¡°Through a spyglass, I could see everything.¡± King Louis XVI was
beheaded on January 21, 1793, but instead of visualizing this act of
regicide, legendary auteur Eric Rohmer¡¯s The Lady and the Duke
observes from afar. Consider it a view to a kill made abstract. A
proper British (yes, British) gentlewoman, Grace Elliott (Lucy
Russell), and her loyal maidservant gaze from a lofty terrace in
Meudon at the glistening city of Paris, where raucous crowds seem
tinier than ants. The maid narrates what little she sees of the
execution through her telescope (often muttering, ¡°I don¡¯t know,¡±) as
the sound of cheering patriots and revolutionaries echoes through the
air. What we don¡¯t see might not be able to hurt us. Just close your
eyes and think of England.
During times of revolution, the
aristocracy may feel a false sense of calm in their parlor halls,
discussing tumultuous events over glasses of sherry until the walls
cave in on them. Adapted from Elliott¡¯s memoirs, Journal of My Life
During the French Revolution, Rohmer¡¯s latest artistic
tour-de-force may seem far removed from his domestic comedies
(Tales of the Four Seasons, etc.), a period film set during the
most violent changes in French history. Resisting the temptation for
grand-scale theatrics, much of The Lady and the Duke is about
quiet, decisive moments between members of the cultural elite as they
determine how to proceed as the world implodes.
Grace Elliott
makes for an unlikely protagonist: a headstrong, snobbish blueblood,
one unprepared for the machinations of history that sweep her along. A
foreigner who accepts the French King as her own, Grace¡¯s life seems
defined by fancy attire and lively political debate with her former
lover, the King¡¯s hot-blooded cousin, Prince Philipe, Duke of Orleans
(Jean-Claude Dreyfus). The times are changing, though, and the gears
inch ever closer toward violence. During The September Massacres of
1792, she is encountered by a procession of rioters brandishing the
head of the Duke¡¯s sister-in-law on a stake. Rohmer makes a harsh
transition from tranquil, old fashioned, almost stagy parlor scenes to
the swell of an angry mob. In doing so, he achieves what Braveheart
and The
Patriot could not: the face of death. When Grace sees her
friend¡¯s disembodied head on a pole, Rohmer¡¯s attention drifts from
the societal change to one woman¡¯s reaction shot, laden with hot
tears.
Grace finds herself taking in a fugitive from justice,
sheltering him from the mob. Through her relationship with the Duke,
she seeks a passport for this one activist¡¯s escape. Grace doesn¡¯t
even understand her own actions (and the Duke reacts in stunned
disbelief at how she places herself in such danger). She endures
persecution from Robespierre and his gang of thuggish equalizers,
ceaseless police monitoring, house searches, even a brief imprisonment
for harmless international correspondence.
Maintaining her
stiff upper lip and pampered life (her imperious attitude to the
servants never changes), she becomes a heroine through circumstance.
The events themselves are intrusions upon her person, her home, and
therefore her values. Aristocracy proves a glass house, one that can
barely withstand the upheaval of stones. The Duke is called to vote on
the King¡¯s punishment, and despite his hours of deliberation with
friends and advisors, talk means nothing in the face of bloody action
(or futile inaction).
The episodic structure creates a wobbly,
jarring detachment from the events of the French Revolution, which
serves as metaphor but also disconnects potential audience
identification. Lazy viewers (and critics) may also complain that
knowledge of French history is required for enjoyment of The Lady
and the Duke. That¡¯s foolery, but brings up the valid criticism
that Rohmer¡¯s characters occasionally become didactic. Rohmer¡¯s
imperfect but assured push toward the future remains staunch and
notable for casting a cautious eye upon the past while taking bold
steps forward into an uncertain future.
What may arouse
interest in The Lady and the Duke outside of foreign film
enthusiasts with literary and historical passions is Rohmer¡¯s use of
cutting edge digital technology as a means of exploring the theme of
artifice as safety net or coping mechanism. The actors were filmed
against a bluescreen, then placed against painted backdrops recreating
the vastness of 18th century Paris. This recreation calls attention to
itself in every shot, a Technicolor dream of fanciful buildings and
wide-open streets. It looks as phony as Titanic,
but unlike James Cameron¡¯s debacle, The Lady and the Duke plays
with the notion of false security in those walls of stone. Why?
They aren¡¯t real. The very foundation Rohmer¡¯s characters stand
upon is false, and in their groundlessness they must discover
themselves, in all their insubstantial glory.
From filmcritic.com
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