What do a tennis match, writing desks for “lefties,” A Tale of Two Cities, and Jean Eustache’s The Mother and the Whore have in common?
(Its sparse decor includes a poster for director Jean Eustache's epic of sexual angst, "The Mother and the Whore.")
Jean-Luc aside, Baumbach's model here is arguably Maurice Pialat and, less arguably, Jean Eustache, whose seminal bleeding wound, The Mother and the Whore, gets a cinephilic shout-out -- harrowing domestic dissection, emotional rawness, the artist's exorcizing-feeding upon his own upheavals.
At times, Baumbach's film slips into self-appreciating shorthand, as when the camera notes the movie poster in Walt's bedroom, for The Mother and the Whore, or he runs off to find the diorama of eternal, gargantuan struggle in the Museum of Natural History that grants The Squid and the Whale its unsubtle title.
Shot in grainy 16mm and fluidly cut, The Squid and the Whale adheres to the purity of the best of the New Wave as embodied by The Mother and the Whore poster on Walt�s wall.
And only in his decision to adorn scenes' backgrounds with obvious signifying novels (Bernard reading Saul Bellow's The Victim) and movie posters (Walt's one-sheet for The Mother and the Whore) does Baumbach's general directorial tact and understatement falter, a somewhat surprising shortcoming considering his delicate employment of lyrical pop song accompaniment to underscore the tumultuous action.