François Truffaut’s The Story of Adèle H. begins as if in its second act, with Adèle Hugo (Isabelle Adjani) crossing the Atlantic to chase her English lover to Halifax, already mad with desire for the man. But as soon as she makes plans to reunite with her beloved Lieutenant Pinson (Bruce Robinson), it becomes clear that their shared romantic history is one-sided—that the man has no interest in this woman, that whatever fling he had with her meant nothing and marks her only as a nuisance. But Adèle won’t take no for an answer, and her love consumes her, driving her to have her famous father obliviously take out wedding announcements back in Europe and stalking Pinson around the globe. It’s a portrait of ever-present mental illness, and Adèle’s already deluded sense of self collapses well before the film enters its final third.
Period pieces tend to bring out a filmmaker’s austere side, but Truffaut turns in what may be his most formally adventurous film. Befitting his cinephilia, he eschews the stuffy asceticism and filmed-play nature of so many works in this genre in favor of a classicism derived from the often modern techniques of Old Hollywood directors. An early shot of Adèle entering a bookshop just as Pinson has slipped out references Citizen Kane as Adèle inquires about the man to the bookkeep while the lieutenant can be seen in deep focus outside mounting his carriage and riding off. Shortly thereafter, Truffaut depicts Adèle’s dream of drowning with dissonantly impressionistic superimpositions, a silent-era trick that’s radical in this context. At times, he even employs some New Wave gimmicks, like a calm fade-out of the bookkeep leaving his shop with a delivery to an abrupt smash cut to him knocking on a door, or even a few jump cuts.
The modernity of the direction creates a tension within the frame that Adjani ignites. Only 19 at the time of The Story of Adèle H.’s making, the actress manages to slip with disturbing ease into the persona of a woman forever distrusted, even feared, for her sexual openness. Adjani’s eyes always have a look of innocence until you pay attention for even a second, at which point the resolve behind her saucer-wide sclerae manifests. Adjani, like Catherine Deneuve and Isabelle Huppert, excels at playing tormented, outcast women not because she projects an image of frailty, but for the strength embodied in a steeled jaw, the ferocity of an outburst, or the accusatory, teasing glint in eyes that makes her a primary target for men who, consciously or subconsciously, cannot bear to see such confidence mustered against their own insecurities.
The ferality of Adjani’s performance is bracing, especially in the context of historical fiction, where melodrama is usually tamped down. The lack of a typical escalation of illness allows Adjani to truly explore madness, how the body withers as the brain diverts all energy to itself to solve problems it can no longer comprehend. The scariest aspect of her work here is that the more detached Adèle becomes from reality, the more certain Adjani becomes. Summarily refused by Pinson (in a cemetery, no less), Adèle composes a letter aloud to her family announcing their marriage with bared teeth and spittle-flecked dictation, as if attempting to infuse her written words with the desperate fantasy of her speech. Reduced to rags and babbling at the end, Adèle still has the benefit of having Adjani’s eyes, which burn with clarity.
Adèle’s story undoubtedly typifies many enduring themes of women’s pictures: the double standard applied to sexual desire, the way only compromised aristocratic women ever experience downward mobility, how artistic men are praised for their volatility while women get committed, and so on. But Adjani’s physicality foregrounds the presence of the protagonist over her symbolic significance. Adèle Hugo may have ended up secreted in an asylum for the good of her father’s reputation, but Adjani won’t let her go down without a fight. In the process, she launched a career of fierce roles, and gave Truffaut his most exciting film since his first.
Image/Sound
Kino Lorber’s Blu-ray features naturalistic colors and a relatively high dynamic range that creates a distinct separation between the subtle shades of reds and browns that dominate the film’s color palette. Black levels are also impressive, as is the image detail, allowing for great visibility in the nighttime sequences. There are occasional shots where the overall sharpness is compromised and the grain is chunkier, but it’s infrequent enough to not be a distraction. The audio presentation boasts clean, crisp dialogue, and it especially impresses whenever Maurice Jaubert’s lush orchestral score is brought to the forefront.
Extras
An audio commentary by film historians Julie Kirgo and Nick Redman is conversational and engaging, filled with digestible insights and keen observations. Kirgo in particular lends value to the track by focusing specifically on the sexual themes of François Truffaut’s film, as well as the historical details of Adèle’s life and the importance of composer Maurice Jaubert’s work with the French poetic realists of the 1930s. The only remaining extras are a handful of theatrical trailers for this film and other titles released by Kino Lorber on home video.
Overall
François Truffaut’s late-career triumph remains a moving paean to obsessive love, as well as attests to Isabelle Adjani’s remarkable versatility as an actress.
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