Video Review
The Death of Louis XIV
Directed by Albert Serra
By Noel Vera
ALBERT SERRA鈥橲 The Death of Louis XIV shares at first glance the same status as most living royalty in this more presidential, more prime-ministerial world: it feels oddly anachronistic; it appears to hold little relevance to our lives; and very little is said or actually happens in its relatively brief and quiet reign, beyond the eponymous event. It鈥檚 also to my mind one of the most gorgeous-looking 鈥 and funniest 鈥 films I鈥檝e seen all year.
Serra鈥檚 concept, far as I can make it out, is to give us literally what the title says: the king鈥檚 death, depicted in close and painful detail. Doctors worry over marks on the king鈥檚 foot (he has gangrene, and they wonder if they should cut), ply him with jellies and fruits. At one point a charlatan coaxes him into taking down an 鈥渆lixir鈥 made out of bull鈥檚 sperm, bull鈥檚 blood, and frog fat (ate my share of bizarre foods and even I would hesitate). At another, the doctors massage the foot with leaves, twigs, and what looks like chopped mushrooms and whole garlic cloves 鈥 I鈥檓 reminded of a porchetta roast, trussed and thoroughly rubbed prior to putting in the oven.
The real drama swirls around the film鈥檚 still, silent center: the royal doctor Fagon (Patrick d鈥橝ssumcao) argues with chief valet Blouin (Marc Susini) on whether to let either the dogs or the birds near the king (the doctor prefers the dogs; Blouin is for the birds); Blouin wants to bring in a doctor from Marseilles named Le Brun (Vincenc Altaio) and Fagon is skeptical (turns out Le Brun is more poet than physician: 鈥淲hat is love? Love is pain… love manifests itself because the picture of the beloved remains blocked between the eyes.鈥) The infighting and squabbles are endless if hushed: folks constantly seek influence and favor while trying to tiptoe round the elephant wheezing in the room.
As said elephant Jean-Pierre Leaud 鈥 wrote 鈥淎ntoine Doinel鈥 before I caught myself, but that鈥檚 how indelible Leaud鈥檚 work has been to the French New Wave: you see his face and the first word to pop in mind might be the name of his first and most famous lead role, as Francois Truffaut鈥檚 autobiographical double in The 400 Blows. He鈥檚 worked for other filmmakers since: Jean Luc Godard, Jean Eustache, Jacques Rivette, Agnes Varda, Aki Kaurismaki, Tsai Ming Liang among many others; as far as film lovers go he鈥檚 cinematic royalty and hence the choice to play French royalty.
Leaud cleverly underplays his Louis XIV as a man constantly exhausted by the least exertion; the one scene where we see him outside (the gardens of Versailles?) he鈥檚 being pushed on a wheelchair; when asked to join in a party he has to beg off and 鈥 as a gesture to their affection 鈥 asks for a hat to put on and doff them with. It鈥檚 a sly performance made up of a hundred little gestures, suggesting a ruler crippled by infirmity who still has his mind and 鈥 more importantly 鈥 his sense of humor. All the better to show how precipitous his fall when attacked by fever and then gangrene 鈥 the gestures ceased, the softspoken quips replaced by equally softspoken groans, the elegant expressiveness of the face congealed into a waxen mask.
Funny? Why, yes, yes I think it is, horrifyingly so: one look at that gargantuan wig on Louis鈥檚 head 鈥 as if a giant poodle decided to squat on his skull 鈥 and I can鈥檛 help but chuckle. The solemn process of attending to the death of a long-reigning ruler is stuffed full of absurdities, from a crowd of loyalists applauding Louis鈥檚 sucking on a spoonful of softboiled egg (鈥淚t鈥檚 wonderful Sire to see you have your appetite back鈥) to the royal physician holding up the royal large intestines like a chain of sausages and noting they are twice their normal size. The most affairs of state Louis manages to accomplish onscreen is to attend one council meeting (left undepicted) and to dismiss the issue of fortifications submitted by the Duke of York, presumably due to lack of funds 鈥 otherwise it鈥檚 all pain and sips of water and whether or not to cut off the steadily blackening leg. Democracy is hugely problematic till you realize that a form of government where the supreme leader has ruled for so long he can barely move his bowels, much less apply his brains, ain鈥檛 such a great system either.
Serra鈥檚 visual style avoids the Baroque opulence of the young Louis and opts for the more austere trappings of the late Louis 鈥 just a handful of richly red silks and velvets, and a pillow elaborately embroidered to lean on; the only real extravagance, and it鈥檚 admittedly a whopper, is the monumentally ridiculous wig (even in the king鈥檚 agonizing last moments it鈥檚 hard to repress a giggle). Serra indulges us by spending brief minutes outside (though carefully manicured hedges restrict our view of the horizon and dense tree branches cut off much of the sky) but soon moves indoors where the sense of claustrophobia becomes near unbearable 鈥 with Jonathan Ricquebourg as cinematographer, Serra takes his cue less from the official artwork of the period (Charles Le Brun, Adam Frans van der Meulen) than from the earlier smoky glass shadowiness of mature Rembrandt. After a while you may find it difficult to breathe.
In a way the film can鈥檛 help but be more relevant in 2017 than when first screened in Cannes 2016; watching it one can鈥檛 help but draw parallels with the present royalty sitting in the White House 鈥 the narcissism, the outsized ego, the way courtiers swirl around the sickly monster jockeying for position. Difference being Louis was well aware of the limits of his power and of the mistakes he made (onscreen at least we have a scene where the king briefs his grandson, Louis XV, on what to do or not do) while present king of the United States doesn鈥檛 seem to have a clue. Louis鈥檚 history can be instructive 鈥 he raised France to cultural and political glory but squandered much of the country鈥檚 wealth on building projects and foreign wars. The present king of the White House should really take heed, if he鈥檚 capable of heeding anything.
The movie is available on Google Play and Youtube paid online service.
