Film Essays
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For the Love of Jeanne Dielman
December 15, 2020
Jeanne Dielman, 23 Commerce Quay, 1080 Brussels, is a film that challenges one’s patience but in doing so challenged my own thoughts on how film can express itself. The film centres on the life of a widow, painstakingly detailing her mechanical routine and the repetition of it in the two days that follow. Being almost exclusively shot within Jeanne’s (the widow’s) apartment as she performs her daily chores, the shots are indescribably long and repetitive, while the setting itself is small and drab. Action consists mainly of cleaning and cooking. Dialogue is sparse, and Jeanne’s singular presence completely dominates the almost three and a half hour screen time. Contrary to what one may believe however, it’s for these exact reasons that make the film so brilliant.
Akerman’s use of these so-called flaws are deliberate and are commentary in itself for Jeanne. It creates an inner dialogue to Jeanne’s character that would have paled through dialogue alone. Unlike conventional film, this resulting silence casts an even wider net around Jeanne’s own personalization through Akerman’s deliberate choreography direction and awareness of time. Through these decisions, Akerman creates a colourful tapestry of the ordinary. She exhausts the film elements at her disposal masterfully in order to characterize Jeanne. Not only does Akerman succeed in creating this effect, but effectively shoves it down one’s throat because she knows it’s only in this way that one would understand the film’s message. It’s only when we suffer with Jeanne herself that we obtain a grasp of the realness of her situation (woman’s societal plight and ennui as patriarchal caregivers). Hence the flaws: repetition, drabness, routine and all. We have to suffer with Jeanne through these visual and temporal “flaws” in film to appreciate the banality of life; to realize the beauty that lies within its appreciation. Akerman was aware that sacrificing conventional filmmaking was necessary to capture the disregarded, and it is in this accurate reflection of real life that we are compelled to continue watching.
As a filmmaker, one makes films for the sake of the film itself; to sacrifice film —and all the vanities attached to it— for the story. Akerman similarly takes this plunge because she knew there was more at stake than catering to the audiences. She casts herself aside in order to accept film as simply a vehicle for the story that must be told, and as a result the film blossoms. While there is merit in creating a film for the viewer’s entertainment, Akerman certainly establishes another dimension of what film can represent. She gives herself up to confront its soul.
Likewise, we must realize we’re not similarly bound to convention, but more to the story and message the film begs to convey— as was the case in Jeanne Dielman, 23 Commerce Quay, 1080 Brussels. The story takes precedence over its style. Only then can we test the boundaries of what film can be— to dance around and tinker with its limitless elements, ruthlessly and compassionately— and transcend what it already is.