You know you've become a film snob when you can make sweeping generalizations based on a director. For example, this morning, I started and turned off 1900, because Bertolucci tends to do vast, sweeping, rather dull epics. This was followed by the film we're about to discuss, Le Journal d'une femme de chambre,
directed by Luis Buñuel. In Luis Buñuel, we have found a man who got his start in film working with Salavador Dalí on Un chien andalou, after all. This means, at least from what I've seen of his work (we've dabbled in it here), films that are deeply significant, though it may not always be possible to tell about what.
Céléstine (Jeanne Moreau) has arrived in I'm-not-sure-where to become a chambermaid to the Monteil family. This includes the mistress of the house (Françoise Lugagne), who is strict and fussy; the master of the house (Michel Piccoli), who is rather distant and enjoys hitting on the staff, it seems; and the mistress's father, M. Rabour (Jean Ozenne), a Creepy Old Man with a foot fetish who has apparently gotten several of the chambermaids pregnant. Or maybe it's the master who did that; it was most of the way through the movie before I realized that they were two different people.
In addition, there is the murder of little Claire (Dominique Sauvage). We never know for sure who did it, though we are certainly led to believe that it is Joseph (Georges Géret). Certainly Céléstine believes he did it, and she embarks on a very weird series of actions in order to ensure that he sees justice for it. It's from that point that I stopped understanding what was going on, I'm afraid, so if you watch it, you're on your own.
It's well-filmed, of course; that is one thing we can count on from Buñuel. Even in his really deeply weird stuff, the filming is worth watching for. Some of the closeups of Céléstine's face alone are worth it--look, for example, at the moment where she's wearing the boots and the old man is polishing them. There is deep resignation on her face, a willingness to go along with this if this is what it takes for her life to be as comfortable as she wants it to be. On the other hand, she also seems strangely intrigued by the whole thing. It may well be how we as an audience are intended to feel, though I dislike speculating about what we're "supposed" to feel about an art film.
And this is an art film. There's a story, here, but I don't feel it's really important. We are watching Céléstine. Things happen around her, but there's a limit to how much she cares--or how much we do.
May 8, 2008
