Famous painter Claude Zoret (Benjamin Christensen) is in love with friend, muse, and model Michael (Walter Slezak). They live comfortably and happily in their mansion, which is littered with Zoret's pieces with Michael as their inspiration. When the bankrupt Countess Lucia Zamikoff (Nora Gregor) comes to visit to ask Zoret to paint her, Zoret accepts but struggles to put any life into his painting. He can't depict her eyes, but Michael steps in and completes the painting. Sensing his infatuation with her, the Countess seduces Michael, and Zoret witnesses his relationship become more and more distant. Michael steals and sells Zoret's sketches and paintings in order to satisfy the Countess' spending habits, and Zoret eventually falls ill.
Although it's hardly tackled explicitly, and more suggested in looks, exchanges, and title-cards than sexual imagery, Michael's tackling of homosexuality was quite revolutionary in its day. Naturally, it failed financially and critically (although when Dreyer made The Passion of Joan of Arc (1928) and became auteur, it has since been re-visited and praised), but it should be a film that any cinephile should see, especially those with an interest in the origins of Queer Cinema and the depiction of homosexuality in film. Benjamin Christensen, perhaps best known as director of the silent docu-horror masterpiece Haxan (1922), is masterful as Zoret, his face darkened with sadness, subtle jealousy, and tragic sentiment. Slazek and Gregor fair less well, and suffer in comparison to Christensen's depiction.
Although the climax is predictable, it has a feeling of inevitably which makes it fittingly moving and quite beautiful, similar in many ways to the ending of Dreyer's Ordet (1955). But the film is surprisingly rich and luscious, with Dreyer's usual blank canvas and bleak settings replaced by detailed sets, all captured by cinematographer's Rudolph Mate and Karl Freund (who appears here as art dealer Le Blanc, and would go on to work on some Universal's finest horror output in the 1930's). A wonderful, 'minor' work in Dreyer's wealthy filmography.
The 'one of the greatest films ever made' tag is a lot for a film to carry. There seems to be two sets of these 'greatest films ever made' - the audience's films (the likes of The Shawshank Redemption (1994), The Godfather (1972), Star Wars (1977)), and the critics' films (Ozu's Tokyo Story (1953), Murnau's Sunrise (1927), Hitchcock's Vertigo (1958)). Without wanting to sound snobbish or pretentious, I do tend to lean my preference to the critics' films. Jean Renoir's truly great film belongs in the latter category, and it's one of those films that regardless of its popularity amongst cinephiles, seems to sadly get lost on a mainstream audience.
Heroic pilot Andre (Roland Toutain) touches down after a record-breaking flight to find out that the woman he loves, Christine (Nora Gregor) is not there to greet him. He is, however, greeted by his friend Octave (Jean Renoir), who, determined to cheer his friend up, arranges for Christine and her husband Robert (Marcel Dalio) to invite Andre to their lush party at their country estate. Robert knows about Christine and Andre, but is having an affair himself with Genevieve (Mila Parely), which he promises to break off. Also, Christine's maid Lisette (Paulette Dubost) finds herself more devoted to her madame than to her groundskeeper husband Schumacher (Gaston Modot), who notices her flirting with the new servant Marceau (Julien Carette).
The film was sighted as such a despicable and savage mockery of the bourgeoisie upon its release that it was hit with a ban after a public outcry. The upper classes are seen as uncaring in their actions, and relatively passive upon unearthing adultery. When Robert discovers Andre and Christine together after the former promises that it is over, the two begin a lengthy and highly comical fight. At the end, the two compliment each other on their fighting styles. It seems they fought because that was what they were supposed to do. But it seems that Renoir isn't just attacking the upper classes - the maids and servants are just as bad. Lisette repeatedly flirts with Marceau, even though she knows Schumacher will ultimately kill him, and again they seem unconcerned with the consequences of their actions. French society was rotten to the core, apparently.
Social commentary aside, the film is a technical marvel. Renoir deploys slow and creeping camerawork that looks in on its strange characters with an air of curiosity, as if an onlooker at a zoo. It's a film that every self-respecting film student will have studied (even though I found myself studying Erin fucking Brockovich (2000)at college) as it is a masterclass of mise en scene. Large rooms are full of objects, yet are noticeably empty. They surround themselves with expensive crap, and fill their country estate with people, but these people are ultimately alone and out for themselves. They are going through the motions of the game, and Renoir cleverly uses black and white tiling on the mansion floor, making the characters appear like pawns on a chess board.
It is a real shame that 99% of people I will meet in my life will never have heard of this film and will never watch it, even though it is one of the giants of cinema and is often cited as 'the greatest film ever made'. It is hilarious, poetic, beautiful, disturbing, and frustrating. It breezes by like Shakespeare mixed with slapstick comedy with some French farce thrown in for good measure. Make of that what you will.
Although it's hardly tackled explicitly, and more suggested in looks, exchanges, and title-cards than sexual imagery, Michael's tackling of homosexuality was quite revolutionary in its day. Naturally, it failed financially and critically (although when Dreyer made The Passion of Joan of Arc (1928) and became auteur, it has since been re-visited and praised), but it should be a film that any cinephile should see, especially those with an interest in the origins of Queer Cinema and the depiction of homosexuality in film. Benjamin Christensen, perhaps best known as director of the silent docu-horror masterpiece Haxan (1922), is masterful as Zoret, his face darkened with sadness, subtle jealousy, and tragic sentiment. Slazek and Gregor fair less well, and suffer in comparison to Christensen's depiction. 
