It has been rightly claimed that, between 1945 and 1955, Max Ophuls was the greatest director in the world, crafting a string of dense pearls unmatched before or since. Even 'Le Plaisir', supposedly a minor film in his canon would be a staggering masterpiece in anyone else's.
A triptych of Guy de Maupassant stories, it is also about a trio of Gods. The first two are shown to be limited: Maupassant, author, creator, narrator, speaks to us from the darkness, disembodied, all pervasive ('I could be sitting next to you'), responsible for everything we see - in the last story he crashes down to earth, and is responsible for a suicide attempt; and Ophuls' camera, seemingly weightless, able to navigate space with a freedom unavailable to humans - even it is barred from Madame Tellier's Establishment, forced to peek in from outside. It can reveal the bleak reality behind the prostitutes' gaiety, but is has no access, like the men who exploit them, to their souls.
Or does it? The stunning epiphany at the church, is, after all, on one level just a trick of the camera, or a mere figment of the women's imagination. As we would expect, the camerawork, composition, decor, music and acting are breathtaking and ambiguously nostalgic; what is more remarkable is the magic sense of nature, so rare in Ophuls, and, with the exception of the Archers, King Vidor and Lynne Ramsey, so rare in cinema.
A triptych of Guy de Maupassant stories, it is also about a trio of Gods. The first two are shown to be limited: Maupassant, author, creator, narrator, speaks to us from the darkness, disembodied, all pervasive ('I could be sitting next to you'), responsible for everything we see - in the last story he crashes down to earth, and is responsible for a suicide attempt; and Ophuls' camera, seemingly weightless, able to navigate space with a freedom unavailable to humans - even it is barred from Madame Tellier's Establishment, forced to peek in from outside. It can reveal the bleak reality behind the prostitutes' gaiety, but is has no access, like the men who exploit them, to their souls.
Or does it? The stunning epiphany at the church, is, after all, on one level just a trick of the camera, or a mere figment of the women's imagination. As we would expect, the camerawork, composition, decor, music and acting are breathtaking and ambiguously nostalgic; what is more remarkable is the magic sense of nature, so rare in Ophuls, and, with the exception of the Archers, King Vidor and Lynne Ramsey, so rare in cinema.