Film Review
It was Alfred Hitchcock who said you should 'film your murders like
love scenes, and film your love scenes like murders.' French film
director Claude Chabrol took this advice literally in his fourth
feature
Les Bonnes femmes,
and this is one of the reasons why it ended up with an 18 certificate
and provoked a barrage of negative criticism.
The film, later to be re-evaluated so that it now rates as one of the most signficant
achievements of the French New Wave, was a massive flop and nearly
brought Chabrol's filmmaking career to an abrupt end. After this,
the director's most scathing and most perceptive piece of social
commentary, Chabrol would be driven towards safer subjects and ended up
directing mediocre potboilers to keep his career going. Things
could have worked out very differently if critics and audiences had
been more willing to accept the grim truths that Chabrol flung into
their faces in his most controversial, and arguably greatest, film.
Following the bold stylisation of Chabrol's first thriller,
À
double tour (1959), and polished melodrama
Les
Cousins (1959),
Les
Bonnes femmes is strikingly realist in its approach, a
near-return to the stark naturalism of the director's first film,
Le
Beau Serge (1958). As he had previously done on films
for Jean-Pierre Melville and François Truffaut, cinematographer
Henri Decaë draws a haunting mystique from the Parisian landscape,
the night shots having a particular raw beauty that encapsulates the
poetry and modernity of the Nouvelle Vague.
There isn't much in the way of a plot, just slices of Parisian life involving four modern
working class girls all seeking escape from the grinding mundanity of
their lives. It feels more like a documentary than a conventional
comedy-drama, with many scenes appearing improvised, à la
Godard, and the spectator is never quite sure whether the film is
intended to be a raucous comedy, a straight drama, a dark thriller or a
serious sociological essay (in fact, it's all four of these).
Les Bonnes femmes does have
feminist overtones but it is not an overtly feminist film. The
four female protagonists are not so much fully developed characters as
archetypes representing four different aspects of the ordinary 'modern
woman'. One (Jane, played by a frighteningly uninhibited
Bernadette Lafont) is only out for a good time, always ready to trade a
one night stand for a sufficiently debauched night out on the
town. She is the polar opposite of her shy friend Jacqueline, who
harbours the most ludicrously romantic notions of love and remains
pure, waiting for her knight in shining armour to put in his
appearance. How cruel, and how fitting, that her beau
idéal should turn out to be her executioner. Ginette
(played by the director's future wife, Stéphane Audran)
apparently has no need of men; all she wants is to make a name for
herself as a singer but she lacks the confidence to progress beyond the
down-market music hall where she presently performs, incognito.
Rita is the most conventional of the four - she just wants to get
married and start a family. A realist, she has more chance of
fulfilling her aspirations than the other three, but already it is
apparent that her marriage is unlikely to a happy one - her
fiancé is a dull bourgeois conformist, obsessively concerned
with appearances. Each of the women serves as a tragic statement
of the limited opportunities for personal fulfilment that were
available to their sex in the early 1960s.
These representatives of womanhood may be archetypes but Chabrol
clearly sympathises with their predicament and coerces us into doing
the same. This cannot be said of any of the male characters, who
portray all that is abject and loathsome in the average man. From
the two carousing boors that sweep Jane off her feet, to the women's
lecherous hypocritical employer and Rita's insipid future husband,
there is not one owner of the Y chromosome who does not arouse feelings
of disgust and contempt. Worse, the mysterious stalker whom
Jacqueline mistakes for her long-awaited Prince Charming turns out to
be, as we suspected all along, a psychopathic killer. The
idealised man that the women dream of patently does not exist in
Chabrol's bitterly cynical world. Women yearn for love and
happiness, but the reality is they are destined to be disillusioned or
fall prey to the vile primitive lusts of beings that appear to be
several millennia behind them in the evolutionary process.
(There's some truth in W.S. Gilbert's observation that man, at best, is
only a monkey shaved.)
This division of the species into the civilised dreamer on the one hand
and the innate savage on the other - a crude but fairly apt metaphor
for the difference between the sexes - is underlined by the film's most
memorable sequence, in which the female protagonists amuse themselves
with a trip to the zoo.
As the women joke, shriek and pull funny faces the zoo's function appears oddly reversed - the humans become the
exhibits, unwittingly entertaining the imprisoned animals and
preventing them from dying of boredom. The zoo visit gives the
women a false sense of security, and they feel safe as they come within
touching distance of strange and ferocious beasts, kept from harm by
metal cages and glass. They fail to sense the danger that is lurking in
their midst, the silent killer who is stalking his prey. Were it
not for the unsubtle Hitchcockian cues, we might also fail to notice
the danger and mistake the murderer for just another innocent face in
the crowd.
Had this been a conventional Hollywood melodrama,
Les Bonnes femmes would have ended
with the romantically inclined Jacqueline walking off into the sunset
with her ideal partner. Of the four women, she is the one who is
most deserving of a happy ending, but Chabrol instead decides to make
her a martyr. Coming as it does, after one of the most romantic
sequences of any of Chabrol's films, Jacqueline's murder has a
startling brutality.
This outcome was signposted right from the start of the film, it becomes a near-certainty when Jacqueline finally
meets André, but still it hits us with a wallop of undiluted
horror. On the turn of a sixpence, a cheesy Mills &
Boon-style romance morphs into something truly horrible as the naked
savage is revealed to us. Those familiar with Chabrol's oeuvre
will be well acquainted with the perversity of his characters, so it
may well be that this was the outcome Jacqueline had expected and
wished for all along. Just a few scenes back, one of her
colleagues, an older woman, revealed that her most prized possession
was a handkerchief that she had soaked in the blood of a guillotined
killer. Death has a special kind of allure and maybe this is what
Jacqueline was really pining for, the ultimate in romantic release.
Immediately after this shocking denouement,
Les Bonnes femmes concludes with an
enigmatic coda which introduces yet another woman in a crowded dance
hall. As she is joined on the dance floor by a stranger, whose
face is kept from us, she turns to the camera with a look that
expresses both triumph and resignation. Has she found the
happiness she has long been searching for, or is she about to submit to
whatever grim fate that lies in store for her - an unfulfilled
marriage, a broken heart or a gruesome slaughter in a deserted car
park? The only thing we can be certain of is that whatever dreams
she harbours are about to be smashed to pieces as her future is
revealed to her. Such is the fate of all women, or so Claude
Chabrol would have us believe in this wriest of black comedies.
© James Travers 2014
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Next Claude Chabrol film:
Les Godelureaux (1961)