King Louis’ wig, the colour and texture of a foreboding storm cloud, rising high above his head in two opulent blooms, is a remarkable construction. On initial inspection it is a surreal exaggeration of wealth, status, royalty. A caricature drawing, emphasising the lunacy in life. As the film slowly grows, however, the wig becomes like the burden of mortality King Louis begins to comprehend, gradually coming into view. It is forever present, weighing heavily on his head, every so often a loose strand appearing in the corner of his eye, as a skulking reminder. The wig evolves into a character unto itself as the life drains from the face of the Roi Soleil.
Albert Serra’s film exists like a painting by Hyacinthe Rigaud come to life. Or, rather, one that came to life decades ago, its elegantly sculpted figures now long since bored of performing for the watching eyes of the public. It moves to its own grinding rhythm, and in the face of this perpetual time, finds significance in the most minute of moments – a small twitch on King Louis’ cheek, the fearful trepidation in voices of his advisors and doctors, each not wanting to be the one to declare that the King is, indeed, near his end. And, of course, there is the slow creep of disease climbing its way up his left leg.
The King is extraordinarily embodied by Jean-Pierre Léaud, once the darling of the French New Wave, the freeze frame of his young face at the end of Francois Truffaut’s debut film offering a stark juxtaposition here, as he comes to terms with not his place in the world, as in 400 Blows, but the void he will leave behind and the legacy he hopes will fill it. It is a monumental performance of subtlety. In the first half of the film he displays a childlike glee of the arrival of his beloved dogs, he ruminates on the promiscuity of a certain marquise, he scalds a valet for the temerity of bringing him water not contained in a crystal glass. In the second half, words no longer emanate from his lips, movement slowly escapes him, and his leg, and life, descends into blackness. A scene is wedged between these halves, the longest shot of the film, and the most powerful. It is the moment that he realises he will die. He sits upright in his bed and stares out into eternity just over our shoulder as operatic music begins to swell in the background. His eyes tell us everything. One eye is squinted, glaring, showing the steely determination one expects of the Roi Soleil. The other is open wide, glassy, innocent, and calling out for help. This one belongs to Louis, the man, desperately afraid of his looming finale. The duality is devastating.
There is humour here too. Earlier, a host of young girls invite the King along for a walk with them in the gardens of Versailles. He has to decline but offers to “salute” them to see them on their way. He asks his valet for “the hat” and after a moment that goes on for far too long, receives it and lifts it above his head. He then brings it back down to his side with a flick of his wrist. This sends the girls into raptures and everyone in the room breaks into applause with shouts of “Bravo!” As they do later when he manages to eat an entire biscuit, an absurdity that goes to undermine the grotesque nature of his royal cult of personality. His bumbling followers and advisors are akin to another mortality piece seen recently – that being Armando Iannucci’s The Death of Stalin. In both films, vital and pressing decisions are sieved through the incompetent filter of bureaucracy. Here, they spend the entire film unsuccessfully deciding which doctor deserves the right to diagnose the King, the same King whose chance of survival was earlier seen sloping into the abyss whilst they quarrelled about the psychology of love.
And so, King Louis XIV and his wig swap places. The canvas lays lifeless once more and he descends back to the state of a painting, still now, and forever destined to be seen that way. His wig, the dark cloud of mortality, remains.
By Joseph Gilson
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