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By Andrea Thompson
What makes a movie sexy is often as difficult to define as what makes a comedy funny, or a horror film scary. But there’s no question that the 2007 Catherine Breillat film “The Last Mistress” isn’t just sexy, it’s a classic bodice-ripper. Set in Paris in 1835, a time and place that always seems ripe for cinematic swooning, the film features a familiar scenario that Breillat doesn’t so much subvert as explode, albeit with empathy and compassion.
Ryno de Marigny (Fu'ad Aït Aattou) is penniless in a fashion distinctive of the French aristocracy, and is about to wed Hermangarde (Roxane Mesquida) the young, virtuous blonde jewel of Parisian society, to much disapproval and speculation. Ryno is what’s known as a rake, who swears he’s reformed and is deeply, sincerely in love with Hermangarde. The trouble comes from the woman who is in indeed the other side of his would-be bride’s virtuous coin - the dark-haired, deeply sexual spaniard Vellini, who is ferocity itself in Asia Argento’s spellbinding hands.
Vellini has been Ryno’s mistress for ten years, which as one character remarks, is rather shocking when there’s no legal ceremony compelling them to stay together. So how exactly did these two come together, and why did they stay together? Ryno reveals all when Hermangarde’s spirited grandmother (Claude Sarraute) demands to know their story so she can determine if he should really marry her granddaughter.
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From the beginning, Ryno and Vellini’s love was about as tempestuous as can be expected, full of not just passion and fury, but violence and blood. The second their eyes meet in mutual dislike and lust, neither of them stood a chance. But as Ryno continues telling the story of their now doomed (in one way or another) romance, it’s far more complicated than a simple case of mutual emotional abuse. The truly tragic thing about their now quite dangerous liaison is it once blossomed into one of mutual love, resulting in a daughter. When that daughter perished in a tragic accident, the affection that grew between them curdled into an addictive toxicity.
If Ryno is both more aware of it and eager to escape it, it’s less due to any quality of his than the fact that he has more of an opportunity for a life. Yet even Ryno with his supposed freedoms is stifled by the mores of their time, which insists on prescribed roles and conformity.His genuine feelings for Hermangarde are based as much on reverence as real love, and you can hardly ask such a revered wife to demean herself by acting like a mistress.
Nor can Hermangarde bring herself to allow her husband to see her in anything less than a pristine state of emotions. When she learns that Vellini has followed them to their beautiful home in the countryside, supposedly removed from the decadence of Paris, she doesn’t allow Ryno to see the tears she sheds. And she continues to hide the worst of the emotional fallout, even when she sees for herself that Ryno has been unable to resist rekindling his relationship with Vellini even though he is aware that Hermangarde is pregnant. When she miscarries, she is unable to berate Ryno although he begs her to, desperate to break the silence his actions have wrought.
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There’s nothing like watching high society ruin the lives of its denizens, but few have depicted such a decline like Catherine Breillat has. If it’s narrated from a male perspective, she found the perfect vessel in Fu'ad Aït Aattou, who has the pouty lips, perfectly wavy hair, chiseled cheekbones, and piercing eyes that are just masculine enough to make him believable as a playboy, yet vulnerable enough to sell a conflicted soul. He holds his own against the far more experienced players, most of whom are women, and include Léa Seydoux in one of her first on-screen appearances in a small role as Vellini’s servant and occasional lover, since apparently in France even the mistresses have mistresses.
To say that these women are ahead of their time isn’t exactly accurate. Many of the female characters, most of whom are older, are indeed out of step with the times, but much of that is merely due to the world becoming a far more sentimental and evangelical one than from what they knew in their youth. They accept the unhappiness in their lives as a simple matter of fact, casually discussing the men who flagrantly flaunt their privilege and lovers as a matter of course. It’s a quietly powerful commentary on the lack of any options or alternatives these women have, despite the wealth and sumptuous surroundings Breillat magnificently depicts in all their decadent glory.
When even people such as these have such a small chance at happiness, watching it slip away from those who have the best of intentions feels like a tragedy for all, from those involved to the ones who sadly watch from afar as it crumbles and slips away.
