This ever-faithful adaptation of Gustave Flaubert’s classic French novel is often as compelling as its source, no mean feat considering the power of Flaubert’s tragic tale of Emma Bovary, a woman undone by her gender and social status. When it was published in 1856, Flaubert’s book was a literary scandal, not only because it defied French romanticism, but also because it dared to depict venality, selfishness, and adultery so compassionately. Of course, this film version of Flaubert’s work — the ninth, so far — has none of that shock value, but there is unquestionably something magnetic about it, something which draws you to it. In large part, it’s Huppert’s unflinching performance as the fated Emma which makes Madame Bovary tick. In playing this woman suffocated by her provincial, middle class existence, a woman tormented by the fact that her only function is to be wife and mother, Huppert elicits sympathy for what might otherwise be an unsympathetic character. Director-screenwriter Chabrol allows Flaubert’s story to stand on its own, but the film could use more of a cinematic touch, especially since it’s directed by the man once hailed as the French Hitchcock. (Indeed, the only scene in the film where Chabrol exhibits any style is that in which Emma reads the letter in which her lover Rodolphe abruptly ends their affair.) Also, the infrequent use of a third-person narrator to bridge the film’s narrative is annoying: why do French filmmakers insist upon using this storytelling device so much? Even with these faults, however, anyone who has read and admired Flaubert’s novel will most likely appreciate the film’s subtle reminder of how Emma Bovary’s tragedy has some application to contemporary life. In a famous dictum to his novel, Flaubert commented, “Madame Bovary, c’est moi.” After seeing Madame Bovary, you may find yourself thinking the same thing.
This article appears in December 27 • 1991 (Cover).
