Jacques Rivette’s latest, a bitterly
romantic adaptation of Honoré de Balzac, is exquisitely
realized, even by Rivette standards. Costume design, art direction
and cinematography all work together in concert: early scenes in
which the titular Duchess is a woman of great mystery and allure are
lit like Caravaggio paintings; a later passage, which takes place
after we see how she’s been wrecked on the inside — she stands on a
Parisian street in buttoned-up clothing, wearing a tall hat and a
lost, wistful expression on her face as autumn leaves swirl around
her feet — has the look of classic Hollywood melodrama, or even
the arch magic of Pressburger-Powell. (I admit, Black Narcissus was
never too far from my mind.)