Cocteau reimagines the character of Orpheus, a charming troubadour who appears throughout Greek mythology, as a self-centered French poet whose work has made him a famous and revered part of the establishment, which also means that he is loathed by the younger generation (an issue that Cocteau himself would face as his work became a critical target for the upcoming directors of the French New Wave). Played by Cocteau’s former lover Jean Marais, who looks like a more angular Jean Gabin, Orpheus is anything but charming; rather, he is bitter and angry, feeling adrift in his own life and culture, which is why it is so easy for him to be drawn into the Underworld after witnessing the death of rival poet Jacques Cégeste (Edouard Dermithe, Cocteau’s lover at the time). Orpheus follows Cégeste’s companion, a mysterious woman known only as the Princess (María Casares), to what he thinks will be the hospital. Instead, she leads him to a decaying mansion and reveals herself to be Death (or at least one of Death’s incarnations).

Thus begins what has to be one of the strangest love triangles in modern cinema, as the Princess falls in love with Orpheus and arranges for his wife, the dedicated and naïve Eurydice (Marie Déa), to die and therefore be taken from him. Orpheus is just as smitten with the Princess, and he follows her into the Underworld, ostensibly to retrieve his wife, although he winds up in the Princess’s arms (unlike the myth, Orpheus and Eurydice’s marriage in the film is one of convenience and stability, rather than passion and intensity). Meanwhile, the Princess’s chauffeur, Heurtebise (François Périer), quietly falls in love with Eurydice, although she only has eyes for Orpheus. As in the Greek myth, Orpheus is able to bring Eurydice back to his world, although he is forbidden from looking at her, a taxing situation that Cocteau plays with surprising humor as Heurtebise acts as a middle man, constantly keeping the increasingly frustrated Orpheus from looking in the wrong direction. The fact that Heurtebise is in love with Eurydice gives these scenes an added emotionality, as he is working against his own self-interest in keeping the object of his affection with Orpheus. It is fitting, then, that Orpheus is not really the film’s central character; rather, the film’s heart lies with the Princess and Heurtebise, both of whom, while technically dead, embody the film’s passion and love of love, requited or otherwise. It is they who love unconditionally sacrifice all, while Orpheus reaps the benefits of getting to relive life in another vein.

As is true with Cocteau’s other films, the narrative in Orpheus is ultimately less important that the dreamlike atmosphere it creates. As an artist and painter who also dabbled in theatrical set design, Cocteau knew the value of visual imagery, and Orpheus is a masterpiece of transforming the everyday into the fantastical within limited means. Eschewing complex special effects, Cocteau relies primarily on the kind of primitive sleight-of-hand techniques favored by the turn-of-the-century filmmakers like George Méliès, which adds to Orpheus’ otherworldly aura. Simple tricks like reverse motion subtly endow ordinary activities like putting on gloves with magic and mystery, while his decision to use the ruins of buildings destroyed during World War II to represent the “Zone” (the interstitial space between life and death) is powerfully effective in rendering them ethereal while also drawing attention to the devastating results of modern warfare. Even without any kind of special effects, he proves to be a master of transforming the mundane into the fantastical, such as when he uses a train crossing to stand in for the border between the living world and the world of the dead. This mixture of the ancient and the modern is a recurring theme throughout Orpheus, as is the use of reflective surfaces, which here function as portals between worlds (the idea of literally walking into your own reflection to enter the Underworld makes the journey feel strangely personal while also serving as a rebuke to physical egocentrism).

As much as Orpheus plays as an effective fable about the interlocking natures of life, love, and death, it is also a sharp-edged critique of the shallow nature of modern life. Orpheus, of course, is the most obvious symbol of the rampant nature of human ego, and his redemption comes only through the lengthy tribulations of passing between our world and the next world and the eventual sacrifices of both the Princess and Heurtebise. More striking, though, is Cocteau’s focus on the petty nature of bureaucracy, while is reflected in his depiction of the Underworld being run by bureaucrats, organized around tribunals, and fastidiously held to a set of laws. The physical, spiritual, and political fallout of World War II is everywhere in the film, and not surprisingly given that Cocteau himself was accused of being a Nazi collaborator (he was eventually cleared, but one can only imagine what a bitter taste it left). Orpheus certainly maintains its effectiveness as a romantic fantasy outside of its historical and cultural context, but seeing it as a direct reflection of France’s then-recent history makes it all the richer and more rewarding--a romantic fable of all-consuming passion in the shadow of the modern world’s dance with self-destruction.

Copyright ©2011 James Kendrick

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