There are no words in "Damage," Louis Malle's elegant film version of Josephine
Hart's slender, soapy novel of sexual obsession, to explain what happens when
Dr. Stephen Fleming (Jeremy Irons) and Anna Barton (Juliette Binoche) meet. The
setting is an otherwise boring party. The encounter seems random, though the two
have reason to cross paths: Anna happens to be the new girlfriend of Martyn
(Rupert Graves), Stephen's son.
The chemistry is so intense that an affair begins immediately, for reasons that
the film simply takes for granted. Stephen has been seen staring wistfully
around the house, showing only perfunctory interest in his unobjectionable wife
(Miranda Richardson) and precocious daughter. The much bolder Anna is presented
as one of those fearlessly honest sexual beings, the sort who make more sense in
the imagination than they do in the flesh. On the simplest level, the two make a
handsome couple, with Ms. Binoche's serene, chiseled features and Mr. Irons's
ability to look great with a walking stick and a Labrador retriever. It's not
possible to watch him without thinking of the word debonair.
The affair begins with what is supposed to be pure heat, in a deliberately
wordless phase. Unfortunately, this does not last. In the throes of passion,
Stephen is soon reduced to moaning "Who are you?" at his mysterious lover.
(Anna's type of answer to that, on the page, is "I am what you desire.") And
Anna's dialogue, in a screenplay filled with conversational lapses one might
drive a truck through, is limited to lines like: "You must never worry. I'll
always be there." No amount of love-goddess behavior can survive small talk like
that.
It's important to appreciate the high-"Dynasty" tone of this material.The
screenplay, adapted by David Hare, tells the sort of story in which when two
male strangers meet for the first time, they immediately begin talking about
Anna's love life. Ms. Hart herself wrote a brief but verbose book mixing
high-flown philosophical musings with mundane conversation, a bodice-ripper on a
lofty note. In the film, this tone is best captured by Leslie Caron, who turns
up briefly (in the blindingly bright wardrobe of a soap-opera guest star) as
Anna's mother. Her manner is suitably regal as she talks about -- what else? --
Anna's love life.
Not even a film maker of Mr. Malle's intelligence and taste can make this
stilted story add up. The only ingredient that can make sense of "Damage" is the
obvious one: outright eroticism, of the sort that presumably got the film its
original NC-17 rating. Seldom have a film maker's complaints about having to
trim his work to suit the Motion Picture Association of America's ratings board
(which has since awarded "Damage" an R) seemed more reasonable, since without
its full sexual component this tale is robbed of its best energy source.
However, there is reason to suppose that even in its slightly more complete
version, "Damage" would lack heat.
Mr. Malle made a far more erotic film about mother-son incest (the incomparable
"Murmur of the Heart") than he has about the strenuous couplings depicted here.
It must be noted that the film's sexual episodes are very strange. The staging
is so arduous that the actors never appear comfortable or unself-conscious,
which would seem to be two prerequisites for making their encounters work. On
the simplest level, they often knock into things, and are forced into painfully
awkward postures. One bout finds them seeming to be experiencing simultaneous
seizures while attempting a difficult yoga position. Another has them leaning
upright against an open door, which moves when they do. One particularly
memorable event finds Ms. Binoche, however briefly, sitting on top of a stove.
Some of this appears to be a simple case of trying too hard, as when Mr. Irons
nibbles Ms. Binoche's back as she tries to crawl away. In any case, the actors
behave in a manner that is gallant but perplexed. The beautiful Ms. Binoche has
the difficult task of embodying too much mystery, so that after two hours she
has come to seem surprisingly ordinary. Mr. Irons is asked to look wounded and
questing so often that the role approaches the absurd, though this actor's
immense dignity carries him through. During the course of the story, as a
wayward husband and Member of Parliament, he does have the chance to deliver one
of the all-time great excuses: "I've got to go to the House and vote."
One of the film's quiet pleasures is the way it looks, which is often an
improvement on how it sounds. The decor is flawlessly appealing and quite
detailed, carrying the principals from one beautifully appointed setting to
another. Brian Morris's production design and Milena Canonero's costumes often
serve as a welcome distraction from the main action. This rarefied visual
beauty, all wood paneling and interesting art and fresh flowers, does a lot to
elevate behavior that wouldn't work in a less refined atmosphere.
Miranda Richardson's credible performance as Ingrid, Stephen's thoroughly
correct wife, culminates in a violent outburst that gives the film some spark,
not to mention a much-needed reality check. Mr. Graves, as Martyn, plays his
role just as it's written, which means his character never seems to have much
connection with the others. The father-son passions on which the story
ultimately hinges make particularly little sense when the actors playing father
and son seem barely to have met.
