Funny that Edvard Munch’s The Scream springs to mind under the caress of director Olivier Assayas’ gentle film, Summer Hours (L’heure d’été) – but, it does. Its ghostly alarm provokes a universal lament for the disposable society we have become. With each successive scene, the inaudible noise grows louder, finding no escape through mannerly tears shed by a couple of the film’s main characters.

Assayas’ subject is, ostensibly, an examination of the relevance of family legacies and heirlooms – in this case, Art Nouveau paintings, sketches and furniture by Paul Berthier and Majorelle respectively, obscure vases of rare value, and a pair of Corots. It’s about what families choose to do in the wake of a death: retain and treasure the heirlooms as well as the family estate, or sell them? Therein lies the question. What becomes of tangible personal nostalgia?

Summer Hours tells the story of three siblings, Frédéric (Charles Berling), Adrienne (Juliet Binoche), and Jérémie (Jérémie Bernier) who are forced to deal with a host of endowments and personal effects left by their mother, Hélène, after her unexpected death. Her slavish devotion to her uncle, Paul Berthier, sparks speculation that she was romantically linked to him.

This possibility does not sit well with oldest child, Frédéric, but then nothing else does, either, for he’s the classically romantic one Hélène appointed to follow her final wishes. Frédéric remains the custodian of her love and reverence for ongoing familial traditions. He hopes to hang on to the Corots, and to the bucolic setting of the family home outside Paris. He senses a spiritual essence circulating from one room to the next, from housekeeper Eloise’s flowers to numerous vases.

The siblings, however, form a troubled triumvirate: two of them choose to dispose of all assets including the home. Adrienne lives and works in New York and can’t see herself or her children visiting France often enough to justify holding onto the estate. Jérémie is consumed with business affairs in China. He could use some ready cash, and votes to sell the Corots. Frédéric is stricken but publicly suppresses his grief.

As the group discusses ways and means to liquidate the estate, tempers flare briefly like fleeting summer storms, dissipating almost as quickly as they begin. Their affectionate behaviour remains calm and lacks sustaining grief. It is as though they have all been brushed with a stroke of British stiff upper-lip syndrome, or worse, they simply demonstrate a bland, passionless view of anything beyond their narcissistic worlds. The silent scream resides in Frédéric and faithful housekeeper, Eloise, who insists on bringing flowers to the empty home because “Hélène hated rooms without fresh flowers.”

Frédéric tells her to take anything she wants as a memento, so she reaches for a green bubble vase – something she considers ordinary like herself, but which connects her to Hélène. She is unaware of the vase’s rarity and value.

Assayas leads viewers through the undoing of the home. Little by little its heart and soul is peeled away. And though Frédéric wishes mightily to buy out his sibling’s personal shares, he hasn’t enough funds. Thus, he is forced to dismantle it, lock, stock and wine cellar.

Thus, Assayas poses questions: Has the world changed in its sense of continuity? What matters most – we, the living? Or past connections that informed and shaped us? Or both? Frédéric’s spoiled teenage daughter offers a surprising viewpoint. But, when a tree falls in the forest, who hears it? Especially in the wake of silent screams?

For a taste of Summer Hours go to the movie trailer.

Tagged as: Art Nouveau, Corots, Edvard Munch, The Scream