6 months later, the screen is again silver and the room dark. The return could not have been more stellar. Faithful readership will recall almost a year ago “art-house” film theatre Nimas, a 5 minute walk from my home, started a 2-part retrospective of Luis Buñuel, one of the greatest film directors ever, which The MacMahonian had at the time the pleasure to partially review. The 2nd part of the retrospective was postponed due to COVID19 and was now resumed. Yesterday I went to see again, in a restored copy, one of the greatest films ever: Belle de Jour.
Belle de Jour was the 25th feature film directed by Buñuel, of whom Alfred Hitchcock once said was his favourite director, after himself. Maybe Belle de Jour was Hitchcock's favourite film, as the similarities between both director's universes were perhaps never as striking as in this film.
Belle de Jour tells the story of Séverine (Catherine Deneuve, delivering the greatest leading female role ever put to film), who may or may not have borrowed her name from the servant of Leopold Sacher-Masoch's Venus in Furs, a Marnie-like blonde frigid wife of an upper class medical doctor who, upon learning in a casual conversation the address of a brothel, is assaulted by the unexplainable urge to visit the property and persuade its madam (Geneviève Page, as staggering as everyone and everything else in this film) to take her in as an employee, but only in the afternoons, as in the evening Séverine has to be home with her husband, hence the nickname (belle de nuit is a French euphemism for prostitute). Initially appalled, Séverine finds herself increasingly fascinated by and empathetic with the brothel's patrons' elaborate fetishes. Eventually, the unsustainable situation clashes violently with the prevalent social order, but not before several instances of elation and frustration.
Belle de Jour bewitches the viewer every frame and every second, the colour palette, both luscious and cold, the soundtrack without music (as so often in Bergman and, again, Hitchcock) allowing the constant dry, sharp resonance of footsteps to dominate the soundscape, and the studio-recorded dialogue suggesting an atmosphere both mundane and eerie, while Séverine´s adventures and daydreams, often undistinguishable and/or interchangeable, unfold, punctuated by the discreet but eloquent presence of Buñuel's signature surrealist arsenal: this time, inter alia, pistols, wheelchairs and music boxes.
The film industry is sometimes called the “dream factory”. It is meant metaphorically. But not in this case. I will revisit the Buñuel retrospective as often as possible and report accordingly.