“The Earrings of Madame de…” (1953)
Max Ophuls is never just Max Ophuls. He’s “the great” Max Ophuls, the “legendary,” the “master.” This sets him alongside directors like Ernst Lubitsch who, despite critical acclaim and regular appearances on Greatest lists, don’t seem to carry the weight of a one-namer in household circles: Hitchcock. Truffaut. DeMille. Even the Criterion Collection has to tell us that he’s been compared to Orson Welles.
Why is this? Critic Molly Haskell suggests it has do with his taking “women’s pictures.”
To most people, “great” means “big,” inescapably masculine and bold, and probably Important with a capital I. This in turn implies an effort with a socially redeeming political or quasi-political ambition, a dissection (and, often covertly, a celebration) of the ways of powerful men.
Which is to say, “The Godfather” or “Citizen Kane” (her examples).
Her argument sounds plausible enough, but after seeing the 1953 masterpiece The Earrings of Madame de…, I wonder if that’s the main reason that renters of Important Movies haven’t seen it.
The truth is, viewers who judge a film on story or characterization may fumble with Ophuls. In this, he resembles Douglas Sirk, whose romantic melodramas of the 1950s were only praised for their visuals and irony some 20 years later.
As Ebert wrote, “To appreciate a film like (Sirk’s) Written on the Wind probably takes more sophistication than to understand one of Ingmar Bergman’s masterpieces, because Bergman’s themes are visible and underlined, while with Sirk the style conceals the message.”
And oh, what a style Ophus had! The Earrings of Madame de… is so visually arresting that one could happily watch it on mute. In the opening scene, the camera liquidly tracks a gloved hand as it idly rummages through closets, picks through jewel boxes. It gazes over the woman’s shoulder and dips with her perspective, astonishingly mobile for 1953, and settles on her face as it is framed in an ornate mirror. There’s a wonderful rhythm achieved by the contrast between the tracking and framing that slows as the film reaches its tragic end. It’s not gimmicky or distracting, but symphonic. Visual elements surface and return to great effect, as in the cross on the fallen Bible at the opening that appears on a funereal plaque at the end. It’s no wonder Ophuls is a director’s director. He has influenced Stanley Kubrick, among others; Paul Thomas Anderson gives an appreciation on the DVD.
As with opera, the plot’s not the thing. The “madame” of the title is a flighty countess who pawns the diamond earrings that her husband gave her on their wedding day. The sale sets off a chain of coincidences: her husband buys them for his mistress, who sells them in Constantinople, where an Italian diplomat picks them up and later gives them to the countess — the original owner — with whom he is now having an affair.
The disappearance and reappearance of the earrings fuels this melodrama. Will the countess rekindle her marriage or just return to flirting? Or is her despair at losing her latest lover more than just sulking?
Madame de joins that coterie of bored wives — Bovary, Karenina, Vye — who find that true love is a force of destruction. In a happier story, love shatters social boundaries of race, class, warring families. When it can’t be set loose, usually because society will ostracize her and she cannot support herself, it consumes its maker.
It’s a Romantic critique of the artifice and role-playing in the relationships of the upper class — at least as certain novelists saw it. There’s a wonderful moment in the film when the general, so self-possessed throughout the film. says he’s quite able to play the role his wife has given him — the husband who gamely turns a blind eye to her flirtations — but he doesn’t have to like it.
It’s a bit of a surprise to find that the novel was written, not in fin de siecle Paris or Vienna, but 1951, two years before the film was released. A critique of the conformity of that time, I wonder?
Haskell, the critic I mentioned above, reads the countess as a heroine, a “soldier of love,” and considers story quite nuanced. Another fine essay, by the Times‘ David Kerr, compares the book by Louise Vilmorin that inspired the film to the stories of Maupassant.
Which brings me to a second post…
Max Ophuls is never just Max Ophuls. He’s “the great” Max Ophuls, the “legendary,” the “master.” This sets him alongside directors like Ernst Lubitsch and ?? who despite critical acclaim and regular appearances on Greatest lists, don’t seem to carry the weight of a one-namer in household circles: Hitchcock.Truffaut. DeMille. Even the Criterion Collection has to tell us that he’s been compared to Orson Welles.
Why is this? Critic Molly Haskell suggests it has do with his taking “women’s pictures. To most people, “great” means “big,” inescapably masculine and bold, and probably Important with a capital I. This in turn implies an effort with a socially redeeming political or quasi-political ambition, a dissection (and, often covertly, a celebration) of the ways of powerful men.”
Which is to say, “The Godfather” or “Citizen Kane” (her examples).
Her argument sounds plausible enough, but after seeing the 1953 masterpiece The Earrings of Madame de…, I wonder if that’s the main reason that renters of Important Movies haven’t seen it.
The truth is, viewers who judge a film on story or characterization may fumble with Ophuls. In this, he resembles Douglas Sirk, whose romantic melodramas of the 1950s were only praised for their visuals and irony some 20 years later.
As Ebert wrote, “To appreciate a film like (Sirk’s) Written on the Wind probably takes more sophistication than to understand one of Ingmar Bergman’s masterpieces, because Bergman’s themes are visible and underlined, while with Sirk the style conceals the message.”
And oh, what a style Ophus had! The Earrings of Madame de… is so visually arresting that one could happily watch it on mute. The opening scene in which we see a slender gloved hand picking among the jewels, idly rummaging through closets of expensive gowns, has the camera looking over her shoulder, following her perspective liquidly, tracking — very lightly and mobile for 1953; and when they’re dancing, how nimbly the camera follows them and her dress changes; until her face is framed in the mirror; you have dissolves, a departing train in a diagonal path becoming the space between stairstepped ruins; the sweep of her gown along her slender hip mirrored by the sweep of the curving staircase; panes and open door framing; there’s a wonderful rhythm achieved by the contrast between the tracking and framing, and how this slows down toward the movie; it moves with the plot. It’s not gimmicky or distracting, but symphonic. Visual elements surface and return to great effect, as in the cross on the fallen Bible at the opening that appears on a funereal plaque at the end. It’s no wonder Ophuls is a director’s director. He has influenced Stanley Kubrick, among others, Paul Thomas Anderson gives an appreciation on the DVD.
As with opera, the plot’s not the thing. The “madame” of the title is a flighty countess who pawns the diamond earrings that her husband gave her on their wedding day. The sale sets off a chain of coincidences: her husband buys them for his mistress, who sells them in Constantinople, where an Italian diplomat picks them up and later gives them to the countess — the original owner — with whom he is now having an affair.
The disappearance and reappearance of the earrings fuels this melodrama. Will Louise rekindle her marriage or just return to flirting? Or is her despair at losing her latest lover more than just sulking?
Louisa joins that coterie of bored wives — Bovary, Karenina, Vye — who find that true love is a force of destruction. In a happier story, love shatters social boundaries of race, class, warring families. When it can’t be set loose, usually because society will ostracisze her and she cannot support herself, it consumes its maker.
It’s a Romantic critique of the artifice and role-playing in the relationsihps of the upper class — at least as certain novelists saw it. There’s a wonderful moment in the film when the general, so self-possessed throughout the film. says he’s quite able to play the role his wife has given him — the husband who gamely turns a blind eye to her flirtations — but he doesn’t have to like it.
Haskell, the critic I mentioned above, reads Louisa as a heroine, a “soldier of love,” and the story quite nuanced. Another fine essay, by the Times’ David Kerr,describes the book that inspired the film as Maupassant. (probably a reference to the necklace).
It’s a bit of a surprise to ind that the novel was written, not in fin de siecle Paris or Vienna, but 1953, a (year before) the film. A critique of the conformity of that time, I wonder?
