Part Of The Picture: His and Hers

Posted on March 27, 2009

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Picture courtesy: allocine.fr

HIS AND HERS

MAR 28, 2009 – ABOUT AN HOUR INTO THIS DECIDEDLY ADULT (and decidedly Gallic) romance, Marthe (Marie-Christine Barrault) and Ludovic (Victor Lanoux) fall into bed, into each other’s arms. The physical consummation of a liaison that had its seed in a platonic friendship is, of course, not new to the movies, but what’s interesting is that Marthe and Ludovic are cousins by marriage. Besides, they’re both married to others. But adultery isn’t the point. Long before they made love, their respective spouses did – and awaiting the latter’s return from one such adulterous tryst, during a wedding, is how Marthe and Ludovic met. Cheerfully unmindful of such commonplace emotions as jealousy and hurt, they decide to pretend to be lovers, at first to simply see how their spouses will respond – but, eventually, the play-acting gives way to something very real.

After spending her first night away from the house she shares with her husband and son, Marthe plants a kiss on Ludovic’s lips and murmurs, “See you tomorrow.” She enters her home, where a sullen Pascal (Guy Marchand) lies in wait at the dining table, beside a near-empty bottle of wine. He stiffens as he hears the keys jiggle in the lock, ready to launch into an inquisition, but Marthe senses his intentions and silences him. “You shut up. One word and I’ll leave. You won’t see me again.” She begins to clear the table. He remains seated, but there’s too much frustration inside for so sedentary an action, and as he’s not allowed to speak, he directs his fury on a glass vase, which he sends crashing to the floor.

After that sullen tantrum, Pascal continues to act like a petulant child. The next morning, as Marthe prepares to leave for work, he announces from bed, from under sheets drawn up to his chin, “I’m not getting up.” Marthe says she needs to go. Pascal turns away and sulks, “I’m not leaving this bed.” Though she probably intuits the real reason, Marthe dutifully enquires, “Are you sick?” Pascal replies, “No, I want to stay here.” And as he’s behaving like an infant, Marthe decides to treat him like one. She refuses to acknowledge his attention-grabbing ruses. She sweeps out of the room, declaring, “Well, stay in bed. When you’ve had enough, you’ll get up.”

And he does. He idles about. He rummages through a drawer and extracts a revolver. He gets back into bed and smiles to himself – perhaps with the secret knowledge of what he intends to use the weapon for, or perhaps simply at the sinful indulgence of playing hooky from work. He discovers he has no cigarettes. He’s forced to step outside, when he runs into a female acquaintance. Predictably, they tumble into bed, but the results are far from satisfactory. As she silently begins to slip the rings back onto her fingers, Pascal begins to badger her, “Was it good or bad?” She replies, “It was alright.” He demands, “That’s all?” She mocks his childishness by assuming a baby voice. “Oh heavens, it was very good. You happy now?”

Ludovic’s wife Karine (Marie-France Pisier), on the other hand, handles her husband’s indiscretion with utmost maturity. She puts on a very pretty dress and informs him, “I’d like you to take me out tonight.” She leans forward and smiles, “I would like to relive our first date. Do you remember the restaurant? And the night club we went to?” Ludovic comments wryly, “What a pilgrimage…” Karine interrupts. “I’m not asking for a lot here. One night.” He complies. At the restaurant, Karine points to a table and remembers, “We sat over there.” That table, now, is occupied by a middle-aged couple, whose evening can hardly be termed romantic. The balding man is wolfing down his food, pausing just enough to exclaim through a full mouth, “Delicious.”

Karine soon transforms from amorous date to attentive wife. She declares she’s returning to work. “We can’t make ends meet with what you earn.” Ludovic is silent, his chin tucked in a palm whose fingers hold a smouldering cigarette. It’s a vacant expression of boredom, but Karine interprets it differently. “I’m not criticising,” she clarifies. “Don’t be upset.” And slowly, sneakily, she comes to the point. “I won’t bother you, you know. You’ll be able to live as you see fit. I just need to have you all to myself now and then.” And then she slips her mask back on. She laughs – a little too insistently. “You were so funny… You said that one morning I drank a bottle of vodka that I had won in a beauty contest.” Her voice drops. “You must admit that I’m quite pretty.” Karine isn’t sulking like a child, the way Pascal is, but that doesn’t mean she isn’t going to play her own little games.

Cousin, Cousine (1975, French). Directed by Jean Charles Tacchella. Starring Marie-Christine Barrault, Victor Lanoux, Marie-France Pisier, Guy Marchand.

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Posted in: Cinema: Foreign