by Douglas Messerli
His nasty
friends, Clovis (Claude Cerval)—an ironic name, surely, given that King Clovis
was the founder of France—and an Italian count (Carrado Guarducci) join him and
his women friends in his nightly carousals. One of his favorite Wagner works is
“The Ride of the Valkyries.”
The handsome
“mamma’s” boy, Charles, has little chance in such a debauched world, although
he attempts to study day and night for his law exams and regularly writes long
epistles home. But a single kiss by the woman these celebrants describe as “the
slut,” since she has evidently slept with all of them, sends him into a spin,
as he immediately falls in love with the girl, Florence (Juliette Mayniel).
Clovis is particularly furious that Florence seems to be pretending something she is not and arranges for her to be found in Paul’s bed when Charles returns from his college classes—classes which, it’s evident, Paul never attends.
Charles’
discovery of the sexual “betrayal” sends him into an even deeper loop as he now
finds it even more difficult to concentrate. But it is clear that something
else here is going on in their relationship. As any psychoanalyst might
explain, the sharing of a sexual partner can easily be perceived as an urge to
share the other’s bed. Moreover, the Wagner record Paul also loves to play is
Arturo Toscanini’s version of Wagner’s Tristan
and Isolde, which suggests a far deeper “love-urge” going on in Charles’
internal thinking, an unrequited relationship with his attractive cousin
himself; the sexual betrayal involving Florence is just the surface of an intensely
more complex homoerotic relationship that neither Paul, Charles, nor the
director dare too deeply explore.
Taking up one of
Paul’s wall-hung handguns (can there be a better example of male-male
expression?), Charles puts a single bullet into it, determining, in a kind of
reverse Russian roulette, to let chance make the decision of whether or not his
beloved cousin lives. As in everything else, Paul, it seems, is lucky, and
survives. He appears to be indomitable.
Chabrol does not
even let us hear the gunshot; we see only a small puff of smoke. And Charles,
at first, seems not even to have felt the bullet’s entry into his body as he
stands a few seconds in utter disbelief before slowly falling to the floor (a
kind of death that Fassbinder will later brilliantly exaggerate in his The American Soldier).
Paul, obviously
shocked by the turn of events, goes to his cousin to momentary stroke his
forehead—with a wonderful visual mix of hands, feet, and heads—before
retreating, as the doorbell rings, forcing him to face his tragic future.
His fate was
determined, we now recognize, from the moment he invited his loving cousin into
his life.
Los Angeles,
September 30, 2016
Reprinted from World
Cinema Review (September 2016).
No comments:
Post a Comment