“I am Yoav,” says the naked man lying in the bed, staring up at his strange saviors. “I have nothing anymore.” So begins the absurd, philosophical, individualist, fever dream narrative of Synonyms: with an Israeli immigrant, urgently escaped to Paris for mysterious purpose, stripped of all possessions by an unknown force, and rescued from certain death of cold by a bourgeoisie couple as foreign to him as he is to them. In his predicament, there is hopelessness and desolation. But in his eyes, one senses a free and confident spirit, born anew from ash and fire.
Yoav’s murky situation does not clear up with any real pace. He refuses to speak Hebrew, employing instead an intermediate command of the French language. He is reluctant to take aid in his plight of homelessness and lack of resources, accepting only a bare wardrobe and some essentials from his rescuers. His stories are uncoordinated and inspired, rather than informative. They say little as to the life he has left behind. He is anxious to explore the beautiful city in which he has arrived, and yet also seemingly unwilling to enjoy any of its beauty. All of this renders us, the audience, utterly confused. We cannot know Yoav. We can only tell that he is unabashedly alive, or another thing like it. Call it life, or urgency, or perhaps even just naive aspiration, it remains a core theme throughout the movie. “Die or conquer the mountain!” exclaims Yoav. He internalizes the fight for a free spirit, for individualism. He believes in a French ideal of bravery and initiative and walks the streets with it proudly emblazoned on his chest. He longs to assimilate into his new world.
This semi-biographical story that director Nadav Lapid tells is clearly close to the heart and imbued with emotion. It dances into existence on the screen with an energy reminiscent of the French New Wave. It begs one to think deeply about the conduct of life. It fills one with the crackling sensation of vivacity, then rends one to shreds with the monstrous teeth of despair. It is ever evolving and never constrained by plot or structure. Its characters love with insatiable passion and hate with burning fury. It quietly flirts with beautiful homoeroticism, then playfully jerks back the veil and makes no effort to hide it. And it all plays out with a soundtrack that is simultaneously nostalgic and hopeful, tragic and angelic.
There is not much to disappoint the viewer, save for a smattering of shots in the streets of Paris seemingly captured with primordial digital camcorders and a constant sense of confusion and ambiguity that does not necessarily put off, but nags and delights in frustrating the audience. There are unmotivated turns of plot and touches of surprising humor, but both seem to work in the film’s favor rather than against it. In many ways, Lapid has constructed a near-perfect existential piece, one that factors in looming anxiety about immigration and a masterfully delicate approach to sexuality and love. There’s very little not to love about Synonyms, as long as one seeks not to definitively define it.
4.5/5 STARS