Le bonheur (1965) - #420

I have quite a few things I want to say about Le bonheur, and I would rather just spill them out freely than slow myself down by composing a more elegant introductory paragraph to begin this essay. My first comments are generalities for the sake of viewers who have not yet seen the film and want to enter into it without knowing too much about what happens, as I strongly advise. This is an excellent and seemingly neglected work of art, one of the very best that I've seen so far in my survey of the Criterion titles of 1965. And its placement here, as I approach the end of that year in my chronology, is due a mistake of some sort, not really sure whose. When I first pulled the disc out of its box set slipcase, I was triggered to re-check the date of Le bonheur's release when I saw that Criterion credited the film as coming out in 1964 on the back cover (though it is listed as 1965 on their website.) As I later discovered in watching one of the supplements, that date is based on a comment that director Agnes Varda made in an interview. Of course she's correct, the movie was shot in the summer and fall of that year, but it wasn't released until the following February, in the winter of 1965. However, some five years ago, when I was creating my database that I use now to keep my queue in order, I either missed that date or (more likely) it had not yet been entered into IMDb, my source for all the information that the chronological list is based on. Instead of its French debut on February 10, 1965, I was going by the date (10/1/65) that it opened in West Germany, so actually, this should have been the very first film of 1965 I covered here. I don't think it changes my estimation of the movie, but it would have been interesting to reflect upon Pierrot le fou after having watched Le bonheur, as both films are visually lush, morally provocative and gorgeously chromatic nouvelle vague classics that have to do with men acting on impulses of infidelity, each with very different but similarly tragic outcomes. One is by a female director, one by a male, of course, and the contrasting gender perspectives are important to consider in assessing the impact of the two films.

I'm not going to pause to consider Agnes Varda's role as more or less the only woman to play a prominent part as a film director in the French New Wave, even though it's an intriguing story deserving of further exploration. That history is covered to some extent in the bonus materials included on this disc and the others in the 4 by Agnes Varda collection that was released back in 2007. At the time, it was a rather remarkable event, a full box set dedicated to films directed by a woman, repackaging earlier releases Cleo from 5 to 7 and Vagabond in gorgeous new digipak cases (while simultaneously making those two films unavailable for individual retail purchase.) With last week's announcement of a lavishly detailed and practically comprehensive Blu-ray edition of The Essential Jacques Demy featuring six features directed by Varda's husband, along with a wealth of additional material, the onus now rests on Criterion to make sure that Varda is eventually afforded something resembling fair treatment with a comparable upgrade of these films, and perhaps some other films of hers to enjoy the state-of-the-art treatment. Each of the movies in this box are utterly sumptuous feasts of eye candy, and they deserve nothing less than the finest high-definition transfers. So as much as I do enjoy my DVD box, I just have to say that as of today, these four movies are under-served.

All right, so much for the preliminaries. I hope these first paragraphs generate some interest to see Le bonheur if you haven't already because I recommend that you do so before reading much further. I want to get into the details of what happens in the lives of this lovely young couple that we see walking toward us in ultra soft focus as the film begins, husband and wife each holding the hand of one of their adorable little children as they enjoy a pleasant, postcard perfect stroll through a sunny field on a beautiful spring day. The first five or six minutes of the film are as idealized a portrayal of young family life as I can recall ever seeing put forth so directly in a film. Encampments in the woods, picnics in the park, wildflowers in bloom, everyone getting along so nicely. The food, the warmth, the smiles, the pervasive unspoken affection and satisfaction that everyone feels... all brightly rendered in the most luminous Technicolor hues, with an impeccable Mozart soundtrack to top it all off - a paradisaical tranquility, symbolized in the image of a delightful fluttering sunflower, hovers over these scenes that summon up whatever memories we may have of such idyllic moments in our own lives, or still aspire too if there's any slim possibility that they may yet be recreated.

Of course it wouldn't be much of a movie if this heaven-on-earth stasis had been maintained, though it would certainly provide good material for a jealousy- or nausea-provoking Facebook photo album for those inclined to post such things. And even for this charmingly picturesque family, a carefree day in the warmth of the sun must come to an end. We see that Francoise and Therese are a mere working class couple, he a carpenter by trade, she a devoted mother who works as a dressmaker at home to make a modest contribution to their income and bring a touch of hand-crafted elegance and beauty into the lives of her customers, who are other pretty young women of modest means like herself. They're both shown going about their business in Fontenay, a brightly decorous suburb of Paris so seemingly clean, wholesome and innocent that it could have functioned as a French equivalent of Mayberry RFD or some other quaint small town in an American TV sitcom of that era.

But as Agnes Varda alludes in her comments elsewhere on the disc, even the most pristine apple is vulnerable to penetration by worms. Soon enough, a disruptive note is struck that upsets the tender beauty of Francoise and Therese's domestic equilibrium. An out-of-town work assignment leads to a random encounter between the hard-working husband and Emilie, a pretty blonde phone booth operator he meets at the local post office. (Her task was placing calls to numbers given to them by customers, for readers unfamiliar with such primitive technologies.) Given their youth and gorgeousness, mild flirtations between the two are practically inevitable, and the banter leads to a friendly lunch hour meet-up for coffee and further conversation. Magnetism is felt, chemistry ensues, curiosity to further explore this TEMPTATION and MYSTERY becomes irrepressible. The two exchange details of their personal lives, all banal and harmless enough as isolated factoids, but the meaning of what they share transcends the surface interpretation of its content. On a more fundamental level of communication, the eyes have it - glances, diverted or direct, twinkles of light and sparks of recognition that open up new possibilities of interest and intimacy if only they take advantage of the easy and available moments sitting right before them.

The attraction between Francoise and Emilie is presented with careful discretion; neither scolding moral reprimand, lust-driven fatalism nor any sense of pent-up necessity borne of frustration or overwhelming passion are introduced as plausible compulsions for the affair, on either of their part. They are simply two young and beautiful people who feel comfortable with each other and find happiness when they're together. He makes no effort to conceal his marital status and repeatedly makes it clear that he loves his wife and family, with no intentions whatsoever to leave them in order to be with her (though if he'd met her first, things would most certainly have been different.) For her part, Emilie acknowledges that she's been with other men before Francoise and makes no suggestions that he would ever have to make that choice of abandoning his spouse in order to continue enjoying their mutual pleasures. And when their dalliance concludes for the day, Francoise is freely allowed, with no regrets, to leave and return contentedly back to his home, where he gladly reunites with Therese, hugs the children with admiring pride and tenderly makes love with his wife that same evening, after the kids are tucked into bed, with an extra measure of satisfaction at just how good life can get.

There's plenty more that happens in Le bonheur, including this magnificently cinematic sequence that makes up the first 30 seconds or so of the following clip, followed by a more conventionally edited but sharply incisive lovers' dialogue that non-Francophones will have to either find a subtitled video in order to understand, or simply be content to read between the lines (or between the sheets, what have you.)

But before I get into all that, I just want to note how stunning it is for me to see the relationship between Francoise and Emilie depicted with such observational neutrality. Varda's tone is neither clinical nor omnisciently self-aware - we get a sense of the elation and eagerness that Francoise feels as he makes his parlays between the two women in his life, and the viewer is given adequate opportunity to identify with the sheer pleasure that he feels to enjoy the love of these two beautiful women lavished upon him, though one's own ethical training and relationship status may hinder any ability to fully or even partially identify with him. I think that's one of the most impressive aspects of what Varda achieved here - she tells a story that is guaranteed to stir up stark differences and divisions among her audience as to what to make of the film. Is this an endorsement of the emerging "free love" ethos of the mid-1960s, or a condemnation? Is faithful monogamy a value to be cherished, nurtured and celebrated, or a quaint and ultimately repressive and hypocritical social mandate that has outlasted its usefulness in the era of birth control, relative economic affluence and the decline of chauvinistic patriarchy? Do the needs of a virile, enthusiastic young man require some manner of stern, compulsory "taming" in order to maintain a safe and stable emotional climate in the household of a young family, or would we all benefit from a more generous granting of permission to either partner in a relationship for love to fully and freely express itself in a broader variety of directions as the heart so leads?

Proponents of opposing viewpoints can plausibly turn to Le bonheur for material that backs them up to some degree or another, even though the moment that Francoise discloses his dual loves to Therese, through use of a clumsily overwrought metaphor involving an apple orchard, appears in hindsight to be a portent of doom. It's true that his argument is more convincing to himself than it is to anyone else who hears it, but that's not to say that he was being dishonest, hypocritical or entirely self-serving. Let's grant for a moment that he's just a soul who's intentions are good. Oh Lord, please don't let him be misunderstood! In his ideal universe, Francoise would be allowed to work hard on the job, bring home his paycheck to Therese, maintain the household and raise his kids the right way. The occasional interlude with Emilie would be woven into the fabric of his routine, maybe once or twice a week or so, perhaps less often as the illicit thrill and novelty diminishes into an obligation of its own. Why hold ourselves back? Maybe Emilie and Therese would be so blessed as to become good friends themselves somewhere down the line? Each understanding the unique and dynamic attributes of the man they each love, but in their own distinctive ways, each recognizing that, far from being torn between two lovers, Francoise is in fact, gloriously and equally enamored with them both, an abundant, celebratory love that flourishes and is enhanced by their very willingness to allow him to rise above the petty limitations of convention and exclusivity that has bogged down countless marriages over the course of the preceding centuries...

Anyone who has watched Le bonheur to the end knows that the notions I've just proposed are hardly allowed even a minute to be contemplated, since, after what turns out to be one last exchange of ecstasy in the open light of day, irrevocable tragedy follows hard and fast on Francoise's revelation and entreaty to his wife. Therese drowns - perhaps in a fit of suicidal despair, but more likely in a hazy despondency over the new regard that she's been forced to take regarding her husband's trustworthiness. Varda, with her customarily ambivalent expertise (see the conclusion of Cleo from 5 to 7 for a similarly unresolved head-scratcher), again leaves us hanging, groping for answers and resolution that we ultimately have to provide for ourselves, or turn to a trusted friend if we can't quite decide on our own. What we do see - that Emilie, after a scant, minimal socially-appropriate season of mourning on Francoise's part, adroitly and seamlessly moves in with Francoise to become a newlywed wife and surrogate mother of another woman's children - is just as unsettling as the buoyant husband's initial request to divide his loyalties between apparent rivals, no strings attached and no consequences imposed. Movie watchers of 1965 were obviously not used to such blithe amorality at the cinema, especially from a female director (as scarce as they were back then and even still are today). And my hunch is that, for as explicit and transgressive and blatantly provocative as film and all other art forms have become over the subsequent decades since, the exquisitely balanced and non-judgmental stance that Agnes Varda assumed in creating this film will continue to stimulate and confound most viewers who take the time to think earnestly about what she's saying her, apply it to their own past, present and potentially future relationships, and wrestle through the implications of Le bonheur toward some kind of conclusion as to what true and enduring happiness really consists of (as enduring as this life can offer anyway.)

Next: The Shop on Main Street