In The House is many things; a dark comedy of obsession, an essay on the importance of story, a hilarious treatise on the state of contemporary art, a satire of the lurid voyeurism of the observant writer, a sly deconstruction – and subversion – of an audience’s expectations, even a writing aid of sorts. But what it isn’t, is easy to write about, not without spoilers of a kind. So much of the film’s excellence is in its execution, its transition from scene to scene, the way the stories within stories are constructed, tinkered with, developed, that to get the most out of it, you should go in knowing as little as possible. Seriously, it’s great. Go watch it (then come back… please..)
In The House (french title: Dans La Maison) is directed by Frances Ozon, whose previous work, Potiche, was last seen by the majority of english moviegoing audiences being given the increasingly unfunny ‘orange advert’ treatment (remember, the one where they did fake subtitles over a French movie that made all the characters look like they were talking about phones? F*** you, Orange). Its plot concerns the mentoring relationship between an ex-novelist literature teacher Germain, and his writing protege. His student, Claude (hauntingly played by Ernst Umhauer), has been writing about the family of a fellow student, the Raphas, infiltrating their home to sate his curiosity about what occurs behind the closed doors of a quiet suburban household – theirs is the house in the title. His writing skills excite his teacher who encourages Claude to embed himself deeper within the family, curiosity slowly turning sinister and voyeurism gradually turning to lustful obsession.
What follows is a somewhat self-aware examination of the complex morality inherent in the act of storytelling, not unlike meta-filmic works Adaptation or Stranger Than Fiction before it. The focus of the drama shifts between the subjects (the Raphas, observed by Claude), the writers (Claude, edited by Germain) and the readers (Germain and his wife Jeanne). As Germain instructs the young writer in various storytelling principles, the film changes, bending as Claude manipulates the family based on Germain’s teachings. As the film progresses into more surreal territory, Germain starts to appear like a ghost in the Raphas’ scenes, making edits on the fly.
You could be forgiven for thinking this sounds like pretentious, self-indulgent filmic navel-gazing, but Ozon is a far better filmmaker than that. A wicked sense of humour stitches all the scenes together, undercutting moments of seemingly-elitist sermonising with savage digs at embittered failed writers, contemporary art in general (scenes in Jeanne’s art gallery are a constant source of laughs) and even the manipulative nature of the film itself. At one point, Claude is attempting to woo/emotionally coerce one of the Raphas, as cheesy, hyper-romantic music starts to play in the film’s score.
Nor does the film avoid holding its characters up to judgement. The actions of Claude and Germain are justly viewed as abhorrent, despite their intentions to create worthy art. While the film proposes that a certain amount of predatory invasion in inherently linking to the act of winkling out the compelling stories hidden behind every closed door, it never shies away from such invasion’s consequences. Even the viewer is held to trial, their place in the audience making them somewhat implicit in the actions of Claude and Germain. After all, it is what we expect, what we demand, that drives their manipulations.
Again, if this serves to make the film sound inaccessible to anyone not majoring in English Lit, it would be doing the film a disservice. It’s a funny, tense, sexy and compelling film, bolstered by wonderful performances from its ensemble cast, in particular Fabrice Luchini as Germain, a pompous yet strangely lovable soul who obsession with the development of the Raphas’ story, slowly drives him to the dark side.
In its best moments, In The House is a fantastic viewing experience, the audience watching a movie twist and turn in the moment to match the rules and regulations of storytelling, like it’s been written and re-written as we watch, the boundaries of what is real and what is a fabrication blurring before our eyes. It can’t quite live up to its self-imposed standards, however, the film becoming slightly confused and a touch sentimental towards its closing moments, but its closing shot is a thing of beauty. A lingering look at a huge wall of windows, each of them containing a different life, a different story. We wish we were inside each one of them, dans la maision, then remind ourselves of the trespass that entails.
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