Bne wonders if the respectable and respected 19th-century French poet Paul
Verlaine would enjoy quite as privileged a place in literary history as he does
today if 16-year old fledgling poet Arthur Rimbaud hadn't come into the picture.
But Rimbaud did, and with a vengeance. The ensuing relationship was, even by
today's standards, wildly dysfunctional, sado-masochistic, and drenched in drugs,
alcohol and violence.
And let us not forget the sex. One understands why Mrs.
Verlaine was not exactly happy every time Rimbaud came by to hang out with her
husband. Yet it was the young Rimbaud, not Verlaine, who ultimately emerged as
the Seer, with a body of work that would make him, arguably, the father of modern
poetry. And a remarkably young father at that; at the tender age of 19, Rimbaud
put down his pen after only three years of writing and fled, alone, to an obscure
life in the Mideast.
Granted, shock thresholds in 1995 aren't what they were in 1871 (the year of Rimbaud's famous Le Bateau Ivre (The Drunken Boat)), nonetheless, one could easily imagine a psychologically compelling dramatic treatment of this infamous literary couple. Unfortunately, Agnieszka Holland's new film, Total Eclipse, misses the boat, drunken or sober, and that is pretty shocking, considering the excellent credentials attached to it.
Ms. Holland (Europa, Europa and The Secret
Garden), Leonardo DiCaprio (What's Eating Gilbert Grape) and British actor David
Threwlis (Naked) have all proven themselves superb elsewhere, but here, their
respective contributions fail to convince. Although DiCaprio bares an uncanny
resemblance to Rimbaud, his performance is wooden and utterly American.
And as
Verlaine, Thewlis works too hard to no great effect. Only the lovely French
Actress Romane Bohringer as Mrs. Verlaine rings true, if only because hers is the
only accent which is correct.
In the end, however, the true culprit in not bringing Total Eclipse to life is screenwriter Christopher Hampton (Dangerous Liaisons), who has based this film on his own early play. In both forms, Mr. Hampton has ignored the crucial, central, co-dependent glue that kept the lovers together for three turbulent years: Rimbaud's intense, perverse glee in bringing the respectable Verlaine down to his own scandalous level, and the corresponding thrill of decadent slumming Verlaine wanted to (and could only) experience in the company of the young Rimbaud (unable as he was of behaving so appallingly on his own, all the while hating himself for it).
Consequently, except for a few isolated moments of explicit violence and rough sex, the film lacks the edgy menace it should have at every moment, and Ms. Holland's usual intelligence and craft end up coming off as far too polite and safe for purposes of this movie. After all, these guys did anything but play it safe.
