Remakes are curious things. They come ready made for accusations of excessive familiarity, a dearth of originality, and overall inferiority - and yet they are not inherently bad things; the classic point of reference in their defense is the case of Hitchcock remaking, and thereby improving, his own film, The Man Who Knew Too Much. I think the (admittedly earned) stigma against remakes is rooted in the choice of films: those that they are pumped out with the belief that lightning can strike twice and that, in executive-speak, the namebrand association and audience familiarity will result in automatic opening weekend attendance. Of course, studios have taken to calling their remakes 'reimaginings' to give them more credibility, which is a bit silly but probably makes directors like Tim Burton feel better.

There are more interesting and validating ways to go about the whole process of remakes. Last year, in discussing the similarities between his film Bad Education and various Hitchcock pictures, Pedro Almodovar said "I would do a remake only if I could remake a bad movie with a great idea in it. I think only filmmakers really see that. No, I would choose a movie that did badly but had something good inside to be reworked." Other filmmakers certainly do see that, as do critics; I've heard countless versions of that same quote from directors and writes alike. Then there are those clever filmmakers who remake good films and deftly avoid any attribution and hence any widespread comparative woes: witness Altman's Gosford Park, or Spike Lee's Bamboozled, or Lawrence Kasdan's Body Heat, which are essentially remakes, respectively, of Renoir's Rules Of The Game, Network and Double Indemnity.

French director Jacques Audiard, who made the brilliant Read My Lips a few years back, could have easily done just that with his new film, The Beat That My Heart Skipped, but instead he's chosen to openly disclose the fact that it is a remake of James Toback's 1978 indie film Fingers/. In doing so, he's put that film, and Toback, in the spotlight right alongside himself. There seems to be a great deal of mutual respect between them - respect and honesty, for, as Audiard says of Fingers in the press notes, although "the film had a big impact on me when it came out...the plot is full of gaps, the story's got these great highs, but some real lows too. And there's a certain amount of cinematic posturing that ages badly."

After seeing The Beat That My Heart Skipped, I viewed Fingers for the first time, and found that, indeed, Audiard's film is the superior one; although he foregoes Toback's seedily seductive, disarmingly aimless style for a more traditional narrative arc, he populates that arc with characters and conflicts more richly drawn and maturely developed. One can tell precisely what parts of Toback's film made such an impression on Audiard; these are the scenes that remain intact almost verbatim. The rest of the film has been shifted and molded to better serve the dynamics those scenes represented, and the film is ultimately so different from the relatively obscure original that Audiard could probably have gotten away with merely claiming the original film as an influence in interviews, rather than actually putting Toback's name in the credits. That he does is a sign of appreciation, and of the very maturity that has enabled him to make the rare remake that surpasses the original.

Romain Dupris (who, I must note, has an absolutely electrifying onscreen presence) takes over Harvey Keitel's role, playing Thomas, a young man torn between the brute capitalism of his father and the artistry of his pianist mother (who is deceased in this version, but nevertheless far more present than in Toback's). He makes a good living a real estate thug, employed by moguls to 'lower the value' of various properties; he also does regular favors for his father (Niels Arstrup), a landlord who counts on his son's assistance to ensure payment from his tenants. Essentially, he's a lowlife in a designer suit. One day, by chance, he runs Mr. Fox, his mother's former manager, who fondly recalls the musical promise Thomas showed as boy. "Do you still play?" Fox asks. "Yes," Thomas stutters, and then, after being invited to audition for Fox, goes home and puts his fingers to the ivories for the first time in over a decade. The music comes in fits and starts, but something, some feeling, is still there.

Watching Dupris play the piano is an excruciating, enrapturing experience; here is a cold, hardened man discovering, not just that he can make something that comes close to beautiful music, but that he has passion in him. Passion which, once acknowledged, he can barely restrain, and which his fingers are unfit to deliver. He poses over the piano, his body wracked, contorted, his hands clenching into sinewy claws as he exercises these ephemeral muscles he's forgotten he ever had. It's pure torture. It's the most wonderful thing in the world. This is one of the best depictions of the anguish, joy and overall physicality of creative expression that I've seen in recent memory. Keitel captured this in the original as well, but Toback was less concerned with giving precedence to the music; here, it is not merely a facet but a catalyst.

Thomas visits a musical school to find a tutor, and winds up with a Chinese virtuoso who doesn't speak French; in a series of beautifully comic scenes, she helps him recover a sense of grace and precision in his playing. He loses his temper, comes back, watches her play and sees what it is that she doesn't have the words to explain. The way these lessons move beyond the language barrier is magical (and the way they end is a blissful example of a filmmaker taking advantage of something that must have developed unexpectedly). Eventually it is agreed that Thomas is adequately prepared for his audition, which leads to one of those scenes that's a precise replica of the corresponding point in Fingers. What happens after his fateful performance of Bach's Toccata in E Flat, though, is where, in my opinion, the film most fully transcends its origin and becomes, not a loose remake of Fingers, but a counterpoint to it.

The film seems to have two endings; the first is a subtle implication, the second a satisfying but overt reiteration of that implication. I won't reveal what happens in either, except to note that they occur on either side of a 'Two Years Later' title card. Upon my initial viewing, I wasn't sure that card or what follows it was necessary; the climax was satisfying, certainly, and provided a certain sense of closure, but it seemed to explicitly repeat a theme already established. It wasn't until I watched Fingers that I realized why exactly Audiard included it: it is a direct refutation of the conclusion Toback reached with his film. In that regard, this scene is an absolute necessity (and it is interesting to consider that it is the one change that Toback has expressed a distaste for).

That watching the original enables a fuller appreciation of the remake is indicative of the way in which the two films, as strikingly different as they may be, are joined at the hip (and certainly, Fingers, for all its faults, is a good and intriguing film, very much worth watching). The dichotomy between them is fascinating not just because the remake could be considered better, but because together they represent a position that is exceedingly rare in cinema: rather than merely stick with thematic alliteration, these films in tandem offer audiences an exchange. An exchange of themes, and styles and morals and, yes, dependent on one's tastes, quality. They join a list, which also includes the versions of Solaris by Tarkovsky and Soderbergh, Nosferatu by Murnau and Herzog, where the original is enhanced by the remake, and vise versa. In other words: they make the concept of remaking a film exciting. Maybe directors like Almodovar needn't necessarily consider remaking bad films, but simply those which they disagree with.