Post by joekiddlouischama on Apr 24, 2023 9:11:15 GMT
Based on a remarkable historical story, Chevalier constitutes a "good" film, seamlessly blending sociopolitical allegory with forbidden romance. Without straining for relevance, it offers contemporary resonance, exploring the stirrings of modernity in the period of the French Revolution. The crux of this admixture, of course, is the "mulatto" complexion of the film's protagonist, Joseph Bologne (Kelvin Harrison Jr.), the son of a French slaver and an African mother transported to Guadeloupe. Recognizing his son's precocious nature, his father removes him from Caribbean slavery and takes him to France to grow and live as a free citizen—but also rips young Joseph from his mother, who remains stuck in slavery (for the time being). This development foreshadows the conflicted nature of some of the film's thematic and emotional explorations.
Joseph indeed becomes a man of charm, creativity, and athletic talent—and, most notably, a virtuoso violinist whose skill rivals the best of European societies. He develops a friendship with Queen Marie Antoinette (Lucy Boynton), a relationship that becomes complicated by issues of racism, revolution, republicanism, and democracy. More perilous is his relationship with another woman, the deft and beautiful singer Marie-Josephine (Samara Weaving), an involvement that raises matters of patriarchy and nascent feminism, as well as race. Smartly, Chevalier (written by Stefani Robinson and directed by Stephen Williams) suggests that matters of race and class are not always one in the same—this movie is not Titanic adapted for the violin and a Black man. But the film also indicates, of course, that race can implicitly confer an inescapable second-class status, even in the midst of transcendent talent. Thankfully, Chevalier offers no exposition in these regards, allowing the viewer to reflect on such nuances after the film has done playing.
Visually, Chevalier's strength is not composition, but a coolly gliding camera and fluid montage, elements that enhance the movie's sense of beguilement. They combine with exquisite classical music—scored by the Contemporary London Orchestra—to make the film stylish and mildly stylized, and they come together in an expertly staged climax that elevates Chevalier and emphasizes its sense of allegory. The gliding camerawork, and fluid string music, and the way that they seem to mirror one another, suggest a sense of historical dreaminess that can verge toward nightmarishness, thus achieving the paradoxical temptation that the film seeks to suggest.
This movie is not the gritty, darkly driven film that it could have been, instead relying upon broad strokes and doses of style. Or, to put it another way, Chevalier is not that ambitious. But it is not unambitious, either, and it is effective. In short, if you are looking to see a stylish film that smoothly blends mature enchantment with murky currents, one that is engrossing while offering some historical revelation and social significance, Chevalier fits the bill.
Joseph indeed becomes a man of charm, creativity, and athletic talent—and, most notably, a virtuoso violinist whose skill rivals the best of European societies. He develops a friendship with Queen Marie Antoinette (Lucy Boynton), a relationship that becomes complicated by issues of racism, revolution, republicanism, and democracy. More perilous is his relationship with another woman, the deft and beautiful singer Marie-Josephine (Samara Weaving), an involvement that raises matters of patriarchy and nascent feminism, as well as race. Smartly, Chevalier (written by Stefani Robinson and directed by Stephen Williams) suggests that matters of race and class are not always one in the same—this movie is not Titanic adapted for the violin and a Black man. But the film also indicates, of course, that race can implicitly confer an inescapable second-class status, even in the midst of transcendent talent. Thankfully, Chevalier offers no exposition in these regards, allowing the viewer to reflect on such nuances after the film has done playing.
Visually, Chevalier's strength is not composition, but a coolly gliding camera and fluid montage, elements that enhance the movie's sense of beguilement. They combine with exquisite classical music—scored by the Contemporary London Orchestra—to make the film stylish and mildly stylized, and they come together in an expertly staged climax that elevates Chevalier and emphasizes its sense of allegory. The gliding camerawork, and fluid string music, and the way that they seem to mirror one another, suggest a sense of historical dreaminess that can verge toward nightmarishness, thus achieving the paradoxical temptation that the film seeks to suggest.
This movie is not the gritty, darkly driven film that it could have been, instead relying upon broad strokes and doses of style. Or, to put it another way, Chevalier is not that ambitious. But it is not unambitious, either, and it is effective. In short, if you are looking to see a stylish film that smoothly blends mature enchantment with murky currents, one that is engrossing while offering some historical revelation and social significance, Chevalier fits the bill.
