Film Review
In purely narrative terms, there's little to distinguish
L'Esclave blanche
from the morass of tacky exotic trash that cinema audiences were apparently
hooked on in the 1930s - tales of intrigue and romance in foreign lands that
few westerners could ever hope to visit except in their dreams, all serving
to remind us all of the superiority of the western way of life. Thankfully,
much of this cliché sodden mass of flagrantly xenophobic drivel has
been lost in the mists of time, hopefully never to be rediscovered by even
the most dedicated and broad-minded of film enthusiasts, but some have remained,
justifying their preservation more on account of their artistic qualities
than their dubious content.
L'Esclave blanche is one such film
- and probably better than most in that it doesn't overplay the moral superiority
card or fall back on all those egregious stock clichés. Indeed,
its blacked-up 'villains' are hardly villains at all - just poor misguided
souls who have signed up to a different set of values to the ones that we
in the West take for granted and which we know to be better. (Pause
for cringe.)
L'Esclave blanche certainly has its faults. Many faults. There
is scarcely a scene in the film that rings true and the story's premise is
so dodgy, its racism so blatant, that you can't help feeling nauseous long
before the 'Fin' caption appears and puts this glib round of Middle East
culture bashing to bed. And yet, horrible though the film is to anyone
who is
not a fully paid up member of the Front National, it does have
its artistic merits. With its ornate, authentically crafted sets and
boldly expressionistic photography it is as moody and seductively stylish
as any other French film of this era. The film looks stunning from start
to finish, and it feels like an act of wanton sacrilege that such sublime
artistry was not matched by a script of comparable skill.
Marc Sorkin is credited as the film's director (assisted by Jacqueline Audry,
who would later become a director of some renown), but there is hardly a
shot in the film that does not carry the unmistakable signature of G.W. Pabst.
One of the great film stylists of the period, Pabst was engaged (if
you believe the credits) as a mere supervisor on the film, but you can't
help feeling that he made a far bigger contribution than that implies.
Sorkin had already worked for Pabst as an editor and assistant, on such films
as
Die freudlose Gasse
(1925) and
Die Büchse der Pandora
(1929), and this was the last of four films he directed. We shall never
know exactly how much artistic input Pabst had in
L'Esclave blanche,
but anyone familiar with his work could easily mistake it for one of his
own films - its relentlessly oppressive atmosphere and overt female slant
(a feminist perspective that was clearly ahead of its time) suggest as much.
If there is one reason to watch this film it is Viviane Romance's performance.
Habitually cast as the vamp and other assorted women of easy virtue, Romance
had a raw sex appeal that was virtually unrivalled in French cinema of the
1930s, but she was also a compelling actress and brought a crushing sense
of reality to any role that came her way, no matter how dire the film.
Romance's authentic portrayal is just about the only thing that prevents
L'Esclave blanche from collapsing under the weight of its crassness
and absurdity - most of the rest of the cast either couldn't be bothered
or else mistake it for a silly piece of pantomime. There is nothing
remotely credible in the character that Romance is saddled with - she travels
to Turkey expecting to find herself in an Arabian Nights fantasy, is surprised
that women in this benighted land are treated like cattle, and then decides
to hotfoot it back to Paris when the man to whom she had promised eternal
devotion dares to accept a second wife from his ruler. It would take
an actress of exceptional ability to make any of this plausible but Viviane
Romance does just that, and it is only when you sit down afterwards and examine
her character that you realise what a superb confidence trick she has pulled.
John Lodge, by contrast, makes no attempt to redeem the film. Capable
actor though he was - as he showed in Maurice Tourneur's
Koenigsmark (1935) - his heart
evidently wasn't in serving such dross as this and you can see why he gave
up acting to take up politics, a much easier (and saner) profession.
(Curiously, he ended up as a diplomat, not too far removed from the character
he plays so unconvincingly in this film.) Marcel Dalio, to his credit,
shows none of Lodge's apathy but looks like a man who is happily under the
misapprehension that he is in a Feydeau farce or American film comedy.
His canine-obsessed, light bulb-shooting, pathologically misogynistic Sultan
is certainly the kind of comedy grotesque you'd be more likely to find in
a Marx Brothers films than a big budget French period melodrama, and in the
former setting you might even warm to his face-pulling histrionic excesses.
In
L'Esclave blanche, alas, the excessively made-up Dalio disgraces
himself badly, and it is only the surfeit of bad acting that surrounds him
which allows him to escape with his dignity intact. Other than Romance,
the only member of the cast who appears to be taking the film seriously is
Saturnin Fabre - but then he was always the consummate professional and was
never a man to allow a bad film to get in the way of a great performance.
© James Travers 2016
The above content is owned by filmsdefrance.com and must not be copied.
Film Synopsis
In the early 1900s, a Turkish diplomat Vedad Bey returns to his home country,
accompanied by his young French wife Mireille. On the train to Constantinople,
Mireille helps a Turkish revolutionary Mourad to evade capture. It
is not long after her arrival in Turkey that the free-spirited French woman
realises it is nothing like the exotic paradise she had imagined. She
is coldly received by her mother-in-law, who advises her that it is her duty
to obey her husband in all things, and is appalled to learn that her fourteen-year-old
sister-in-law is already given in marriage to a man old enough to be her
grandfather, the chief of police Djemal. Her impromptu appearance at
a reception attended by her husband causes outrage - how dare a woman show
so such disrespect for local customs! The tyrannical Sultan reacts
to this offence by offering Vedad Bey a second wife, a gift that further
widens the rift between Mireille and her husband. Knowing that she
cannot live in such a barbaric country, Mireille makes a desperate bid to
flee back to France and begs Mourad, the man whose life she once saved, to
help her. The escape is thwarted by Djemal's men and Mireille is soon
on her way to the Sultan's palace. The Sultan shows mercy and allows
Mireille safe passage back to France, provided she makes no attempt to contact
her husband. When he discovers that his wife in on her way back home,
Vedad Bey makes up his mind to give up everything and accompany her.
The Sultan is far from pleased by this betrayal and orders the arrest of both
Bey and his wife. They will not leave his country alive...
© James Travers
The above content is owned by filmsdefrance.com and must not be copied.