Celebrating Chantal Akerman
Chantal Akerman’s films are the epitome of slow cinema. With the long scenes pushed to an extreme, the refusal to give in to action or shock, the experience is confronting, often uncomfortable, the distractions are numerous… and yet.
Born on June 6, 1950, Chantal Akerman passed away on October 5, 2015. Today would have been her 75th birthday. When asked who my favorite director is, I never quite dare say her name. As there is something very private, almost raw in the way her films touch me, something too intimate to reveal so carelessly into a passing conversation, which is one of the reasons I wanted to sit down and put down words regarding this filmmaker who has managed to reach a part of my soul no others have.
I first encountered her work in 2021. There was a sudden regain of interest on social media for Jeanne Dielman, 23, quai du Commerce, 1080 Bruxelles, which was released in 1975.
Because of the reputation of the film’s demanding, elongated scenes, it took me a while to get to it, wanting to be in the right headspace for a proper experience. When it topped the 2022 Sight and Sound magazine’s "Greatest films of all time" poll, making it the first feature directed by a woman to take the first rank, I couldn’t wait any longer. We follow a widowed housewife’s everyday routine, as she goes through various chores — cooking, taking care of her teenage son whom she lives with, prostituting herself to make ends meet — all performed with the same disregard, practiced habit, and mundanity, until her routine starts collapsing. As is Akerman’s trademark, Jeanne Dielman is characterized by long static scenes, a rebuttal of creating any kind of rhythmic pace. The film consists of slices of life, happening in real time, where Jeanne Dielman, greatly played by the wonderful Delphine Seyrig, simply exists and completes her tasks. It is an absolutely haunting film. What starts as mesmerising, almost comforting in the certainty and control with which Jeanne’s life is being led, soon transforms into unsettling. The mundanity becomes unbearable, tasks that were done in a practically robotic way are now insurmountable. The fulfilling routine crumbles down, and all that is left when it is dismantled is a void, impossible to miss. Jeanne Dielman is a challenging film. In a very famous quote, Akerman mentions that she wants the audience to feel the runtime when watching one of her films, feel the weight of the minutes, and leave the theatre with that weight still sitting in their chest.
It is an aspect which I also found in Je, tu, il elle (1974), released a year before Jeanne Dielman. The film revolves essentially around three scenes. A young woman, played by Akerman herself, is in her room, rearranging her furniture until only a mattress is left, writing a letter and lying down naked, she puts out a bag of sugar and eats spoons of it. Her actions are stripped down to the bare needs of the species, physically and mentally. The simplicity of her living is reflected in the camera work being empty of any whirls or sharpness. In the second sequence, she’s at the edge of a highway, hitchhiking until she is picked up by a young man. They end up at a restaurant, go to a bathroom where gives him a handjob. A scene full of detachment, contrasting directly with the carnal and passionate lovemaking with her ex-lover, part of the last segment of the film. In a narrative where I was expecting to encounter characters who felt trapped in their body, mind, and environment, I found a tale of liberation. where needs surpass wants or shoulds, where body becomes home, mind becomes escape, and roads become journeys. Words are infinite, thoughts are unfiltered, and love is raw and primal.
With these two features, Akerman had already cemented herself as one of my favorite filmmakers, whose work was not only completely groundbreaking from any other form of cinema I had encountered so far, but also felt very intimate. As if the feelings they provoked had been carried within me my entire life, without ever knowing how to put them into words or images. A dam had been broken open, and I did not really know what to do with myself other than just jump even further. It is after watching News From Home (1976) on the big screen that she irrevocably inserted herself into a part of my soul. The film assembles various images of New York City while letters from Akerman’s mother, living in Brussels, are being read.
Akerman was really close to her mother. In fact, she never asserted her creative persona as anything else than being a daughter – lots of her films exploring the relationship between a daughter and her mother. The letters hold a particular affection, a worry of love for a child who is far away and yet never leaves one’s thoughts. They contrast with the anonymity the city brings, and the individualism of lives appearing in the streets or the subway collides with words of companionship, of the security coming from a loving mother. There is a scene in Carol (2015) where, at the beginning of a road trip, a character innocently mentions not having thought of home since she has left, and the other character repeats that word, “home”. But in a particular tone, filled with longing, guilt, fear, attachment, and questioning. News From Home appears as the enlargement of that tone. The bridge between the simplicity and evidence home is found here through the infinite amount of letters from the mother, and the elasticity of
its meaning and how loaded it can be, created by the contrast of the daughter making a life for herself in an environment seemingly far from where she comes from, physically but also mentally.
Chantal Akerman’s films are the epitome of slow cinema. With the long scenes pushed to an extreme, the refusal to give in to action or shock, it is a confronting experience. It slowly creeps up on you, niches itself into your chest, and unravels your perception of being. The length of the feature does not matter for the effect to be made. In several of her early short films, including Saute Ma Ville (1968), her first feature, only thirteen minutes are used to shake the audience’s expectations. A young girl is in her kitchen, restless, spending her night away, leading to a certain action. And it is through the mundanity that I was pulled within. The recognition of tasks that have been performed hundreds of times by each viewer. The lack of name or acknowledgement of situation, specificities are removed, and the character becomes an idea in itself, a concept. Short films such as La Chambre (1972), J’ai faim, j’ai froid (1984), or La Paresse (1986), are groundbreaking not only in their form — the long takes and demanding pace associated to a ten-minutes runtime — but also in the juxtaposition of caged characters, confined within laziness, hunger, entrapped in a room, on a bed, who let their spirit roam free and give voice to needs in a society where shoulds are prioritised.
I found the process to be confronting, often uncomfortable, where distractions are numerous, and yet. Yet, my eyes are glued to the screen, and my exterior thoughts are reduced to a mumble. Yet, I yearn for more while wanting to give each film its proper and separate experience. I still have a lot of films from her filmography to watch, but I purposely take my time, do not rush through them as I happen to do when I appreciate an artist’s work. Each project holds a universe of emotions, and I intend to go to the depths of every single one, as raw and as intimate as they feel.
Happy heavenly birthday, Chantal. Thank you for touching parts of my soul I did not think were reachable.
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