By Charles Taylor
By Chris Klimek
By Chris Klimek
By Amy Nicholson
By Amy Nicholson
By Stephanie Zacharek
By Alan Scherstuhl
By Stephanie Zacharek
The scope of French film has certainly narrowed in recent years. If a movie is Gallic, odds are that it deals with the problems of making art, preferably music. Oh, the film may also touch on the complexities of combining art-making with a problematic love affair, but films from La Belle Noiseuse to Tous les Matins du Monde to Un Coeur en Hiver all breathe the same rarefied air. To be sure, each of these films is individually fine, but this is not a sustainable trend, and it's little wonder that French film needs protection from the all-devouring Hollywood blob.
As its title indicates, The Accompanist is also grounded in the making of music. But because it is set in the occupied Paris of 1942, the film includes the theme of political (Nazi) collaboration as well as musical collaboration. It also includes the nearly obligatory emotional triangle, though this one is given a fresh twist.
The film opens with young Sophie (Romane Bohringer) appearing at a recital given by a great singer, Irene Brice (Elena Safonova), who will soon become Sophie's patron. When the awkwardly dressed Sophie walks off a slushy Parisian street into a sumptuous music hall, the film makes its opening point effortlessly: she has lived a physically deprived life ever since the Germans entered Paris. Irene, on the other hand, is married to a collaborator, Charles (Richard Bohringer, Romane's father), who has learned how to take financial advantage of the occupation. So he and Irene live in a luxury that the war has only heightened.
So too do most of the patrons of the music hall Sophie enters. Sophie is so weakened by her own meager diet and so overwhelmed by the elegance of her surroundings, and by the apparently effortless beauty of Irene Brice's singing, that she faints upon meeting the star, who has summoned Sophie to audition for a position as her piano accompanist.
The two women hit it off immediately. Sophie is a sensitive pianist and has her own ideas about how the music should be played, ideas Irene wants to hear. When Sophie is back in her drab apartment, director Claude Miller is a little heavy-handed in showing that her relationship with her mother is strained, so that the young woman will more easily fall into the orbit of the glamorous Irene. But Miller does a fine job of showing how the war affects relationships, just as it has Charles' business. (Recall Oskar Schindler's musing on the secret to his sudden financial success -- "I needed a war.")
Sophie is by temperament an artist, as well as an ambitious young woman. But because the war has left her with a cramped sense of her possibilities, she is willing to lose herself in Irene. There is less of everything now, it seems. Under other circumstances, Sophie may have despised the Brices as opportunists. But now their overabundance of glamour and possessions feels like life itself, and Sophie submits.
Or she tries to, at least. In theory, she's both flattered and grateful to be the accompanist to Irene. In practice, however, she resents her situation. If the Brices originally look like the source of life itself, later in the film Sophie finds herself in a sort of comfortable netherworld. She is still young enough to be forming her own identity, and being cocooned by Irene has thwarted her development. But Sophie has made her deal with the devil, and she feels stuck. She can't tear herself away from having the necessities of life, and even comforts, easily at hand. The world she left behind feels so dead to her (as Yves Angelo's artfully grim cinematography emphasizes) that to return to it would be to enter the void.
But after a time with the Brices, Sophie can't continue to delude herself that they are naturally superior beings, inherently entitled to more. At first she thinks Charles a Parisian sophisticate, a point made clear when Sophie, who is present when another man comes to court Irene, sees how Charles takes the news of his wife's dalliance. The naive young woman is shocked, and impressed, by how casually Charles accepts the information. But Sophie later learns that the cuckold's apparent equanimity came because he didn't feel threatened by this particular suitor. When Charles learns of another, younger man who has a stronger claim on Irene, his insecurity comes to the fore, and his reaction to this rival comes as yet another shock to Sophie. She realizes that the apparently perfect world she has entered is badly out of balance.
At this point, the film becomes uncomfortable. The story's momentum suggests that Charles will turn to the young Sophie for comfort, but the knowledge that the actors playing these roles are father and daughter is a bit daunting. I've seen French films on incest, but with those I rested easy in knowing that the actors weren't flesh-and-blood relations. Here the characters' sexual relations wouldn't produce a two-headed baby, but the actual actors -- well, you get the picture.
But the story avoids this problem by veering in another direction, which raises the question of how casting affected plot. Not at all, I suppose, since the film is based on a novel, but it feels altered.
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