La passion de Jeanne d’Arc
Carl Theodor Dreyer (1928)
I’ve not seen much silent film drama. I’d never seen a silent film like this classic of the genre, which is claustrophobic and concentrated. The dialogue comprises verbatim extracts from the original transcript of Joan’s trial in 1431, which I was amazed to learn had been preserved. (According to Wikipedia: ‘During the investigation and trial itself, a trio of notaries, headed by chief notary Guillaume Manchon, took notes in French which were then collated each day following the trial session. Four years later (at the earliest), these records were translated into Latin by Manchon and University of Paris master Thomas de Courcelles. Five copies were produced, three of which are still in existence’.) So the film is, for starters, a unique courtroom drama. Every face on the screen is extraordinary. Although they often suggest physiognomic types familiar from Renaissance portraiture, these faces have a warts-and-all reality and individuality. Dreyer uses minimal backgrounds to throw them into relief and, as the film progresses, the looks of some of Joan’s accusers and others present at the trial begin to take on more complex shadings: their harsh hostility is modified. The expressions of a couple of the venerable churchmen who are trying Joan for blasphemy are particularly strong in this respect. They are baffled by her – she seems to be invading the formal certainties of their religion.
Because the film is from another age and the physical casting is so brilliant, there are moments when you feel the impossible is happening – that you’re witnessing the historical event. Watching the actors’ mouths move as they speak the words that were spoken at the actual trial increases that impression. This octogenarian work is technically astonishing and Dreyer’s orchestration of the final sequence, when Joan is burned at the stake, phenomenal. Even in a picture made today, the cross-cutting and shots down to the crowds teeming along cobbled paths would be remarkable. The way in which Joan keeps seeing dark birds in the sky is wonderfully individual and convincing. Dreyer is masterly in juxtaposing crowd shots with a focus on particular, always arresting faces.
Joan is played by the Corsican actress Maria (real names Renée Jeanne) Falconetti – until then best known as a stage comedienne (as the handout and introduction at the BFI screening explained). Falconetti’s performance seems – in comparison with the others in the film – relatively stylized. She goes through repeated sequences of facial expression and head movement – which have an accumulating, absorbing power. Her transmission of Joan’s fervour – from within herself and under the pressure of extreme, unremitting close-up (which in itself chimes with the relentless interrogation of Joan) – is beyond praise. She has an androgynous quality (I remembered a little way into the film Pauline Kael’s review of The Deer Hunter, in which she noted Christopher Walken’s resemblance to Falconetti). She is deeply impressive at the moments when Joan comes up with clever answers to the intellectually sophisticated judges. Kevin Brownlow’s introduction quoted as an example the exchange:
Q: Are you in a state of grace?
A: If I am, may God keep me in it. If I’m not, may God put me there.
Falconetti is convincing as an uneducated rustic who wouldn’t naturally be able to express herself in this way and her responses take a little time to emerge. The effect is startling: Joan really does seem to be inspired by something beyond her. (It’s very different from the sustained epigrammatic assurance of Bernard Shaw’s Saint Joan.)
This screening was one of the BFI’s finer hours (and the fact that the sold-out performance was in NFT2 probably helped to ensure that it started on time). Kevin Brownlow’s introduction was completely audible, clearly structured and richly informative. Perfectly prepared, he spoke with authority and humour: he immediately acknowledged his debt to a Danish film historian who features on the DVD of La passion which Brownlow particularly recommended. He charmingly admitted his disappointment at learning that Dreyer had wanted to make the film with sound (but there was no French studio with sound facilities at the time). Brownlow was right to recommend the excellent handout for the show – a 1980 piece by Eileen Bowser of the Museum of Modern Art in New York. He was also thoughtful enough to give a nod in his introduction to the pianist Neil Brand, whose playing accompanied the screening (even though the film was originally shown – as Dreyer had intended – without music). It was just as well that Brownlow had this courteous forethought. Although there was applause at the end of the film, this wasn’t explicit acclaim for the admirable Brand – who had to get up from his piano stool and make his way out with the rest of the audience. You could see how physically demanding the performance had been for him.
The cast includes Eugène Silvain, as the bishop who leads the interrogation; Antonin Artaud, ardently expressive as the young priest who is desperate for Joan to recant; Michel Simon, as one of the judges; and, according to Kevin Brownlow, the (uncredited) former proprietor of the St Petersburg restaurant from where Rasputin was abducted on the night of his murder! The cinematographer was Rudolph Maté. The sets were by Jean Hugo and Hermann Warm and the costumes by Valentine Hugo. Joseph Delteil worked with Dreyer on the screenplay (and Dreyer also edited the film, with Marguerite Beaugé). Another unusual pleasure for me was that, since I can still read French reasonably well though I can’t keep up with spoken French, I was able to follow the film more or less through the French legends, without needing to look at their English subtitles.
18 May 2009
