3.5 stars. Rated R, for nudity and sexuality
By Derrick Bang
Dick Francis’ fans were astonished to discover, in late 1999, that all the novels by the former champion jockey-turned-thriller author had received “substantial input” from his wife, Mary.
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| When Sidonie-Gabrielle Colette (Keira Knightley) balks at her husband's demand that she "ghost" another novel that he can publish under his own name, he locks her in the study until she begins to produce. |
Depending on opinion, said input ranged from research and editing to full-on ghost-writing. I favor the latter theory: Francis’ lone solo effort following Mary’s death on September 9, 2000 — 2006’s Under Orders — was substantially weaker than all that had come before. No surprise, then, that his final four books were collaborations with his son, Felix.
I’ve often thought about Mary Francis, working in absolute secrecy on 38 novels and a baker’s dozen of short stories, over a period of almost four decades. Did she regret being absent from the spotlight that so illuminated her famous husband? Was she amused to know the truth?
Such thoughts resonated anew while watching director/co-scripter Wash Westmoreland’s biographical depiction of Sidonie-Gabrielle Colette, the French novelist known solely by her last name. Her most popular novel, 1944’s Gigi, was made into a French film five years later, and transformed into a 1951 stage production starring newcomer Audrey Hepburn — chosen by Colette herself — and then, of course, the Academy Award-winning 1958 Hollywood musical with Leslie Caron.
But all that came much, much later. Westmoreland’s film — co-scripted by Richard Glatzer and Rebecca Lenkiewicz — focuses on the roughly two decades Colette was married to Henry Gauthier-Villars, during which time she produced her first four novels … all of which were published under her husband’s name.
And therein lies the tale.
Colette depicts the creation of the young author as her own entity and (more or less) emancipated woman, although it could be argued that Westmoreland is equally obsessed with her budding bisexuality. The film’s second half spends considerable time with enthusiastic bedroom coupling and Colette’s blossoming relationship with the scandalously “butch” Mathilde de Morny, Marquise de Belbeuf, affectionately known as “Missy.”
(In the press notes, Westmoreland waxes enthusiastically about his “progressive casting philosophy” of hiring trans actors for cisgender roles. Methinks his focus is a bit skewed.)
Even so, we never lose sight of the growing degree to which Colette wishes to control her own literary destiny, and free herself from the invisibility of uncredited authorship.
In this regard — actually, in all respects — the film’s strongest asset is the gifted starring performance by Keira Knightley. She smoothly navigates the transition from naïve country girl to an accomplished sophisticate wholly at ease among the snooty, avant-garde intellectuals with whom her husband socialized.
At first blush, Knightley’s Sidonie-Gabrielle radiates the undiluted joy of a humble young woman in love with the very notion of love, and giddy with the delight of having bagged such a worldly and famous husband. But she’s too smart to waft through that fantasy for long; like a Jane Austen heroine, Sidonie-Gabrielle quickly discovers the drawbacks of being married to a chronic alcoholic, gambler and womanizer.
Lesser spirits would surrender or flee; Knightley’s shrewd, narrow-eyed gaze signals a different path. She’ll participate.
Because, as she eventually realizes, her husband is a weak man. Social convention, legal formalities and his own fame may give him a public advantage, but behind closed doors he’s not such a much.
Indeed, as portrayed by Dominic West, Henry Gauthier-Villars — known to his adoring public as the fin de siècle writer and music critic whose work always appeared under the nom-de-plume “Willy” — is an appallingly self-centered horse’s ass. He’s also a fraud, whose essays and bon motsare farmed out to younger ghosts; they do most of the work, and he basks in the glory. (It must be mentioned that West is the spitting image of the actual Gauthier-Villars, down to the mustache, beard and generous waistline.)
West successfully navigates treacherous waters. Although Willy is a boorish, demanding, unrepentant cad, West grants him rambunctious confidence and charm; the man is hard to resist, even when his temper flares. And — most important — it’s obvious that Willy and Sidonie-Gabrielle love each other, even as he increasingly disappoints and annoys her.
That said, Westmoreland and his co-scripters needed to work harder on some of Willy’s dialog (rather ironic, in a film about writers). The first time Sidonie-Gabrielle catches Willy with a prostitute, he blathers defensively about “man being the weaker sex” and all manner of other protestations. West can’t begin to sell those clunky lines — which sound much too 21st century — or some of the equally tin-eared stuff that follows Willy throughout the film.
Unlike Knightley’s Colette, he becomes more caricature than character.
Moving on…
Shortly after they marry, Sidonie-Gabrielle begins ghosting her husband’s correspondence. Her efforts impress him; when he decides to “write” a novel, remembering some of the enchanting stories she shared about her country schoolgirl days, he assigns her the task. “Four hours a day,” he insists, and she’ll soon have a book.
She embraces the task enthusiastically, producing what ultimately is titled Claudine à l’école, about a feisty, savvy young woman: essentially one of the first literary incarnations of the modern teenager. (In an odd directorial touch — here and later — when we watch her write, Knightley’s English voiceover narration is at bizarre odds with the French sentences being penned.)
Although Willy initially dismisses the novel as “too feminine,” financial hardship eventually prompts him to publish it in 1900 — under his name — and it quickly becomes the most popular book in all of France. In a droll example of early cross-promotional merchandising, it also inspires Claudine soap, perfume, cigarettes and all manner of other purchasable items.
Willy allows his wife to be acknowledged as the book’s “inspiration,” and she embraces Colette as her new “public name.” They become a celebrity couple: the toast of the Belle Époque. She basks in the attention, assuming it’ll be a one-off experience, and particularly enjoys satisfying her interest in other women. Which Willy encourages.
But, inevitably, Willy demands another novel … at which point Colette begins to balk. She eventually consents, if reluctantly, and even allows him to remake her appearance — including trimming her gorgeously long hair — into the “look” of Claudine (shades of Hitchcock’s Vertigo). And when the books prompt the creation of a stage play, its star — Polaire (Aiysha Hart) — looks so similar, that they become a celebrity threesome.
At which point, both Willy and Colette embrace an impressively unrestricted open marriage. (One wonders how nobody got pregnant, and how everybody avoided syphilis.)
Eleanor Tomlinson is appropriately saucy as displaced Southern belle Georgie Raoul-Duval, who briefly catches their fancy and prompts Colette’s third novel, 1902’s Claudine en ménage. Denise Gough, in turn, is fascinating as the non-conformist Missy, whose bravery in public — and quiet encouragement — embolden Colette to challenge Willy for control of her own creative voice.
Colette’s growing self-assurance is conveyed persuasively via Knightley’s performance; she knows how to work her energetic double-takes and a challenging, slightly open-mouthed, half-askance look that connotes, far louder than words, “Are you kidding?”
Production designer Michael Carlin does wonders with his re-creation of rural France and Paris in, respectively, England’s Northamptonshire and Oxfordshire, and (of all places) Hungary’s Budapest. Andrea Flesch’s costume design is superb, enhancing the narrative as Colette transforms from simple country girl, to the fashionable wife of a Parisian gentleman, to the gender-blending, black-and-white outfits that eventually became her signature.
Thomas Adès’ orchestral score is uneven: at times appropriately gentle and understated, but at other moments needlessly bombastic and melodramatic. I kept thinking how much better Dario Marianelli would have done.
And that’s the problem. The accomplished highlights notwithstanding — Knightley’s performance in particular — Westmoreland’s film is less than the sum of its parts. It starts too slowly, loses focus in the middle act, and abruptly stops just as Colette’s life is about to get really interesting. Final text blocks merely whet our appetite for events we don’t get to experience.
Sidonie-Gabrielle Colette’s life deserves much more ambitious treatment, likely in a miniseries format. Colette piques our curiosity, and then leaves us hanging.
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