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ShareIt’s one of the most depressing truisms of today’s disposable media mindset. While some obsessives may balk at the suggestion, ask a modern film fan about Brigitte Bardot, and the blank stare such a query generates is enough to make a one gasp for breath. After all, she was a foreign film sex kitten so potent in her carnal come hither allure that an entire movie was made about said status (the Jimmy Stewart farce from 1965 Dear Brigitte). Like Marilyn Monroe before her and Rachael Welch after, Bardot gave physical beauty a larger than life sense of wonder. She was a cupie doll coquette, a pert pixie whose sensual suggestiveness offered sin without the skin (or much of it), erotica without the odious undercurrent of exploitation, hype, or a sense of shamelessness.
Maybe the reason for her less than stellar cinematic legacy lies directly in the movies she made. Few are considered essential, though arguments can be made for And God Created Woman (1956), A Very Private Affair (1960), and Contempt (1963), and her retirement in 1973 (just before her 40th birthday) meant she missed most of the post-modern age that would come to redefine film. In retrospect, it is easy to dismiss her as a fad, as the sexual revolution’s first volley in the battle for the culture’s carnality, but there are those who consider Bardot iconic. Sadly, it seems that such a status is again derived from everything she stood for physically instead of how that perplexing psychosexual personality came across on screen. Add the inconsistent artistry of those she worked with to the decision to drop out of the limelight, and the lack of current consideration becomes clearer.
Born in Paris to well to do parents, a young Bardot was pushed toward a future in performing. Early on, she studied music and dance. In her teens, she was approached by French fashion magazine Elle and became one of the top models. Her first appearance on film was in 1952’s Crazy for Love. Long rumored to be dating journalist/filmmaker Roger Vadim, the two waited until Bardot turned 18 before finally marrying. During their five-year relationship, they made only two films together (Woman, and 1958’s The Night Heaven Fell) before divorcing. Later working with noted New Wave auteur Jean-Luc Godard and the luminary Louis Malle, Bardot attempted to expand her critical reputation. But with men in the United States literally foaming over her outsized European allure (foreign films faced eased censorship considerations on US shores), she became stuck in a risqué rut. It would often be cited as a reason she left the business.
Still, her output seems to signal a disposability that ‘50s and ‘60s audiences just couldn’t fathom. Like Twiggy, or Jean Shrimpton, Bardot remains firmly ensconced in her era, lost among the relics of what we once felt was fashionable and fun, sensual and seductive. One need look further than Lionsgate’s recent DVD release (actually, a simple repackaging of previously available titles) known as The Brigitte Bardot Collection. Featuring five lesser efforts—Naughty Girl (1956), Come Dance With Me (1959), Love on a Pillow (1962), Two Weeks in September (1967) and The Vixen (1969), we can witness the slow deterioration of the actress from trendsetter to tactic, ‘It’ girl to glorified gimmick. While there is entertainment value (and issues) with each film, the most compelling, and appalling, thing we discover is that, as a vision, Bardot is still alluring. As an actress, however, she’s a strange cinematic cipher.
From the very beginning of her time in film, it was looks over ability that supported the young French ingénue, even when the material was purposely formulated for her. Naughty Girl is a perfect example of this come hither creativity. In this lightweight musical farce, Bardot is Brigitte Latour, a spoiled rotten nightclub owner’s daughter. Pampered to the point of precociousness, she must shack up with the cabaret’s young gun crooner (an excellent Jean Bretonnière) when the police accuse Papa (Bernard Lancret) of involvement with smugglers. Traipsing around in a bikini to show off her underlying assets, she systematically throws everyone’s life into disarray. She foils the singer’s plans for marriage, destroys the entertainer’s upscale apartment, and basically makes a frighteningly fetching nuisance of herself. Then the criminals actually do come calling, hoping to settle some stereotypical scores.
So light and bubbly it’s like drinking champagne infused with fairy dust, Naughty Girl is nothing more than director Michel Boisrond taking advantage of Bardot’s burgeoning international acclaim. Imagine, if you will, a modern day comedian making a movie of a favored character he (or she) created long ago, that’s the kind of talent trading going on here. Bardot does shine in a surreal dance dream sequence, and shows lots of deft timing in the more anarchic, mixed-up moments. We get some swinging songs courtesy of Bretonnière and more than a little continental keystone copping. But when all is said and done, this is a Bardot vehicle, and for the most part, it succeeds. It delivers on her sultry, sex-driven persona while keeping things friendly and free from the gutter. Indeed, throughout the vast majority of The Brigitte Bardot Collection, we’ll wonder where the more wanton reputation and scandal came from.
Clearly it did not come from Come Dance with Me. Though four years removed from the worldwide fame that followed And God Created Woman, Bardot is back in full-blown musical mode, except this time, the narrative is far more titillating. Our superstar here plays Virginie, the angry spouse of a well-meaning dentist Hervé (Henri Vidal). After a row, she splits, leaving hubby to wander down to a local bar. There, he picks up a gal named Anita (Dawn Addams), and after a few slight physical misunderstandings, blackmail becomes part of everyone’s lives. Before long, Hervé is framed for murder. It is up to Virginie to go “undercover” as a dance instructor and clear her husband’s name. By casing the joint and interacting with the clientele, she hopes to discover the truth behind all this subterfuge.
Shaking her moneymaker and giving off a vibe of calculated cool, Bardot is very good in the part of faithful wife. She has a face that radiates faith and understanding, and when it comes to tripping the light fantastic, no one does it better or sexier. Of course, this is just a fraction of the fun to be found here, superficial amusements that do little to forward the icon’s stature as an actress. Indeed, one is often reminded of the Beach Blanket movies that would soon sweep American drive-ins. While Bardot definitely comes across as erotic and enticing, she’s also hindered by formulaic filmmaking that wants to keep her pinned into a distinct persona. The whodunit facet of the plot plays out effectively, even if the slightly homophobic approach in one scene dates the entire production’s philosophical approach. Still, there is no sign of the sex kitten, at least, from an obvious, soft-core perspective. Everything presented so far errs on the side of tease, not sleaze.
The reappearance of her ex-husband into her creative life would attempt to change all that. For all of his over hyped legacy, Roger Vadim was really nothing more than a ‘50s/‘60s Zalman King with a Parisian flair. He may have “made” Bardot (though others had a much bigger hand in shaping and supporting her movie mythos) but he could easily unmake her as well. Such is the case with this cumbersome potboiler. After she accidentally interrupts his suicide, Bardot’s Geneviève Le Thiel becomes the “owner” of Renaud Sarti’s (Robert Hossein) soul. As their relationship takes the usual motiveless, manipulated turns, our heroine must put up with cold shoulders and endless drinking binges. Renaud’s self destructive behavior worsens, and our heroine must question her commitment to this crass, cruel fellow.
Like a visitor who stays too long and just doesn’t want to leave, Love on a Pillow plods along, substituting glimpses of skin and implied arousal for anything remotely resembling interest. Bardot is rendered inert by her ex’s desire to concentrate on her carnality. If you were looking for a movie that more or less mocks what Bardot had become, this would be it. There is more artifice and false ambition here than in dozens of so-called art house offerings. This is French film at its most flat, the use of decorative angles supplanting a need for characterization and personal connections with the individuals onscreen. Even worse, her co-star constantly upstages Bardot. Hossein’s the perfect unrepentant creep, doing such a good job of making us hate him that a last act change of heart comes across as unconvincing and phony. It’s the worst kind of cinema, incomplete, melodramatic, and unashamed of being so.
At least Two Weeks in December doesn’t aim to be much more than a Bardot-oriented trifle. The story centers on your typical tasteful lover’s triangle. As a high fashion model in Paris, Cecile has a chance to travel to London. While there, she tosses aside her feelings for faithful is boring husband Phillipe (Jean Rochefort) and has a quick weekend fling with Vincent (Laurent Terzeiff). Nothing more than someone who hangs around the studio all day, he represents everything Cecile is missing in her life. Unfortunately, when the time comes to return home, she must make a decision. Does she continue to indulge her forbidden love with this idealized man, or does she return to the vows she made with her stable if static spouse?
It’s no surprise, with the subject of modeling and photography at the center of the story, that Two Weeks in December is more interested in pretty pictures and how they are taken than any real insights into love and fidelity. As if to prove that, while still in her early ‘30s, Bardot was a babe, the movie spends inordinately large amounts of time with the actress prancing around in all manner of couture fashions. When he’s not making his star look sensational, director Serge Bourguignon is doing a similar number on the UK backdrop. The affair occurs in Scotland, and it’s all gorgeous highlands and lowlands for our lovebirds. It’s too bad that there’s not more here. Clearly, Bardot is no longer the phenomenon that captured the world’s attention. At this point in her career, the ‘60s were taking everything she stood for an amplifying it 100%. The sexual revolution was now in full swing. Its emblematic starting point was no longer relevant in the day-to-day discussion.
This may explain The Vixen‘s total lack of intrigue. Coming close to the end of her time onscreen (she would make only five more movies before retirement), what we get here is a flimsy plotline that sees Bardot playing the “inspiration” for a romantic memoir-writing author. It seems that Jerome (Maurice Ronet) is stuck scribbling his latest tome, and needs a fetching young face to move his muse. Along comes an unwitting Clara, and over her protestations, sparks fly. Soon, our hero is humbling himself, dishing the dirt on his past relationships and his inability to commit. Of course, our heroine is there to help. If she can’t pry open this particular brand of writer’s block, no one can.
Though the criticism doesn’t change, it still bears repeating that these films do just not serve Bardot. Here, our heartsick scribe (played with jaded joie de vive by Ronet) gets as much screen time, or more, than his famous costar, and the surrounding European countryside (the story takes place over a train trip to Rome) battles the numerous lothario’s flashbacks for visual prominence. All our fading starlet has is her infamous pout and her maturing sizzle. There is no doubt that the camera loved Bardot. She could simply sit motionless while music played in the background and you’d swear she was doing a metaphysical bump and grind. Some fans find this movie a pleasant, poetic diversion. Others long for the days when her name atop a marquee actually stopped cinematic traffic.
All of which makes The Brigitte Bardot Collection a tough overview to recommend. It would be like suggesting that newcomers to the Beatles listen to For Sale instead of Revolver to get an idea of what made the Fab Four so influential. Lionsgate obviously understood this, as the amount of effort put into the presentation (no new remastered images here) and added content (a minor documentary highlighted by Hugh Hefner waxing and waning) argues for a second tier treatment of the actresses’ legitimacy and legacy. Clearly, they feel that current film fans would be hard pressed to sense a connection with this artifact from a past era and since no one is championing a Bardot comeback (she remains in retirement, tirelessly working for several sometimes incredibly right wing causes) or planning a full blown retrospective, we have to settle for this scattered digital appreciation.
For many, the allure Bardot once managed with a mere fluttering of her eyelashes has been replaced by fame whoring so blatant that a hardcore sex tape is not only suggested to support such a standing, but a media made mandate. Even in movies where nudity supplanted suggestion, she was a star whose persona could easily weather such overt statements of sex. She was part of film’s coming of age, the pesky French and their Swedish counterparts teaching the American prudes a thing or two about the cinematic birds and bees. Consider her a viable part of film history or a faded fluke that deserves her newly found place among the woefully overrated or misbegotten, but when you see her, there’s no denying what she once stood for. It’s an image that’s’ all but elapsed today and this DVD set won’t change that anytime soon.
