The Witnesses

Do you remember that brief spell during the late eighties when every other film seemed to be a well-intentioned drama featuring the death and/or funeral of an AIDS patient? Whatever the faults of Longtime Companion or It’s My Party, they were at least earnest attempts to Get The Message Out There. And besides, when did a film not benefit from the tragic death of a beautiful young man?
The Witnesses, the latest effort from Cahiers alumni Andre Techine, harks back to those terrible times with a daisy-chain narrative taking in the lives of glamorous Parisians who are suddenly touched by a strange new virus. As the action begins, it’s 1984 and the thoroughly reprehensible Sarah (Beart, at her frostiest) is refusing to bond with her newborn baby and experiencing marital difficulties with her bisexual police officer husband (Bouajila). Meanwhile, their well-heeled doctor friend (Blanc) is falling madly in love with a wild young boy (Libereau). When Sarah’s infelicitous beau saves the strapping youngster from drowning, sparks fly. Pretty soon, we can see exactly how the tentacles of HIV will take hold.
It’s a brave move on Techine’s part to fashion a film featuring such dislikeable people. Unhappily, that doesn’t make The Witnesses any easier to emotionally engage with. The overextended and frequently tangential action is supposed to be a testimony to those who died. Though it’s a well-made film with some fine performances, I was a lot happier when I got out of the cinema. For a piece that’s supposed to celebrate the miracle of living, I don’t suppose that’s a good thing.