The first time I wrote about Annette I compared it to The Umbrellas of Cherbourg and Mulholland Drive. I still think that is one of the most apt comparisons to describe Leos Carax’s hypnotic and meta musical.
In my appreciation of The Umbrellas of Cherbourg for the Arts & Faith Top 25 Movie Musicals, I said it was a musical that addresses the problematic nature of the genre by challenging the conventional notions of the “happy endings” found in many musicals. In Nathanael Booth’s appreciation of Mulholland Drive for the Arts & Faith Top 25 Films on Memory, Nathanael wrote, “To retreat from memory—to fail, in fact, to re-member the past—is to put an end to all narrative.”
Going one step further than The Umbrellas of Cherbourg, Annette challenges not only the conventions of musicals, but of opera, comedy, and the stories that have shaped our art for the past several centuries. It also crafts a narrative that addresses the very purpose of art by shining a light on who our art gives voice to and who it should give voice to. When the story is taken from the protagonist and given to another character at the end of the film, that is the moment when the main narrative and the music become “silencio” to quote Mulholland Drive. The story of this movie, along with its music, is finished, and it is time to give another character their own voice.
Annette is certainly not about failing to remember the past—indeed, it is an explicit reckoning with it. Any opera connoisseur can give countless examples of operas where women exist as prizes for the male protagonist, as victims of male scheming, or as helpless damsels in distress. A striking counter-example is Der Rosenkavalier where the Marchioness is the hero who pulls all the strings in that opera.
Ann Desfranoux (a sublime Marion Cotillard) is a world-renowned opera singer, but not one who can successfully stand up to her husband Henry McHenry (a terrifying Adam Driver), a comedian whose offensive standup routine is mostly driven by shock value. If there is an analogous opera to their marriage, it is the helpless bride in Bluebeard’s Castle, a role that Ann plays in the film. Ann and Henry’s toxic love story in which Henry calls the shots is not the main focus of the film, however. The focus is Ann’s angelic voice and the ways it lives on in their daughter, Baby Annette.
Baby Annette is played by a child-sized doll, and none of the characters treat her any differently than if she were human. This is itself a meta commentary on the nature of child performers and the tragic ways so many of them are often exploited. Listening to a trained operatic voice coming from the mouth of a child is always a little disconcerting, as children’s vocal folds are not developed enough to make that type of sound safely. By having a professional, adult opera singer provide the voice of a doll, the mechanics of performing and how we treat artists comes to the forefront.
The mechanics of performance come to the forefront from the very first scene, when Carax turns to the composers, the Mael brothers (aka Sparks), and says, “So may we start,” which they turn into a riff, which turns into a song, during which the actors transform into their characters. This transformation is characterized by the simple, repetitive lyrics that state the musical is starting. That is the function of almost any opening production number. It is another meta commentary on musicals.
Most of the lyrics contain a similar simplicity. The love duet, “We love each other so much,” contains those lyrics, and that’s it. This lyric simplicity once again draws attention to why songs and plot points occur in a musical, and that why turns into a question for the audience about the art we consume.
Art influences life and life influences art. In other words, our entertainment shapes the way we view the world, and the world shapes the type of entertainment that is made. Annette is indebted both to past operas and musicals and our current culture, as the #MeToo number makes apparent.
Carax dedicated Annette to his daughter, and given the way it wrests its narrative away from an abusive murderer to give voice to an innocent child instead, it is clear that Carax wants to draw attention to the ways our narratives in the stories we tell could do better for women, for children, and for the most vulnerable. This is not to say we cannot enjoy flawed art—almost all art is flawed—but we should not be afraid to ask ourselves why we like something, what works about it, and what could be better.
On its surface, Annette is a toxic love story, but underneath it is a plea for support and solidarity with characters often sidelined by past operas, musicals, and comedies. At the same time, it acknowledges the technical brilliance of those past works and the influence any great work of art can and should have on its audience. Both Henry and Ann have their audiences eating out of the palms of the hands, but for opposite reasons.
Each performance within the film draws attention to the way the audience reacts and asks what they take away from each character’s performance and persona. On a larger level, as scenes blur from performance to dream to studio, Carax is asking the same question of the art and performances that we have enjoyed throughout the past couple centuries. How have these art works shaped our own views, and how have our views influenced the art we create? How does our art treat the most vulnerable? Who does our art celebrate? And once again, who does our art give voice to? — Evan Cogswell (2022)
Arts & Faith Lists:
2021 Ecumenical Jury
2022 Top 25 Movie Musicals — #15