Jules and Jim

Jules and Jim is about a golden era in the lives of its characters and their inability to accept that those times are over. The film plays loose with time, much in the same way that our own memory works – we revisit integral parts of our lives and in the process wear deep grooves in our mind, while every moment in between fades to nothing. I can’t remember a film that is more novel-like in its structure and in its prose – there were multiple instances in which I rewound the film to hear the characters relate a marvelous turn-of-phrase once more.

I love Jules and Jim because of its characters – all three main actors are superb in their restraint. There are no instances of over-emoting; where other actors would highlight frustration or anger, Moreau (playing Catherine, the love of Jules and Jim’s lives), Werner, and Serre accept the events of the film with a calm detachment, as though they know that they are heading towards a predetermined fate. In this way, the film becomes a biography in the truest sense – the narrator relates to key moments that we otherwise couldn’t possibly know, acting as our guide in time, while Truffaut uses small techniques, like split-second freeze frames and picture-in-picture scenes, to illustrate film as a memory-conveying device.

Jules and Jim reaches greatness in its portrayal of happiness and sorrow: there is not one without the other. To have the mountain highs one must endure the valley lows. Jules, Jim and Catherine can neither live together nor apart, so they hurt each other then apologize, write sweet letters then demand silence from the other; they hurtle towards the end of the film because it has always been there waiting for them – the conclusion is the only finale that can suit their unique love and friendship.