Carol
(2015)
(SPOILERS) Todd
Haynes’ adaptation of Patricia Highsmith’s 1952 novel The Price of Salt has been roundly acclaimed, but I was left feeling
more respectful than rapt. In particular, I found myself drawing comparisons with
his earlier, also ‘50s set Far from
Heaven; both are immaculately mounted period pieces, and both revolve
around then-illicit love affairs. Where Far
from Heaven proved compelling and immersive, dazzling in its Sirk-ian
flourishes, Carol is more distant,
less approachable, as frosty as its seasonal setting.
The key to
which is Cate Blanchett’s performance as Carol Aird. No doubt superficially on
my part, I was reminded me of Blanchett’s recent, Oscar winning turn as another
upper class New York socialite in Blue
Jasmine. It isn’t as if there’s a shortage of good reasons to empathise
with Carol, whose husband (a well-cast Kyle Chandler, suggesting stoic
agreeability before unveiling the broken rage that lies beneath) can’t accept
her heart no longer belong to him, or his gender, and must face the threat of
losing her daughter, and deal with the intrusion of legal and surveillance ploys
to ensnare her in her “crime”. Yet Carol is too aloof to really engage with,
except momentarily, and it’s left rather mystifying why Rooney Mara’s Therese
is so in awe of her.
It’s much
easier to see why Carol is so keen on Therese, even though the beats of her existence and experience are minimal
or familiar (a token boyfriend, a talent for photography, and an averred ability
to say yes; “I barely even know what to
order for lunch”). Mara, with her expressive, saucer eyes, imbues Therese
with the sense of a deeper well, making her significantly the more interesting
party.
Carol is, for the first half, as steadily engrossing
as any Haynes picture, immersing itself in the anticipation of attraction and courtship
in a manner as much indebted to Hitchcockian accentuation of detail as capturing
the styles and scenery of the period. In this regard, Haynes is far more attuned
than Guillermo del Toro, with his exaggeration too far in Crimson Peak, and makes stolen intimacies count for that much more
(in which respect Carol occasionally
reminded me of Scorsese’s The Age of
Innocence).
But, while Carol is glacially well observed (with a
marvellous, understated Carter Burwell score), particularly in documenting the
travails of leading a lesbian life in the face of unaccepting mores, I was left
mostly unmoved. Initial immersion in what might transpire retreated to the level
of polite interest. The replayed scene near the end of the film had exactly
this diminished effect; it’s quite clever, but in terms of what has actually
been added to our understanding of Carol and Therese in the interim, it was more
enticing sight unseen.
Carol is beautifully made, with dignified
performances (despite my misgivings over Blanchett’s), an insightful screenplay
and meticulously confident direction, but I was nonplussed by the potential of
a happy ending for its protagonists. Perhaps such restraint is ingrained in
Haynes’ evocation of era, but I rather think (going back to comparing it
negatively with Far from Heaven) it’s
a choice that undermines its potential.
Agree? Disagree? Mildly or vehemently? Let me know in the comments below.