Maitresse

Parisian director Barbet Schroeder was born in Teheran, Iran, in 1941, wrote for the famous film journal, Cahiers du Cinema, worked on films with Jean-Luc Godard and Eric Rohmer, ran a production company that released films by such directors as Rainer Werner Fassbinder and Wim Wenders, started directing films in 1969, found success in the U.S. with such films as Barfly (1987) and Single White Female (1992), and can be seen in acting cameos for a handful of films, including studio fare like Beverly Hills Cop III (1994) and Mars Attacks! (1996). Before anyone draws the wrong conclusion based on the trajectory of films just mentioned, it should be emphasized that Schroeder has not defected to Hollywood. His last film, Our Lady of the Assassins (2000), a feature shot on High Definition video and set in Colombia, did not pander to any commercial interests and certainly did not compromise itself in any way. And it is exactly these qualities that bring us to the recent Criterion dvd release of Schroeder's third directorial effort; Maitresse (1973). In this film, Schroeder tackles the world of sado-masochism and bondage with an unflinching eye for authenticity. It was a conscious move by the director that kept Maitresse from achieving a wide commercial run but that guaranteed it a place of honor amongst the dominatrix set and filmgoers who, looking beyond various graphic unpleasantries, appreciated the stories candor and, more importantly, what it had to say about relationships. Maitresse stars a young, 27-year-old Gerard Depardieu as Olivier, and if not for production delays it would have been his first contracted feature. Bulle Ogier, the busy actress who worked with Schroeder on other films (and was also a good friend), takes command of the central role as Ariane, a dominatrix that divides her time between a swank apartment and an elaborate dungeon where clients pay a lot of money to have their S&M fantasies realized. Olivier stumbles across Ariane's situation by chance and is seduced by her charms. Ariane, on the other hand, is used to being in control and is amused by Olivier's gruff attempts at taking charge. Just as Ariane's physical world is split between a nice upstairs apartment and a secret downstairs liar devoted to other people's fantasies, her own personality is split between obsessively being in control and then, conversely, feeling trapped in a situation that is out of her control. Even Olivier seems to have a hard time figuring out when he is calling the shots or simply being played the fool, thus bringing to the forefront the main mechanism behind S&M, that of dominance and submission, but with two protagonists who alternate the roles as they search for a balance. Because Schroeder wanted to be faithful to the subject of S&M, he had "professionals" onhand as both cast and crew and does not shy away from showing some very real and graphic scenes that are guaranteed to make squeamish viewers wriggle in their seats. The bid for authenticity informs Maitresse to such an extent that Schroeder ended up molding Olivier's personality as close as possible to Depardieu's own real and offscreen persona. On the brief interview included on the dvd, Schroeder reveals how he decided to use actual footage of a horse being slaughtered because Depardieu had worked in such a place and the actor even got him access to film there. Schroeder admits that it's a scene the French, no strangers to horsemeat, find less disturbing than other audiences and, either way, viewer-be-warned, its visceral impact has lost none of its clout in over thirty years. Criterion's dvd release of Maitresse looks great, presents the film in its original 1.66:1 aspect ratio and includes a 15 minute interview with Barbet Schroeder conducted at his home in New York City in 2002 that is divided into six topics ("Beginnings," "Other People's Madness," "Depardieu," "The Proper Distance: Shooting Maitresse," "Cult Status," and "perfect Sexual Harmony"). For more information about Maitresse, visit Criterion Collection. To order Maitresse, go to TCM Shopping. by Pablo Kjolseth