The Passion of Joan of Arc (1928, Carl Theodor Dreyer)

 
The Passion of Joan of Arc
1928|Carl Theodor Dreyer

Renée Falconetti’s tear-streaked face held in intimate close-up. This image has become a cinematic icon worthy of the sainted Jeanne d’Arc herself. It is not, however, Jeanne’s sainthood that director Carl Theodor Dreyer is probing. Here she is separated from legend, neither God’s messenger nor a warrior, but a complicated woman of flesh and blood. All of her devotion, devastation, her stubbornness before her crafty judges, and her acceptance of her imminent death emanate from Falconetti’s expressive face, which is laid bare in a seemingly endless series of close-ups through which Dreyer brings us agonizingly close to Jeanne’s physical and emotional being.

The face is where Dreyer identifies the human essence, and his radical decision to shoot almost exclusively in tight, often brutal close-up exposes his actors’ all too human imperfections. This confrontational approach is appropriate for a film that dispenses with Jeanne’s battles to focus only on her trial and interrogations, as the question-and-answer process in itself becomes a riveting battle of wits and wills. Dreyer provides no historical context for his story. Thrusting us directly into Jeanne’s trial without so much as an establishing shot for us to find our bearings, he places us immediately within her frame of mind, leaving us to wonder where we are and who these awful people growling and spitting at the camera might be.

These questions arise quite naturally as Jeanne is the only character in the film identified by name, leaving her inquisitors reduced to a confusion of anonymous ogres. The roles of Jeanne’s judges and tormentors seem to have been cast primarily for their physical repulsiveness. Dreyer forbade the actors from wearing makeup so that every wart, wrinkle and nose hair is displayed in full detail. Their stark ugliness is paradoxically made beautiful by cinematographer Rudolph Maté, who photographs the actors in expressive shadow against empty, white backgrounds so that our attention is drawn to the faces. It’s tempting to accuse Dreyer of emphasizing Jeanne’s humanity at the expense of her judges’, but his tactic doesn’t so much dehumanize the judges (several of whom are ultimately deeply moved by her) as distance the film from any semblance of historical pageantry. Rather than to simply watch a costumed recreation, we are invited to endure the abuse and manipulation along with Jeanne.

Guiding us throughout this draining ordeal is Renée Falconetti, whose devastating performance has become one of the most celebrated in cinema history. Film enthusiasts savor the irony that this most searing performance was given by a chiefly comedic actress of the French stage, and it’s often erroneously reported that she never appeared in another movie (she made at least two more, although they are either lost or have rarely, if ever, been screened since the silent era). Whatever her pedigree, Falconetti bares her soul in a way few screen actors have, and her Jeanne is a portrait painted in tears. Her stunning face is captured in shot after shot but never fetishized. She is too complex, too forcefully human to be reduced to an ogled object.

This perceptible humanity may be the film’s greatest triumph. It can’t be an easy task to humanize a historical figure as revered and mythologized as Joan of Arc, one who has been exalted to heights of national sanctity (by the French) and spiritual importance even beyond most other saints. But in Falconetti, Dreyer found someone who could embody those attributes that have made Jeanne such an enduring inspiration and express them at a more personal level. It’s testament to the talents of all involved that the film is so emotionally stirring despite Dreyer’s boldly experimental technique. This is a perfect case of a director challenging cinematic form as a means to something greater rather than just an end in itself.

I first saw The Passion of Joan of Arc about thirteen years ago, and that experience remains one of the most powerful and emotionally crushing introductions to a film I’ve ever had. I have seen it many times since then, usually at least once a year, but it never fails to move me. My most recent viewing of the film was via the wonderful Masters of Cinema Blu-ray edition from the UK, which managed to open my eyes even wider to aspects of the film that I hadn’t fully appreciated before, from the subtleties of Falconetti’s performance to the care of Dreyer’s pacing. For all of my blathering, I don’t believe I can begin to describe how deeply this movie affects me. Suffice it to say that when I think of “The Cinema” and all that the art form is capable of, the face of Falconetti springs immediately to my mind.

— Felix Gonzalez, Jr.

CAST: Renée Falconetti, Eugene Silvain, André Berley, Maurice Schutz, Antonin Artaud
COUNTRY: France