3rd 11 - 2017 | no comment »

Daguerrotype (Le secret de la chambre noire, 2016)

Director/Screenwriter: Kiyoshi Kurosawa

By Marilyn Ferdinand

Here there be spoilers.

Daguerrotype begins with a canted shot of a train moving into an open-air station. A young man gets off, follows some other passengers down some stairs to the exit, and walks a distance to a gated home where he has to speak into an intercom to be let in. He is expected. With this brief, subtly disturbing opening, Kiyoshi Kurosawa, master of the eerie, takes us from the modern world to an old, dark house of the mind.

I’ve made no secret of the fact that Kurosawa’s 1997 movie Cure is my favorite horror film. Cure is a bloody police procedural, but it is most interested in the way psychological pathologies can manifest in ordinary people given the right circumstances and stimuli. Thus, Cure and other films in Kurosawa’s oeuvre ask us to look inward, to empathize with his damaged, overstressed characters and recognize the limits of our own self-control and the ends to which we will go to regain it.

Daguerrotype and Cure share a trigger in common—guilt. Like the cop burdened with a mentally ill wife in Cure, Stéphane Hegray (Olivier Gourmet) is overcome with guilt over the suicide of his wife, Denise (Valérie Sibilia). Once a highly successful fashion photographer, Stéphane has retreated into his mansion, where he makes nothing but fragile glass daguerreotypes, a type of photograph that was born and almost completely died out during the Victorian era. He creates small images for clients—one of an old woman who seems to want to create something of a death mask of herself, another a portrait of a dead baby for a grieving mother and father, mimicking a common practice from Victorian times.

His newest obsession is creating lifesize daguerreotypes. The weighty, cumbersome photographic plates are too much for Stéphane’s aged assistant, Louis (Jacques Collard), to handle, so the young man we saw in the opening scene, Jean (Tahar Rahim), is interviewed as his replacement. While Jean waits to meet Stéphane, he spies a woman in period dress on the stairs above him. He learns later that she is Marie (Constance Rousseau), Stéphane’s daughter and frequent model. Jean is hired and starts to learn the particulars of his job, including locking Marie into an intricate metal frame to immobilize her for the lengthy exposures—some more than an hour—Stéphane needs for his daguerreotypes.

Much of the first half of the film is devoted to the everyday lives of the characters. We watch Stéphane’s agent, Vincent (Mathieu Amalric), try to coax him back to his career; Stéphane try and fail to conduct a commercial shoot; Marie, an excellent but amateur botanist, try to land a job at a botanic garden. We see Jean commuting on a subway back to Paris, where he lives, and go off to meet friends at a local sports bar. As a sign of his newfound prosperity, Jean settles a debt he owes one of them, only to be scolded for not returning his calls. This is the first hint that Jean is turning toward something new. His life is changing because of his budding love affair with Marie.

The central conflict of the film revolves around the difficulty of forging a future when the traumas of the past freeze us in place. Stéphane considers that he has ensured Marie will live forever by capturing her image on a lifesize daguerreotype, but the flesh-and-blood Marie was literally trapped in a metal vise, unable to move, while he made his pictures. His need for her puts her in a similar bind when she decides to pursue her own life and dreams. She is offered a job at a botanic garden in Toulouse and tells him she has decided to accept it. The consequences are almost immediate, as her father stumbles to the cellar, sees the ghost of Denise, and admits his betrayal of her devotion. Marie goes looking for him, only to tumble violently down the cellar stairs. Stéphane’s sin will be passed to his de facto son, Jean, who ventures into a criminal attempt to sell off the mansion for a substantial commission so that he and Marie can start a new life.

Daguerrotype shows Kurosawa’s command of Japanese horror conventions, specifically those of ghost stories, but put in service of his meditation on the shackles that love, memory, and guilt can impose. His frames reveal images at the edge, like nagging thoughts that won’t come into focus. Similarly, his ability to conjure actions that strongly corporealize his characters leave us confused when we suddenly find ourselves staring at empty spaces. He shows how prolonged exposure to supernatural beings can bring on insanity—it seems that Stéphane, Marie, and Jean are all touched by fire to one degree or another.

Kurosawa is at his most Japanese when Stéphane attempts to hide evidence of his complicity in Denise’s death in the chemical waste containers near Marie’s greenhouse. Hanging lamps that move by themselves entice him into the greenhouse, where he encounters a ghostly Denise moving toward him, slowly choking the frame as her form moves closer and closer to the cowering man, her long-nailed hands reaching for Stéphane’s throat, her unfocused, close-up face crowding everything else out. The moment is terrifying, but resolves in an unexpected way.

So, too, does Kurosawa defy the allure of Paris, so often a supporting player in so many films. We are never really sure what city Jean commutes to and from, as the director refuses any cliché establishing shots and stays on the back streets and in Jean’s crummy apartment when he is in the city. Tellingly, the only time we know for sure we’re in Paris is when Jean and Marie are leaving it for the last time and pass the Eiffel Tower, shrouded in fog.

All of the performances are strong, but special praise goes to Rousseau and Rahim. Rousseau’s Marie is delicate, a Mona Lisa enigma who, like the subject of that masterpiece, is set among the artifacts and attitudes of a past time. Her loving attentiveness to Jean is naturally expressed, characteristic of the passivity she had accustomed herself to in her father’s world. Her few moments of independence don’t really penetrate the serenity of her demeanor—she’s a gentle soul who believes others will treat her gently as well.

Rahim’s performance is a masterful slow burn. We can see the aimlessness of youth in his early scenes and his naïve eagerness to get started on a path with some kind of meaning. Interestingly, he is hired because he knows nothing about photography. That blank slate, like one of Stéphane’s unexposed glass plates, will be developed by his master—much to his misfortune. His attempts to get Stéphane to sell the estate get more and more desperate as Rahim signals the strange possession Jean is undergoing, one he is scrambling to escape. But Rahim never oversells his character’s emotional states, and the genuine feelings he and Rousseau express keep us boring more deeply into their story and invested in its outcome.

Cinematographer Alexis Kavyrchine paints a gorgeous film, with rich and meaningful shadows and colors, and interesting depths of field that comment on character, particularly Jean’s. The timing of film editor Véronique Lange adds suspense and plants doubt in our minds. For example, bubbles from below the surface of a river where a body might be submerged churn an anxiety-inducing amount of time before a diver surfaces, empty-handed. The script by Kurosawa was translated into French by Catherine Paillé, revealing both writers to be literate and exact. Daguerrotype is a consummate work by a master and his talented team.

Daguerrotype is available on demand on iTunes, Sony, Google Play, Amazon, Microsoft, Vudu, Comcast, Charter, Cox, Vimeo, and various other cable operators.


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