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Answer: Sentimental and naive but undeniably affecting, emotional man-helping-man plea, in this case personified as German and French miners forced to be closed off from each other after the Great War thanks to a new border, leading to disillusionment on the German side, as the French are the bosses. But when a fire begins on the French side, the common decency of the German men lead to assistance, safety and even friendship. This was a plea that would fall on deaf ears within the decade, as a certain man from Pabst's own side would break that piece and turn the Great War into merely a prelude. But it is obvious to me that Pabst really believes or at least wants to hope for this kind of fundamental humanism, as this film radiates with this optimism whereas his more flippant, cynical adaptation of The Threepenny Opera lacked the bite needed to make that work work. Also furthering his honest belief are the fact that the characters here are not simplistic mouthpieces for positions, but real people, with real families whose home lives we are privy to as well. These are ordinary, working-class men who just happen to believe in the worth of caring and treating right your fellow man, and in this day of individualist opportunism, I'll take a little thinning in my plot to get a positive message that represents a point of view that I think we can all aspire to.

(Note: Apparently the ending is cut on most prints, where the French rebuild the mining gate, closing off the men once again. This is a brutal turn of events, and may have made the film a better overall film, but I would have lamented it souring the positives vibes of the final sequence, so in short, I'm glad it was clipped.) {Grade: 8/10 (B) / #7 (of 11) of 1931}

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I saw once No Man's Land (1987) - IMDB link http://us.imdb.com/Title?0093638 - and found it ok. The film is about a guy who steals only Porsches. Gone in Sixty Seconds comes 13 years after and adds nothing to it. In fact, it has a lot of scenes that are worthless. And the ending is very, very bad.

The Sphinx has a magnetic screen presence that should have been better used...

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My take on this, at our local festival where people would see me so often they thought me a better source than I may actually have been, began with a head shake: "Well, I can't summarize the plot, but it's a really superb character study of an extremely scary man." Then, slight embarrassment, I ran into someone who actually knew what had gone down, that is, from whom Trebor unwittingly gets his new heart. It'd been my last film in a long, long day halfway through the festival. Maybe I'd dozed. The better a film is the more likely it triggers daydreams that send me really dreaming. Don't know. Did know there was an O'Henry twist achingly just beyond my ken as things finished. And knew it had to do with the heart, hence the quietly hilarious talent search. My plot-loss remark had more to do with intricacies of Trebor's connections in France, his relation to the dog woman and so on, stuff I'd been wide awake for. Denis barely glances at details that might have anchored another director's treatment.

But I write these things too often from memory, especially festival films, films whose DVD I don't have at hand (Le Lait de la tendresse humaine is one of many examples.), and plot kinks fade much more quickly than broader impressions. Still, or already, L'Inrus in my memory is beyond all else a character study of a sort of dark-side superman, a super fiend not ensconced in genre or historical trappings but active and plausible, relatively soft-spoken, driven but patient, right among us. The scar, once he attains it, makes him, just visually I mean, in image, a sort of hybrid Frankenstein monster, mad doctor and creation all in one. The actual doctors are his tools. If he doesn't extract and install the heart himself, it's only because it's not possible. He's the force, always, the parasite consuming everyone he touches and finally himself. What else is he? To suggest that he's us, the First World versus the Third, seems too simple since he feeds no less on his fellow First Worlders, on all of us.

Denis's camera's eye - when it looks at things I know - goes usually where mine would, so I tend to trust her when she looks at things I don't know. Snow trekking, too-fast bicycling, and forest darkness I've known in small ways, but the South Seas not at all, so I made better entry into L'Intrus, both France and the crystalline isles of its finish, than into Beau Travail. L'Intrus is, for me, a very comfortable discomforting film. It's a sequence of places portrayed familiarly, with a intimacy that allows us to know them whether we've seen the reality or not. A single image, Trebor cycling, his massive weight on the thin racing frame, the sounds of violated air and shrieking tires, the asphalt ribbon, the dark-in-bright-sun evergreens, cued me that the film would be linear, a road trip, a single will-driven thrust.

Despite Trebor's personal power, he's a human failure. No matter who he's with, he's alone, though apparently he hasn't always been. His body aborts life twice, first to need the new heart, then despite it. L'Intrus is tragedy. Trebor is hubris.

I'm navigating perilously the thread of what I remember. Let's leave it at that.