The Passion of Joan of Arc through a Cubist Lens
Note: This is the hundred-and-forty-seventh in a series of historical/critical essays examining the best in film from each year. Essentially, I am watching films from the beginning of cinematic history that interest me and/or hold some critical or cultural impact. My personal, living list of favorites is being created at Mubi, showcasing five films per year. All this being explained, what follows is an examination of my second favorite 1928 film, THE PASSION OF JOAN OF ARC, directed by Carl Theodor Dreyer.
I am not an art expert. I don’t know if I can even really define, distinguish, or identify many specific art movements. And yet, somehow, I watch THE PASSION OF JOAN OF ARC and feel as if I’m in a spiritual, cubist manifestation, a thoroughly grounded yet out-of-this-world exploration of the incredible faith of a French woman, as created by a secular Danish filmmaker. THE PASSION OF JOAN OF ARC is a “film of contradictions.” That term, or ones like it, is used a lot. But truly, the film’s disparate, unconventional, even potentially distancing elements in fact pulled me in, creating an experience unlike most anything else put to screen.
An art movement that developed throughout the 1910s and ’20s, primarily in France, cubism is made up of three-dimensional representations, a subject or set of subjects being broken up into an array of…well, cubes. I said I wasn’t great defining, distinguishing, or identifying specific art movements. Nevertheless, cubism is like pornography: I know it when I see it. THE PASSION OF JOAN OF ARC, although sometimes described as explicitly avant-garde, isn’t quite in the filmmaking tradition of that specific reference. However, Dreyer’s fixation on close ups, as well as a convincing, restricted set, make the movie a far cry from, especially, the wealth of Joan of Arc films being produced at the same time.
Cubist portraits seem to reveal something otherworldly about their subjects, and Rudolph Maté’s cinematography does the same for his subjects. Stage actor Renée Jeanne Falconetti had appeared in one film 11 years prior, and THE PASSION OF JOAN OF ARC would only be her second and final film role. But she left behind one of the great silent film performances, at once sensitive, distraught, and yes, stronger than some see this portrayal of Joan. Dreyer’s treatment of the saint was very different from his peers. Instead of chronicling large battles, shining armor, and high drama, he covers just the trial of Joan, sourced directly from the published testimony. In so doing, he explores the psychology of Joan and the sociological and historical impact of her actions in greater emotional detail than ever before.
The refraction of spirituality through a healthy dose of objectivity defines THE PASSION OF JOAN OF ARC, contributing to my cubist connection. I should go back to that cinematography, which shockingly breaks the 180-degree rule that has defined filmic photography for most of its existence. This rule states, basically, that in any scene, characters should maintain a left-right relationship throughout. But Dreyer has this perspective shift numerous times within a scene, leading to a warped sense of space. Even further, THE PASSION OF JOAN OF ARC is edited with a large number of cuts, fragmenting the experience in the most artful way, as in cubism.
I have to wonder if this relation to cubism is appropriate. But when I experience the film, reside in its formal and emotional universe, I can’t help but feel wrapped in a fractured, revealing reality. And that’s how I feel when I look at the best the art movement has to offer. It may be a strange connection, but at the end of the day, THE PASSION OF JOAN OF ARC is a masterpiece regardless. Its beauty has been much chronicled, and this angle is my contribution.
