‘L’Amour Fou’ or — Mutually Assured Affection?
If I was to describe Jacques Rivette’s ‘L’Amour Fou’ (1969) you’d probably run a mile as a four hour-plus black and white French film about depression, paranoia and a relationship tearing itself apart doesn’t exactly scream “entertainment”. But don’t forget that Rivette was not only one of the most inventive of the New Wave but also one of the most human and touching so don’t be surprised if you’re left breathlessly in love if you decide to take the plunge. The film also contains an unexpected secret — it’s frequently incredibly funny.
Sebastian (Jean-Pierre Kalfon) is a theatre director rehearsing Racine’s ‘Andromaque’. He wears needlessly loud shirts, lets his glasses hang under his chin and plays the bongos. To put it bluntly, he’s a preening prick. His partner (we’re deliberately left unsure about their exact romantic status until over halfway through) and star, Claire (Bulle Ogier), suddenly walks out due to the intrusion of a documentary film crew recording the creative process so spends her time at home brooding over Sebastian’s possible, though unproved, love affairs and her exclusion from the artistic life. We can see both sides. We can also see the flip side to creation is destruction, something made apparent by the rehearsal space representing both a blank canvas waiting to be filled and a boxing ring primed for annihilation.
As with Rivette’s ‘Paris Nous Appartient’ (1961), ‘Out 1’ (1971) and ‘Celine and Julie go Boating’ (1974) there’s a theatrical play, or alternative story, occurring within the lives of the people we’re watching, as well as the lives of the people we’re watching who are watching the people we’re watching (the film shifts between 16mm when we’re viewing events from the documentary film crew’s POV and 35mm when its Rivette’s “reality”). Factor in Rivette’s beloved use of mirrors and the layers become so head-spinningly dense that when Claire starts pulling apart a seemingly infinite set of Russian nesting dolls we can’t help but laugh at the possibility that the movie is making a joke at its own expense.
Yet none of this reduces the film to a dry meta exercise. Far from it. As Sebastian tells his actors, all this work is to get beyond words to the meaning behind them. This is why ‘L’Amour Fou’ is almost entirely free of verbal histrionics, recriminating diatribes or verbose soliloquising. At one point Claire tells Sebastian she wants a divorce and his wordless response is more emotionally shattering than any spoken monologue could ever be (Paddy Chayefsky could’ve learned a thing or two from Rivette). At other points they communicate purely through sound although Rivette’s use of noise, music and silence throughout is remarkable, not only adding to the authenticity but increasing the sense of intimacy and play.
And the fact that love is a form of intimate play could also explain why when reality inevitably starts ripping itself apart and the moment of maximum crisis is reached we’re shocked by ecstasy of the explosion. This startling liberation of a previously contained force instantly detonating catches the breath and I never knew watching two people destroying their apartment with an axe could be so heart-breakingly beautiful or hilariously moving. Why? Because just as with Celine and Julie they’re doing it together and demonstrating that an answer, albeit a fleeting one, to the existential question is each other, and the fact it doesn’t last makes it all the more precious.
‘L’Amour Fou’ is a fascinating portrayal of the creative process, the intermingling of art and life and the impermanence of love. Yet it’s also a cathartic celebration of the bright, white flashes created when two forces collide and how that’s sometimes enough to, briefly, banish the darkness. And don’t be put off by that four hour run time. Personally, I could’ve watched Claire and Sebastian go on to destroy the entire universe together.