Here now is Luis Bunuel's "Belle de Jour," a
movie from 1967, to teach us a lesson about what is erotic in the cinema.
We will begin with Catherine Deneuve's face, as she listens to a taxi
driver describe a famous Parisian brothel - a place where bored women
might work for an afternoon or two every week, to earn some extra money.
Her face is completely impassive. The camera holds on it. The taxi driver
continues his description. We understand that the Deneuve character is
mesmerized by what she hears, and that sooner or later, she will be
compelled to visit that brothel and have the experience of being a "belle
de jour."
- We already know something about the character, whose name is
Severine.
She is married to a rich, bland, young businessman (Jean Sorel). The
marriage is comfortable but uneventful. An older friend (the saturnine
Michael Piccoli) boldly attempts to seduce her, but she does not respond.
"What interests me about you is your virtue," he says. Perhaps that is why
she is not interested: She does not desire a man who thinks she is
virtuous, but one who thinks she is not.
- Here she is in the street, approaching the luxurious apartment
building where Madame Anais presides over the famous brothel. The camera
focuses on her feet (Bunuel was famously obsessed with shoes). She pauses,
turns away. Eventually, she rings the bell and enters. Madame Anais (the
elegant, realistic Genevieve Page) greets her and asks her to wait for a
time in her office. Again, Deneuve's face betrays no emotion. None at all.
Eventually, she learns the rules of the house, and after some thought,
agrees to them. She is a belle de jour.
- The film will contain no sweaty, steamy, athletic sex scenes. Hardly
any nudity, and that discreet. What is sexual in this movie takes place
entirely within the mind of Severine. We have to guess at her feelings.
All she ever says explicitly is, "I cannot help myself." Much happens
offscreen. The most famous scene in "Belle de Jour" - indeed, one of the
best-remembered scenes in movie history - is the one where a client
presents her with an ornate little box. He shows her what is inside the
box. During his hour with Severine, he wants to employ it. She shakes her
head, no. What is in the box? We never find out.
- Consider that scene. In all the years that have passed since I first
saw "Belle de Jour," I have always wondered what was in the box. Suppose
the movie had been dumbed down by modern Hollywood. We would have seen
what was in the box. A whip, perhaps. And Severine would have shaken her
head the same way, and we would have forgotten the scene in 10 minutes.
- What is erotic in "Belle de Jour" is suggested, implied, hinted at. We
have to complete the link in our own imagination. When we watch the shower
scene between Sharon Stone and Sylvester Stallone in "The Specialist," or
the "harassment" scene between Demi Moore and Michael Douglas in
"Disclosure," nothing is left to the imagination. We see every drop of
sweat, we see glistening skin, hungry lips, grappling bodies. And we are
outside. We are voyeurs, watching them up there on the screen, doing
something we are not involved in. It is a technical demonstration.
- But in "Belle de Jour," we are invited into the secret world of
Severine. We have to complete her thoughts, and in that process, they
become our thoughts. The movie understands the hypnotic intensity with
which humans consider their own fantasies. When Severine enters a room
where a client is waiting, her face doesn't reflect curiosity or fear or
anticipation - and least of all lust - because she is not regarding the
room, she is regarding herself. What turns her on is not what she finds in
the room, but that she is entering it.
- Luis Bunuel, one of a small handful of true masters of the cinema, had
an insight into human nature that was cynical and detached; he looked with
bemusement on his characters as they became the victims of their own lusts
and greeds. He also had a sympathy with them, up to a point. He
understands why Severine is drawn to the brothel, but he doesn't stop
there, with her adventures in the afternoon. He pushes on, to a bizarre
conclusion in which she finally gets what she really wants.
- I will not reveal the ending. But observe, as it is unfolding, a
gunfight in the street. Bunuel does not linger over it; in fact, he films
it in a perfunctory fashion, as if he was in a hurry to get it out of the
way. The gunplay is necessary in order to explain the next stage of the
movie's plot. It has no other function. Today's directors, more fascinated
by style than story, would have lingered over the gunfight - would have
built it up into a big production number, to supply the film with an
action climax that would have been entirely wrong. Not Bunuel.