La France

Few war movies feature soldiers suddenly breaking into song as they trudge through trenches or hunker down in caves (nor, for that matter, are there many that avoid battle scenes). So director/co-writer Serge Bozon's La France is something of a pleasant anomaly for those with a taste for whimsy and a willingness to suspend disbelief. The story begins in 1917 with farm girl Camille (Sylvie Testud) receiving a dire letter from her husband, stating that she will never see him again. In response, Camille cuts off her hair, binds her breasts, puts on men's clothes, and heads for the front to find him. Soon she hooks up with a French regiment led by “le lieutenant” (Pascal Greggory)—an odd bunch (vaguely heading toward Belgium or Holland) who clearly want nothing to do with this self-proclaimed 17-year-old “boy.” But Camille persists, and as the troupe's journey through the countryside continues, secrets are gradually revealed. Occasionally, the soldiers pull out a motley assortment of instruments and begin singing (in an amateur way) tunes sporting titles like “A German Who's Hard of Hearing”—songs that have nothing to do with the storyline, but are poignant and lovely, suggesting a Beatles pop sensibility married with an older, music-hall vibe. As for World War I, it's suggested only by the muffled report of mortar fire, a few graves, and some horse-riding Germans. Although it moves rather slowly, La France is a beautiful and poetic—if also peculiar—film. Recommended. (S. Graham)