As superbly realized by Jacques Rivette,
Jeanne d’Arc is both a figure of immense psychological and historical
specificity, and a forerunner of the kind of behavioural mystery that populates
much of his great contemporary-set work. The mystery of how an illiterate young
woman could have acquired such vision and purpose is integral to her longevity
as a cinematic icon, and Rivette allows room for a range of readings and
responses; for example, she convinces the “Dauphin”, whom she aspires to restore
to the throne, of her legitimacy by privately revealing something to him that
(in his words) only God would know, but the film withholds the details of what
that actually consists of. Sandrine Bonnaire perfectly embodies Jeanne’s
stubborn fortitude, while also conveying her fragility and immaturity, her
feelings easily hurt by enemy insults, entirely believable when she says she
would rather have been at home sewing; the physical immediacy of her presence
channels that of the film around her - the climactic battle scene captures as
few others ever have the sheer smallness and intimacy of war at that time, the primitiveness
of the weapons and tools at hand, the physical closeness between adversaries, the
overwhelming fatigue. This vividness meshes with Rivette’s recurring interest
in theatre and performance, with Jeanne clearly aware of herself as a
projection, styled and dressed to fit the desired image, keenly aware of the power
of symbolism in forging reality (such as her insistence in using that term “Dauphin”
until the circumstances justify its replacement by “King.”) For all its
seriousness though, the film isn’t without a streak of deadpan socially-based
comedy, particularly in the varied reactions of the male soldiers to the
impassioned female in their midst (she instructs one of them in toning down what
she sees as his overly colourful use of expletives).
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