A few years ago my mother helped sell my grandparents’ home, and it was a home they had resided in for well nigh 50 years. They were not affluent French folk with a fine arts collection; what they did have was a connection to that space.
And it wasn’t just my grandparents but my mother and her siblings, and then all the grandchildren and great-grandchildren, who had varying attachments. It’s a strange sensation when a space that has been an element of your life for many years, or in my case, as long as I can remember, is boarded up or renovated and the cycle of life continues there. It’s these kinds of ideas Oliver Assayas’ Summer Hours bring to the fore, and I’m sure many can easily relate.
The movie opens with the 75th birthday of the family’s matriarch (Edith Scob). It has remained her lifelong mission to the maintain the legacy of the famed artist, and her uncle, Paul Berthier. But she’s also pragmatic and realizes the reality, resigned to the facts. “A lot of things will be leaving with me. Memories, secrets, stories that interest no one anymore,” she says. The same might be said of the Corot paintings and a broken plaster that belonged to Degas. They are impressive relics but relics nonetheless.
They are an imperfect family — what one isn’t — but even if you compare this film to something like A Christmas Tale, the story is not so much borne out of dysfunction, but what the passing of generations and time means to us all. Things cannot mean the same or remain the same for all of us. We are bound to see them in a different light.
The seeds are sown early on: one son (Jérémie Renier ) is based abroad in China and a daughter (Juliette Binoche) lives in New York for work in the design industry. It’s quite a long trek for them to get back to France and see their mother. Only the eldest, Frederick (Charles Berling), lives nearby with his family. This doesn’t feel altogether unusual, in fact, many of the people I know in the fast pace world I live in, are not close to relatives. This is a luxury. Eventually, the presents are opened, small talk is had, kisses are shared, and the family must leave.
Once again, the mother is left alone. It’s not callous; it’s reality. I’ve noticed Assayas employs long fade-outs in his films. It could have several uses, but it also suggests the passage of time. Their mother Helene is gone quite abruptly, and they must contend with her affairs.
If you wanted to be crass, you could pattern the movie after Citizen Kane, instead focusing on a French lady who left behind a lot of artifacts for her family to quibble over. It’s all very tasteful and orderly but still, there’s something so unnatural about going through the possessions of the departed.
The one son who still lives in France has a romanticism about him, assuring his mother all her work will not be dissolved, and they will hold onto her country home for the grandchildren. He doesn’t want to believe what she’s already accepted. Sure enough, things begin to progress just as she foresaw. And although I didn’t want to believe it, I also realized I was blinded because life gets in the way.
It doesn’t really make sense to hold onto the place. It’s not practical and with most of the family out of the country anyway and the money needing to be split three ways, how do you do that without causing rancor to build up? No, it makes the most sense to sell, donate, and auction off as much as possible. And so they do just that.
They work through the arrangements and make sure their mother’s faithful housekeeper is well taken care of or at least as best as they can manage. It still feels like an unceremonious end.
Pretty soon beloved family heirlooms are in a museum where they can benefit more people. It’s history for them to appreciate. But it also feels austere and unenchanted. There’s a distance between it and the people who are meant to enjoy it. Now they are quite literally museum pieces.
I had a friend I met overseas. She was not French but she loved Nice dearly. It was the home of Auguste Renoir, one of the country’s most beloved painters. I bring it up only because she is from a different generation and somehow it feels like they have a greater appreciation for the natural arts. It’s not that they have a monopoly or that none of us care, but we’ve come of age in a different time of modern art, technology, and globalization.
Summer Hours made me grapple with these emerging realities all the more pervasive in an era well after the film’s release in 2008. The past can never quite hold the same sort of import for us because they are not our personal experience and never can be. My parents have memories I will never know or just as easily forget if they tell me. Grandparents lived in generations I will never fully comprehend nor appreciate.
But it’s not like we can sit around taking stock of everything they ever did. It’s not a game we can ever hope to win against the inevitable march of time or unexpected human tragedy. It would be totally futile and hopeless otherwise.
It’s what makes the organic moments we get, a stray memory or a long-hidden away anecdote, all the more special. And yet it seems we would do well to know their stories and their history as best as we can.
I’m still not sold on the importance of leading a lasting legacy. That’s perhaps something only affluent French people and film critics dither about. I’m not sure. But there is something to respecting history and where we’ve come from while still continuing to navigate our everyday lives. We must strike a balance.
In Summer Hours we see the dissolution of years of work right in front of us, not out of malevolence but due to life and necessity — choosing the path of least resistance. It’s hard to admit, but these are the things we all strive for and so it’s hard to blame these characters for any of their actions. Even if it doesn’t seem entirely right, it’s also a part of life.
One of my primary qualms with the picture is how it seemed to pick up ancillary characters only to drop them. We meet Binoche’s boyfriend in one scene, Eloise’s nephew is a kindly cab driver, and we meet Frederic’s kids.
His daughter was a character I was skeptical of and yet she becomes one of the most crucial as a kind of bridge between generations. The mother’s home is about to be sold at the end of the summer, and so they have a short amount of time to enjoy it. Rather than being prudish about it, they let their kids hold a party. I was half wondering if they expected the kids to trash the place and turn it into a kind of funeral pyre. With all the youth flooding in it feels like the place is about to be met with desecration.
Instead, something else happens. They hold their party. The grounds are full of exuberant young teens and adolescents hanging out and having a good time. It’s somehow a recontextualization and a new life for the space. We almost forget all the old antiquities and works of art and now only see it with all this youthfulness dancing around and enjoying one another’s company.
The daughter sneaks off with her young beau no doubt like her grandmother before her, and we feel a certain amount of catharsis in a situation that is left relatively open-ended. We didn’t have a party in my grandparent’s backyard to send it out — I kind of wish we had — but I’d like to think that like Summer Hours a young family or some kids are enjoying that space like we did a couple of decades before.
4/5 Stars