Claude Chabrol is a director who has a vast (and reputedly hit or miss) career as one of the Cashiers du cinema alumni, and his film La Femme Infidele could possibly be counted as one of the top crop of his work. There's a control over mis-en-scene, as might be expected (as he puts forth, unexpectedly and hilariously in a song that plays from a car stereo at one point, it's French), that is precise, observant, but also never overtly manipulative- it's almost so held-back emotionally that whenever a character seems to emote it's either through deception or by just the tip of the iceberg seeping through. This makes it all the more powerful, particularly because of how the ending doesn't really resolve anything except that these characters are doomed with each other. "I'm in love with you like mad," says the husband Charles (Michel Bouguet, perfect at that very understated, sincere and almost sinister approach to relating to people, even when seeming to be kidding), as there seems to be a sense of total disaster heading for both of them. But it's more of an existential sort- the law is left most ambiguous of all- and it's that which usually makes the best of dramas in lock-step with cuckolded and cuckolds and the like.
If one's already seen Unfaithful, the Adrian Lyne 2002 Hollywood adaptation (not so much remake) of this film, then one already knows certain big pieces of the plot. The important thing though, in comparison with that film, which is still very good in its own right, is that this time we get only suggestions as to why Helene (Stephane Audran, maybe her best performance) is cheating on her bourgeois husband with writer Victor Pegala (Maurice Ronet), and this is something that irks at Charles most of all. Idyllic comfort broken to pieces and shoved underneath is the context here, and it's with this that we see as opposed to Lyne's film a look not so much at the super-sexual and eventually melodramatic side of infidelity and the aftermath (albeit just seeing Audran's legs is enough to get some men watching panting), but at complacency in the marriage and parenthood of their only child. Even if the child actor isn't very good at expression (he says "I Hate You" and "I Love You" in the same note), there's always the level of discomfort in seeing the unspoken tension in the scenes with the three of them.
And, if for nothing else, La Femme Infidele is a masterpiece of technique. So many shots and angles had me glued to the screen, knowing that there could be no other way to get it right. Surely the script leads much of Chabrol along his paths (the actual moment of murder, however, is an ingenious editing trick), and what isn't there under the surface on screen is assuredly there on the page. But it's safe to put Chabrol on the level of artistry with his new-wave counterparts for shots like the one with Audran lying down on the bed, creeping up ever so slowly, and then cutting to a close-up, the one moment when we see just a slice of conscience. Or when Chabrol gets the emphasis of violence with a quick, simple shot of blood trickling down. Or how he balances out perspective at the house: look as the husband is watching out in the backyard at his wife, her out of focus yet still walking forward as the camera zooms a little more forward. And the last shot- following up on what has been many a decidedly Hitchcokian angle or note put forward, with a contemplative 'Vertigo' shot of mother and son in long-view out of focus. It's one of the saddest ending shots in the history of French movies.
It might sound like I'm hyping up this film up a little, but considering how underrated Chabol can be- in comparison to Truffaut and Godard and even Rohmer to an extent (who, by the way, he co-wrote a book about Hitchcock with)- La Femme Infidele deserves to be seen and re-evaluated not just in the context of "ah, it's French, and it's romance and tragedy." To say that it's better than Unfaithful is an understatement, and it's only fault is that, if anything, it could be a little longer.
If one's already seen Unfaithful, the Adrian Lyne 2002 Hollywood adaptation (not so much remake) of this film, then one already knows certain big pieces of the plot. The important thing though, in comparison with that film, which is still very good in its own right, is that this time we get only suggestions as to why Helene (Stephane Audran, maybe her best performance) is cheating on her bourgeois husband with writer Victor Pegala (Maurice Ronet), and this is something that irks at Charles most of all. Idyllic comfort broken to pieces and shoved underneath is the context here, and it's with this that we see as opposed to Lyne's film a look not so much at the super-sexual and eventually melodramatic side of infidelity and the aftermath (albeit just seeing Audran's legs is enough to get some men watching panting), but at complacency in the marriage and parenthood of their only child. Even if the child actor isn't very good at expression (he says "I Hate You" and "I Love You" in the same note), there's always the level of discomfort in seeing the unspoken tension in the scenes with the three of them.
And, if for nothing else, La Femme Infidele is a masterpiece of technique. So many shots and angles had me glued to the screen, knowing that there could be no other way to get it right. Surely the script leads much of Chabrol along his paths (the actual moment of murder, however, is an ingenious editing trick), and what isn't there under the surface on screen is assuredly there on the page. But it's safe to put Chabrol on the level of artistry with his new-wave counterparts for shots like the one with Audran lying down on the bed, creeping up ever so slowly, and then cutting to a close-up, the one moment when we see just a slice of conscience. Or when Chabrol gets the emphasis of violence with a quick, simple shot of blood trickling down. Or how he balances out perspective at the house: look as the husband is watching out in the backyard at his wife, her out of focus yet still walking forward as the camera zooms a little more forward. And the last shot- following up on what has been many a decidedly Hitchcokian angle or note put forward, with a contemplative 'Vertigo' shot of mother and son in long-view out of focus. It's one of the saddest ending shots in the history of French movies.
It might sound like I'm hyping up this film up a little, but considering how underrated Chabol can be- in comparison to Truffaut and Godard and even Rohmer to an extent (who, by the way, he co-wrote a book about Hitchcock with)- La Femme Infidele deserves to be seen and re-evaluated not just in the context of "ah, it's French, and it's romance and tragedy." To say that it's better than Unfaithful is an understatement, and it's only fault is that, if anything, it could be a little longer.