THE NUN (La Religieuse) B+
France (140 mi) 1966 d:
Jacques Rivette
This film originated as a theatrical play in 1963, as do
many of Rivette’s works, with Rivette and Jean Gruoult adapting an 18th century
novel by Denis Diderot published posthumously in 1796, much like Cassavetes’
gut wrenching emotional journey in A
Woman Under the Influence (1974), with actress Gena Rowlands believing the
daily performances of the role would be too demanding, that no one could survive
such a harrowing test of endurance, all of which suggests the viewing audience
will be pushed to the limits, as this is a scathing feminist portrait on the
treatment of women in the 18th century, as revealed by the extraordinary power
and range of actress Anna Karina as Suzanne Simonin, the teenage daughter of a
once-rich family that can no longer afford to support her, so in keeping with
the customs of the times, they send her to a convent where she will supposedly
be treated well and lead a peaceful life.
Little thought was given to public scandal, as these decisions were
framed with the idea of accommodating the needs of women, offering them a place
of comfort where they would be housed and fed and taken care of by the Church, creating
a fascinating portrait of psychological turmoil and even torture, as one woman
rebels against the tyranny of repression while remaining innocent and devoutly
religious, but unwilling to sacrifice her personal freedom, refusing to be held
prisoner against her will for a religious calling she refuses to serve,
petitioning the courts for the injustice of her position, forced to become a
nun expressly against her wishes, yet due to the supreme authority of the
Church in France, courts refused to intervene, even after her family refuses to
take her back, leaving her no option but to suffer the consequences. What’s particularly striking is the captivity
aspect, where she is literally imprisoned against her will with no escape,
where her predicament grows more dire when the Mother Superior turns against
her, conspiring with the other nuns to treat her with malicious contempt,
refusing her food and clothing, singling her out as a Satanic witch in their
presence that deserves to be ostracized, where her treatment is vile and punitive. In many respects this historical treatment is
similar to Bresson’s The
Trial of Joan of Arc (Procès de Jeanne d'Arc) (1961), each innocent yet suffering
the wrath of their accusers, led to believe they are insane to take such a firm
and committed stand, refusing to budge in their beliefs, yet both were abused
by church leaders in positions of power who refused to intervene and instead
allowed hypocrisy and religious hysteria to prevail.
Causing an outrage at the time of its release, particularly
in such a Catholic-dominated society as France, provoking a letter-writing
campaign from Catholic officials even before the film was completed, the film
was banned by the de Gaulle government in March of 1966 before its first public
screening, reportedly because of its cynical views of the Catholic Church,
allowing an exception to premiere at the 1966 Cannes Film Festival where it was
received to great acclaim, yet even a mention of the ban was banned from
television reporting, provoking a storm of protest, with Godard writing a
stinging denunciation of de Gaulle’s minister of culture André Malraux for his
cowardice in allowing this to happen, describing the censorship as the “Gestapo
of the spirit,” having to go through a lengthy court process to get the ban
lifted after more than a year in September 1967. While certainly not an attack on the
Christian faith or against the principle of religious life, the character of Suzanne
Simonin herself remains intriguing, as she’s an innocent, untainted by sex or
scandal, remaining a virgin, an ardent believer, praying regularly and obeying
the rules of the convent, yet she feels suffocated by her cloistered confinement,
deprived of an ordinary life, forced into a life of discipline and austerity that
she finds intolerable, as monastic life is not for everyone, preferring to live
in the outside world, even without a penny to her name. Perhaps the only Rivette film that doesn’t
involve a web of mysteries, which, curiously enough, never seem to get solved,
yet it draws us into the fictional aspect of the story, with viewers more
interested in the experience than any solution.
Remaining faithful to its 18th century setting, almost entirely set
indoors in tiny, claustrophobic rooms, cloistered walkways, gloomy cells or
chapels, eerily suggestive of Polanski’s REPULSION (1965), especially the
tormented anguish suffered throughout that borders on insanity, the film calls into
question contemporary ideas of faith and freedom and a woman’s place in the
modern world. Much like Haneke’s The
White Ribbon (Das Weiße Band – Eine deutsche Kindergeschichte) (2009), we
learn that sadistic attitudes typically develop in closed and isolated
communities, where the isolation itself protects the perpetrators against any
possible repercussions, as no one is held accountable, as they are outside the
realm of society’s watch, out of legal jurisdiction, in a no man’s land where
only the Church may intervene, yet their flawed authoritative representatives
are the cause of the affliction. Not
only does Rivette make sure of the visual contrast between routine church
ceremony and a nun’s open mistreatment, but also provides an avant-garde
soundtrack highlighting atonal music, insect noise, strange percussion sounds,
and a thunderous church bell, a symbol of the oppressive presence of the
church, ominous in its dire implications, but silent when it comes to providing
actual relief.
Reminiscent of Marco Bellocchio’s VINCERE (2009), or Bruno
Dumont’s Camille
Claudel 1915 (2013), where oppressive powers routinely subjected women to
demeaning and humiliating institutionalization, often as a means to silence
them, drawing inspiration from Mizoguchi’s THE LIFE OF OHARU (1952), a film
universally beloved by the Parisian Cahiers
du Cinéma critics, with Rivette openly challenging the conservative
rigidity of the de Gaulle government, the film is divided into three sections,
each escalating the hopelessness of the situation, starting with her family
offering her to the church, just as they might place coins in the collection
plate, but here it is in human form, leaving her forever in the hands of the
church, with the family abandoning all ties to her in a cynical collaboration
of church, state, and family, using the convent as a means of social control. As we come to learn later, she is cast out as
she’s not her father’s daughter (something the mother doesn’t want her husband
to know), the subject of possible gossip or scandal, so they simply get rid of
her to protect family appearances and their good name. Her mother insists upon instilling guilt upon
her daughter, suggesting that her daughter must atone for her own sins by
taking the vows and sacrificing her life to God, negating her own personal freedom. In this way she may appease her mother’s
conscience, but what of her own? This
existential question forms the basis of the film, becoming a parable about
liberty, secular or sacred, in a society that oppresses women and uses ideology
to maintain power. As described by Village Voice critic Molly Haskell in
James Monaco’s The New Wave, The
New Wave: Truffaut, Godard, Chabrol, Rohmer, Rivette:
Diderot’s nun, like very few women
in life and fewer in literature (some of Ibsen and Shaw’s heroines maybe)
desires freedom, not for love of a man, or for God, but for its own sake. She is capable of disinterested desire, of
passion for a principle, and she seeks liberty rather than romance or security
or rest or the other pragmatic goals which are considered to be the instinctive
aspirations of women. Under Rivette’s direction, Anna Karina gives us just such
a nun, serious, intelligent, innocent, her life and her purity seen as one
continuous impulse towards freedom. She
is, to use Simone de Beauvoir’s distinction, transcendental rather than
immanent, but she is also feminine.
While the novel is narrated from the heroine’s point of
view, Rivette’s film adopts an exterior point of view, eschewing close-ups,
always maintaining a distance, yet it’s still a probing psychological portrait
that explores Suzanne’s developing conscience, which differs drastically as she
passes through the hands of three different Mother Superiors, moving through a
series of ritualized dramatic actions which emphasize her Christ-like suffering
and sacrifice. The distraught Suzanne
finds solace in a kindly Mother Superior, Madame de Moni (Micheline Presle), who
has followed and understands her situation, offering sympathy and a kind of
benevolent mysticism, but urges her to accept her fate and make the best of
it. When she dies, a stricter Mother
Superior arrives, Sister Sainte-Christine (Francine Bergé), who holds it
against Suzanne that she is placed in a more unfavorable light than her
predecessor, and here Suzanne’s resistance is met with puritanical wrath, where
she is singled out and ostracized, unable to talk to or touch anyone, treated
like a condemned criminal, starved and dressed in rags, whipped, spat upon and sadistically
forced to do the drudgery chores, where her treatment becomes a form of
psychological torture. Much of this is
in response to Suzanne’s receiving visits from a lawyer in pursuit of her legal
challenge to rescind the vows made against her will, where her treatment inside
the convent continually deteriorates as they contemplate an exorcism, believing
she’s possessed by Satan. The communal
hysteria surrounding her treatment is like a religious shunning, reaching
melodramatic heights at times. When the
case is investigated by the church, having no intentions whatsoever of
releasing her from her vows (claiming the floodgates would open), Suzanne says
to the visiting Archdeacon, “All I have done wrong is not to be called to the
religious life and to seek to rescind the vows which I made against my will.” The request is denied, but her attorney does
succeed in having her removed to a different convent, where she is pleasantly
received by her new Mother Superior, Madame de Chelles (Liselotte Pulver),
making a spectacle of her arrival, lavishing her with plenty of doting affection
and attention, offering her sweets, calling attention to her beauty, even providing
her with a mirror, all in an attempt to view her in an erotic light, with her
previous favorite growing overly hostile in this radical change in the pecking
order. This Mother Superior becomes
fixated on her new charge, visiting her bedroom late at night, asking personal
questions about her inner desires, always wanting to be alone with her, arousing
fear and suspicion, especially when a monk insists that she must reject her
advances at all costs, as if her life depends upon it. This results in a different kind of hysteria,
with Rivette suggesting the thought of escape is nothing but a delusion, that
she still remains in a state of captivity.
There are no theological arguments in the film, with Suzanne’s devotion
to God remaining unwavering throughout, despite her harrowing ordeal, enduring
endless wrath heaped upon her nonetheless, as if condemned to her fate,
eventually discovering it’s no less oppressive on the outside, where New Wave
icon Anna Karina, like Sandrine Bonnaire in Varda’s Vagabond
(Sans toit ni loi) (1985), serves as a model for the younger generation of
women who have grown tired of being oppressed by an intolerant patriarchal society
setting all the rules.
No comments:
Post a Comment