THE UNBEARABLE LIGHTNESS OF BEING (1988), dir. Philip Kaufman
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A brilliant doctor with a thirst for women; the sincere ingénue who becomes his wife; the doctor’s lover, who understands the thrill of being both pursuer and pursued: these three make up the love triangle in Philip Kaufman’s “The Unbearable Lightness of Being.” Often revered as one of most erotic movies ever made, there’s more to it than just the cool mechanics of sex. Like the Milan Kundera novel it’s based on, the film is set in Czechoslovakia during a time of great political upheaval, and seems to understand how sex is connected to a whole gamut of emotions, all of which can be affected by an event as dramatic as displacement.
Daniel Day-Lewis plays Tomas, who starts off the “lightest” of the central protagonists, concerned for little besides his next conquest. Everything changes, however, during a trip to the country to perform a routine operation, whereupon he encounters Tereza (Juliette Binoche) and immediately becomes smitten with her. The feeling is mutual, but they share a strange interaction at first: he wants sex, while she seems to be looking for friendship and romance. The gulf between them could not be better illustrated than when Tereza tells Tomas that she gets off work at six. “Oh, but I have a plane to catch back to Prague,” he replies, a sly, wolfish look on his face. Tereza, who seems to miss the point completely, only registers disappointment.
Yet their separation is short-lived, and soon enough, the young girl has followed the doctor back home, where the relationship is consummated (for her, it appears to be her first time). Afterward, even Tomas seems taken aback by how strongly Tereza clings to him, but refuses to give up his routine of casual encounters, which include sex with Sabina (Lena Olin), a free-spirited artist who understands his nature better than anyone. It’s never clear just how offended Sabina is by this new woman’s presence in Tomas’ life, whether she secretly had hoped their trysts would lead to something more substantial, but that doesn’t stop her from judging Tomas; at one point, she ponders his face in front of Tereza and asks aloud, “What makes him a scoundrel?”
For her part, Tereza seems to detect there is more to Tomas and Sabina’s relationship than meets the eye. Meanwhile, her relationship with the latter is friendly, but not necessarily friendship, although Sabina does help her develop into a skilled photographer. Always more politically-inclined than her beau, Tereza gets a job at a newspaper, and snaps pictures from the front line when the Soviets invade. When that endangers her life, she and Tomas flee to nearby Switzerland, whereupon the profound differences in their nature start becoming clear: she feels everything too deeply, while emotionally, he floats by on a cushion of air.
The main thrust of the movie involves how these characters grow and change as their lives endure one upheaval after another. The genius of Kaufman and screenwriter Jean-Claude Carriere’s adaptation, however, is in the way the protagonists’ relationships with one another, not to mention their overall attitudes about love and sex, are shown to be interconnected with their politics. Tereza, for example, embraces her home with Tomas and her homeland with equal passion, which leads to disillusionment on all fronts: in Switzerland, she discovers the world’s attention span regarding Czechoslovakia’s invasion has already been exhausted; none of the newspapers will buy her pictures, but an editor does suggest she start taking nude photographs for the fashion section.
With no other job prospects, Tereza looks up Sabina to use as a model, the latter having relocated to Switzerland as well. As she starts taking photographs of her, Tereza, examining the body of her husband’s lover, starts to break down. One gets the feeling she is looking at Sabina and thinking, “How can Tomas trade me for this other woman so freely?” which is not all that different from the question she faces in her work: “How can anyone trade in one passion for another?”
As for Sabina, she, along with acting as another face for the Czech Diaspora, serves to reflect both Tomas’ and Tereza’s qualities back at them (indeed, there is a recurring use of mirrors in shots featuring her). When together with the former, she expresses lust and carnality: at one point, she and Day-Lewis appear in a mirror as a beast with two backs. But like Tereza, her attitude towards love, sex, and life itself seem at least partially informed by her status as a refugee. Later, having no place to call “home” anymore, she thinks nothing of being equally rootless with her sex life, moving from man to man, city to city, especially when her latest beau becomes too serious.
Tomas, on the other hand, subscribes to a moral and political philosophy best summed up as “hands off.” He couldn’t care less about the state of his homeland’s government; he says as much when an article he wrote criticizing the country’s past leaders gets him blacklisted from practicing medicine. A government official tries to convince him to sign a retraction, but he won’t do it, for reasons the bureaucrat cannot understand. Yet the viewer does: although Tomas does not necessarily care who is in power, he wants the freedom to live as he pleases, which includes being able to toss off incendiary letters without reprisal. Likewise, he wants hedonism minus the chains of matrimony, sex whenever the opportunity presents itself, without having to explain or involve Tereza. At one point, she even begs him to bring her to the other women, to let her watch as he makes love to them, but he refuses. To pursue something with absolute freedom, after all, means pursuing it alone.
So what is the solution for the unhappy couple? According to the filmmakers (and we assume, Kundera himself), it is living life simpler, trading urban gray for pastoral green, big city anonymity for community, wealth for subsistence. When survival depends on the fecundity of the land and the sweat of the brow, emotions like jealousy become small and insignificant. Although one might argue such an ending to be tragic, an example of great talent being crushed by the Communist machine, the film itself never seems to argue that anything is lost, but rather, that a different kind of happiness is ultimately gained, one in which deep emotional bonds replace featherweight sex, where one’s being is neither an unbearable or light thing to anybody.
Overall rating: **** (out of ****)
A brilliant doctor with a thirst for women; the sincere ingénue who becomes his wife; the doctor’s lover, who understands the thrill of being both pursuer and pursued: these three make up the love triangle in Philip Kaufman’s “The Unbearable Lightness of Being.” Often revered as one of most erotic movies ever made, there’s more to it than just the cool mechanics of sex. Like the Milan Kundera novel it’s based on, the film is set in Czechoslovakia during a time of great political upheaval, and seems to understand how sex is connected to a whole gamut of emotions, all of which can be affected by an event as dramatic as displacement.
Daniel Day-Lewis plays Tomas, who starts off the “lightest” of the central protagonists, concerned for little besides his next conquest. Everything changes, however, during a trip to the country to perform a routine operation, whereupon he encounters Tereza (Juliette Binoche) and immediately becomes smitten with her. The feeling is mutual, but they share a strange interaction at first: he wants sex, while she seems to be looking for friendship and romance. The gulf between them could not be better illustrated than when Tereza tells Tomas that she gets off work at six. “Oh, but I have a plane to catch back to Prague,” he replies, a sly, wolfish look on his face. Tereza, who seems to miss the point completely, only registers disappointment.
Yet their separation is short-lived, and soon enough, the young girl has followed the doctor back home, where the relationship is consummated (for her, it appears to be her first time). Afterward, even Tomas seems taken aback by how strongly Tereza clings to him, but refuses to give up his routine of casual encounters, which include sex with Sabina (Lena Olin), a free-spirited artist who understands his nature better than anyone. It’s never clear just how offended Sabina is by this new woman’s presence in Tomas’ life, whether she secretly had hoped their trysts would lead to something more substantial, but that doesn’t stop her from judging Tomas; at one point, she ponders his face in front of Tereza and asks aloud, “What makes him a scoundrel?”
For her part, Tereza seems to detect there is more to Tomas and Sabina’s relationship than meets the eye. Meanwhile, her relationship with the latter is friendly, but not necessarily friendship, although Sabina does help her develop into a skilled photographer. Always more politically-inclined than her beau, Tereza gets a job at a newspaper, and snaps pictures from the front line when the Soviets invade. When that endangers her life, she and Tomas flee to nearby Switzerland, whereupon the profound differences in their nature start becoming clear: she feels everything too deeply, while emotionally, he floats by on a cushion of air.
The main thrust of the movie involves how these characters grow and change as their lives endure one upheaval after another. The genius of Kaufman and screenwriter Jean-Claude Carriere’s adaptation, however, is in the way the protagonists’ relationships with one another, not to mention their overall attitudes about love and sex, are shown to be interconnected with their politics. Tereza, for example, embraces her home with Tomas and her homeland with equal passion, which leads to disillusionment on all fronts: in Switzerland, she discovers the world’s attention span regarding Czechoslovakia’s invasion has already been exhausted; none of the newspapers will buy her pictures, but an editor does suggest she start taking nude photographs for the fashion section.
With no other job prospects, Tereza looks up Sabina to use as a model, the latter having relocated to Switzerland as well. As she starts taking photographs of her, Tereza, examining the body of her husband’s lover, starts to break down. One gets the feeling she is looking at Sabina and thinking, “How can Tomas trade me for this other woman so freely?” which is not all that different from the question she faces in her work: “How can anyone trade in one passion for another?”
As for Sabina, she, along with acting as another face for the Czech Diaspora, serves to reflect both Tomas’ and Tereza’s qualities back at them (indeed, there is a recurring use of mirrors in shots featuring her). When together with the former, she expresses lust and carnality: at one point, she and Day-Lewis appear in a mirror as a beast with two backs. But like Tereza, her attitude towards love, sex, and life itself seem at least partially informed by her status as a refugee. Later, having no place to call “home” anymore, she thinks nothing of being equally rootless with her sex life, moving from man to man, city to city, especially when her latest beau becomes too serious.
Tomas, on the other hand, subscribes to a moral and political philosophy best summed up as “hands off.” He couldn’t care less about the state of his homeland’s government; he says as much when an article he wrote criticizing the country’s past leaders gets him blacklisted from practicing medicine. A government official tries to convince him to sign a retraction, but he won’t do it, for reasons the bureaucrat cannot understand. Yet the viewer does: although Tomas does not necessarily care who is in power, he wants the freedom to live as he pleases, which includes being able to toss off incendiary letters without reprisal. Likewise, he wants hedonism minus the chains of matrimony, sex whenever the opportunity presents itself, without having to explain or involve Tereza. At one point, she even begs him to bring her to the other women, to let her watch as he makes love to them, but he refuses. To pursue something with absolute freedom, after all, means pursuing it alone.
So what is the solution for the unhappy couple? According to the filmmakers (and we assume, Kundera himself), it is living life simpler, trading urban gray for pastoral green, big city anonymity for community, wealth for subsistence. When survival depends on the fecundity of the land and the sweat of the brow, emotions like jealousy become small and insignificant. Although one might argue such an ending to be tragic, an example of great talent being crushed by the Communist machine, the film itself never seems to argue that anything is lost, but rather, that a different kind of happiness is ultimately gained, one in which deep emotional bonds replace featherweight sex, where one’s being is neither an unbearable or light thing to anybody.
Overall rating: **** (out of ****)
Labels: ****, 80's, Daniel Day-Lewis, Juliette Binoche, Lena Olin, Philip Kaufman
posted by Phil | 8:24 AM
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