AppId is over the quota
AppId is over the quota
Did I mention this is a love story? It is, as well as a mystery of a type that, like some classic films noir and detective stories, reveals its secrets by rewinding to a past moment and then moving forward in time to return to the present. It opens with Georges and Anne, former music teachers, watching a concert by one of her prized students, the noted young pianist Alexandre Tharaud (as himself). Afterward they greet him backstage — Mr. Tharaud slices through a swarm of admirers to kiss her — and return home, an interlude set to his performance of Schubert’s Impromptu (Op. 90, No. 1), a type of music that’s called a character piece and is meant to convey a mood or idea. The music helps set an air of soothing, restrained elegance as does Mr. Haneke’s meticulous compositions, his impeccable, steady framing and harmoniously arranged people and objects. Everything seems just so, just right, creating a sense of order that carries through until the couple reach their apartment and discover that the lock on their front door is broken. Someone apparently has tried to break in, a would-be intrusion that sends a shudder through the movie and down your spine. That’s because it echoes the first image of the firemen bursting into the apartment and because you never know what shocks, what brutality, Mr. Haneke — whose films include “The White Ribbon” and “Caché” as well as the Austrian version of “Funny Games” and its American redo — will let loose. There is a jolt of violence in “Amour,” never fear (or do!). Nothing, though, seems amiss the next morning while Georges and Anne eat breakfast in a corner of their kitchen, talking amid the clatter of dishes and cutlery. He notices that the salt shaker is empty and rises to refill it, and he continues to chatter unaware that Anne has frozen in her chair, as if turned to stone. Perplexed, he waves a hand in front of her seemingly unseeing eyes. After a few beats, he dresses, presumably to get a doctor, but, as abruptly, Anne seems to return to normal. She scolds him gently — she doesn’t remember what just happened — and then she pours the tea and misses her cup. By the time you next see them together, Anne in a wheelchair. She has had an operation for a carotid artery obstruction and while the procedure has a high success rate, she has drawn a fatal short straw. “It’s all terribly exciting,” a visibly unexcited, deadpan Georges explains to their daughter, Eva (a fantastic Isabelle Huppert). Wildly self-centered, Eva asks about the operation only after she natters on about her work (she’s a musician), her husband and children. She may be embarrassed or unsettled by her mother’s illness, but when Eva asks what she can do, her words sound hollow. “We’ve always coped, your mother and I,” Georges says, maybe to reassure himself as much as a daughter who can feel like a stranger. A grace note of the movie is that the distance between Eva and her parents, an alienation that adds an edge into her voice when she talks to Georges and he to her, is never explained. Mr. Haneke doesn’t put his characters on the couch, offering up personalities that can be easily scanned and compartmentalized. As a consequence, his characters can be difficult to get a handle on, opaque, which might be frustrating if there wasn’t so much meaning packed into their everyday conversations and gestures, including what they leave unsaid. Early on, for instance, Anne teases Georges — at least she seems to be teasing — by calling him a monster. She doesn’t explain herself and neither does Mr. Haneke, which allows her meaning to reverberate, to grow steadily louder until it booms. After Anne returns home, she gradually goes from bad to worse. Georges tries to care for her by himself, but, in time, is forced to hire nurses. The inevitable is, well, inevitable. But in this movie it is also consistently surprising because of the clarity of Mr. Haneke’s vision. There is a great deal that is difficult to watch here, the indignities of a debilitating illness included, and the equally harsh pain of witnessing a great love, a longtime companion, slowly fade away. The moving, subtly brilliant performances of Ms. Riva (best known for “Hiroshima Mon Amour”) and Mr. Trintignant (“A Man and a Woman”) are a particular gift in this respect. The two are, after all, at once forever young, immortalized in their films, and as familiar to us as our grandparents. The representation of pain can be rightly difficult to watch, yet all too often also meaningless. But “Amour,” despite its agonizing subject, holds you willingly throughout. A key to understanding why comes at the beginning, when you see Georges and Anne at the concert, tucked in the audience that’s facing forward as if it were looking at the camera or, disconcertingly, us. It’s hard to see them, but they’re there, somewhat center and to the left, waiting and then clapping. It’s curious, this impression that the characters you’re watching are in turn watching and even applauding you. The moment can be characterized as an instance of Brechtian estrangement, which is meant to break the effects of illusion and awaken an attitude of criticism in the audience. More simply, the theater audience directly mirrors the movie audience, eroding the nominal distance between them. This erosion of distance actually strengthens the film’s emotional power. Viewers acquainted with Mr. Haneke’s work may find “Amour” too cold, cruel even, and its depiction of suffering a punishing, familiar gesture from a director who’s long been interested in transforming spectators from simple consumers into critical thinkers. There are certainly arguments to be made about whether movie-watching is ever simple or noncritical. Yet there’s another point to be made here, namely that all the violence in “Amour” is crucial to Mr. Haneke’s rigorous, liberatingly unsentimental worldview, one that gazes on death with the same benevolent equanimity as life. All of which is to say: bring hankies. This is a film that will make you weep not only because life ends but also because it blooms. “Amour” is rated PG-13 (Parents strongly cautioned). Illness, suffering, death.
Amour Opens on Wednesday in Manhattan. Written and directed by Michael Haneke; director of photography, Darius Khondji; edited by Monika Willi and Nadine Muse; production design by Jean-Vincent Puzos; costumes by Catherine Leterrier; produced by Margaret Menegoz, Stefan Arndt, Veit Heiduschka and Michael Katz; released by Sony Pictures Classics. In French, with English subtitles. Running time: 2 hours 7 minutes. WITH: Jean-Louis Trintignant (Georges), Emmanuelle Riva (Anne), Isabelle Huppert (Eva), Alexandre Tharaud (Alexandre), William Shimell (Geoff), Ram?n Agirre (Concierge’s Husband) and Rita Blanco (Concierge)
View the original article here
Na = No information; OSA = Obstructive sleep apnea; BMI = Body mass index; AHI = Apnea hypopnea index; EDS = Excessive daytime sleepiness; w = with; wo = without.View Within ArticleTable 2. The 8 included studies of cortisol in patients with OSA treated with CPAP.
, 
, Terry Kit Selfea, b, c, 
