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Dis­cov­er Hen­ri-George Clouzot’s psy­che­del­ic swansong

05 Mar 2018

Words by Anton Bitel

Two sets of female eyes peering through the darkness.
Two sets of female eyes peering through the darkness.
The French director’s 1968 La Pris­on­nière aka Woman in Chains is both com­pelling and perverse.

Josée (Elis­a­beth Wiener) and Gilbert (Bernard Fres­son) live art – lit­er­al­ly so, giv­en that the Parisian apart­ment where they live their lives togeth­er also serves as the ate­lier where Gilbert pro­duces his con­tem­po­rary sculp­tures. It is not unusu­al for Josée to watch tele­vi­sion (she is a TV edi­tor, cut­ting a pro­gramme about abused women) with Gilbert nois­i­ly weld­ing mate­ri­als togeth­er not two feet away.

Indeed Hen­ri-George Clouzot’s La Pris­on­nière (aka Woman in Chains) con­stant­ly sur­rounds its char­ac­ters with art, whether the half-formed pieces in this home, or the op art cram­ming the gallery walls of art deal­er Stan Has­sler (Lau­rent Terzi­eff), or the prim­i­tivist carv­ings and kinky Bellmer fig­ures that adorn Stan’s own lux­u­ri­ous pad. After aban­don­ing a career in adver­tis­ing to become an artist, Gilbert finds him­self reluc­tant­ly mak­ing items that Stan intends for com­mer­cial mass production.

It is not dif­fi­cult to see this aes­theti­cised cli­mate as a mir­ror to the envi­ron­ment in which Clouzot was mak­ing films, him­self caught between the attrac­tions of pure art­house and the more straight­for­ward mar­ket­ing pres­sures of main­stream dis­tri­b­u­tion. It helps, of course, that most of the art on dis­play here is express­ly of the kinet­ic vari­ety – an obvi­ous ana­logue to and reflex for the mov­ing images of cin­e­ma itself.

In trac­ing the com­plex, often per­verse rela­tion­ship between film­mak­er and view­er, Clouzot resorts to that famil­iar trope of French erot­ic cin­e­ma, the love tri­an­gle, although none had ever before been quite like this. When Gilbert goes off one night with an admir­ing female crit­ic, Josée ends up at Stan’s. As Stan shows Josée his pho­tographs, catch­ing her in that exis­ten­tial no-man’s‑land between being and noth­ing­ness (the pho­to­graph­ic slides lit­er­al­ly show the words être and rien scrawled in dif­fer­ent artists’ hand­writ­ings), sud­den­ly by acci­dent (or is it more manip­u­la­tive design?), a pho­to­graph of a woman, naked and bound, appears.

This pro­vokes a com­pli­cat­ed response in Josée, com­bin­ing shock and dis­com­fort, but also curios­i­ty and a new kind of desire. She asks if she can attend one of Stan’s pri­vate shoot­ing ses­sions, strict­ly as an observ­er, and then finds her­self being drawn more and more into Stan’s hid­den, impo­tent world of dom­i­nance and voyeurism. As Josée gets clos­er to Stan, will­ing­ly bow­ing before his humil­i­at­ing demands, Stan is him­self thrown by the inten­si­ty of her love. And Gilbert, too, starts to realise with increas­ing con­cern that Josée is engag­ing her­self in more than a mere­ly casu­al excur­sion from their open relationship.

The open­ing cred­its for La Pris­on­nière are super­im­posed, one by one, over orange-cur­tained win­dows on the out­side of an apart­ment build­ing. It is a fit­ting intro­duc­tion, for this is a film about objects in box­es: the toy dolls that Stan keeps in a case and manip­u­lates like the female mod­els he hires; the cross­word box­es in a news­pa­per that Gilbert observes and then redraws as a geo­met­ri­cal sketch; the box-like cab­i­nets where Stan stores his pro­jec­tor and cam­era equip­ment; the lit­tle box­es where he keeps his files on dif­fer­ent female sub­jects; and the big wood­en box in Stan’s apart­ment whose con­tents, though seen by a shocked Josée, remain a mys­tery to us (“We don’t use it every day,” is Stan’s only comment).

There is the sense that Josée too is being boxed in by both Gilbert and Stan – but even if she risks sac­ri­fic­ing all her agency and free­dom to either or both of them, in the end, when she has become a pris­on­er, in a dif­fer­ent, unex­pect­ed way, of her own body, she still retains the abil­i­ty, how­ev­er fan­ci­ful, both to choose between these two men, and to see what she wants to see.

If both Gilbert as artist and in par­tic­u­lar Stan as pho­tog­ra­ph­er are sur­ro­gates for the direc­tor – note how Gilbert likes to frame what­ev­er he sees with his hands, and how Stan metic­u­lous­ly con­trols the light­ing, props, décor and cam­eras on his set’, demand­ing com­plete sub­mis­sion’ from his cast – then Josée is a fig­ure for the view­er, strug­gling to find a place in oth­ers’ images of her. In the erot­ic dynam­ic that evolves between Stan and Josée, we can see Clouzot nego­ti­at­ing the rela­tion­ship of his film­mak­ing and its audience.

For if Josée at first wish­es to be a casu­al, dis­tant observ­er of Stan’s hand­i­work, she soon finds her­self lured into his project, both as his accom­plice and as the object that he is reflect­ing in his images, rais­ing ques­tions – cru­cial to both BDSM sce­nar­ios and auteurist film­mak­ing (at a time when the author was being declared dead) – about where the pow­er real­ly lies.

Released in a year that saw stu­dent occu­pa­tions and gen­er­al strikes sweep­ing through Paris, La Pris­on­nière cer­tain­ly sets out to shock the bour­geoisie, with the reclu­sive, world-weary Stan com­ing across as a louchely Deca­dent anti­hero, and with Josée deter­mined to strip away her per­ceived sta­tus as a petite bour­geoise through rela­tion­ships that are either swing­ing or sadomasochistic.

This was also to be Clouzot’s swan­song, mak­ing full use of the hal­lu­ci­na­to­ry opti­cal effects that he had pre­pared in 1964 for his unfin­ished L’Enfer. The result is a film that looks like the trompe‑l’oeil art pro­duced by Gilbert and his col­leagues. An abstract labyrinth of cell-like geome­tries and psy­che­del­ic colours in which Josée becomes trapped, only even­tu­al­ly – in an extend­ed freak-out dream sequence – to find her­self and her inner core of desire.

La Pris­on­nière is released by Stu­dio­Canal in a brand new restora­tion on Blu-ray, DVD and Dig­i­tal Down­load on 5 March.

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