Alexander Sokurov’s opus sees the Louvre as a complex, broad metaphor for European civilization
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“What is France without the Louvre?” wonders Alexander Sokurov at a certain moment in Francofonia. And then says: “Who would we be without museums?” Both queries make more than perfect sense, precisely when he utters them. For his enthralling new opus comes across as a most perceptive historical account and a profound elegiac meditation to the Louvre during World War II, under Nazi occupation. However, Sokurov also ponders that the Eiffel Tower may represent more than just Paris, Paris may represent more than just France, and ultimately the Louvre is in a way more than the museum that pulls in more visitors than any other museum in the world. Francofonia examines the Louvre as a complex, broad metaphor for European civilization, which in turn gives way to a masterful reflection upon the timelessness of art at large. And yes, it’s all glued together seamlessly with a continuous intertwining of layers and images that eschew the frontier between fact and fiction.
Just like the Russian master did in Russian Ark, which explored the hallways of St. Petersburg’s Hermitage Museum in one long take and thus covered almost 300 years of Russian history, in Francofonia — which is spoken in Russian, French, German, and English - he wanders freely inside the Louvre as his camera falls for the many striking art works, ranging from deathbed portraits of Tolstoy and Chekov to the Mona Lisa and the Winged Victory. Interspersed, there are images of the Louvre’s construction; archive footage of Parisians’ daily life under the Nazi occupation, aerial shots, encompassing pans of the Paris skyline, and newsreels showing Hitler checking out the Eiffel Tower and the Champs Elysees — among many, many other things.
Even if Francofonia is more a brilliant film essay than a straight documentary, you could say that its structural narrative is anchored on the fictionalized reenactment of the relationship between Jacques Jaujard (Louis-do de Lencquesaing), the Louvre’s director and a forgotten hero whom Sokurov admires, and Count Franziskus Wolff-Metternich (Benjamin Utzerath), the highly cultured aristocratic Nazi officer and art historian designated by Hitler to supervise France’s art collection for the Nazis.
Unlike many of his fellow countrymen, Jaujard never embraced retreat and didn’t leave his post. He wanted to protect the Louvre’s treasures, so by the time the Nazis came into Paris in 1940, he’d already sent a great number of the works to safe castles in France. Likewise, Metternich defied his commanders and helped Jaujard take the remaining works to other secure places across the country to save them from possible bombings, looting and deportation. So it was the fervour for art and bravery that Jaujard and Metternich shared what made a huge difference in preserving many of the Louvre’s most cherished riches.
This fictionalized reenactment of the relationship between Jaujard and Metternich is elegantly filmed with a finish of old, fading film stock that adds a curious feeling of overlapping times, as you experience these scenes as if they were happening now — just like your voyage within the museum’s halls — but unlike the past imprint still photography always has. Sokurov’s voice over, which often seems to come out of a faraway place, establishes several levels of enunciation in its melancholy, self-reflecting musicality.
And then there are two other rather inventive traits that come as unexpected surprises. On the one hand, you have the presence of the ghosts — so to speak — of the egotistical Napoleon Bonaparte, who keeps repeating how he invaded countries to steal their art, and Marianne, the icon of France, who represents freedom, equality, and brotherhood. On the other hand, there’s a Skype conversation that Sokurov himself has with a ship skipper who’s trying to keep afloat his ship with a cargo of precious artworks amidst a perfectly furious storm. I’m not sure both narrative devices work as well as intended. I find the figures of French nationalism being a bit overly symbolical and perhaps sort of distracting, whereas the metaphorical stance of the fate of the ship in the open sea seems either too muddy or too obvious for its own good. But it’s up to you to decide, considering how open for interpretation Francofonia is.
As you’d expect coming from Sokurov, film form is top-notch in every single regard. Particularly the cinematography from Bruno Delbonnel which with much sophistication recreates the ambiance of occupied France while it scans the Louvre under the best possible light, angles, and camera movements. Because, after all, what Sokurov wants viewers to have is one singular trip down memory lane that’s ridden with pain and sadness. But it’s also a humanistic celebration of the nature of art and its power to survive, amidst the worst circumstances, thanks to the will of men working together, heart to heart.
Among other things, that’s what makes it nostalgic: it’s nearly impossible to think of a united Europe nowadays, with all the ongoing wars and immigration problems. That’s perhaps the most visible political angle of Francofonia.
production notes
Francofonia (France-Germany-Netherlands). Directed, written by Alexander Sokurov. With Louis-Do de Lencquesaing, Benjamin Utzerath, Vincent Nemeth, Johanna Korthals Altes, Andrey Chelpanov, Jean-Claude Caer. Voices: Alexander Sokurov, Francois Smesny, Peter Lontzek. Cinematography: Bruno Delbonnel. Editing: Alexei Jankowski, Hansjorg Weissbrich. Music: Murat Kabardokov. Costume designer: Colombe Lauriot Prevost. Sound: Andre Rigault, Jac Vleeshouwer, Ansgar Frerich, Emil Klotzsch. Produced by Pierre-Olivier Bardet, Thomas Kufus, Els Vandevorst. Co-producers, Olivier Pere, Remi Burah. Running time: 88 minutes.
