Roman Polanski has adapted the
David Ives play Venus in Fur, which is
itself based on a novella by the
Austrian author Leopold von Sacher-
Masoch. It is from Leo’s predilections
that the word ‘masochism’ derives: his
story concerns a man who gleans
sexual pleasure by posing as the
servant of Vanda, the woman he
idolises.
Polanski’s film takes place entirely
inside a theatre where auditions for a
stage version of Sacher-Masoch’s tale
are being held. The playwright,
Thomas (Mathieu Amalric), has
decided to direct his own script, and
as the film begins, he is lamenting the
lack of suitable actresses for the
Vanda role. “I need a sexy young
woman with classical training and a
scrap of brain in her skull,” he fumes.
At that moment, an actress blows in
through the door, although she is not
the erudite gamine of Thomas’s
casting-call fantasies. She is in her
mid-40s; a blur of blonde hair, boobs
and blue eyeshadow; and she seems
to have only the vaguest idea as to
what the text is about. Her name,
oddly enough, is Vanda, and she is
played by Emmanuelle Seigner,
Polanski’s wife. Vanda stands there,
hand planted on fleshy hip, and cuts
Thomas’s artistic ambitions down to
size. “It’s S&M porn,” she shrugs. “I
know my sadomasochism. I work in
the theatre.”
Thomas reluctantly allows her to
audition, and as the pair read through
the script, the power balance between
them flips and skews along with the
unfolding on-stage drama. Amalric is,
quite obviously, made up to look like a
young Polanski of The Tenant vintage
or thereabouts; Seigner’s character
might represent almost any actress
whom he has ever turned down for a
part.
At first, Polanski openly goads us into
thinking Seigner is too old for her
role, as well as her role-within-a-role –
but her character soon takes control
of the theatre’s lighting desk, and
when she dims the spots and throws
seductive shadows across the
makeshift set, she becomes
progressively more gorgeous and
goddess-like.
Ives’ play was first staged only three
years ago, but the film’s sexual politics
already feel dated compared to its
bolder rivals in the competition
strand: it has none of the footloose
euphoria of Abdellatif Kechiche’s Blue
is the Warmest Colour, or the teasing
transgressions of François Ozon’s
Young & Beautiful. Better, perhaps, to
consider it in the context of Polanski’s
own recent work; particularly his
adaptation of the Yasmina Reza play
God of Carnage, which this film readily
outmanouevres.
Essentially, this is a simple S&M story
– I’m definitely with Vanda on this –
and so the line between truth and
performance is where its most electric
drama takes place. Polanski muddles
that boundary with aplomb: there is a
lovely sequence in which Thomas
serves Vanda an imaginary cup of
stage-coffee, and we hear the splash
of invisible liquid as it hits the bottom
of a non-existent cup.
This is a fun piece of play-acting for as
long as it lasts, but it never quite feels
like much more. Things may become
kinky in front of the lens, but you can
sense Polanski lurking behind it
throughout, always ready with his
safe-word. Cut![b]Roman Polanski has adapted the
David Ives play Venus in Fur, which is
itself based on a novella by the
Austrian author Leopold von Sacher-
Masoch. It is from Leo’s predilections
that the word ‘masochism’ derives: his
story concerns a man who gleans
sexual pleasure by posing as the
servant of Vanda, the woman he
idolises.
Polanski’s film takes place entirely
inside a theatre where auditions for a
stage version of Sacher-Masoch’s tale
are being held. The playwright,
Thomas (Mathieu Amalric), has
decided to direct his own script, and
as the film begins, he is lamenting the
lack of suitable actresses for the
Vanda role. “I need a sexy young
woman with classical training and a
scrap of brain in her skull,” he fumes.
At that moment, an actress blows in
through the door, although she is not
the erudite gamine of Thomas’s
casting-call fantasies. She is in her
mid-40s; a blur of blonde hair, boobs
and blue eyeshadow; and she seems
to have only the vaguest idea as to
what the text is about. Her name,
oddly enough, is Vanda, and she is
played by Emmanuelle Seigner,
Polanski’s wife. Vanda stands there,
hand planted on fleshy hip, and cuts
Thomas’s artistic ambitions down to
size. “It’s S&M porn,” she shrugs. “I
know my sadomasochism. I work in
the theatre.”
Thomas reluctantly allows her to
audition, and as the pair read through
the script, the power balance between
them flips and skews along with the
unfolding on-stage drama. Amalric is,
quite obviously, made up to look like a
young Polanski of The Tenant vintage
or thereabouts; Seigner’s character
might represent almost any actress
whom he has ever turned down for a
part.
At first, Polanski openly goads us into
thinking Seigner is too old for her
role, as well as her role-within-a-role –
but her character soon takes control
of the theatre’s lighting desk, and
when she dims the spots and throws
seductive shadows across the
makeshift set, she becomes
progressively more gorgeous and
goddess-like.
Ives’ play was first staged only three
years ago, but the film’s sexual politics
already feel dated compared to its
bolder rivals in the competition
strand: it has none of the footloose
euphoria of Abdellatif Kechiche’s Blue
is the Warmest Colour, or the teasing
transgressions of François Ozon’s
Young & Beautiful. Better, perhaps, to
consider it in the context of Polanski’s
own recent work; particularly his
adaptation of the Yasmina Reza play
God of Carnage, which this film readily
outmanouevres.
Essentially, this is a simple S&M story
– I’m definitely with Vanda on this –
and so the line between truth and
performance is where its most electric
drama takes place. Polanski muddles
that boundary with aplomb: there is a
lovely sequence in which Thomas
serves Vanda an imaginary cup of
stage-coffee, and we hear the splash
of invisible liquid as it hits the bottom
of a non-existent cup.
This is a fun piece of play-acting for as
long as it lasts, but it never quite feels
like much more. Things may become
kinky in front of the lens, but you can
sense Polanski lurking behind it
throughout, always ready with his
safe-word. Cut![/b]Roman Polanski has adapted the
David Ives play Venus in Fur, which is
itself based on a novella by the
Austrian author Leopold von Sacher-
Masoch. It is from Leo’s predilections
that the word ‘masochism’ derives: his
story concerns a man who gleans
sexual pleasure by posing as the
servant of Vanda, the woman he
idolises.
Polanski’s film takes place entirely
inside a theatre where auditions for a
stage version of Sacher-Masoch’s tale
are being held. The playwright,
Thomas (Mathieu Amalric), has
decided to direct his own script, and
as the film begins, he is lamenting the
lack of suitable actresses for the
Vanda role. “I need a sexy young
woman with classical training and a
scrap of brain in her skull,” he fumes.
At that moment, an actress blows in
through the door, although she is not
the erudite gamine of Thomas’s
casting-call fantasies. She is in her
mid-40s; a blur of blonde hair, boobs
and blue eyeshadow; and she seems
to have only the vaguest idea as to
what the text is about. Her name,
oddly enough, is Vanda, and she is
played by Emmanuelle Seigner,
Polanski’s wife. Vanda stands there,
hand planted on fleshy hip, and cuts
Thomas’s artistic ambitions down to
size. “It’s S&M porn,” she shrugs. “I
know my sadomasochism. I work in
the theatre.”
Thomas reluctantly allows her to
audition, and as the pair read through
the script, the power balance between
them flips and skews along with the
unfolding on-stage drama. Amalric is,
quite obviously, made up to look like a
young Polanski of The Tenant vintage
or thereabouts; Seigner’s character
might represent almost any actress
whom he has ever turned down for a
part.
At first, Polanski openly goads us into
thinking Seigner is too old for her
role, as well as her role-within-a-role –
but her character soon takes control
of the theatre’s lighting desk, and
when she dims the spots and throws
seductive shadows across the
makeshift set, she becomes
progressively more gorgeous and
goddess-like.
Ives’ play was first staged only three
years ago, but the film’s sexual politics
already feel dated compared to its
bolder rivals in the competition
strand: it has none of the footloose
euphoria of Abdellatif Kechiche’s Blue
is the Warmest Colour, or the teasing
transgressions of François Ozon’s
Young & Beautiful. Better, perhaps, to
consider it in the context of Polanski’s
own recent work; particularly his
adaptation of the Yasmina Reza play
God of Carnage, which this film readily
outmanouevres.
Essentially, this is a simple S&M story
– I’m definitely with Vanda on this –
and so the line between truth and
performance is where its most electric
drama takes place. Polanski muddles
that boundary with aplomb: there is a
lovely sequence in which Thomas
serves Vanda an imaginary cup of
stage-coffee, and we hear the splash
of invisible liquid as it hits the bottom
of a non-existent cup.
This is a fun piece of play-acting for as
long as it lasts, but it never quite feels
like much more. Things may become
kinky in front of the lens, but you can
sense Polanski lurking behind it
throughout, always ready with his
safe-word. Cut!