Film Review
In 2008, director Martin Provost scored a notable critical and
commercial success with
Séraphine, an insightful
biopic about the self-taught painter Séraphine de Senlis.
Five years on, Provost turns his attention to another marginalised
female artist who led a tortured and colourful existence, this time the
great French writer Violette Leduc. The two women have much
in common - both were outsiders who were not recognised until late in
their lives, and both were fragile, solitary individuals with a
profound need to exteriorise their inner pain through their art.
As in his portrait of Séraphine, Provost is less concerned with
Leduc's art than in exploring her complex personality, to get to the
heart of the woman who would, after many years in obscurity, come to
have a profound impact on French literature, with the help of another
French literary giant, Simone de Beauvoir.
It is easy to see why de Beauvoir was drawn to Violette Leduc, and one
of the most fascinating aspects of Provost's film is how the two women
appear to feed off one another, both emotionally and creatively.
De Beauvoir, the cold but alluring intellectual, makes a vivid contrast
with the passionate but physically repellent Leduc, the former
restrained by reason and bourgeois decorum, the latter constantly
giving way to her emotions and primitive desires. These remarkable women are
magnificently interpreted by two of France's finest actresses, Leduc by
Emmanuelle Devos (rendered ugly by a prosthetic nose) and de Beavoir by
Sandrine Kiberlain; through their committed performances, and a
well-written screenplay, we gain a genuine insight into what was,
arguably, for both women the most important relationship of their lives.
Unlike her more repressed literary soul mate, Leduc had no qualms about
using her own experiences as the basis for her novels, and her
frankness when tackling issues around female sexuality (including
abortion, incest and lesbianism) was perhaps the main reason why she
found success so elusive. The gradual erosion in Leduc's
self-confidence as she fails to gain approval both in her professional
and private life was the tragic central theme of her existence, and
this is palpably rendered by Provost's film, an acceptance of failure
that is constantly countered by an almost super-human desire to go on
writing and putting onto the printed page those inner feelings that
were tearing the author apart. The main strength of
Violette is the insight it provides
on the psychology of that strangest of creatures, the vocational writer.
The film documents only the middle portion of Leduc's life, from 1942
to 1964, charting her long and arduous journey from aspiring novice
writer to a bestselling author who so very nearly won the Prix Goncourt
(France's highest literary award) with
La Bâtarde. Since
Leduc's life was the inspiration for her novels, it is fitting that the
film of her life should be divided into chapters, although, as the film
progresses, this feels increasingly like an unnecessary contrivance
that impedes the natural flow of the drama.
Violette is a slick period
production, beautifully photographed and with an admirable cast, but it
doesn't quite have the poetry and sophistication of Provost's previous
biopic.
The early part of the film depicting the author's wartime escapades and
struggle to publish her first novel (
L'Asphyxie)
are offputtingly over-dramatised and a few of the scenes fail to ring
true. By the mid-point, however, the film has found just the
right tone and what ensues is an altogether more considered and
intelligent work, one that takes us slowly but surely into the
heroine's fraught inner world and leaves us permanently scarred by the
experience. Just as
Séraphine
made us want to find out more about its subject and discover her art,
so
Violette compels us to
want to visit the novels of Violette Leduc and gain a deeper
appreciation of one of the most intriguing literary figures of the 20th
century.
© James Travers 2013
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