The Duke of Burgundy, 2014.
Directed by Peter Strickland.
Starring Sidse Babett Knudsen, Chiara D’Anna and Monica Swinn.
SYNOPSIS:
A relationship based on sadomasochism slowly begins to unravel.
The Duke of Burgundy…more like 50 Shades of Burgundy – amirite? Up top! Anyone?
That’s ok. This is a highbrow picture. One with credits for ‘Lingere’ and ‘Perfume’ and recurring, heavy-handed butterfly motifs. Crude comparisons to the last sadomasochistic breakthrough to the mainstream is probably a little reductive. At least it wasn’t an Anchorman joke.
You could have thought up a gazillion in that opening half hour, though. What a drag. I like a lesbian sadomasochistic relationships as much as the next guy, but straight-up, one-dimensional erotica, or lazily established relationships, or arty sex for arty sex’s sake (looking at you, Blue is the Warmest Colour) quickly grows tiresome. That’s when the 50 Shades joke first popped up, to cope with immense boredom. Christ, I’d just sunk a large coffee and now I had to sit through 90 minutes of this.
But I like Peter Strickland. Granted, I’d only ever seen one of his films (Kaitlin Varga), but considering he’d only ever made two before this, that’s a pretty good batting average. Here was his third. I was bicurious.
Rather than slowly win you over, Strickland performs the coup in one marvelous shot, precisely 25 minutes in. To reveal its contents would somewhat spoil the exaltation. Thank Christ, I thought, it isn’t Blue is the Warmest Colour after all. This film isn’t about sadomasochism; it’s about relationships. About the political landscapes of love, the delicate balancing act of two separate humans existing as one. How many times does she get to choose where we eat tonight? When will he let me pick what box set we binge watch on Netflix? It’s about respecting the needs of each party, from aspects as exhilarating as sex, to matters as banal as who hangs up the washing.
Strickland presents this all in a way that is, in turns, abstract and darkly comedic. The executive producer credits of Ben Wheatley and Amy Jump are nightmarishly etched in every frame. By acknowledging the rules of narrative cinema in the opening third, and then quickly subverting them all, Strickland is released from their shackles for the remainder.
This allows the film more give than one would endure from conventional fare. A five-minute montage of images inside a woman’s vagina wouldn’t work in Transformers: Age of Extinction. The persistent metamorphosis metaphors (metamorphaphors?) aren’t as subtle as they could be, occasionally teetering on the pretentiously absurd, and the pacing and plot both suffer from shunning traditional structure.
But Strickland is among a group of British filmmakers working today well worth championing. Along with the aforementioned Wheatley and Jump, they are fusing together experimental and narrative cinema in a way that seems drolly unique to these Isles. Even when they wobble on that line, the performances are still unreservedly inspiring.
Flickering Myth Rating – Film ★ ★ ★ ★ / Movie ★
Oliver Davis is one of Flickering Myth’s co-editors. You can follow him on Twitter (@OliDavis)
