Orphée (1950)

 "Men always come back. They're so absurd."

To describe this film as a mere updating of the Orpheus myth to mid-twentieth century France would be to do it a grave injustice. It is a thing of wit, profundity and poetic beauty on a level far deeper than I pretend to understand. It is not only a great work of cinema, but a great work of art. Nothing I say in this blog post has any delusions of adequacy in explaining why.

The myth, with no regard whatsoever for the fourth wall, is summarised in full by the narrator in the first few seconds. No shrinking from that modern concept of spoilers here. The narrator then makes the same plea that is made for modern dress productions of Shakespeare- that myths transcend this or that period of history. We then segue into contemporary France, the intellectual France of 1950, where poets have sway still. And Orphée, a poet, is a celebrity, a hero, surrounded by adoring fangirls. Nothing, perhaps, dates this film so much, sadly, as this cultural power of poetry, which here in the UK faded with modernism. But I digress. What else can one do with a film like this, upon which one feels unable to talk coherently?

The 1940s- the esteemed M. Cocteau very much not included ( I've blogged La Belle et la Bete) disdained fantasy. Where fantasy was employed, there was deep allegory. This film deals with Death as an object of desire- a deep and frightening concept. I think of Keats. "For I am half in love with easeful death"... let us not go there. I know I'm mortal. I don't want to be. I'm not an arrogant person, but it outrages me that one day my ego will just end. A cruel fact. Films like this help us come to terms with that harsh fact, perhaps in the wake of A Matter of Life and Death. There are echoes. 

There's much I have not the wit to discuss, such as the film's use of mirrors. Just see it.