The Card Counter, Paul Schrader, & The Bresson Connection
The 1970s saw one of the most creatively prolific and exciting movements in cinema: the New Hollywood. After decades of American films controlled and dictated by studio heads, the release of titles like Bonnie and Clyde, Night of the Living Dead, and Easy Rider shaped the way mainstream cinema would work: the director becomes the primary creator of the film, treating filmmaking as a proper form of art where they are the auteur. This saw a dramatic shift in how movies would look like and the types of stories and characters that would be explored. Some of the filmmakers that rose to fame include Francis Ford Coppola, George Lucas, Woody Allen, Michael Cimino, Elaine May, Peter Bogdanovich, and Martin Scorsese, most of which were inspired by the breath of fresh air that was the French New Wave.
Among the up-and-coming American New Wave members, there was Paul Schrader: with a BA in Philosophy and MA in film studies, he became a successful film critic in the late ‘60s before becoming the famous screenwriter and director he is today. His scripts for Taxi Driver and Raging Bull – as well as directorial efforts like Hardcore, Blue Collar, or Mishima: A Life in Four Chapters – are true cinematic classics, thanks to multi-layered and morally complex protagonists that are struggling with their own identity in a dark and cruel world.
However, just like all other New Hollywood filmmakers, Schrader was heavily channelling the works of his favourite directors. One of his most famous books is Transcendental Style in Film: Ozu, Bresson, Dreyer, published in 1972. These three artists are primarily well known for popularising a minimalist approach to directing, stripping every cinematic element down to their most basic needs to explore the characters further and move the story forward.
As much as Schrader loves the works of Yasujirō Ozu or Carl Theodor Dreyer, as well as Jean Renoir, Alfred Hitchcock, Sam Peckinpah, and many more, he often goes back to referencing Robert Bresson. Even when reading his essay, it is apparent how much that young film critic is in awe of this legend of the silver screen. Bresson’s most famous works include A Man Escaped, Au Hasard Balthazar, Diary of a Country Priest, and Pickpocket. He was a true cinematic legend, having his films premiere at major international film festivals, winning multiple Best Director and Special Jury Prizes at Cannes, Berlin, and Venice, with most of his works featuring regularly on Sights & Sound’s Top 250 films of all time.
Schrader argued that the key signature of the films of Bresson is a bare-bones approach to directing, where nothing is wasted or superficial. His films always involved internal – rather than external – drama: using non-professional actors (whom he described as “models”), Bresson would tell tragic stories of men and women unable to escape their destiny and true selves, often embracing their fate. While most portrayals of Joan of Arc tend to show her as either frail or determined, 1962’s The Trial of Joan of Arc sees her as resigned, knowing full well that the English will never release her and that recanting her faith would corrupt her soul. Like most Bresson protagonists, Florence Delay shows little to no emotions throughout, a blank slate on which audiences can shower with their own feelings.
Other trademarks of the French director are the use of deadpan narration, “objective” camera angles that do not judge the characters, music as a way to transport viewers into “a divine space”, and bitter moments of irony that keep moviegoers engaged till the final decisive action. Schrader was so aware of these cinematic tricks that he would end up using them wholesale in a majority of his works. Robert Bresson’s Pickpocket can be seen as the Rosetta Stone, the key film that more than any other has been referenced, homaged, and downright copied by Schrader.
After almost six decades of working in the film industry, Paul Schrader has officially made his own L’argent with 2021’s The Card Counter: a quintessential film that includes every obsession and influence that has interested him as an artist. A continuation of character studies like Taxi Driver, American Gigolo, Light Sleeper, and First Reformed, Oscar Isaac’s William ‘Tell‘ Tillich is as much a perfect Bresson protagonist as he is Schrader’s: fresh off of eight years in military prison, he becomes a successful gambler that aims low enough to go through the rest of his life without bothering anyone. He is haunted by the pleasure he got in inflicting tortures on POWs in the Abu Ghraib prison in Iraq, despite having paid the price through his arrest, while Major John Gordo (Willem Dafoe), who trained every soldier in enhanced interrogation techniques, got away scot free.
There are two people that give William Tell a shot at redeeming his soul: La Linda (Tiffany Haddish), looking to support William’s gambling skills by backing him in professional poker tournaments, and Cirk (Tye Sheridan), son of a fellow Abu Ghraib soldier who is trying to kill Major Gordo. In typical Bresson fashion, Tell is writing all of his feelings and memories into a diary, with Schrader using his voice-over narration to give audiences a glimpse into his psyche while also bringing to life effective moments of humour. This is not unlike the French director’s use of narration: in Pickpocket, A Man Escaped, and Diary of a Country Priest, the protagonists are keeping their own journals, often times repeating exactly what they and the audience just experienced, as to reiterate the events of the narrative while also playfully toying with viewers as Bresson keeps a full control of the narrative, since he is selectively deciding which information and psychological insights are worth sharing.
The repetitive nature of the film, which sees the trio of Tell, La Linda, and Cirk touring casinos, chatting and playing poker, closely mirrors the structure – or lack thereof – of Pickpocket; while other films would feature strong moments of tension, outbursts of sex or violence, or generally implausible and heightened dramatic sequences, Schrader shows the same restraint that his protagonist has. William Tell has to kill the rage and frustration boiling inside of him, and the love that he feels for his two friends is starting to turn him into a better man. His attempts at swaying Cirk away from revenge are especially affecting for him: by preventing the boy from entering a world of violence, he can atone for his own dark past.
Unfortunately, just like the pickpocket cannot fight his impulses to steal, so too does Tell fail to save Cirk, who is fatally wounded while attempting to assassinate Gordo. Despite having a chance to lead a good life with La Linda, managing to arrive at the final table of the biggest poker tournament in the USA, the only thing Tell can do is do what he does best: he goes to Major Gordo’s house and they torture each other, entirely off-screen, with only Tell leaving with his life and ending back up in prison.
While other films would stop here, Schrader once again channels Bresson’s 1959 masterwork: just like the pickpocket is finally free of his impulses and can love young Jeanne from behind the bars, so too can Tell embrace his love for La Linda, the two of them placing a finger on the glass separating them. This ending was already repeated in American Gigolo and Light Sleeper, and it works incredibly well in all these contexts. Just like Bresson, Schrader believes to his core that men cannot change and that only the cathartic release of violence and the hope for love can be enough for them to be absolved for their mistakes. This absolution does not come from the characters in the film, but rather from the audience itself. Throughout the runtime, they end up projecting themselves onto these troubled protagonists, and, regardless of how messed up things can get, there is always a comforting light at the end of the tunnel that makes viewers leave the cinema with a smile on their face.
At the time of writing, Paul Schrader is 75 years old and is showing no signs of slowing down. His passion for classic cinema is immense and will continue to seep into his work, but it is unlikely to imagine a better film that encapsulates his very being as a filmmaker. The Card Counter is sprinkled with moments of grace like a romantic walk through a neon-lit garden, as well as criticism of jingoism and patriotism, perfectly embodied with the amusing appearances of the poker champion “Mr. USA”. The references to the works of Bresson have become so integral to his filmography that they end up being deeply endearing and gratifying in this film. A beautiful piece of cinema that shows how a film can work despite – or maybe even because – of its blatant influences.