. Intertwining with him are the cast and crew of the movie, with Truffaut's favourite actor Jean- Pierre Léaud as the lead man, Fanny Ardent as the film's producer and Laetitia Casta as the co-star."Visage" however detaches itself from indulging into a flowing story to tell, instead building the entire movie around carefully designed set- pieces with jump from image to image. The camera is mostly static, peering in from the outside on the actions of the cast, as if eavesdropping and voyeuristically capturing the moment. However, whatever happens outside these moments is irrelevant, forcing the viewer to arduously fill in the dots, a task that in the movies taxing runtime may prove too strenuous for most viewers, even to the cinephile crowd so in love with the odd and unexpected. The movies is constructed from these captured moving images, slow shots with little to no dialogue with moments of musical outbursts, when characters lip-sync to various songs. Several moments have you especially captivated, the highlight being in the beginning sequences, when a static camera peers into the director's kitchen and observes his futile attempts to clog a drain, finally resigning to the inevitable and resting at his mother's bedside in an awkward quasi-incestuous scene. These wackier, off-beat scenes manage to liven up the otherwise laborious proceedings, but the movie shifts focus slowly to more darker imagery with a sexual culmination in a abattoir as eerily disgusting as it was distasteful. Each such scene of this fragmented movie lasts several minutes, thus utterly deflating a casual viewer and even leaving the more auteur crowd grasping at straws to admire. The imagery is at times starkly captivating, with certain moments fully worth the watch from a purely aesthetic point of view. Nonetheless the visual side in itself fails to engulf for vast periods of time, instead capturing imagination on-and-off.The entire movie is also unfortunately a black box, which requires all the appropriate background input to deliver any type of understanding to the ongoings. The type of movie where any self-respecting film critic would never dare say that he failed to understand the references and symbolism, thus giving him an intellectual ordeal to paste together the scenes. Thankfully the long scenes offer apt possibilities to contemplate each passing portrait, given you don't nod off in the midst. Personally I felt lost in translation, even if vast elements struck a cord, the overall message remained an enigma, not helped by my attention constantly dropping in-and-out of the movie. As such I can fully understand certain auteurs finding the viewing a hard-worked pleasure, but overall I hold the firm belief that whereas movies should be challenging, they should also not require the audience to strain to just keep awake during the watch. As a medium it needs to be engaging, not a painful chore, pure artistry and intellectual proficiency is not enough.

The film is obviously made as an art black comedy and though it has almost no plot it consists of highly surreal scenes roughly based on Salome by Oscar Wilde – the main stress is made on the stupendous camera work. Oscar Wilde's symbolism in Visage is lifted to the level of paranoia. The director shooting the drama may also be considered as John the Baptist – pay your special attention at his constant misfortune with water and episode with the man in bushes looks like an absurdist mockery of biblical rite of John baptising Christ. In the final scene however Salome dances not for King Herod but for the symbolically severed head of John the Baptist. "Ah! I have kissed thy mouth, Iokanaan, I have kissed thy mouth."

Visage is one of those movies that it's hard to parallel. Some films that particular scenes reminded me of were Matthew Barney's Cremaster 5, Peter Kennedy's Flux Film 37 and Godard's Pierrot Le Fou, but Tsai's style really seems to sit away from what everyone else is doing.Visage follows the production of a film maudit, directed by Kang, a Taiwanese director who has come to Paris. It's definitely a film of fragments, the story is hard to follow because it's clear that quite a lot of it occurs between scenes, even within scenes action often occurs offshot. As a viewer I felt like an interloper, because the camera is often tight in a corner or outside of the room where action occurs. It's as if Tsai wants to shun the viewer, to emphasise the distance between a viewer/voyeur's comprehension and what is taking place. As a comparison, Flux Film 37 is a short film where a man sits in front of a camera, chewing gum with a frown on his face, carefully sticking transparencies onto the camera until finally nothing is visible, an act of defiance against the viewer. As well as perhaps shooting in this spirit, one of the characters (Laetitia Casta the supermodel playing Salomé in the movie within the movie) also starts taping herself up from view, blacking out a window until the shot goes black and taping up her mirror slowly and deliberately. I also felt this was a kind of dark metaphor, of a loss of innocence, of a person's transformation from being a public creature interested in life and self-exploratory, to a sexual entity, closed off, lolling in a lust-sty.Although the film contains no violence or sex (at one point a sexual act is performed off frame), it's probably one of the most hard to watch films I've seen in a while, where a film director is falling apart mentally, a slave to his bizarre vision and his lustful impulses. Violent shots include Kang stood by the side of a snow machine, letting it obliterate his face from view and his eyes from seeing and an actor covered in bandages with the smell of food tantalisingly wafting into his nostrils. A funerary conflagration, flesh balls splatchering in a pan, the Producer (Fanny Ardant) whispering key information inaudibly into Antoine's (Jean-Pierre Leaud) ear, are nihilistic affronts to the viewer.Whilst the film is dark, there are moments of supremely ironic musical and slapstick interludes, which you can either choose to laugh with or be appalled by depending on your whim.Ultimately the film appears almost an act of self-immolation, a shot of a universe where people are mere meat prey to lustful impulses, unable to look beyond the surface or the face of things. Tsai here takes more than a little of the taste of Rivette's l'amour par terre (1984), in both movies directors portrayed as sole initiates in mysteries that they control. This went down like a stone at Cannes, perhaps deservedly - repulsion an appropriate response. It is however a film of extreme visual and technical competence that I was greedy for and which provoked a lot of thought.

Sometimes an image can get you excited to see a film. When looking to fill a hole in a five film day at TIFF, my friend and I saw an image that looked both fantastical and intriguing, so much so that we blindly said yes, we are going to watch Visage. I'm the first person to say that a movie can be loved for visual style alone as I always hold the image as more powerful than the word. Oftentimes I can be distracted by a great composition or frame to the point where I'll give it a pass on the actual plot being driven forward by the imagery. Film is a visceral medium and those artists that realize this fact, able to adapt a book or story to be cinematic and not just a rehash of words, are usually those I enjoy most. I thought that Ming-liang Tsai might become one of these auteurs, but while most of the film is stunning to behold, I could never get around the laborious runtime or the virtual lack of any story. Supposedly it's about a film crew shooting the Salomé myth at the Louvre, however, until the very end, I didn't even know they were at the gallery nor did I know a linear story was occurring. I just thought it was vignette after vignette of grandeur with the cast members being the only constant.Yes, there are definite "characters" throughout, Fanny Ardent as the film's producer, Jean-Pierre Léaud as the leading man, Laetitia Casta as the leading lady, and Kang-sheng Lee as the director; I did know a film was going on, just not that it was necessarily a plot point. The beginning started quite nicely actually, a static shot of a coffee shop table through a window, the conversations of the table off-screen heard, musings about a film thrown about. It's a pretty shot that sets the stage for more static camera set-ups pointing straight and catching the action in front of it. The next sequence has the camera high up in a kitchen, filming the sink below. The faucet breaks when turned on and we are treated to about ten to twenty minutes of water being sprayed about, alternately contained and made worse with buckets and broken pipes underneath. Definitely a chore to sit through, the end result is quite gorgeous—a view of the hallway full of water and a fish tank in the foreground, juxtaposing the contained water and the liquid running free. But then it all becomes strange again as the culprit of the sink fiasco goes in, what I assume is his mother's room, putting his hand on her stomach before she takes it and pushes it lower. What happened there, I have no idea.So, the general idea becomes apparent as odd things occur. For every scene of artistic splendor, (a view outside a skyscraper watching Ardent through a window covered in reflection at left while the right half of the screen shows cars speeding by on a highway; an extended sequence in pitch black darkness, illuminated by a single lighter played with by Casta and an unknown man that was in her bathtub), there is one that is just a chore to watch, (Casta blacking out a huge window with tape, going around the edges over and over again until covering it up to the center; A-lister Mathieu Amalric showing up for a random scene in the woods, silently engaging in some sort of sexual activity with Lee's director). I really think that you could cull hundreds of still frames for a successful art exhibit, unfortunately when you put them together in motion, the viewing experience can be painful.Even as an art film, which it indeed is, success is limited. I would compare it to Matthew Barney's Cremaster series, only less outrageous. Whereas that one's laborious shoot intrigues due to the fact that its inhabitants are in grotesque costume or engaging in otherworldly activities begging you to wonder what's going on, Visage is too close to a real film, making me linger on the question of whether I should be following it normally rather than letting it envelope me. I loved some sequences, including the cigarette lighter illumination; a couple fun song numbers that are obviously lip-synched to; and a final erotic scene, (maybe?), with three women gyrating and disrobing in front of a man lying in a bathtub, covered with tomato paste, inside a meat locker. One can't forget it as the women look anything but sexy while in that location and the sound of meat hooks and chains clanging makes the whole thing rather jarring. And how can you not be oddly intrigued by the strand of saliva connecting the bathtub man's lips with the main woman's after a kiss, stretching further and further out until finally dissolving? Yet even those moments couldn't detract from the others that only found themselves leaving me shaking my head.The characters all play themselves, or at least an embodiment of themselves, (Léaud's role is called Antoine after the famous Truffaut series he starred in many years ago). It's an interesting fact that may or may not hold any real relevance to the proceedings. When you have Léaud and the director talking about renowned filmmakers and how a little bird Titi embodies them all, or the lengthy attempt of Casta going up a ladder in full heavy wardrobe, you just start wondering when it will finally be over. I won't say it's without some merit, but I also can't recommend it to anyone except an art class looking for inspiration. In that case, the class can fast-forward and rewind, not worrying about the narrative weakly holding it all together, but instead focus on the visual construction, watching for single frames that have the potential to enrapture attention. It's the only way to get something from what's on the screen.