Le Silence de la Mer (France, 1947):

Jean-Pierre Melville's great, too little-remembered debut, and a classic example of circumstance leading to aesthetic advance. In a snowy idyll in occupied France, an old man (Jean-Marie Robian) and his niece (Nicole Stéphane) have their isolated household invaded by the German officer (Howard Vernon) assigned as their tenant. Despite the defiant silence of his hosts, the officer, a cultured, gentle soul, respectfully keeps his distance. Soon a nightly routine is forged by the trio, the uncle chewing on his pipe and the niece knitting, both wordless, while the German prattles on, ardently, about his dreams for the war ("Great things will come out of it"), his love of music, his childhood, his admiration for Beauty and the Beast, and so on. Adapting virtually untouchable material -- Vercos' clandestinely written, furtively distributed Resistance saga -- with no budget or union card, Melville reinvented notions of cinema. The story, barring the uncle's narration is, essentially one character's monologue, and, except for a few brief flashbacks and one extended sequence, bound to the confines of the living room. This dramatic stasis pushes Melville into a vein of concentrated, expressive filmic intimacy since mined by such giants as Dreyer, Bresson and Astruc, not to mention the director's own late gangster movies -- emotions throb beneath cool surfaces, gestures acquire sudden eloquence, everything is interiorized. Delicacy of feeling is shaded into the pricking of a finger, the line of a profile, the blinding light of a woman's gaze. The spirituality that runs through Melville's work here gets one of its most explicit outlets -- for Vernon, the patch of living room serves as both stage and confessional, a buffer zore between low-angle fireplace flames and high-angle angelical statuary. By the time he's returned from Paris with his illusions in tatters in time for Stéphane's final adieu, Vernon's voice and the hosts' silence have melded into a moment of mutual culpability sublimely acknowledged and transcended. The extraordinarily evocative cinematography is by Henri Decaë. In black and white.

--- Fernando F. Croce

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