Daily Archives: Wednesday, January 6, 2016

  • Far from Heaven

    Old YorkerFilm review

    Todd Haynes (2002)

    Far from Heaven is a technically elaborate pastiche of Hollywood domestic-romantic melodramas of the early post-World War II period.  The colouring of the images, the settings, the costumes, the score, the character types – all these elements evoke an America that appeared on cinema screens in the 1950s and, in particular, the movies of a Hollywood outsider, the German émigré Douglas Sirk.  The plot of Far from Heaven is inspired by Sirk’s All That Heaven Allows; the title of Todd Haynes’s movie nods to this.  In All That Heaven Allows, the romance that develops between the characters played by Jane Wyman and Rock Hudson – she’s a well-off New England widow, he’s a tree surgeon – is deplored by her family and friends because of the differences in the couple’s ages and social standing.  In Far from Heaven, set in Hartford, Connecticut in 1957, Cathy Whitaker (Julianne Moore) and her husband Frank (Dennis Quaid) appear to be the ideal middle-class suburban couple.  They have a bright young son (Ryan Ward) and daughter (Lindsay Andretta).  Frank has a high-powered management job at Magnatech, a company selling television advertising.  Cathy is beautiful, socially busy and accomplished, and the perfect homemaker.

    Her world is turned upside down when she calls in at her husband’s office one evening to find him hugging and kissing another man.  Frank is always working late:  it turns out his extra hours are usually spent not at Magnatech but in Hartford’s gay bars.  The Whitakers seek medical treatment for Frank’s homosexual desires.  In the meantime, Cathy strikes up a friendship with Raymond Deagan, the son of the Whitakers’ recently deceased gardener.  A widower with a young daughter, Raymond has taken over his father’s business.  He not only cultivates; he’s cultivated too – the first time Cathy meets him outside her garden is at a modern art exhibition.  Raymond (Dennis Haysbert) is also black.  Cathy Whitaker soon discovers that being seen in public with him is as appalling to the social circle to which she belongs as discovering the truth of Frank’s sexuality was to her.

    The reappraisal of Douglas Sirk’s work in Hollywood began in Cahiers du cinéma in 1967.  Critical analysis in the years that followed ‘revealed an oblique criticism of American society hidden beneath a banal façade of plotting conventional for the era – Sirk’s films were now seen as masterpieces of irony’.  (His admirers among other film-makers included Rainer Werner Fassbinder, whose Fear Eats the Soul also derives from All That Heaven Allows and, nearly thirty years before Far from Heaven, incorporated an interracial element in the central relationship.)  According to Roger Ebert, ‘To appreciate a film like Written on the Wind probably takes more sophistication than to understand one of Ingmar Bergman’s masterpieces, because Bergman’s themes are visible and underlined, while with Sirk the style conceals the message’.  I don’t get this reading of the films in question.  I can’t see, for example, how the criticism of the conventional attitudes of those who condemn the Jane Wyman-Rock Hudson relationship in All That Heaven Allows is ‘oblique’:  it’s explicit, not to say obvious.  Yet Sirk’s work continues to be admired for its expressionist elements.  In a June 2014 discussion of All That Heaven Allows on the Dissolve website[1], one of the contributors notes as follows:

    ‘There’s no mistaking that Universal backlot for a real suburban street, and I’m sure some modern viewers scoff at the overtly artificial sets.  But All That Heaven Allows’ synthetic suburbia works as another facet of Sirk’s critique of 1950s society.  The falseness of the town’s storefronts and houses echoes the falseness of its residents, who put on facades of class and manners to hide their contempt for those they look on as inferior or different.  All That Heaven Allows’ setting looks fake because in Sirk’s view, small-town America is fake, a lie that far too many snooty, stuck-up people have bought into.’

    The key word here is ‘echoes’.  The supposedly expressionistic quality of the suburban sets may well resonate with the suburban mindset that Sirk critiques – but that mindset is reflected too in the looks and words of the movie’s minor characters.

    Roger Ebert’s assertion that Written on the Wind is written in a code links to another piece of received wisdom about Sirk:  that the subtexts of his movies contain elements too controversial to be realised on screen in 1950s Hollywood.  I struggle to understand this too:  the issue of social and age difference is salient in All That Heaven Allows; Sirk’s last feature film, Imitation of Life (1959), is all about race, class and gender.  The idea of taboo subjects is, nevertheless, a crucial premise of Far from Heaven; and the homosexual element introduced by Todd Haynes – because this is an area that mainstream 1950s movies steered clear of – gives substance to the all-that-Hollywood-allowed perspective.

    It’s at least arguable that the social critique in Douglas Sirk’s melodramas is, through the inclusion of overt as well as covert indicators, tautologous.  When I saw Far from Heaven on its original release, I felt the effect of bringing to the surface elements that might have been cryptic in films of the 1950s was unarguably tautologous.  Seeing the movie again, thirteen years on, hasn’t changed my mind and I still felt an antipathy towards the film’s cleverness.  Yet I was more impressed by it on this second viewing.  Parts of Haynes’s pastiche are satirical while others are more simply imitative – Elmer Bernstein’s accomplished score is among the latter elements.  There’s variety too in the satirical approaches – in the ways that Todd Haynes plays with 1950s Hollywood commissions and omissions (there are times when you feel the director is playing with himself).  A scene in which Cathy’s giggling friends compare notes on how often they have sex with their husbands is an instance of a conversation that wouldn’t have occurred in a fifties Hollywood product but which is placed here in a flawless visualisation of that product.  The sequences which feature a doctor who expounds on the aetiology and possibilities for medical treatment of Frank’s ‘unnatural’ feelings skewer contemporary attitudes towards homosexuality.  (James Rebhorn plays the doctor with fine judgment – he manages to evoke omniscient screen medics of another era and ground the man in reality at the same time.)  Haynes’s realisation of the other queer elements of the story is different again.  The look of the people in and the movement of the camera around a bar that Frank frequents express fascination and horror:  the place is being observed by a censorious 1950s perspective and filmed according to Hollywood melodrama conventions of the time.  Haynes’s exposure of the smiling falsity of the perfect family unit is obvious in the early stages but the tone darkens and deepens as Cathy’s and Frank’s marriage becomes thoroughly wretched.  The couple go for a new-start holiday to Florida, where Frank falls for a young man for whom he leaves Cathy (he subsequently divorces her).  Haynes gives the gay bits in Florida a tingling depravity which, although it’s coherent with the register of the earlier gay bar scene, is excessive.  It briefly tips the film into comedy.

    There are things too in Far from Heaven that you hope are meant to have satirical intent but which may be merely weak.  At the art exhibition, Raymond explains Miró to Cathy:  is Todd Haynes lampooning movies – post-1950s ones – in which the high intelligence of an African-American character is meant to take white characters, and the white audience, by surprise?  Or is the virtual idealisation of Dennis Haysbert’s Raymond – patient, perceptive, gently witty, a dutiful son, a loving and protective father – itself an example of moral simplification of (in effect, condescension towards) a black character?  Raymond’s daughter Sarah (Jordan Puryear) is verbally abused then chased by some white boys, one of whom throws a lump of rock at her:  Sarah is knocked unconscious and hospitalised.  This happens while Cathy and Frank are in Florida:  when they return home, their son can’t wait to tell them about the incident, which involves his classmates.  His mother deplores what may have been the racist intent of the attack but, for all her sensitivity about Raymond, Cathy doesn’t ask any more about the injured girl.  Weeks later, Cathy discovers who she was and takes her maid Sybil to task for not telling her sooner.  (As Sybil, Viola Davis is eloquent though under-used.)  Perhaps Haynes is demonstrating here the unconvincing plotting of Hollywood melodramas of the 1950s; if so, he’s doing so in a way that’s remarkably convenient.  It suits his dramatic purposes artificially to delay Cathy’s discovery about Sarah until this later point in the story.  The kids who play the Whitakers’ children are puzzlingly different.  As David, Ryan Ward is so wooden that he comes over as a parody of bad child acting of decades past.  As his sister Janice, Lindsay Andretta is a child actor of the twenty-first century, playing a young girl in a 1950s story in a straightforwardly naturalistic way.  (Ward and Andretta, now in their twenties, are both still acting, according to IMDb.)

    While Todd Haynes seems to luxuriate in the rich, gorgeous design and colouring, these sometimes verge on suffocating the people on the screen.  There’s a moment, for example, when Cathy’s friend Eleanor (excellent Patricia Clarkson) stands in the Whitakers’ front porch and the tones of her outfit are perfectly co-ordinated with those of the autumn foliage in the trees behind her.  Edward Lachman’s superb lighting intensifies the visual beauty of the composition but the colour scheme in the shot is so comprehensive that it seems inescapable – Haynes achieves a sense of people inextricably bound to their place and time.  There’s also a forceful traction in Far from Heaven between characters trapped in a 1950s Hollywood world that didn’t acknowledge gay or interracial relationships, and actors trapped in Todd Haynes’s ingenious reconstruction of that world.  This is especially true of Julianne Moore as Cathy.  Although that moment in which Eleanor’s wardrobe and the natural world join forces is strongly suggestive, the character herself doesn’t consciously suffer feelings of claustrophobia – her prejudices remain largely intact over the course of the story.  In contrast, Cathy’s very personal experiences force her to think below the surfaces and beyond the limits of her life.  Dennis Quaid’s Frank looks racked by guilt from the word go – and few viewers will put his hollow-cheeked, exhausted appearance down to working too hard at the office, as Cathy does.  But Quaid is allowed, in due course, to explode out of Haynes’s movie-history framework: first, through Frank’s losing his temper in a big way (Quaid does this powerfully); eventually, through his decision to live with another man.  Julianne Moore’s Cathy doesn’t get these opportunities and the unresolved tension that results is compelling.  BFI put on a Todd Haynes season this month to coincide with the release of Carol.  My main reason for going back to Far from Heaven was to compare it with the new film and my immediate reaction, after seeing Carol, was to think it was superior.  After watching Far from Heaven again, a few days later, I’m not so sure.  Carol is a beautifully smooth piece of film-making but it lacks the friction of this earlier work.

    9 December 2015

    [1]  http://tinyurl.com/h9q52cu

     

     

     

  • Coco Before Chanel

    Old YorkerFilm review

    Coco avant Chanel

    Anne Fontaine (2009)

    The bland clarity of the storytelling is a relief after the narrative chaos of La vie en rose – the last French biopic to become an international hit – but that’s as much as can be said for Coco Before Chanel.  It’s what it says on the tin but this makes for a constipated story, continuously anticipatory and increasingly dull.  Gabrielle ‘Coco’ Chanel becomes the mistress of a rich man named Etienne Balsan, and a protean member of his household.  She’s a fixture in the bedroom but positioned in a social no man’s land between the servants and the society guests who seem ever present at his sumptuous pile just outside Paris.   After twenty minutes or so, I was getting impatient for Coco to move on in the direction of the career that made her immortal; not much later, I realised with dismay that she and we were going to be stuck with Balsan’s coterie for the bulk of the picture.  Audrey Tautou as Coco seems anxious to get out too – or at least to be given something to do beyond looking unfulfilled.

    Coco Before Chanel seemed surefire box office for the Richmond Filmhouse.  It’s on at the Odeon too but seeing a French film (with an haute couture heroine) at that fleapit would be a contradiction in terms for senior citizens of the borough who rarely go to the cinema but will turn out for Anne Fontaine’s movie.  (This demographic surely explains the preponderance of French films, many of them duff, at the Filmhouse.)  It was a mid-afternoon Saturday performance and a nearly full house; in the early stages, quite a few of the audience kept chuckling hopefully at the slightest provocation – the way they would during a first act at the Richmond Theatre, which they perhaps visit more regularly.  But they fell silent pretty soon; I think we were all benumbed.  Anne Fontaine and Camille Fontaine (her sister?), who co-wrote the screenplay, include some details which make psychological sense – for example, that Coco Chanel’s antipathy towards the flouncy excesses of contemporary fashion, her penchant for elegance through economy, derived from the austerity of an orphanage childhood.  But the Fontaines’ script completely fails to dramatise the material:  and Coco Before Chanel is as lacking in depth as in trashy energy (which might at least keep you entertained).

    As a costume drama, the film has the odd subversive moment:  it’s unusual to see a parade of lavish frocks on screen only for the leading lady to deride their inhabitants for not being able to move in their corseted finery and for hats that look like lumps of meringue, as Coco does when she sees the beau monde on the beach at Deauville.   But the same point has been made repeatedly by this stage – and the Fontaines seem to have little else to say.  While Coco Before Chanel withholds some of the nearly guaranteed pleasures of the genre – the protagonist’s inevitable progress towards fame and fortune, the reculer pour mieux sauter rhythm of that progress – it lacks the imagination to put anything in their place.  Anne Fontaine retains some staple ingredients of the biopic.  We learn how the main character got their nickname (in this case, singing a well-known song about a dog called Coco at a cabaret, where Gabrielle first meets Balsan).  As soon as the love of the heroine’s life announces a passion for a particular type of transport, we know he’s going to meet his death in it (in this case, a motor car).  And what’s particularly frustrating about Coco Before Chanel is that even the distinctive aspects of its subject’s situation and character eventually get lost – and merge with biopic convention.  Coco adores Arthur ‘Boy’ Capel, an Englishman who’s made his money in coal.  He wants to keep their affair going but intends to marry a rich compatriot.  Through a combination of disillusionment and desire for Boy, Coco determines never to marry but to carry on her relationship with him.  When he’s killed, the announcement of his death and its aftermath are no different from the episode in many other films when the bridegroom-to-be is snatched by death on the eve of the wedding. (It’s less affecting here because the unusual situation leads you to expect more.)

    Some presumably key moments hardly make sense.  When Gabrielle and her elder sister Adrienne are dropped off at the orphanage, the younger girl looks at the coachman driving away and he emphatically refuses to look back.  In the next scene, the Carmelite nuns who run the orphanage enter a dormitory and ask any of the girls who have visitors to follow them.  There are no takers except Gabrielle, although the nun who leads her down the corridor seems not to be struck by this.  On the way to the courtyard where the visitors await, the black-clad Gabrielle passes a number of children in brightly-coloured clothes.  These excitedly chattering little girls are removed from the premises by those who’ve come to meet them but Gabrielle stands in vain waiting for her father – the evasive coachman of the previous scene.  The girls in red outfits and the sombrely-dressed Gabrielle may work as a symbolic foreshadowing of Coco Chanel’s fashion preferences but not at any other level.   When Balsan, at one of his parties, insists that Coco reprise her cabaret song for his guests, she looks pissed off and sings ‘Coco’ in a joyless, deliberately untheatrical way.  The other guests start singing along with gusto and she looks even more pissed off, and the scene just fizzles out.

    At a fancy dress party, Coco persuades the voluptuous actress Emilienne, an ex-mistress of Balsan, to dress as an orphan:   Emilienne protests but Coco insists that concealing her breasts and legs will make her even more desirable.  Later in the evening, Emilienne admits Coco was right and says that everyone is going wild for her.  But she doesn’t look irresistible and there are no signs of anyone else thinking so – the costume does seem to subdue her sexiness.  After Boy’s death, Coco throws herself into her work and Anne Fontaine moves quickly into the film’s conclusion.  There’s a brief montage of Coco working with fabrics and, the final scene, a fashion show with models in classic Chanel clothes moving past the watchful eye of the designer.   Although they seem designed to do little more than tie up the story, these sequences also make you more aware of what you’ve been missing throughout the previous 105 minutes.  As Sally said, you never get much sense from the film of how Chanel developed her taste or of the pleasure and excitement which you naturally assume designing clothes gave her.

    In these closing moments Audrey Tautou’s professional containment and acuity are striking.  Although her essential innocuousness in what she’s done so far on screen is no doubt part of Tautou’s appeal, it’s clear here that she’s capable of more (as it often was with that other gamine charmer Audrey, with whom she’s sometimes compared).  Tautou also demonstrates – aptly, given Chanel’s philosophy – that she can look great however simply dressed she is.  All the main actors do more than can be expected with what they have to work with:  Benoît Poelvoorde as Balsan, even if you don’t really care about this practised womaniser’s developing real affection for Coco – or believe that this is anything more than an obvious, artificial twist; Emmanuelle Devos as Emilienne, whose big-featured lusciousness is likeable (and who is convincingly sexually ambiguous); Marie Gillain as Coco’s sister Emilienne.   Alessandro Nivola, unforgettably good in Junebug, is Boy.  When he first appears at Balsan’s estate, Nivola looks every inch a continental European aristocrat.  Later on, arriving at the hat shop in Paris where he’s set Coco up in business, he seems more like a male model.  But he’s never remotely believable as a self-made English businessman.  Yet Nivola has real presence – he’s like a dark-haired Ralph Fiennes, but with a capacity for pleasure – and there’s a spark between him and Audrey Tautou.  Nivola can use his good looks to give us a sense of how Coco sees Boy, as a beau idéal at first sight.  He can also HisHHidiminish his handsomeness as the occasion requires.  When Boy tells Coco about his impending marriage and he needs to appear morally ugly, Nivola suddenly looks just that.

    1 August 2009

     

     

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