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Even without the inclusion of Mozart’s name and a quote from Beaumarchais’s play “The Marriage of Figaro” in the credits, Jean Renoir’s 1939 film “The Rules of the Game” would still stand as the closest cinematic equivalent to a Mozart opera—specifically, his “Marriage of Figaro.” Similar to Mozart’s adaptation of Beaumarchais, Renoir’s film depicts intertwined romantic affairs among both the upper class and their servants, the intricate schemes employed to hide them, and the chaos that ensues when the reality is revealed. Like the opera, the film merges these varied moods and tones at a frenetic pace: slapstick humor and touching melodrama, elegant lyricism and raucous bravado, clever satire and harsh tragedy. (The film is enjoying a limited engagement at the Paris Theatre in a series titled “Punch Up: Uppercuts to the Upper Crust,” starting August 1st, following a 2021 restoration; it is also available for streaming on the Criterion Channel.)
However, labeling “The Rules of the Game” as Mozartean would be an understatement if one doesn’t grasp the full impact of Mozart’s opera: “The Marriage of Figaro” (like “Don Giovanni”) serves as a vehement condemnation of the predatory power of the aristocracy, exemplified by the crime of rape. Count Almaviva attempts to exert droit du seigneur over his wife’s maidservant, Susanna, who is engaged to his valet, Figaro. The couple collaborates to outsmart the Count, whose ultimate exposure leads to a broader unmasking—of a regime built on deceit, of oppression based on class and gender (with women of various standings facing harassment, betrayal, or deception), and of relationships distorted by submission or defiance against unjust authority.
In a similar vein, “The Rules of the Game” presents Renoir’s audaciously playful yet deeply passionate critique of the French society of his time, which he perceives as decaying under a social system designed to uphold various privileges. Renoir’s film also revolves around sexualized violence, though in a manner distinct from that in “Figaro.” Here, the powerful do not enact violence directly but quietly endorse it to maintain the hierarchy that sustains their privileges. Thus, “The Rules of the Game,” which premiered shortly before the onset of the Second World War, depicts an impending disaster, an authoritarian threat both internally and externally, and the sinister complicity of France’s privileged classes, both aristocratic and bourgeois, in the atrocities committed in their name and for their benefit.
Much like Mozart, Renoir’s vibrant effervescence provides a whimsical glimpse into a delightful hell on earth—and entices audiences with its allure. The narrative, inspired by Alfred de Musset’s play “The Caprices of Marianne” from 1833, is both complex and straightforward, with clear yet multifaceted relationships leading to complications through overlapping conflicts of personal desires and societal expectations. To summarize it is to be amazed at both Renoir’s narrative dexterity and his conceptual boldness in capturing the tumultuous storms of history within such romantic intricacies. A renowned young pilot, André Jurieux, is infatuated with a sophisticated Austrian émigré, Christine, who is wed to an aristocrat named Robert de la Cheyniest. Robert has a mistress, a Parisian socialite named Geneviève, but ends the affair, fearing he might lose Christine to André. He and Christine are hosting a weekend hunt, along with festivities, at their château in the Loire Valley; a mutual friend, a former musician named Octave, urges them to invite André, both to affirm the innocence of Christine’s friendship with him and to temper the young man’s reckless passion. Meanwhile, another narrative unfolds below stairs involving Christine’s maid, Lisette, who is married to Robert’s gamekeeper, Schumacher. Robert impulsively employs a poacher named Marceau, who is Schumacher’s rival, as a domestic servant; once in the château, Marceau openly pursues Lisette, inciting Schumacher’s violent jealousy.
The political dimensions of the film are embedded within its narrative and its notably tumultuous release history, which is meticulously chronicled by Pascal Mérigeau in his excellent biography of Renoir. Renoir created the film—his twenty-second and thirteenth talkie—independently, under his own production company, and it premiered on July 8, 1939, with a runtime of ninety-eight minutes. This version is now lost. After facing harsh reviews and disappointing box office performance, Renoir significantly edited the film while it was still in circulation, cutting eighteen minutes from it; subsequently, the original negative was destroyed during Allied bombings in World War II. However, in 1959, as noted by a title card in the 2021 restoration, Renoir took part in reconstructing the film from footage discovered in various locations. This version, currently being screened, closely resembles Renoir’s original, pre-release cut, now running at a hundred and seven minutes. The title card for the 1959 version, still visible in the 2021 restoration, states that while the film is “set on the eve of war,” its characters are purely “imaginary.” Of course, Renoir could only speculate about the impending war, a prediction that turned out to be alarmingly accurate. On September 1, 1939, Germany invaded Poland, and two days later, France declared war on Germany.
Nevertheless, the political implications of that seemingly innocuous 1959 statement regarding the film’s characters are striking. Why would Renoir downplay the film’s significance and insight? The reason lies in France’s efforts at the time to mend its wartime scars, smoothing over the fissures in the social fabric that had emerged during the German Occupation and portraying itself as a nation of resisters, where collaborators were few and aberrant. One method employed by France to achieve this was the censorship of films. When Alain Resnais released his Holocaust documentary “Night and Fog” in 1955, he was compelled to obscure an image of a French gendarme guarding a concentration camp. “The Rules of the Game” does not reference any political figures, yet it hints at the division underlying the Occupation and its atrocities: antisemitism.
Robert is a marquis, heir to an ancient noble title, who nonetheless possesses German Jewish ancestry, which draws the attention of other characters. His chauffeur arrogantly labels him a métèque, a pejorative term for an immigrant, while his chef, commenting that the discussion topic is specifically Jews, extols the Marquis’s culinary finesse, stating he’s a gentleman “even though he’s a métèque.”
Sourse: newyorker.com