LA BELLE ET LA BETE

by Kevin Koehler

About one half hour into Jean Cocteau's La Belle et la Bete (Beauty and the Beast), the Beast (King Kong by way of Gustave Dore) reassures his captive Belle (Josette Day) that "there is no master here but you." It strikes us as a strange bit of logic, given that she was forced to come to this place and does not stay of her own will. The Beast wishes only to meet every evening at seven, if only to gaze upon her as she eats. It's not as overtly kinky as watching her put on nylons or some other traditional fetish, but it works for the Beast so I won’t judge.

At one point later in the film, Belle allows the Beast to drink from her hands. "It doesn't repulse you?" the Beast asks. "No, Beast, I like it," and we imagine so does he. She later comforts him by running a hand through his fur. "You stroke me as one does an animal." Belle does not understand. "But you are an animal." It’s so easy to forget sometimes, and the Beast has Belle to remind him. When he awakens her in the middle of the night, disheveled and stinking of deer blood, he can barely look at her. "Forgive me...for being a beast" he says with embarrassment. Belle is enraged. "These words are not worthy of you. Aren't you ashamed?" It's as though she caught him masturbating to the Victoria's Secret catalog. She tosses a shawl in his direction. "Go clean yourself up and go to bed."

Then the Beast puts on a leather mask with a zipper where the mouth should be and Belle makes him lick the pointy heel of her 9-inch stiletto boot.

Okay, that last part didn't happen. It's not that kind of movie... or is it? Not on the face of it, perhaps, but sexual and overtly Freudian undertones float throughout La Belle et la Bete as icebergs in an ocean, occasionally protruding the surface like, well, protuberances. At heart, what we have is a love story between a beautiful woman and a monstrous part-lion, part-man creature. Belle, the Cinderella-esque sibling of two spoiled sisters, becomes hostage to the Beast after her father unwittingly steals a rose from him. It doesn't make much sense, and it's not supposed to: the picture is surrealist in its truest sense, governed by dream logic. Like her paramour Avenant, the Beast asks for her hand in marriage and he is likewise rejected (both Beast and Avenant are played by the same actor, Jean Marais). True to her Electra complex, Belle claims she cannot abandon her father - indeed, she only leaves him (to live with the Beast) when by doing so saves his life.

As directed by Cocteau, Belle's entrance to the Beast's magical abode is really a thing of beauty (some of the French director's techniques would be appropriated, most notably, by Spike Lee and David Lynch). Traditional natural laws do not apply - she roams the hallways as though swimming in water. Belle doesn't walk, she glides through this Freudian playground of dream symbols: human arms hold up candelabras, statues open and close their eyes, always watching. Like much of her new home, the bed is organic, a living thing. When she first lays eyes on it, the furry comforter peels back, inviting her in. It’s both erotic and terrifying (like most everything having to do with the Beast). Belle faints, overcome.

Love doesn't bloom between Beauty and Beast so much as Stockholm Syndrome-level sympathy for one's own captor/gimp. "Love can turn a man into a beast," Belle says. "But love can also make an ugly one handsome." Quite literally, in the case of Belle's ferine co-star (as those familiar with the fairy tale will know), but I wonder how much Cocteau truly believes it. We tend to think we are separate from our bodies, as though the interior and exterior selves are independent. But they are not. We are our bodies, and when the Beast ceases to have his, shed like a snake his skin, he ceases to be himself.

Interesting footnote: Jean Marais plays three roles in La Belle et la Bete, including the handsome Prince that Belle ultimately flies off with. In life, he played the role of Jean Cocteau's long time male lover (the director was openly homosexual). Marais would go on to star in a number of Cocteau's future films, including L'Aigle a deux tetes and Les parents terribles.

© Pretentious Musings. This review may not be reprinted, in whole or in part, without the express consent of its author.