Jeanne Dielman: A Soundtrack
of the Everyday
When referring to her 1993 film From
The East in a lengthy interview for The A.V. Club, Chantal Akerman notes,
“you feel as a viewer, when you face the film and experience the film, you feel
an implosion” Reaching beyond this particular film, the quotation befits the
filmmaker’s recently screened work. In all of its unyielding simplicity, Jeanne Dielman, 23 quai du Commerce, 1080
Bruxelles, is no exception. With each assured cut, Akerman’s second feature
length narrative becomes a precarious game of jenga, casually building pressure
until its eventual collapse. The result is a quietly painful, tense and
nauseating ordeal that doesn’t seep out of the mind for days after the viewing.
Produced in 1975, Jeanne Dielman emerged
during a period when a growing concern for spectatorship was developing amongst
filmmakers and theorists. In practical circles, Pier Paolo Pasolini’s indignant
farewell to cinema, Salo or the 120 Days
of Sodom denounced the – as he put it –
“commodification of the human body,” and revealed the ethical implications of our
nonchalant engagement with images of sex and violence. Theoretically, luminaries,
such as Christian Metz, Jean-Louis Baudry, Laura Mulvey and Peter Wollen
examined the tacit positioning of the spectator via the cinematic apparatus,
integrating the psychoanalytic ideas of Jacques Lacan and Sigmund Freud. In
doing so, the notions of pleasure and identification became the main threads of
their argument.
By stripping down the filmic mechanics to its bare essentials, Akerman
eradicates these two common joys of cinematic interaction. A typically
emotional proximity is consistently evaded, favouring far removed, stylised
tableaux over close-ups. Displeasure aside, the superficially aloof director
clearly wishes for us to experience every millisecond of the titular
character’s everyday activities. Dielman (played by Delphine Seyrig with an
impervious elegance) cleans, babysits, and prepares evening meals for her
pubescent son, moonlighting as a prostitute prior to his return. We spend three
days merely looking at this regimented lifestyle. By the second, order is
fractured, revealing the brittle pieces behind the icy demeanour. A key factor in soaking up these miniscule
moments is the firmly grounded and exact compositions, extensively utilised
across the film’s 201 minutes. Eventually, depending on individual patience, one
adapts to the steadfast rigour, becoming loosely involved in the calculated widower’s
ritualistic manoeuvres.
Another major contributor towards this sense of inclusion is the often-undervalued
acoustic properties. The subtly crafted sound design is tantamount to Jeanne Dielman’s strict visual layout.
The constant distance sustained by the symmetrical framing is counterbalanced
by close attention to the manipulation of specific audio elements. Even a
couple days after the screening I was locked inside Akerman’s echo chamber with
an acute sensitivity to otherwise minor sounds. From flaming gas hobs to the jabbing clack of
heels, our ears become attuned to this heightened soundscape of the mundane. Seemingly
effortless in its employment, these auditory qualities operate as an immersive
tool.
In order to raise tension and create proximity between character and
spectator, the sharp amplification of Dielman’s audible surroundings remains an
indispensable aspect. In its entirety, this well-calibrated medley of household
items and rhythmic gestures jar the audience through their tonal shift. Moreover,
it is here where Akerman’s intention of generating an implosive experience are
realised. From the outset, as hissing gas rises during the opening credits, an
ominous atmosphere is established before we enter this solitary existence of
concealed passions.
Once inside, we must look and listen to the soft (but prevailing)
scrubbing of Dielman’s body whilst in the bath and the clanging of cutlery
against dinner plates. On the second day, after an evening with a regular
customer, the sounds become coarse assailants, rattling our senses. For
example, in a taut series of shots, the curtains (which were previously less
piercing) screeching along the pole, and the harsh cry of rusty hinges and
closing doors underscore an anxiety bubbling beneath the fallacious apathy.
Even the occasional grunting buzz of the intercom evokes a growing uneasiness.
By day three, the presence of silence and the distant outside streets
envelop us within the gradual deterioration. In a possible attempt to snip
these deep-rooted feelings, the housemaid lounges in the living room, gripped
to her chair with a monastic stillness. Unseen vehicles breeze by, containing
the same looming menace. Moments later, Dielman’s ephemeral state of calm is
rived by her usual babysitting job. The baby’s infernal cry only swells the
composed sitter’s nerves while the noise lacerates our eardrums.
The remaining portion of the narrative continues its descent into
Dielman’s imbalance until she can no longer maintain control. At this stage,
the film’s pronounced application of sounds is a reminder of the impending
outburst. Unlike Chantal Akerman’s preceding films (excluding Hotel Monterey and La Chambre), which reveal an early attention to the power of sound
design, Jeanne Dielman seems, so far,
her most potently enthralling. At age 25, the precocious director and her sound
department’s skilful construction of differing tones certify the pivotal role
it plays in gauging a character’s undisclosed vulnerabilities.
Displaying the burning conviction of a fiery young filmmaker in her
prime, the film is a challenge for the most hardened cinephile yet captivating
in its technical and performative expertise. To paraphrase Laura Mulvey, “Each
sequence demands a reaction”
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