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.

La Belle et la Bete (1946)

 "May the Devil himself splatter you with dung!"

I'm not kneejerk anti-Disney- I have a seven year old daughter; I'm not allowed to be- but there are Disney fairytales and there are real fairytales, invariably much darker, from an ahe when it was understood that tales for children needed a certain amount of darkness.

This is, basically, not the Disney version. Barring a few sensible adjudstments (Belle hasn't got eleven siblings, just a mere three), this is pretty much the original tale by (deep breath) Gabrielle-SuzanneBarbot de Villeneuve, no relation, I assume, to the Canadian racing drivers. She wrote the tale in 1740, but the costumes here reflect the reign of Henri IV, with the men all having very long hair, like mine, and stovepipe hats.

Story-wise, this is the proper fairy tale, with a couple of artistic twists towards the end. The acting is superb. But this is not the point: it's the 1940s. Realism rules.Yet Jean Cocteau, no slave to convention and apparently having a very proper appreciation of the Greek myths,is a bloodyt genius diredtor. The various disembodied hands within the Beast's home are magnificently weird, as are the moving statues. This is the type of fantasy cinema that would go on to influence much, including Pan's Labyrinth.The imagery, as well as the storytelling, are iconic, yes, but that ois insufficient praise. This is a mouls to be used by so much fantasy cinema, yet it's more than that. This is fairytale cinema done seriously and beautifully.