La Grande Traversée: critique safely anchored on the Canal


The third feature film in a row by Steven Soderbergh not to be released in theaters, La Grande Traversée premieres April 20 on Canal+. It was revealed to the public in the midst of a health crisis, while the reopening of cinemas seemed a long way off. But it would be wrong to deprive ourselves of this journey on the pretext that the dark rooms have not reopened their doors.

Meryl’s Spleen
In nearly five years, Steven Soderbergh has directed no less than five feature films and a series (the exciting Mosaic). Impossible rhythm equals thematic versatility, which allows it to switch between comedy, heist films, paranoid exploration, and pamphlets, to return to us today with La Grande traversé e. The story of a very deep or shallow voyage that brings together a writer his editor scrutinizes, and long-lost friends.

Taking audience expectations as well as press projections of his status as a gifted writer, the filmmaker assumes the superficiality of his subject. Alice is a novelist who is hidden behind double glasses and her reputation, which allows her to ignore her fellow humans, even if they are close to her. Thus the camera embraces its composure consisting of indifference. It’s up to the viewer to follow his indifferent exploration of a ship all in dim light, gilded to the max.

There’s so much fun that editors love to spoil, taking us from the glitz of the dining room to the grays of the sports hall, then to the always-anxiety bridge. However, if the director knows how to play around with this ultimately uninteresting setting, he’s burdening himself with scenarios that expand his story a little too much. With 1h52 on the clock, La Grande Traversée took time, more than once taking the risk of drugging the crowd. Indeed, if hatred is very real here, it is regularly contained by sub-plots embedded in the narrative.

You have to accept boredom (sometimes), annoyed (slightly), to be captured by the incredibly witty dimensions of Soderbergh’s films. Artists are flushed there, drained by a system that eats up their egos as much as they themselves use them to escape their responsibilities. Just as scenography continues to be disillusioned with the progress of film, the seemingly painted portrait of the literary aristocracy crumbles.

Behind Meryl Streep’s tricks, hatred for Dianne Wiest and Candice Bergen’s smoldering grudge is pared with the ruthless metaphors of the culture industry, her sense of representation, her hypocrisy and finally, her smallness. All without bragging on the part of the director, who never gives up on posture, and reminds us that the first grace is always loving her precision-written characters by Deborah Eisenberg.

In the tiny crevices between their confrontations, in the hands of a young man who stopped stroking, in the repeated rejections of a wounded friend, Soderbergh thwarts the inertia of many situations and remembers that even his creations persist. valuable field of experimentation and cinema. Like a cruise ship without a destination, where the rolling waves and the monotony of the sea of ​​oil tell more and better than a regular storm.