Pola X (Leos Carax, 1999)

This is the only one of Carax's films which is a literary adaptation, but on the strength of it I'd love to see him do more. Much has been made of its obscurities and obliquities, but Melvile's Pierre is a very strange book in the first place, and Carax's film is in fact a rather straight adaptation, with, of course, certain adjustments. Aside from the change of time and location, there is the introduction in the middle of political content concerning the treatment of Roma people (which manages not to either overwhelm or be overwhelmed by the film's other concerns), and of course the fact that, unlike in the book, not all the protagonists finish up dead. Ultimately the film, much like the book, is a Gothic melodrama, and it would be interesting to consider it in the wider context of cinematic melodramas. Of course there are connections to Carax's previous films (Pierre develops both Alex's limp and Michelle's fading eyesight from Les Amants du Pont-Neuf) but for the most part a certain naturalism takes hold (modulated, of course, by the extremity of the content). The performances are almost surprisingly restrained; it is as an ensemble that the film impresses. The opposition between the ludicrously glowing opening, almost a Merchant Ivory pastiche, all golden hair and blazingly white clothes, and the literal darkness later on (either rich midnight blues or, as in Isabelle's remarkable opening monologue, almost completely black – the comparisons here with Grandrieux's Sombre don't seem off the mark) is very well handled; the point being that neither extreme represents either health or sickness, whether of body or mind. Like many a self-respecting melodrama, families, quasi-families and pseudo-families are at the heart of the narrative, and in particular their secrets. We are asked to wonder whether certain secrets need to be exposed, lancing the boil, but also if some secrets are best off remaining secret. Eventually, the film deeply problematises the distinction between the apparent and the concealed; lies and secrets might even be said to create the very distinction, so that – as with the empty room behind the blocked-up door in the chateau – there may be nothing behind them, or the attempt to reveal the truth may only plunge one further into doubt, as when Pierre attempts to shed his pseudonym but is accused of being an impostor. Pierre tries to write a novel that will reveal, as he says, the great lie hiding behind everything, only to be accused once again, this time of plagiarism by his publisher. Authenticity proves not to consist in penetrating beyond the surface. There may be no such lie – which by no means guarantees that all is truth. Isabell's claim to be his sister cannot be neatly deciphered as either truth, lie or delusion. Pola X seems to conclude with the profoundly unconsoling message that we cannot operate other than by lies and concealments, but that they will nonetheless come to destroy us, in the end.