We begin here, you and I, with a film made completely, cheekily, of artifice. Though co-writer and director Max Ophuls based La Ronde on the play by Arthur Schnitzler, the film is centered around a framing device that exposes the film, and perhaps even its theme, for its fakery. On the left of the picture is Anton Walbrook, a fascinating and charismatic actor who first made an impression on me in 1943's The Life and Death of Colonel Blimp, in which he plays a compassionate and sympathetic German soldier whose life is as equally described as that of the title character. Here, he is credited as the Raconteur, or better yet, Ophuls himself. From what I know of the late filmmaker (and I will honestly admit that I know little, aside from what I've read on blogs written by Glenn Kenny and the like), he was nothing if not a man who enjoyed flourish in his work. What I mean here is that he was a colorful director, someone who enjoyed a camera that moved, a camera that moved often, and over-the-top relish and brio all around.
If I am wrong, correct me (and I do mean that sincerely, by the way). What I know from his work in La Ronde is that he is more concerned with the artifice of the relationships being presented onscreen and with the artifice of film itself than anything else. Walbrook's Raconteur is laid-back, calm even when he should be a bit flustered, and charming enough to soothe every character he deliberately runs into. Here is the twist of the film: unlike the play, the Raconteur is unique, operating a merry-go-round that functions as a second glance at the theme of love being as flighty and wavering as the wind. Walbrook introduces us to the city of Vienna, in which we meet a prostitute. Then, we meet a soldier she sleeps with. The soldier moves on to a maid, who ends her dalliance by following up with a more educated man than she. And on and on until we end on the same prostitute meeting up, unexpectedly, with a Count.
So, the movie asks, what is love? Why is love worth more than a fling? Why should it be more than a fling? In some ways, La Ronde is a frustrating film to delve into as a viewer, because all we're seeing are characters who fool around with each other without any full meaning. Even the married couple we see in the film end up with other partners, though both are fully drawn and exceptionally performed, as it goes with every actor in the production. And yet...love is frustrating. Whether it's long-term or a one-night stand, love is not something that remains happy. It does not remain memorable in the best ways. Love can be awful (though we never see anything too depressing here), and love can be fleeting. What fascinates me most about this movie is that none of the characters are too put out even by the idea of their respective lovers going to others (as none of them appear to realize or care that their significant others are not monogamous). For these people, among varying levels of class in Vienna or in any city, love is comprised of brief encounters that may not be as fulfilling as long-lasting love, but it's something, right?
What I reveled in with La Ronde was its theatricality. Alongside the appearance of the Raconteur, who shows up often, there is the idea that the film's stories are being controlled by the Raconteur. When one of the players ends up...unable to perform, as it were, the Raconteur must fix his merry-go-round before things can be fueled up again. He must nudge the characters into the right places, and make sure that they're not disturbed, as when he shoos away an elderly professor from bothering one of the men, mid-coitus. What's more, the film begins with Walbrook narrating, to us, as he strolls around the outskirts of the studio setting where the film was shot, going so far as to acknowledge a movie camera hanging around. There's nothing taken for granted here in terms of making the audience aware of the lack of reality infusing this film.
But, despite the theatricality, the idea that La Ronde pushes forth is that love is only part of life. We cannot hope for love to encompass our minds, our hearts, our bodies. We can only hope to capture it in part. Only at the end is there any kind of hangover from the near-drunken frenzy with which these ten characters become intimate, as the Count wanders down the cobblestone road with his faithful dog, unsure of how he ever ended up with a prostitute, let alone one who's so far down the class structure. And even then, the Raconteur is there to cheerfully sing us out, skipping and hopping past, the way he came in, passing his merry-go-round, the camera, and the tiny stage which opens and closes the film.
I'm excited to watch another of Ophuls' films, if only because it's clear that he has a fuller sense of what a film camera can do than most modern directors. One thing that drives me to distraction is how often cinematography is wasted, how often the space can be filled out with nothing. If you have a wide composition, as Ophuls would have in future films, use it appropriately. I'm not asking for clutter, but for the space to be used appropriately. Max Ophuls, even in his black-and-white, fullscreen compositions, knows how to use his space. Would that every director were so shrewd.
Next: Jules Dassin's Night and the City
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