Les Enfants Terribles (1950)

Richly textured frames and powerfully considered performances define Jean-Pierre Melville’s emotionally complex, and aptly titled Les Enfants Terribles. A considered examination of the depravity of youth mingled with the inexorable connection shared by siblings, Melville (by way of the writer who chose him to direct, Jean Cocteau) seeks to hypnotize, confound, and, above all, entertain his captivated audience.

A darkened figure, framed by the outstretched arms of barren trees, stands pensively atop a hill facing an apparent catafalque. As Vivaldi’s Concerto for Strings in A minor mournfully plays behind the opening credits, Melville draws his audience ever closer for the dramatic modern opera in which they are about to become entranced. Jean Cocteau has taken the job of narrating the film adaptation of his novel, and does so with a calm, unaffected demeanor. A blanket of snow covers the streets of Paris, inciting a snowball fight between groups of schoolboys. A chance shot from the beguilingly handsome Dargelos (Renée Cosima) strikes fellow classmate Paul (Edouard Dermithe) in his illness-weakened chest. Brought home to rest, Paul is forced to take a leave of absence from school, and stay home with his invalid mother, and bombastic sister, Elisabeth (Nicole Stéphane).

Melville and Cocteau put a tremendous amount of visual and anecdotal detail into the relationship between Paul and Elisabeth. While the reason for their peculiar closeness is left to assumption (an invalid mother and absent father would bring any siblings closer), there is little doubt to its nature. Both are incredibly loud, brash and, above all else, outspoken. Causing an increasingly humorous level of discomfort among friends (increasingly only because the audience, too, is thrown by their attitudes), Paul and Elisabeth’s arguments begin and end without the smallest warning. Cocteau speaks of their “treasure chest,” an eclectic mélange of worthless tokens that have been assigned symbolic meaning by the pair, as well as of their mind games, the purpose or tactics of which are never fully discussed. Melville expands upon Cocteau’s extensive groundwork to create a pair whose blind fury is rooted in love, and who, with a simple look or gesture from one to the other, can set off an explosion or instantly heal any wound.

Weeks of being bedridden with his sister have destroyed Paul’s motivation (if there ever was any), and all news of the outside comes from his best friend, Gerard (Jacques Bernard). When their mother passes, Elisabeth loses her primary function, and the two somehow get by on their charm and the charity it inspires in others. After a trip to the seaside, Elisabeth is inspired to become a clothing store model, where she meets Agathe (a duel role for Renée Cosima). When Paul becomes internally enamored with Agathe and her uncanny resemblance to Dargelos, Elisabeth explores her emotional boundaries, and marries a wealthy American. When Elisabeth’s husband dies suddenly, mere days after the wedding, the group is transplanted into a world of wealth and opulence that is secondary to Elisabeth and Paul’s desire for complete emotional control over one another.

Jean Cocteau outright rejects narrative platitudes; dodging audience expectations and refusing them a neatly-resolved story. Once Elisabeth inherits her late husband’s massive fortune, one might expect that she would, as a cold, seemingly sociopathic person, live the rest of her days in luxury. Instead, she takes on two “borders” and her brother who stay together in one room – using only one of eighteen in her palatial mansion. Depicted long before being remarked upon by the faithful narrator, Elisabeth prefers her ratty bathrobes to couture dresses. She does, however, begin a trend of wearing heels, as to not completely remain static. An extreme wealth at their fingertips, the siblings only become more restless and unhappy. The longer they stay in the mansion, the more Paul begins to reassemble the trappings of his childhood room, mustachioed bust and all. These “terrible children” do not care about wealth, fame, or power; they care about supremacy in the other’s eyes.

Melville’s capable direction sets an eerie mood for the film that permeates deeply into every other area of the picture. Characters locked in a stare becomes far more sinister than loving; light and airy Vivaldi pieces become foreboding and heavy; shadows become far more pronounced than light. Melville strives to make his audience uneasy with both the apparent sexual tension between brother and sister, and their consistently-manipulative demeanors. Through an uncanny grasp of camera technique and haunting cinematography (by Henri Decaë), Melville firmly controls the pacing and tone of his film. Early in the film, Melville uses a close lateral shot in the siblings’ bedroom while Elisabeth succumbs to Paul’s wishes to pull her bed nearer to his. Filming as if watching from behind the headboards, Melville demonstrates a tender moment with an oddly cold distance. Later in the film, long after jealousy and loneliness have reached their peaks, interactions between Paul and Elisabeth are shot to ensure the dominant one is noticeably larger in the frame; with a close, heavily-lit intensity that hints at the silent emotional rage that burns within. From the opening credits onward, Melville displays his talent for framing individual shots. High angles from the ceilings of the cavernous mansion, slatted lighting reminiscent of expressionism/noir, and individualized shot staging characterize a director comfortable with impactful storytelling, and with a considerable depth of knowledge. A singular shot of Elisabeth’s face as it is obscured by shadow, is nearly more affecting than any other (than I can remember) noir scene ever filmed.

An immensely profound and stirring narrative from Jean Cocteau coupled with the incontrovertible talents of Jean-Pierre Melville magnify audience immersion, while refusing to bend to audience inclination. Utterly unique and completely enthralling, Melville and Cocteau’s Les Enfants Terribles is an undeniable masterpiece that strikes a harmonious balance between narrative and artistry.