
Monday, January 23, 2017 at 7:30 pm

Reviewed by A.O. Scott / NYT Rated R 130 Mins.
The opening scene of “Elle” is a shocker: a brutal sexual assault witnessed by a house cat and filmed with pitiless detachment. “The opposite of a trigger warning,” as a friend of mine said. Everything that follows is, in some ways, even more shocking, as the movie — a masterpiece of suave perversity, directed by Paul Verhoeven — leads its audience through a meticulously constructed maze of ambiguity, scrambling our assumptions and expectations at every turn, dispensing discomfort and delight and daring us to distinguish one from the other.
After it’s over, you may find yourself in an argument about just what kind of movie you saw. A nasty, exploitative spectacle of a woman’s victimization, or the celebration of her resistance? A feminist tale of rape and revenge, or an exercise in chic, cynical misogyny? It may be worth noting that both the director and the author of the source material are men. (“Elle” is based on the novel “Oh ...,” by Philippe Djian, the author of “Betty Blue.”) These gender-political talking points commingle with basic questions of genre, since the film continually changes register from one moment to the next. It’s a psychological thriller, a strangely dry-eyed melodrama, a kinky sex farce and, perhaps most provocatively, a savage comedy of bourgeois manners.
Mostly, though — inarguably, I would say — it is a platform for the astonishing, almost terrifying talent of Isabelle Huppert. Ms. Huppert, onscreen for virtually every second, gives “Elle” much of its fascination and most of its coherence. In the pages of David Birke’s script or Mr. Djian’s novel, her character, Michèle Leblanc, may or may not be a stable literary construct, but as embodied by Ms. Huppert, she possesses the sublime credibility of a classic film heroine. Ms. Huppert has the unrivaled ability to fuse contradictory traits and actions into a singular, complex and endlessly interesting personality. The movie’s title is succinct and comprehensive. It’s all about her.
But, of course, Michèle is not alone. Her masked assailant will return, in flashback and fantasy and also in the flesh, but more of “Elle” is devoted to Michèle’s interactions with the other people in her life, who are reliable sources of vexation, inconvenience and distraction. She is a competent, confident woman surrounded by fools, with the sole (and partial) exception of Anna (Anne Consigny), her best friend and business partner.
The two of them run a small, successful video-game company where a few of the male employees seem to have trouble working for a female boss. Michèle knows how to handle them, though. An awful lot of her time and attention is devoted to handling the insecurities and emotional needs of men, a fact that counts as one of the film’s principal feminist insights.
There is her ex-husband, Richard (Charles Berling), a semi- successful novelist; their son, Vincent (Jonas Bloquet), a man-child with a dubious work ethic; and Robert (Christian Berkel), Anna’s husband, with whom Michèle has been having an affair. Casting a shadow over all of them is Michèle’s father, a truly monstrous patriarch guilty of a crime that is at once the movie’s Rosebud and its MacGuffin.
There is also a handsome neighbor named Patrick (Laurent Lafitte), who appears to be an exception to the general rule of male inadequacy. (Appearances can be deceiving, though.) But men hardly hold a monopoly on awfulness. Michèle also has to deal with her mother (Judith Magre), a comic-opera narcissist who offends all of her daughter’s principles of etiquette and taste, and with Vincent’s selfish, abusive girlfriend (Alice Isaaz).
Not that Michèle is a paragon of innocence, or even of decency. As her mother points out, she has a mean streak, and at times she seems to revel in her own cruelty. Her subtle smiles and eye rolls are signals to the audience, but also warnings. We are drawn to her side, but we may also, at some point, be subject to her judgment and her mockery.
Or, perhaps, to Mr. Verhoeven’s. He is a bit of a sadist, in a grand tradition of movie control freaks that goes back to Alfred Hitchcock by way of Brian De Palma and Claude Chabrol. Michèle’s prurient, inscrutable cat is his alter ego, and we are the mice, batted from indignation to dread to uneasy amusement, according to his predatory whims.
This may not be everyone’s idea of fun, but there is something exciting about watching “Elle” as a duet for director and star. In the American phase of his career, Mr. Verhoeven, who started out in the Netherlands, was a blockbuster sleight-of-hand artist, disguising pungent, politically tinged satires as noisy sci-fi action movies and overheated potboilers. Much of his work from the ’80s and ’90s — “RoboCop,” “Starship Troopers,” “Basic Instinct” and, yes, “Showgirls” — is still worth watching, and still misunderstood. These are Hollywood movies with “Hollywood” in italics and quotation marks, combining lurid overstatement with subtle, even subliminal irony.
“Elle” works in much the same way, with “French” in place of “Hollywood.” France’s official selection for the foreign-language Oscar, it is both an impeccably Gallic delicacy and a gleeful parody of Frenchness, in particular the kind of decorous, exquisitely decorated Parisian lifestyle voyeurism that contributes so much to the national cinematic brand. The film’s episodes of violence erupt into a milieu defined by elegant dinners and vigorous verbal fencing matches, a world that keeps going in the aftermath of mayhem, its essential sang-froid undisturbed. Which may be the biggest shock of all, and also a perverse source of comfort. Michèle’s composure never falters, and neither does Ms. Huppert’s conviction. You can have your doubts about “Elle,” but you can’t help believing in her.
In French with English Subtitles.
Please join us for our thought provoking post screening discussions!
The opening scene of “Elle” is a shocker: a brutal sexual assault witnessed by a house cat and filmed with pitiless detachment. “The opposite of a trigger warning,” as a friend of mine said. Everything that follows is, in some ways, even more shocking, as the movie — a masterpiece of suave perversity, directed by Paul Verhoeven — leads its audience through a meticulously constructed maze of ambiguity, scrambling our assumptions and expectations at every turn, dispensing discomfort and delight and daring us to distinguish one from the other.
After it’s over, you may find yourself in an argument about just what kind of movie you saw. A nasty, exploitative spectacle of a woman’s victimization, or the celebration of her resistance? A feminist tale of rape and revenge, or an exercise in chic, cynical misogyny? It may be worth noting that both the director and the author of the source material are men. (“Elle” is based on the novel “Oh ...,” by Philippe Djian, the author of “Betty Blue.”) These gender-political talking points commingle with basic questions of genre, since the film continually changes register from one moment to the next. It’s a psychological thriller, a strangely dry-eyed melodrama, a kinky sex farce and, perhaps most provocatively, a savage comedy of bourgeois manners.
Mostly, though — inarguably, I would say — it is a platform for the astonishing, almost terrifying talent of Isabelle Huppert. Ms. Huppert, onscreen for virtually every second, gives “Elle” much of its fascination and most of its coherence. In the pages of David Birke’s script or Mr. Djian’s novel, her character, Michèle Leblanc, may or may not be a stable literary construct, but as embodied by Ms. Huppert, she possesses the sublime credibility of a classic film heroine. Ms. Huppert has the unrivaled ability to fuse contradictory traits and actions into a singular, complex and endlessly interesting personality. The movie’s title is succinct and comprehensive. It’s all about her.
But, of course, Michèle is not alone. Her masked assailant will return, in flashback and fantasy and also in the flesh, but more of “Elle” is devoted to Michèle’s interactions with the other people in her life, who are reliable sources of vexation, inconvenience and distraction. She is a competent, confident woman surrounded by fools, with the sole (and partial) exception of Anna (Anne Consigny), her best friend and business partner.
The two of them run a small, successful video-game company where a few of the male employees seem to have trouble working for a female boss. Michèle knows how to handle them, though. An awful lot of her time and attention is devoted to handling the insecurities and emotional needs of men, a fact that counts as one of the film’s principal feminist insights.
There is her ex-husband, Richard (Charles Berling), a semi- successful novelist; their son, Vincent (Jonas Bloquet), a man-child with a dubious work ethic; and Robert (Christian Berkel), Anna’s husband, with whom Michèle has been having an affair. Casting a shadow over all of them is Michèle’s father, a truly monstrous patriarch guilty of a crime that is at once the movie’s Rosebud and its MacGuffin.
There is also a handsome neighbor named Patrick (Laurent Lafitte), who appears to be an exception to the general rule of male inadequacy. (Appearances can be deceiving, though.) But men hardly hold a monopoly on awfulness. Michèle also has to deal with her mother (Judith Magre), a comic-opera narcissist who offends all of her daughter’s principles of etiquette and taste, and with Vincent’s selfish, abusive girlfriend (Alice Isaaz).
Not that Michèle is a paragon of innocence, or even of decency. As her mother points out, she has a mean streak, and at times she seems to revel in her own cruelty. Her subtle smiles and eye rolls are signals to the audience, but also warnings. We are drawn to her side, but we may also, at some point, be subject to her judgment and her mockery.
Or, perhaps, to Mr. Verhoeven’s. He is a bit of a sadist, in a grand tradition of movie control freaks that goes back to Alfred Hitchcock by way of Brian De Palma and Claude Chabrol. Michèle’s prurient, inscrutable cat is his alter ego, and we are the mice, batted from indignation to dread to uneasy amusement, according to his predatory whims.
This may not be everyone’s idea of fun, but there is something exciting about watching “Elle” as a duet for director and star. In the American phase of his career, Mr. Verhoeven, who started out in the Netherlands, was a blockbuster sleight-of-hand artist, disguising pungent, politically tinged satires as noisy sci-fi action movies and overheated potboilers. Much of his work from the ’80s and ’90s — “RoboCop,” “Starship Troopers,” “Basic Instinct” and, yes, “Showgirls” — is still worth watching, and still misunderstood. These are Hollywood movies with “Hollywood” in italics and quotation marks, combining lurid overstatement with subtle, even subliminal irony.
“Elle” works in much the same way, with “French” in place of “Hollywood.” France’s official selection for the foreign-language Oscar, it is both an impeccably Gallic delicacy and a gleeful parody of Frenchness, in particular the kind of decorous, exquisitely decorated Parisian lifestyle voyeurism that contributes so much to the national cinematic brand. The film’s episodes of violence erupt into a milieu defined by elegant dinners and vigorous verbal fencing matches, a world that keeps going in the aftermath of mayhem, its essential sang-froid undisturbed. Which may be the biggest shock of all, and also a perverse source of comfort. Michèle’s composure never falters, and neither does Ms. Huppert’s conviction. You can have your doubts about “Elle,” but you can’t help believing in her.
In French with English Subtitles.
Please join us for our thought provoking post screening discussions!