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CRITICAL ESSAYS
The obsession with blood and viscera exhibited by the Hammer films
and rival exponents of the scalpel-and-formaldehyde type of
sensation reaches a logical conclusion in the thriller Eyes Without a
Face…
“When I shot Eyes Without a Face,” says Franju, “I was told: ‘No
sacrilege because of the Spanish market, no nudity because of the
Italian market, no blood because of the French market and don’t kill
any animals because of the English market.’ And I was supposed to
be making a horror film!”
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For all these handicaps, Franju seems to have succeeded only too
well. The French have always admired the English penchant for horror
stories, and imagined that the land of Mary Shelley, Bram Stoker, Jack
the Ripper and Terence Fisher would appreciate an artistically-made
horror film. Alas, when it was presented in the Film Festival at
Edinburgh (home of body-snatchers), seven people fainted, and
public and press were outraged. Franju didn't improve matters by
saying that now he knew why Scotsmen wore skirts.
The cliché aspects of the story [are] transformed into poetry by the
styles which bathe and impregnate them. In the opening sequence,
the branches along a country road are spectrally illumined by car
headlights, and seem to perform an eerie dance, emphasized by
Maurice Jarre's waltz, as slippery as black ice… The delicate loop
described by a Citroën DS as it parks, the reflection of black branches
in its black metal skin, the rhythm with which scalpels are placed
firmly in Génessier's rubber-carapaced hand, the morgue by a Metro
station near which the trains emerge like grey ramrods into listless
day, cease to be “superficial” details of style, they link the mythic
and the everyday.
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Such details occupy the bulk of screen time, and might have
weakened rather than set off the terror. Several factors ensure that
they don't. First, the Boileau-Narcejac script is unconventionally, but
effectively constructed. In form it anticipates Psycho1: a first heroine
visits “Hell,” is killed, and a second victim nearly takes her place. If
the fates of these victims provide the principal melodramatic shocks,
they also, as in Hitchcock's film, allow a certain dramatic and moral
complexity. When Mayniel, having been facially skinned, escapes in
Génessier's house, unaware, because of the toweling round her head,
and drugged as she is, of what has happened to her, we hope she will
succeed because where there's escape there's hope, if only of
revenge. But we hope even more desperately that she will not
escape, because then she will have to face the truth. And so we're
caught in a tangle of hope and counter-hope, our optimism and
pessimism are equally frightening, the melodrama loses all will-she-
or-won't-she naivety and becomes elegiac. And when the girl lies
dead, her eyes stare at us, unseeing, though slits in the toweling;
hers are the eyes without a face, and, now, the eyes without the
eyes…
Though the film horrifies, Franju was right to resist its classification as
a horror film. “It's an anguish film. It's a quieter mood than horror,
something more subjacent, more internal, more penetrating. It's
horror in homeopathic doses.”
The present writer saw the film three times in upper working-class
halls, where the audiences were gripped from the opening moment
by the intensity of atmosphere, and went onto a consistent
identification with each victim in turn – sickened screams being
provoked as Génessier lifts, from the bloodied front of Mayniel’s
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EYES WITHOUT A FACE
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head, the soft plane of her expressionless, eyeless face: and later, as
his pencil marks out the next victim’s face, the audience flinched as if
the pencil-pointy were already a scalpel.
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the U.S., it still "takes us implacably to the end of what our nerves
can bear," as Cocteau noted.