 |
| Director Chantal Akerman |
THE CAPTIVE (La Captive) B+ France Belgium (118 mi) 2000 d: Chantal Akerman
For, just as in the beginning it is formed by desire, so afterwards love is kept in existence only by painful anxiety.
—Marcel Proust, Chapter 1, La Prisonnière, 1923
I thought that literary works should not be adapted to film, that music should not be used, that cuts and shots/counter-shots should not be used – these kinds of prohibitions. I was very radical, undoubtedly too much so, but I needed to be in order to define myself, form myself as a filmmaker.
—Chantal Akerman, 2001
Listed by Cahiers du Cinéma as their #2 film of 2000, it must be said that literary adaptations are not something typically associated with experimental or auteurist directors, though Godard and Truffaut made several films based on literary sources. Akerman was an avid reader since adolescence and initially skeptical about literary adaptations, believing they were diametrically opposed to her radically innovative film style, alternating between fiction and documentaries, writing her own scripts, nonetheless, having read Proust when still in school, she began to toy with the idea of adapting Proust’s Remembrance of Things Past (In Search of Lost Time, published in seven volumes between 1913 and 1927) just after she completed Jeanne Dielman, 23, quai du Commerce,1080 Bruxelles (1976). But it was only 25 years later, after having experimented with a wide range of genres and film styles, that she felt ready to try again, with the help of film scholar Eric De Kuyper who shared script ideas, though Akerman wrote every word, inspired by their mutual admiration for Hitchcock’s Vertigo (1958) and Marnie (1964), eventually making a film loosely inspired by the fifth volume, La Prisonnière. While Proust’s modernist style and narrative complexity have deterred directors, believing the work is unadaptable, in particular the existential interior focus, as it follows the narrator’s autobiographical recollections of childhood and experiences into adulthood, but it was precisely these challenges that attracted Akerman’s interest, where she is quoted as saying, “I remembered that there was that apartment, and the corridor, and the two characters—I said, that’s a story for me.” Having come from experimental traditions, where nearly all her films deal with captivity and the many forms it can take, this is a study of women as an enigma, in particular lesbian desire, explored exclusively through a male perspective, yet what’s exceedingly fascinating is a lesbian filmmaker’s vision of a gay writer’s work. The first of Proust’s books published posthumously, this is a complex and multi-layered novel, with its fabulous cast of characters, its rich evocation of a Belle Époque period and society and, above all, its intricate plot, with Proust conceiving love as tragic, becoming a film about the haunting effect of memories and fantasies, where there’s something completely disorienting about this film that mirrors Hitchcock’s Vertigo (1958), revered for its suspense, hypnotic camerawork, and astute character psychology, even matching Hitchcock’s rear projection effects out the back of the car, but even more importantly both films accentuate how the destructive male obsessions of projecting their own desires onto unsuspecting women have disastrous consequences. Opening and closing with the sounds of the sea, we’re introduced to Stanislas Mehrar as Simon, a spoiled and wealthy young man who is initially seen watching Super 8 homemade video of a woman with friends during their seaside summer together in Normandy, freezing the frame like a still image of her face, before transitioning into her silent stalker, Akerman’s version of Truffaut’s Jean-Pierre Léaud, both dressed in a suit and tie, each a narcissistic voyeur of young women. Completely obsessed with Ariane (Sylvie Testud), the camera follows him through a labrynthian journey through Paris as he tails her car (a Peugeot convertible), follows her footsteps in the city, where the heightened shadows on the staircase walls recall film noir, leading into the Musée Rodin, filled with sculptures, paintings, and art objects, where she finds herself pausing in front of an Aphrodite bust, a creature who emerged from the sea, perhaps an ideal representative of the female form, becoming an encounter between the real and the mythical, where Ariane is ultimately viewed as one of his prized collectibles, having no identity of her own, as she appears to exist only in his fantasies. The formal precision of Sabine Lancelin’s camera has a hovering presence, following them both closely, with Simon watching from an adjacent room, his moves repeating hers as she appears and disappears, always just out of his grasp, where their forms are merged into the same frame. In something of a surprise, we discover she is living with him in his aging grandmother’s massive home with her own room, where she is something of a willing prisoner, passively following his every wish, which is spelled out in great detail. One of the unforgettable scenes has them bathing together, but in separate tubs, as there is a frosted glass pane between them, which is not initially recognizable, where it appears Simon is talking to himself in an extended monologue that veers into explicit sexual references, still quite surprising in this day and age, as if drawn from the pages of D. H. Lawrence’s Lady Chatterly’s Lover, but eventually she casually responds as the camera pulls back allowing a fuller perspective, with Ariane, seen naked behind the screen, becoming a shadowy presence, as if lurking only in his imagination.
Volker Schlöndorf made his Proust film SWANN IN LOVE in 1984 and Raúl Ruiz his TIME REGAINED in 1999, both partial adaptations, but sadly, Harold Pinter wrote a screenplay that was never filmed, while the Luchino Visconti and Joseph Losey projects from the 1970’s were never realized. Having the self-reflective quality of Godard’s Breathless (À Bout de Souffle) (1959) and My Life to Live (Vivre Sa Vie: Film en douze tableaux) (1962), the minimalist existential quandary of Bresson’s Une Femme Douce (1969) and Four Nights of a Dreamer (Quatre nuits d'un rêveur... (1971), yet also the feel of one of Rohmer’s moral tales of alienated youth, what’s striking, however, especially for a Chantal Akerman film, a director known for her ruminative observations of women, is how the film sticks with the male perspective, as everything is seen through his naïve eyes, literally everything. Women are viewed as something for him to possess, forcing viewers into experiencing the excruciating yet pervasive oppression of male patriarchy, a viewpoint that borders on the absurd by his inability to comprehend anything about the mindset of his female lover, as his jealous suspicions overshadow everything he knows and feels about her. This is a highly stylized, intensely personal art film that is not for everyone, very slow in pace, where not much happens, yet the subdued charm and dispassionate manner in which things are realized defies realism, feeling more theatrical or surreal, as if sleepwalking through a dream, fixated on nonsensical recurring phrases, where the absurdly sounding dialogue could just as easily be spoken by Vladimir and Estragon in Beckett’s Waiting for Godot. With the protagonists renamed from the source material of Albertine and Marcel, most of the key scenes of Simon’s tormented relations with Ariane remain intact, as this is a plunge into the suffocating effects of jealousy in a contemporary love affair, with Akerman ridding herself of the historical context of Proust’s novel, so there is no looking into the past, no remembrance, yet she was spellbound by the actual dialogue, but the most radical changes come from the ending, which turns into a kind of road movie reminiscent of Rossellini’s Journey to Italy (1954), offering a liberating release from the confined enclosure of the Parisian apartment, which feels more like a tomb. Simon is a sickly recluse, subject to allergies and pollen, and mostly confined to his room, where he looks pale, like a ghost, often seen alone in his room reading the newspaper, or frustrated by his writings, his bedside surrounded by notebooks, yet continually perplexed by that blank page he never seems to fill. While Ariane dutifully comes to Simon’s room when requested, he also enters her room while she sleeps, or appears to be sleeping, offering no hint of resistance, allowing him to “do what he likes,” which only frustrates him even more, where so little is known about her inner nature, always present, yet sexually elusive, as we never see him shed his clothes or alter his extreme sense of bourgeois reserve, suggesting there is an overwhelming sense of detachment that defines them. Despite her unconditional availability, she is indifferent and emotionally vacant, where there is little reciprocal intimacy, with Simon sensing that she’s holding out on him, as she’s evasive in her noncommittal responses or explanations about where she’s been, using one of her friends, Andrée (Olivia Bonamy), to basically spy on her and report back to him, yet she’s equally vague, amusingly omitting or forgetting details (like they may be having an affair!) while reporting contradictory information back to him, where he has this incessant need to control and have ownership over every facet of Ariane’s life, insisting there be no secrets between them. However, he’s under the impression that she may actually prefer the company of women, frenetically driven to understand the secret of what women do together, suspecting she may be having an affair with a female opera star, Léa (Aurore Clément), brilliantly realized in a balcony scene where Ariane amateurishly sings a love duet from Mozart’s Cosi fan Tutti with a more professionally sounding older woman (Sophie Assante) from an opposite window, Prendero quel brunettino I Cosi fan tutte - Glyndebourne YouTube (3:07), while Simon powerlessly watches the scene from below, as if appearing in someone else’s dream. So this turns into something of a detective story, expressed through voyeurism and his insatiable need for control, as he has an obsessive curiosity about what she does on her own, with an overcontrolling nature that blinds him to any existing connection between them, while also ignoring any fascination with the world outside.
Premiering at Director’s Fortnight at Cannes, but never released commercially in the United States, made between two rare excursions into lighthearted comedies, this somber work is a modernist melodrama that elaborates on the styles, themes, and moods of other melodramas dating back to the silent era, becoming a study of pathological jealousy and unfulfilled desire, yet what’s remarkable is that Simon verbalizes every thought in an extremely rational and analytic manner, leaving nothing to chance, while Ariane keeps her thoughts and emotions to herself, almost like a silent screen siren, where the stark contrast between them expresses itself in underlying emotional turbulence. The old-fashioned décor in Simon’s apartment, with its imposing antique furniture, heavy draperies, and multiple doorways, suggests a wealth of space, while the aesthetic sumptuousness and perfectly framed compositions recall Alain Resnais’ Last Year at Marienbad (L'Année Dernière à Marienbad) (1961), another film that famously explores the structure of memory through a metaphor of grandiose architecture, as the empty corridors and closed rooms of the apartment come to represent the internal landscape of Simon’s fixation, an expression of his own captivity. Whenever they go out, they’re always alone, finding themselves living in a vacuum, as the sidewalks and streets are strangely empty, where the surrounding population may as well not exist. Known for portraying unconventional sexual relationships, a precise form is always present with Akerman, and just the way the film unravels reveals a relationship fraught with tension, with Simon continually tightening the noose, increasing the pressure in wanting to learn more and more, where he is never satisfied, as it’s not sex but her very soul that he desires, needing every secret exposed, as only then can he maintain his dominance. Much of this film plays out in his own mind, as he verbalizes what transpires internally, where he needs to speak the words for them to resonate, while Ariane is his submissive accomplice, yet her unspoken thoughts and desires remain a complete mystery to him, and instead of being enthralled by the challenge, he is completely undone by what he cannot comprehend, feeling stymied by the walls of an invisibly perceived resistance that he finds overwhelming. Simon’s adventure into the Bois de Boulogne red-light district accentuates the obsession, as he’s searching for someone like Ariane, not only in looks but with her same passive demeanor, someone he can control sexually, but he’s disappointed in his efforts, while he also awkwardly interrogates two young lesbian actresses (Bérénice Bejo and Anna Mouglalis), hoping to learn some of Ariane’s secrets, yet his singleminded takeaway is startlingly naïve in its chauvinistic arrogance. A radical deconstruction of self, time, and space, there are compulsively repetitive motifs that only inflame the jealous lover’s suspicions, like chasing her in his car around the chic fashionable districts of Paris, being caught in a labyrinth, walking around in circles, unable to find his way out, with the camera using slow tracking shots to meticulously follow the time it takes to move step by step, forcing viewers to feel the passage of time, or continually peppering her friends with questions, hoping to penetrate her mysterious interior realms, but rather than add light to his dilemma, he ends up feeling paralyzed, remaining stuck in an unresolved predicament. The more he spies on her, the less he knows, ultimately losing himself in the process and drowning in his own pathetic ineptitude. Unable to cope with uncertainty, he is the exact opposite of the more adaptable Ariane, an opaque presence who just goes with the flow, not letting anything really bother her. While his rigidly controlled behavior is the very picture of obsession, caught in the prison of his own jealousy, it is the male rather than the female protagonist who is the real captive, as he cannot escape his own debilitating insecurities, which replace his anxiety about writing. By the end, the morose musical soundtrack from Rachmaninoff - The Isle of the Dead, Op.29 - Vladimir Ashkenazy - Royal Concertgebouw Orchestra YouTube (21:10) adds such a pensive tone, creating an intimate yet dark space, where the final sequence explores all the possibilities of night, with the sea devoured by an inky blackness, becoming a dance of death through the light reflected on the water.
LECTURE & FILM: Das Kino von Chantal Akerman // LA CAPTIVE (2000) Lecture by co-writer Eric de Kuyper at DFF Deutsches Filminstitut & Filmmuseum (in English except the introduction), January 11, 2018, YouTube (1:37:44)
