La Belle et la Bête: visually, the most beautiful film I have ever seen

The most beautiful film I have ever seen is Jean Cocteau’s 1946 black and white fairy tale, La Belle et la Bête, which I came to late, four years ago, on TV.  I enjoyed the first, realistic, section, which concerns the doings of an 18th century French upper-middle class family which has fallen on hardish times.

It seems we are in for a rollicking, sun-drenched comedy of manners about making money, keeping up appearances, young love and social climbing, complete with a silly father, three daughters – two nasty, one nice, as per usual - and oafish, sword-bearing brothers and a friend, all wearing floppy, befeathered hats and elegant bootees.  

Get yer coat - you've pulled!

                                                      

But then the father finds himself in a mysterious, enchanted domain, where he picks a beautiful rose. Enter the gravel-voiced, sort-of-lion-headed, befanged Beast, cutting a genuine dash in a spectacular caped costume  glittering with gems. The Beast informs the old man that he must die for stealing one of his roses (a trifle harsh, one would have thought), unless he can convince one of his daughters to take his place. The father agrees, and is allowed to leave. His nice daughter, Belle, decides to sacrifice herself and fronts up at the Beast’s chateau. The furry-faced laird immediately falls for her and, every night, asks her to marry him… I ‘m aware of your eyelids drooping: you get the drift.

From the moment we enter the Beast’s kingdom – the Louis XVIII Chateau de Raray -  this sophisticated romp turns into a dark, mysterious, gleaming, magical, mesmerisingly gorgeous visual masterpiece. This clip, which starts with the father in the Beast’s chateau, sparkles with brilliant invention – the living statue exhaling smoke by the fireplace (all the statues are alive), the flaming candelabra clasped in living hands protruding from the walls, nature obeying the Beast’s moods – and ends with Belle entering the chateau (at 8’’20”) and running in slow motion along its corridors (the film is stuffed with technical tricks, all of which enhance its beauty and sense of mystery).

This next ten minute clip contains a similarly indecent number of cinematically magical moments. My favourite scene is the one of the Beast carrying the unconscious Beauty up the stairs to her room (at 3’42”): his disappeance into the misty darkness as  as he ascends represents one of the most beautiful sequences in all cinema.

Gustave Doré Sleeping Beauty

Cocteau based the look of the film on the work of two artists – Vermeer for the early Manor House scenes, and Gustave Doré for the Beast’s domain. When I first saw it, it reminded me strongly of Victorian fairy paintings, because of the jewel-like gleams of light sparkling against dark backgrounds in every scene - even Beauty’s blonde hair and the unnaturally bright whites of the Beast’s eyes glitter.

John Anster Fitzgerald The Captive Robin

                                                               
The score was composed by George Auric, the youngest member of Les Six, who were all part of Cocteau’s “set” during the 1920s, but the film’s look and style brings to mind two of my favourite pieces of French music – Debussy’s strange, bewitched opera, Pelleas et Melisande (Jean Marais’s performance as the Beast is pure opera), and Ravel’s lovely Daphnis et Chloé (Auric’s score is, in any case, very reminiscent of Ravel).

If you haven’t seen the film, or aren’t acquainted with Cocteau’s other undoubted masterpiece, Orphée (which I only caught up with last year), this might all sound a bit precious - a bit camp even. It’s saved from any hint of preciousness by the Beast’s sheer physicality, in particular the state of him after he’s been out slaughtering wild animals with his bare hands (claws?) – his white shirt is covered in blood and his fur is smoking (with sweat or fresh blood – one isn’t sure). 

As for campness, well… yes, but it’s not offputting. (This is no Bride of Frankenstein.) Cocteau was decidedly homosexual: Jean Marais, who plays no less than three roles in the film, was one of Cocteau’s lovers, and is, to be frank, prettier than the leading lady, who somehow doesn’t really fit her part - she’s not quite pretty or diaphonous or young enough for it. But the only time the gayness intrudes is during the last, rather disappointing section of the film, when the Beast, redeemed by Beauty’s love, takes human form, looking like some raving nancy-boy of a Ruritanian prince. Not Marais’s fault, mind you - it would be hard to look anything but “musical” in the clothes Cocteau chose for his boyfriend’s big finale.  

What I am pretty sure of is that no one except a gay French genius could have made this exquisite, haunting picture: in particular, it’s as Gallic as all get-out.

(For a modern British viewer there are one or two unintentional distractions – when the blonde heroine awakes to find the Beast looming over her bed, she screams, and you half expect Jean Marais to say “Monster! Monster!”, and when the living statues turn their heads, you’re waiting for someone to ask, “What do you think of it so far?”)

La Belle et la Beté was made in almost impossibly unpropitious circumstances: the war had just ended, they were on a shoestring, they had no studio lights for exterior scenes (and Cocteau made them shoot in all weathers in order to capture “accidental” beauty), the director and cinematographer argued all the time, there were constant power cuts, their equipment was ancient or broken, the director and most of the cast came down with flu, and everyone was utterly exhausted.

And yet what that all resulted in, thanks to the sparkling brilliance of the director’s creative vision, is as memorable and unique a piece of cinema as you will ever see.

Cocteau was tortured during the making of the film by his inability to afford colour stock. Thank God he was strapped for cash - no modern director, despite an almost inconceivably vast array of technology at their disposal, could create anything remotely as beautiful as La Belle et la Bête.