- from Madmoiselle (dir. Tony Richardson, 1966)
Sometimes women seem to me like pressure cookers in the softest flesh, sweat and steam on their upper lips, mouth damp and open. Hot breath, and a fixed gaze. It’s almost always sex that’s nestling in the frown lines and forehead wrinkles, and its certainly more complicated than that. There are the villagers, of course, her reputation to maintain, and an example for the children. Animals seem to bear the brunt of her firebrand- poison, arson, flood waters and the sticky yolk of robin’s eggs slick between fingers clawed in sociopathy.
This movie is about Jeanne Moreau’s face. And she has a perfect face. She’s a blue flame in black lace, crawling in the mud and whining like a bitch for dripping, bloody steak. It’s her posture and her eyes and her terrifying smile. Mona Lisa with a hatchet hidden behind her back, Carlotta’s necklace, glass in your pockets. Her face to me is total war, the slash and burn of heavy need. That which she feels, and that which she inspires.
