I’m not sure how common it is, but I found Denis Lavant through YouTube videos. There is something magnetic about his presence, specifically the way that he carries himself as he twirls and spins, like a street merchant acrobat. He makes life feel like a big art piece, finding self-expression with the perfect soundtrack backing him. Of course, there’s Mauvais Sang (1986), which featured him dancing down the street to David Bowie’s “Modern Love,” moving so fast that it feels like the steel barriers behind him turn into reels of film, coming to life with vivid detail. If that sounds familiar, it’s because it’s directly referenced in Frances Ha (2013), which puts its own delightful spin on things.
Along with Lovers on the Bridge (1991) and Holy Motors (2012), I am captivated by what he does. You can’t help but admire how he exists. That’s it. He has this way of filling a frame, and for years I have personally felt curious about Beau Travail (2000), if for no other reason than its decision to end with him, alone in a night club, dancing to Corona’s “Rhythm of the Night.” Out of context, it doesn’t tell you anything about the movie. It’s just Lavant slowly transforming, experiencing movements that burst from his chest, eventually sending him writhing on the floor. It’s so powerful and iconic that I keep coming back to it, though, until this week (thanks to The Criterion Channel), I’ve never thought to watch the Claire Denis movie.
Which is strange because I’ve slowly become a fan of her work over the past few years. While I enjoyed High Life (2019), I am more of a fan of Let the Sunshine In (2018), which is this optimistic look at growing older and understanding the value of love in your life. She isn’t someone that I have a great grasp on, but I felt her vision of relationships in all of their forms was a compelling concept. Her films capture humanity at their most vulnerable, finding them lonely, looking for some long-term affection that will solve all of their problems. It makes sense then that her most expressionistic film would also present something even richer about the human condition.
The story plays out like a 90-minute poem, finding Adjudant-Chief Galoup (Lavant) reflecting on a bygone era. In this case, it’s his time in The Foreign Legion while serving in Djibouti. Above is a blazing sun, beating down on the hopeless soldiers who break rocks with pent-up aggression. In anyone else’s hands, the masculinity would be overdone, presenting men who overcome every obstacle with a smile on their face. Instead, Denis reflects a tender side, not afraid to show a bleeding hand, images of men gathered around the table shirtless just laughing and having a good time. There is a brotherhood, a trust that makes you believe that they have each other’s back, and it’s the beginning of Galoup’s sense of discomfort.
Because Djibouti still exists around them. Whenever they drive a caravan through the desert, there is a crowd watching them. They don’t speak the same language nor do they dress the same. So much of the world feels different, and maybe there is this fear of being stranded with people who don’t understand their needs. It’s an isolating story and one that manages to convey the sadness through physicality. There are several scenes where men will practice their training, trying to prove how tough they are. Denis reflects men at their weakest, trying to overcome literal obstacles and overpowering each other, if just for some perverse sense of respect.
Meanwhile, Galoup conveys his longing in a letter, spoken like poetry in an Andrei Tarkovsky movie. There is a plot, but it exists like a fleeting memory, pieced together in a scrapbook of moments. The dialogue almost exists as captions, watching The Foreign Legion wander around training for an operation that never comes. There is little justification for why they are there, and yet it becomes clear how much is repressed inside. When Galoup goes to a night club early in the film, he looks into the eye of a female dancer and doesn’t feel that passion. At the time, one could argue that he is just riddled with loneliness, distracted by thoughts of happier times.
However, it becomes quickly clear that he’s longing for a personal relationship. He talks about Commandant Bruno Forestier (Michel Subor), claiming “I admired him without knowing why.” There are lingering shots of his beauty from Galoup’s perspective, finding him as this wild and free spirit.
Nowhere is this more apparent than a recurring motif where Forestier is seen swimming through the ocean on the outskirts of Djibouti. It’s a symbol of life, a connection to someplace full of replenishment and acceptance. These scenes are the most joyous, finding both men in a playful state that contradicts their militaristic stance. They’re almost freed by the lack of clothes, of gravity holding them back. Nothing significant happens, but it slowly becomes clear that he has an infatuation, later desiring to express his feelings for Gilles Sentain (Gregoire Colin), which becomes his demise. It’s the moment where the world begins to understand him.
That is the question. Was the relationship ethical, or was everything to follow seen as an act of homophobia? So much can be read into Galoup’s plight throughout the story, and it ties into the emotional struggle of war. It’s aching loneliness where all that he wants to achieve is tenderness and acceptance. Nobody can give it to him. Most people can’t even understand what he is saying. And yet, the people who understand him most are the ones convinced that this act is dangerous, that falling in love may cause personal harm to their reputations. In an endless desert, what is there for Galoup to even aspire to?
Which is sort of brilliant. On the edge of the water is the beach: fine white sand that translates very well to film. It’s like salt, absorbing the life out of everyone who so much as steps on it. It’s almost difficult to find any optimism as one sits on the beach, overlooking the optimism just out of reach. What Denis does so swiftly manages to make the whiteness overpower the screen as Galoup’s personal state begins to fade. As tragedy strikes and the world looks emptier, the whiteness fills up 75% of the frame, and it’s quite a powerful visual. There is so much nothingness, just like in the heart of Galoup.
As I’ve mentioned, one of the great things about Lavant is that he is a great expresser. When asked to stare blankly, you understand the woe inside. His chest puffs up just enough that you can sense him wanting to say something. But everyone watching knows that it could be costly. Even as the female gaze captures what is desirable about these characters, finding them physically attractive as well as emotionally rich, he feels pain and does everything not to cry. What can he even do? His happiness when playing cards is something platonic, but it’s clear how much he just wants something complacent.
So much of Beau Travail (French for “good work”) exists as a search for a deeper emotional connection. It’s symbolic in the way that a beach draws in and out from the shore, the way that a game of cards becomes the most enjoyable scene, or how a world conceivably different looks, judging everyone. It’s about those eyes trying to look into something they don’t understand, trying to find answers, and discovering how difficult it is for anyone to be honest with themselves. Considering that, in America, this was coming off of the decade of “Don’t ask don’t tell,” I can only imagine how much more difficult it was overseas.
The experience of Beau Travail is beautiful and sweet, capturing the struggle to be a man in a world that wants you to be the masculine ideal. Everyone has these deeper desires and expressing them are ridiculed. Lavant delivers another incredible performance that suggests he’s one of the greatest actors in world cinema, a chameleon who manages to disappear into every character so well that you’re drawn to these minute details. While this may be on his less eccentric side, it’s definitely one that asks a lot out of him, to convince us that for every line he speaks, there’s dozens more going unsaid. Maybe they don’t even make sense to him. Denis perfects this without ever drawing direct attention to, capturing a more realistic experience inside of this abstract prism.
Then, there’s the finale. Having experienced the previous 90 minutes, it’s something that becomes more tragic but explains the power of impressionistic dancing. Lavant has done this a handful of times, and here he makes the whole routine a symbol of the film. Over a few minutes, he finds himself shyly breaking from a corner and beginning to move. His moves evolve into something more pronounced, though they still look awkward, eventually including some crouched spins. By the end, what looks like writhing on the floor becomes something more heartbreaking.
Is it a metaphor for his death? After all, it is the preceding scene. One can assume this is him dancing alone while everyone again watches on. It’s the girl he never had any interest in, watching this man shake with reckless aplomb. There’s clearly something there, trying to get out. The issue is that it never does. He’s never the angelic prince he thinks he is. Does he die afterward, or is he just on the floor, a mess waiting to be picked up? In either case, he’s definitely lashing out for help in the only way that he knows how.
Beau Travail is an incredible experience of a film, serving as one of Denis’ best films for how it conveys loneliness and desire in such a way that is optimistic but also heartbreaking. It’s one that manages to use the landscape of war, borrowing ideas from Herman Melville’s “Billy Budd,” to convey the struggles inside all of us. The dance at the end may seem tangential, but in some ways, it summarizes the whole film perfectly without words. You’re left knowing that feeling, that you’ve done everything you could to reach out, but it wasn’t enough.
If you haven’t watched a lot of Lavant, I highly encourage you to. His work with Leos Carax is especially compelling, finding him diving into the mind of some of the strangest characters of French cinema from the past 40 years. With that said, I’m far from seeing everything he’s done. Considering how exciting I find him to be in every turn, I can only imagine that he continues to surprise me, finding ways to make the human condition into something invigorating, worthy of celebrating over and over.
The same goes for Denis, who I’m sure is even greater than the three films I’ve discussed here. Still, it’s intriguing to pair Beau Travail with Let the Sunshine In, which is more of a conventional romantic drama. It finds Juliette Binoche looking for love as she grows older, finding the men in her life unsatisfying. While by no means a groundbreaking story, it does end with a more recognizable sense of acceptance and optimism. Even if it’s just a look she gives, it holds a deeper weight. That’s what makes these two perfect for each other. They knew how to look at a person and ask what’s going on inside, why we should care about their struggles. If you have a heart, you’ll understand immediately why.
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