Providence (1977)
Directed by Alain Resnais

Film Review

A recurring feature of Alain Resnais' cinema is the way in which memory distorts reality and creates an alternative view of the world which, in the mind of the central protagonist, becomes every bit as real as the ‘true' reality seen by an external observer.  We see this in Hiroshima, mon amour (1959), L'Année dernière a Marienbad (1961), Muriel (1963), and even his powerful documentary of the Holocaust, Nuit et brouillard (1955).  In Providence , Resnais takes this idea and carries it to its most extreme point, fashioning a bizarrely surreal and complex melange of melodrama, thriller and fantasy in which nothing can be taken at face value and where everything we see admits multiple interpretations.  Here, the avant-garde director tackles subjects which have preoccupied philosophers for centuries: the existence or otherwise of an objective reality, and the relationship between an intelligent creation (i.e. man) and his - presumably - more intelligent Creator.  And that's just for starters…

Significantly, Providence is Resnais' first English language film, and was scripted by a British writer David Mercer.  The contrast between the highly artistic directorial technique of Resnais and the clumsily pretentious writing of Mercer could not be greater, but sometimes it is the biggest contrasts which make a great piece of art, and this seems to be the case with Providence .  In the hands of a contemporary British director, Mercer's tortuous dialogue would sound simply ridiculous, but with Resnais' unique ability to distort meaning and apply layer upon layer of intrigue and mystery, the script serves the film well (although the excess of cheap toilet vulgarity is to be regretted).

To use a wine metaphor (appropriate, given how much of the stuff gets quaffed in the course of the film), it is Resnais' direction that gives the film its impeccable provenance and fine vintage, but its body and character derives from its excellent cast.  Most notably, there are some truly remarkable contributions from Dirk Bogarde and John Gielgud, two of Britain's finest actors. Gielgud brings authority, humanity and a touch of sardonic humour to the film, reminding us of the great Shakespearean roles that earned him his reputation as a master of the dramatic art.  Bogarde is likewise on fine form, giving a solid performance that reeks of bourgeois cynicism, sexual ambivalence and emotional frigidity.  His is a character who is most definitely to be loathed and feared, not liked, in fact the total opposite of the Dr Sparrow character of the Doctor films that brought the actor fame in the 1950s.

However well it stands up in other areas, it is Alain Resnais' direction above all else that makes Providence such a great film, and quite unlike anything that has gone before.  It is clearly not a film for those who like their cinematic entertainment neatly packaged with simple narrative coherence and a straightforward linear plot.   (It was Jean-Luc Godard who said that a film should have a start, a middle and an end - but not necessarily in that order.  It not at all clear that Providence even satisfies this criterion.)   For those who can appreciate complex, elliptically structured works with no clear interpretation, Providence provides a cinematic experience that is both rewarding and haunting.

The film's two main themes - an exploration of the creative process and the fear of encroaching death - are interwoven with numerous secondary ideas - memories of the Holocaust, the Oedipus complex, the merits of euthanasia, the morality of the bourgeoisie, the importance of family, to name just a few.  This is not so much a film as an exercise in fractal geometry - the closer one examines the film, the more detail one sees.  It is also one of those films which appears to change its meaning on repeated viewings, fitting in with the typically Resnais notion that memory and the passing of time not only colour our experiences but can totally alter reality as we perceive it.

Providence has the artistic weight and psychological impact of Resnais' previous great films, but it has something else, something much darker and much more sinister.  The key to this, and indeed much of the film, lies in its final act, where the dying writer played by Gielgud emerges from his embittered night world and shares a pleasant sunny afternoon with his grown-up children.  In the blink of an eye we are catapulted from a nightmare world of the imagination, which ends up being consumed by anarchy and human vice, into an apparently stable world of middle class calm and moral security - the exact reverse of the Paradise to Hell journey that we see in many of the films of Claude Chabrol (a New Wave contemporary of Resnais).

Yet there is something about this Resnais-esque view of Paradise that is even more unsettling than the Hell we have just experienced.  Which of these two interpretations paints the more accurate picture of the world in which we live?   Can we take seriously the saccharine-doused scene of marital fidelity, brotherly friendship and sweet father-son love?  Isn't it more believable that the two sons would be rivals, that the elder son would have a mistress and would bitterly resent his father's slow and demeaning death?  Surely the world shown to us in the first part of the film, the world apparently belonging in the mind of a solitary writer, is the world that is nearer to our own, a far more accurate portrayal of human nature?  The second world, of calm, family harmony and stability, is surely an illusion, a distorted memory of a past that never was, could never have been.  Which reality do we believe?

For such a complex and unconvential film, Providence was a surprising success for Alain Resnais. It was something of a sensation at the 1978 César's ceremony, where it earned a total of seven awards.  Notably, it won the César for the best film and best director, but is also picked up the awards for best script, best music, best sound, best set design and best editing - a remarkable tally for an English language film.

With its stunning visual composition and skilfully ambiguous narrative, Providence is unquestionably one of Alain Resnais' most significant works, and one of those rare films which you can watch again and again with enjoyment and without a moment of boredom.  Not only does it provide one of cinema's most powerful and unsettling portrayals of the way in which the artist uses his mind to create a fantasy world, but it is also a film which repeatedly challenges our own notion of reality.

Film Synopsis

In a dark old house, an elderly man rambles deliriously as he swigs glass after glass of white wine to ease the pain of his bowel cancer.  In a dark forest, a squad of armed soldiers are in pursuit of an old man who is turning into a werewolf.  One of the soldiers catches up with the old man and shoots him dead.  The soldier - Kevin Woodford - is then tried for murder.  Despite the forceful efforts of the barrister Claude Langham, the soldier is acquitted.  Langham's wife, Sonia, is drawn to Woodford and begins an affair with him, whilst her husband renews his acquaintance with an old flame, Helen, who resembles his mother and who is slowly dying.  As the drama unfolds, it becomes clear that these are characters living in the feverish warped imagination of a dying alcoholic writer…