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Film Description
A brilliantly filmed and at times unsettling exploration of faith and repression, the film is based on the documented story of the possession of a group of nuns in 17th century France. Its imagery is sparse and striking and all the characters linger in the mind. Kawalerowicz calls it his 'film against dogma'. Winner of the Special Jury Prize in Cannes.
Stark, sensual and unsettling, shot through with themes of voyeurism and curiosity and even featuring moments of satire, Mother Joan of the Angels is a hard film to pi... more >
Stark, sensual and unsettling, shot through with themes of voyeurism and curiosity and even featuring moments of satire, Mother Joan of the Angels is a hard film to pin down. Based on the documented story of the possession of a group of seventeenth century nuns, Kawalerowicz sets all the action in and between an inn and a convent that were purpose-built for the film in a unused dump. With nothing to intrude on the landscape but human presence and a blackened, burnt stake it’s a perfect setting for an existential examination of the conflict between desire and religion.
When Father Joseph arrives at the inn, his face of hardened innocence too careworn for beatitude, he is immediately tempted by mocking locals offering vodka which he drinks. He is also obviously conscious of the bodily presence of the woman who serves him, commencing the theme of eroticism, sometimes subdued, sometimes blatant, that infuses the film, and that along with the use of striking images and faces throughout serves to imprint scene after scene in your mind.
When he visits the convent and meets Mother Joan, his appeal to faith through shared prayer as a way out of her possession soon reveals just how far he is out of his depth and also how far he has to fall to be of any use. The unspoken attraction between Mother Joan and Father Joseph leads to some extraordinarily charged scenes, not least one that takes place when they are left alone in in the laundry room. Mother Joan slides the nun’s white robes along the poles on which they are drying, and then leans before the priest with the stripped poles gently swaying behind her. The film holds its breath for a moment.
The scenes of possession are equally as effectively portrayed, and are unsettling through the simplest means. At one point Mother Joan speaks the words of the devil while upside-down, the film framed tight to her face made strange. Later, Father Joseph has a conversation with his own dark side reflected in a mirror. It should be seen in a darkened room for its full chilling effect.
As well as depicting a conflict of love against religious dogma, Kawalerowicz also highlights the limited options for a woman to individualise herself in such a society and at such a time. One nun seeks it through the company of the inn and a tryst with the local squire. Mother Joan seeks it through demonic possession: ‘You only want me to be calm, colourless, small, to be just like any ordinary nun. I myself open my soul to the demons. But you want me to be like the thousands who have no aim on earth, you want to see me at prayer all day long, to see me eat beans all day. Do you promise me salvation for this? If one can’t be a saint, it’s better to be damned’
Bodily love between Mother Joan and Father Joseph is not possible, yet through his love for her he is willing to sacrifice himself for her salvation. The terrible price he convinces himself he must pay for relieving her of the demons reveals into just what strange shapes the church has twisted his understanding of desire.
Kawalerowicz’s film is a tragedy of religion obstructing genuine tenderness and love and he in fact speaks of it as his ‘film against dogma’. As such it’s easy to become immersed in the drama of the priest questioning how he should confront both the perceived evil of the convent and the force of his own desire, and forget the great cosmic force of laughter which is also at work in the film. The opening credits are shown over the prostrate body of Father Joseph. When they finish, he announces his presence with a cough (he’s been on the floor a long time, after all). He then unpacks his few possessions, hangs his whip on the wall after crossing himself with it, and as he heads for dinner, bumps his head on the door frame. It’s a scene of Buñuelian mirth; you’re not quite sure how much you should be laughing but you can be sure of a spluttering glee going on somewhere in the ether at the sight of humans doing such strange and tragic things with their lives.
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