Marie Antoinette
The problem of leisure: what to do for pleasure?
About three-quarters of the way into Sofia Coppola’s exploration of France’s pre-Napoleonic monarchy, I finally got some idea of what Coppola was after. Boy, was I relieved. To that point, all I seemed to be seeing on the screen was an extremely languorous tour of French cuisine and fashion at the height of pre-revolution excess.
The 1979 Gang of Four song that runs under the opening credits (“Natural’s Not In It”) sets the thematic tone. From the moment that teenage Austrian duchess Marie Antoinette is sent by her mother to wed France’s dauphin Louis XVI, she is forced to leave everything behind—literally, including her undergarments and pet pug—and enter a totally foreign world of material pleasure. It’s not that “the problem of leisure” was so different in Austria; she was just used to the rhythms and customs there.
The first quarter of the movie, which Coppola paces with the same lingering scenes that characterized Lost in Translation (there so expressive of Bob Harris’ ennui), is essentially a Marie-out-of water story. She must familiarize herself with courtiers whose rank grants them privilege in dressing the dauphine-to-be, with an inexperienced husband who doesn’t know how to make children, and with customs that prevent her from being her free-spirited self.
The second quarter then illustrates how, as Marie settles into a groove and Louis accedes to the throne, life becomes comfortable—very, very, very comfortable—and the issue of “what to do for pleasure” becomes pretty much settled. She buys shoes, shoes, shoes. She drinks champagne, and lots of it. She parties into the not-so-wee hours of the morning. Louis finally learns the ins and outs of love-making. The couple has children.
Then, rather surprisingly, the movie’s third quarter takes an odd turn in to Marie’s pastoral phase. Louis builds her a country chateau where she can retreat from court life with her friends and children. Here, Marie learns how to walk among the flowers, to cuddle sheep, to embrace nature in the same leisurely, pleasurable way that she enjoyed the excesses of the French royal court. She reads Rousseau. She also learns to really enjoy sex, courtesy of a Swedish officer home from assisting the war effort in America.
And here, I finally caught what appears to be Coppola’s message. And “natural” is definitely in it.
It was certainly easy for France’s revolutionaries to behead royalty who indulged their excesses while the populace couldn’t even afford bread. It’s also easy for me, as a critic, to watch the greater part of Coppola’s film and squirm at the excesses portrayed. I even found myself asking, “Is it justifiable to waste so much food just to make a statement about waste and excess?”
But waste is not Coppola’s point. Instead, she illustrates that Marie Antoinette’s lifestyle was as natural to her—and no more excessive—than a sheep’s luxuriant meal of wildflowers, or a bumblebee’s wallow in a blossom’s pollen. Do we criticize a lamb for being a lamb, or a bee for being a bee?
And from there, Marie herself even seems to learn the lesson—and to accept that she doesn’t need to revel and glory quite so much in her own naturalness. Unfortunately, the final quarter of the film, in its relative rush toward the inevitable historic conclusion of Marie’s tale, seems completely out of step with the rest of the movie. And to be honest, I didn’t even care for the style or pacing of the first three quarters.
But in the spirit of the film’s point, I certainly won’t criticize Coppola for merely being Coppola. I think a lot of audiences will probably enjoy the vast majority of this film—and Kirsten Dunst’s winning performance as Antoinette—a great deal.
Nonetheless, the closing sequences simply do not work, as interesting as Coppola’s point may be. At least two times too many, the script calls for scenes to transition with a courtier or advisor rushing in to breathlessly declare, “Your majesty!” It’s the narrative equivalent of a repeated bonk on the noggin to move the hero from one thinly-plotted three-page chapter to the next.
Coppola will also likely be criticized for her anachronistic use of post-punk tracks throughout the film. Much, indeed, has been made about this aspect of the film in advance press coverage. In the final cut of the film, at the very least, Coppola’s choices in this regard are neither overdone nor excessive.
In fact, given Coppola’s very carefully chosen songs and visual references to the punk era, Marie Antoinette comes off as a very wise and observant commentary on punk’s valid (if equally self-indulgent) critique of Western capitalist materialism—all the while studiously avoiding the relatively irrelevant political complications of both 18th century France and 21st century America. “This heaven gives me migraines,” indeed.
It’s just too bad that I don’t connect with Coppola’s storytelling style. It bores me terribly. And I really wish that she had found a better way to conclude—or truncate—Marie’s story after bringing it to a head.
Marie Antoinette is rated PG-13 for “sexual content, partial nudity and innuendo.” While I don’t quibble with the MPAA’s rating or reasoning in this case, it does illustrate a bit of a double standard. To consider the sexual content and innuendo of this film the rough equivalent of Ace Ventura: When Nature Calls is patently absurd. Here, nothing is gratuitous and all is tastefully handled, particularly given the subject matter.
About three-quarters of the way into Sofia Coppola’s exploration of France’s pre-Napoleonic monarchy, I finally got some idea of what Coppola was after. Boy, was I relieved. To that point, all I seemed to be seeing on the screen was an extremely languorous tour of French cuisine and fashion at the height of pre-revolution excess.
The 1979 Gang of Four song that runs under the opening credits (“Natural’s Not In It”) sets the thematic tone. From the moment that teenage Austrian duchess Marie Antoinette is sent by her mother to wed France’s dauphin Louis XVI, she is forced to leave everything behind—literally, including her undergarments and pet pug—and enter a totally foreign world of material pleasure. It’s not that “the problem of leisure” was so different in Austria; she was just used to the rhythms and customs there.
The first quarter of the movie, which Coppola paces with the same lingering scenes that characterized Lost in Translation (there so expressive of Bob Harris’ ennui), is essentially a Marie-out-of water story. She must familiarize herself with courtiers whose rank grants them privilege in dressing the dauphine-to-be, with an inexperienced husband who doesn’t know how to make children, and with customs that prevent her from being her free-spirited self.
The second quarter then illustrates how, as Marie settles into a groove and Louis accedes to the throne, life becomes comfortable—very, very, very comfortable—and the issue of “what to do for pleasure” becomes pretty much settled. She buys shoes, shoes, shoes. She drinks champagne, and lots of it. She parties into the not-so-wee hours of the morning. Louis finally learns the ins and outs of love-making. The couple has children.
Then, rather surprisingly, the movie’s third quarter takes an odd turn in to Marie’s pastoral phase. Louis builds her a country chateau where she can retreat from court life with her friends and children. Here, Marie learns how to walk among the flowers, to cuddle sheep, to embrace nature in the same leisurely, pleasurable way that she enjoyed the excesses of the French royal court. She reads Rousseau. She also learns to really enjoy sex, courtesy of a Swedish officer home from assisting the war effort in America.
And here, I finally caught what appears to be Coppola’s message. And “natural” is definitely in it.
It was certainly easy for France’s revolutionaries to behead royalty who indulged their excesses while the populace couldn’t even afford bread. It’s also easy for me, as a critic, to watch the greater part of Coppola’s film and squirm at the excesses portrayed. I even found myself asking, “Is it justifiable to waste so much food just to make a statement about waste and excess?”
But waste is not Coppola’s point. Instead, she illustrates that Marie Antoinette’s lifestyle was as natural to her—and no more excessive—than a sheep’s luxuriant meal of wildflowers, or a bumblebee’s wallow in a blossom’s pollen. Do we criticize a lamb for being a lamb, or a bee for being a bee?
And from there, Marie herself even seems to learn the lesson—and to accept that she doesn’t need to revel and glory quite so much in her own naturalness. Unfortunately, the final quarter of the film, in its relative rush toward the inevitable historic conclusion of Marie’s tale, seems completely out of step with the rest of the movie. And to be honest, I didn’t even care for the style or pacing of the first three quarters.
But in the spirit of the film’s point, I certainly won’t criticize Coppola for merely being Coppola. I think a lot of audiences will probably enjoy the vast majority of this film—and Kirsten Dunst’s winning performance as Antoinette—a great deal.
Nonetheless, the closing sequences simply do not work, as interesting as Coppola’s point may be. At least two times too many, the script calls for scenes to transition with a courtier or advisor rushing in to breathlessly declare, “Your majesty!” It’s the narrative equivalent of a repeated bonk on the noggin to move the hero from one thinly-plotted three-page chapter to the next.
Coppola will also likely be criticized for her anachronistic use of post-punk tracks throughout the film. Much, indeed, has been made about this aspect of the film in advance press coverage. In the final cut of the film, at the very least, Coppola’s choices in this regard are neither overdone nor excessive.
In fact, given Coppola’s very carefully chosen songs and visual references to the punk era, Marie Antoinette comes off as a very wise and observant commentary on punk’s valid (if equally self-indulgent) critique of Western capitalist materialism—all the while studiously avoiding the relatively irrelevant political complications of both 18th century France and 21st century America. “This heaven gives me migraines,” indeed.
It’s just too bad that I don’t connect with Coppola’s storytelling style. It bores me terribly. And I really wish that she had found a better way to conclude—or truncate—Marie’s story after bringing it to a head.
Marie Antoinette is rated PG-13 for “sexual content, partial nudity and innuendo.” While I don’t quibble with the MPAA’s rating or reasoning in this case, it does illustrate a bit of a double standard. To consider the sexual content and innuendo of this film the rough equivalent of Ace Ventura: When Nature Calls is patently absurd. Here, nothing is gratuitous and all is tastefully handled, particularly given the subject matter.
posted by Greg Wright at 7:30 AM
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