Art
film, especially French art film, often dazzles by stripping the
external illusions of grandeur and diving into the darker aspects of
places and people. Usually, the viewer is confronted with raw emotional
states of characters and their damaged state of mind and being that come
across more as a contemplative study of the sorry state of human
existence rather than a vehicle for entertainment. Unlike in commercial
American cinema, these characters are neither heroic nor virtuous, and
at the end of the movie, even if they walk into the sunset, they are
merely given the promise of leading uneventful, average, normal lives of
decent people, rather than becoming larger than life symbols of glorious
achievement. Accepting this, we are ready for Place Vendôme, a
film that toys with our insatiable delight with the romantic appeal of
Paris and our ever-present fascination with the luster of diamonds and
does so through the talent and beauty of Catherine Deneuve, who
undeniably continues to reign as a shining star of French and world
cinema.
Place Vendôme, the famous Paris square
likely seen on every tourist brochure as the center of French jewelry
trade, is the location of Malivert Jewelers, a prestigious diamond store
with world-wide clientele. Under suspicion of stealing several large
uncut diamonds from a British dealer, the owner, Vincent Malivert
(Bernard Fresson) makes his suicide look like an accident when he speeds
his car into a truck. His widow, Marianne (Catherine Deneuve), who has
spent the greater portion of her marriage to Malivert in alcohol detox
clinics, is pressured to sell the business, but she instead drops the
booze and taps her extensive familiarity with the diamond trade in hopes
of cashing in on her husband’s shady dealings and freeing herself from
her own notorious past.
Director Nicole Garcia succeeds in
generating mystery and intrigue beginning with the outwardly cool and
emotionless insider look at the high-end diamond and jewelry trade. As
the camera sweeps through monotonous rooms of Malivert’s store with
highly-skilled sales staff in slick business suits pedaling stones in
the tens of thousands of dollars price ranges, it nonchalantly catches
sight of a few breath-taking necklaces. The dazzle of such fine jewelry
and its only suggested value hooks us instantly just as it hooks the
characters of the story. Malivert, for one, has long succumbed to the
intoxicating effect of his treasured items to the extent that his own
self-betterment has become a doomed road of a trophy hunter. His wife
Marianne (Catherine Deneuve) is one such trophy, carefully polished,
well preserved, and only brought out on special occasions. Like his
practice in the trade, though, she is damaged at the core by constant
retreat into addiction.
And, who could better to portray a
shattered, lost woman fighting to get her life back than Catherine
Deneuve. With almost lyrical shot compositions unmasking tangible and
mesmerizing vulnerability of a tortured soul, even in her desperate urge
to hide in the drunken semi-awareness, Marianne is irresistible. Her
allure poses difficult questions of what might have propelled her to
sink into such an existence. The answers reveal the almost clichéd trap
of falling into the false sense of safety promised by a man and the
gradual sacrifice of personal power that such an offer entails. Marianne
used to be a wild, impulsive, and intuitive outlaw feeding on risk,
danger, and the pleasures of her looks. To avoid prison for one of her
capers, she sells out into being a pretty house cat, cut off from her
prowling and hunting instincts. She quickly degenerates into a
self-pitying shadow of herself, and only Catherine Deneuve with the full
illuminating reach of her screen power can reflect the importance of
such a compromise to today’s women.
Watching Marianne emerge from her stupor
and begin to play the game as a seasoned pro is gripping and insightful,
but her motivation gets muddled the closer she gets to the resolution of
her challenge. In the end, her emotional victory seems definite although
its scope is subdued, but even though Marianne might no longer be a
feral cat, she has undoubtedly learned to live by her own wisdom and
wit. And perhaps, the realization that she has lost much by her
compromise is enough of a lesson. But then again, what has she really
gained if the only effect of her reemergence is ennui and regret, not
hope, or transformation, or even distinct tragedy?
Stylistically, Place Vendôme is
filled with suggestive imagery of distinct cinematic mastery that film
lovers will feast upon. Perhaps that is enough, but why not use that
genius for visual meaning to bring us something more satisfying?
