Whatever else he ends up doing in his career, Adam Driver will always have Annette. Surely this will go down as his most notorious performance (and yes, I’m including his snit-fitty—and thoroughly magnetic—turn as Kylo Ren in the Star Wars movies).
Driver plays Henry, a bad-boy, avant-garde stand-up comic in contemporary Los Angeles who conducts his assaultive, interactive performances in a bathrobe. Not only does Driver rumble and rage across the stage in deconstructive bits of meta-performance, he also sings in a reedy, strained effort, as if his vocal chords were pulling themselves up stairs. Indeed, he sings throughout the entire movie. Annette, you see, is a musical—written by Russell Mael, directed by Leos Carax (Holy Motors, The Lovers on the Bridge), and featuring original songs by Russell Mael and Ron Mael. It’s something, and we haven’t even gotten to the earnest scenes Driver shares with the wooden puppet that stands in for Henry’s baby.
But I’m getting ahead of myself, and probably sounding a bit too dismissive. Much of Annette fascinates for good reasons. These include an opening number, “So May We Start,” that begins with Russell Mael and Ron Mael (who have been performing for decades as the rock band Sparks) in a recording studio. As the music begins, they get up to leave and a single-take, reverse tracking shot draws them out onto the street, where they’re joined by the entire cast in a meta invitation to the audience to enjoy the show. So far, so inventive and exhilarating.
Marion Cotillard is also in that opening chorus, and we soon learn she plays Ann, an opera singer also performing nightly in L.A. Henry and Ann are in the midst of an intense affair (also likely to become notorious: the duet/sex scene the actors share). For awhile, Annette functions as a gonzo consideration of high art and low, the nature of celebrity, and what it means to be a performer. If there is one thing that ties together all of the wild directions the movie eventually goes, it’s this idea of performance.
Cotillard gives by far the lovelier vocal turn, so it’s too bad she’s eventually pushed to the side with the arrival of Ann and Henry’s baby, Annette. For reasons that I assume have to do with the idea of the performer as puppet, the baby is portrayed by an apparently wooden, Pinocchio-style doll that the actors coo over. The puppet “grows” as Annette does, eventually becoming a stage star in her own right, allowing for the unforgettable image of Driver, in a spotlight, leaning down to kiss a nightmare robot child on the forehead like the father of some futuristic Baby Jane.
If you feel I’ve spoiled too much, trust me—that’s not the half of it. I will, however, share Henry’s final words, spoken to the camera: “Stop watching me.” Perhaps Driver took this part because, at this point in his career, he’s trying to wrap his head around these notions of art and performance and celebrity. But one thing’s for sure: Annette isn’t a movie you make if you want people to look away.