Les Dames du Bois de Boulogne (1945)

There are certain actors that are simply born for the camera. Spanish-French actress Marìa Casares , best remembered for her magnificent performance in Jean Cocteau's Orpheus, was one of them. Her face, simultaneously mask-like and expressive, is the key element to the success of Les Dames du Bois de Boulogne, Robert Bresson's second feature film. Bresson, better known for movies like A Man Escaped (1956) and Au hasard Balthazar (1966), went on to become one of the most prominent exponents of minimalist cinema: Les Dames du Bois de Boulogne is among his least remembered work and it's quite easy to see it's an early work - its austere, affected style contrasts strikingly with the director's following production, acclaimed and respected for its authenticity. Still, Les Dames du Bois de Boulogne remains a great film on its own right, a captivating tale of love and betrayal that might not be representative of the director's distinctive style but that is still a movie worth-remembering. 

The protagonist of the story is Hélène (Casares), a wealthy, alluring woman living in Paris. She feels her lover, Jean (Paul Bernard, who does some fine work in the movie's least interesting role), is drifting away from her and, feigning that her own feelings have cooled to a friendship, she tricks him into admitting that his love has waned. Jean leaves thinking they have parted on good terms, but Hélène's heartbreak soon turns into a thirst for vengeance: she visits an old, impoverished friend (a rather moving Lucienne Bogaert), whose daugher Agnès (Elina Labourdette) works as a nightclub dancer and prostitute in order to earn them a living. Hélène offers her help to the two women and one day introduces them to Jean, assuring him of their "impeccable" background: her plan is to make Jean fall in love  and get married with Agnès and therefore ruining his reputation due to the girl's former profession.

The movie has some pacing issues: despite running shorter than 90 minutes, there are parts in which it lags a bit and others in which it feels a little too rushed. But even in the weakest spots the film still holds your attention thanks to the majestic direction: Bresson creates such a palatable, mesmerizing sense of mood that you can't help but feel fascinated even when the story loses you. The war and the movie's low budget forced him to shot most of it in a studio in Paris, yet Phillipe Agostini's cinematography makes the most out of the production's limited means and it enhances the atmospheric quality already assured by Bresson's touch: his camera work toys beautifully with light, shades and darkness, creating a distinctively beautiful, gloomy visual style within the film's limited scope, and always searches for the actors' reaction and expressions, even amplifying the impact of their performances.

I've read a couple of review dismissing Jean Cocteau's screenplay as excessively artificial: though there is no denying that there is a certain theathrical quality to his script, the elegance and eloquence of his work can not be ignored, as well as the empathy and understanding it has for its characters. It's interesting to watch how in this movie you can admire the work of both Cocteau and Bresson, two artists who went on to become completely different: in his work as director, Cocteau always had a tendency to abstraction and had a profound interest in metaphysics whereas Bresson, in his later production, pursued the utmost authenticity. You can see the diverse styles coming through in this movie and the result is mesmerizing, with Cocteau's intellectualism and Bresson's intimacy forming a perfect blend. 

Of course, the movie wouldn't be as effective if it wasn't for Marìa Casares' marvelous performance. Hélène, as most characters written by Cocteau, is a role that could have belonged to a Greek tragedy and Casares accordingly brings grandeur and gravitas to it. She eats the screen alive with her ravishing screen-presence and imbues the part with theathrical intensity. But she also finds the intimate poignancy Bresson strives for. There's a particularly impressive scene in which Hélène is slyly teasing Jean about his feelings for Agnés and he admits his love for the young girl: it's exactly what Hélène wanted, and yet a single tear rolls down her cheek. Casares finds the genuine pain behind her character's manipulative scheming and never loses the character's damaged core even in her most despicable moments. But perhaps the greatest surprise of the film is the performance of Labourdette. Agnés could have easily been a bland victim, but Labourdette breathes life and personality into it. She's charmingly sassy, fiercely independent, smart enough to realize she's being manipulated by Hélène but also aware that, due to her social and economic status, she is powerless against her. As she falls in love with Jean, Labourdette gives an excellent (and also surprisingly modern) portrayal of a woman who doesn't feel shameful about what she had to do to survive but knows what the consequences would be if the truth came out. 

The theme of oppression and abuse is recurring in Bresson's production and it can be found here as well: Hélène can afford to manipulate other people because she knows her social status and wealth guarantees her security whereas Agnés can not afford to fight back because she does not have the money nor the reputation to live off on her own - she is bound to the person who is trying to ruin her. Perhaps Bresson was still coming into his own as an artist, but his understanding of human behavior was already there. And in the achingly tender, softly hopeful finale he creates that sort of cinematic poetry that warms your heart. 

90/100