Carol – first look review | Little White Lies

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Car­ol – first look review

16 May 2015

Words by David Jenkins

A woman with blonde curly hair wearing a grey jacket and red scarf, looking directly at the camera with a serious expression.
A woman with blonde curly hair wearing a grey jacket and red scarf, looking directly at the camera with a serious expression.
Todd Haynes lights up the Croisette with this exem­plary les­bian romance star­ring Cate Blanchett and Rooney Mara.

The orig­i­nal title of Patri­cia Highsmith’s con­tro­ver­sial 1952 nov­el upon which this new Todd Haynes’ film is based is The Price of Salt’, but its new nomen­cla­ture, Car­ol’, works so much bet­ter. As you might have guessed, one of its key pro­tag­o­nists goes by that name, a lofty, pow­der-puffed dowa­ger with a mis­cel­lany of domes­tic com­pli­ca­tions stem­ming from a help­less­ly impul­sive rejec­tion of con­ser­v­a­tive normalcy.

What it rep­re­sents to the story’s oth­er pro­tag­o­nist, a young New York shop­girl-cum-beret-wear­ing ama­teur pho­tog­ra­ph­er, is as a revered and sacred totem embody­ing the well­spring of all of life’s pas­sion and joy. Pos­si­bly even its sole mean­ing. Car­ol is not a per­son to be grabbed and owned, she’s an earth­ly God­dess to be com­pre­hend­ed and stud­ied. From the first time she sees this totem and up until the breath­tak­ing final frames of this ago­nis­ing tale of cru­el­ly stonewalled desire, she can’t quite grasp whether love is real­ly worth all the heartache that comes as an unasked-for side order.

A romance and a melo­dra­ma that is nei­ther con­ven­tion­al­ly roman­tic nor cloy­ing­ly melo­dra­mat­ic, Car­ol is like a Rock­well or Hop­per can­vas elec­tro-shocked into life, but super­charged with addi­tion­al melan­choly. The pearly-white vision of Amer­i­ca in the fifties is refract­ed through a smokey, rain-dap­pled gauze which pre­vents the char­ac­ters from ever real­ly enjoy­ing the world they live in. Its des­o­late, pas­tel-hued ter­rain comes across as the flip-side to 2002’s Sirk/​Stahl homage, Far from Heav­en, where glow­ing, lux­u­ri­ant colours masked the eter­nal tor­ment of a repressed sub­ur­ban housewife.

It all hap­pens when Cate Blanchett’s Car­ol, on the town and pick­ing up last-minute Christ­mas gifts for her wee nip­per Rindy, glances across a busy depart­ment store floor and catch­es the enig­mat­ic green eyes of Rooney Mara’s Therese Ter­ry” Beliv­et among a menagerie of gaw­ping toy dolls – one of which, iron­i­cal­ly, cries for real. In Highsmith’s nov­el, this moment sets in motion a pro­tract­ed back and forth of self-ques­tion­ing and roman­tic sec­ond guess­ing, though Haynes goes straight in for the kill, swift­ly expung­ing any ambi­gu­i­ty over Carol’s sex­u­al­i­ty and Terry’s untapped lust for adventure.

The two begin a love affair which, for social ease, is clas­si­fied as fast friend­ship. The brush of a gar­ment, a rogue com­pli­ment, an iden­ti­cal food order and an ambling road trip to alle­vi­ate the Yule­tide blues is all that it takes for the pair to final­ly con­sum­mate their love. The age dif­fer­ence between the women is key to what makes this such an inter­est­ing and orig­i­nal sto­ry. The way Car­ol demon­strates her affec­tion for Ter­ry is shown as being almost iden­ti­cal to the way she adores Rindy, and there’s the feel­ing Haynes is mak­ing a state­ment about how homo­sex­u­al­i­ty is still pegged by gov­ern­ments, reli­gions, and cer­tain geo­graph­ic enclaves as being sick­en­ing­ly trans­gres­sive and as run­ning against the tide of polite civil­i­sa­tion (what­ev­er that is). This is all done in typ­i­cal­ly sym­bol­ic, undemon­stra­tive fashion.

Carol’s sup­posed sex­u­al deviance results in her accept­ing a course of psy­cho­an­a­lyt­i­cal cur­ing” at the behest of her hus­band Harge (Kyle Chan­dler), who still pines for this ice maid­en who has slipped from his iron clasp. The sad­ness of the film comes from the way it says that love of any kind can’t exist with­in a pri­vate bub­ble – it’s exposed to the ele­ments, to pol­i­tics, to the hard-wired predilec­tions of oth­er peo­ple. Car­ol and Ter­ry want to take leave of every­thing and every­one and exist in bliss­ful union. But forces con­stant­ly work against them.

Blanchett’s role is very famil­iar to the one she played in Woody Allen’s Blue Jas­mine, though this time around she’s much hard­er to read, inter­nal­is­ing her emo­tions to a point which sug­gests she believes that weep­ing for lost lovers is entire­ly futile at her age and her stand­ing. As roman­tic ingénue, Mara pos­si­bly even steals the show, refus­ing to give an inch to Ed Lachman’s watch­ful (but nev­er intru­sive) cam­era as a way of des­per­ate­ly prov­ing that she’s the emo­tion­al equal of her anguished inamorata.

The pas­siv­i­ty and func­tion­al­i­ty of their courtship might ini­tial­ly come across as cold in the open­ing stretch, and Terry’s fuss­bud­get agi­ta­tion that was key to the book is entire­ly MIA here. Yet, Haynes is play­ing a longer game, and saves his suck­er punch­es for an exem­plary, heart-wrench­ing final reel. Per­haps the great­est com­pli­ment you could pay Car­ol is that it con­tains – to this writer – one of the most per­fect­ly exe­cut­ed and poignant utter­ances of the words I love you” in screen his­to­ry. See it and weep.

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