Paul Verhoeven is such an unholy talent when it comes to trash that some of us have long felt that he could do more with it. He could work with a GOOD lead actress for once. He could relax his sledgehammer and wander a bit. He could embrace his European roots. He could make daring arthouse sleaze in a world where the mainstream multiplexes are more boring than ever.
He could make a movie like Elle, a deliberately paced, adult, absorbing and French-language take on twisted personalities with an actress who owns the screen and your drink and your popcorn and whatever you’ve got in your pockets.
So, successful businesswoman, co-owner of a video game company, Isabelle Huppert (truly magnetic here) is raped in her urban home by a masked man. That’s the first minute of the movie. All we see at the moment is the aftermath in a shot so spare and simple it could have been composed by Louis Feuillade in 1915. From there, Huppert carries on with upper class reserve and a disinterest in involving the police (for outrageous reasons that we learn about a little later), but with fresh paranoia about the men in her life. Like all bosses and business owners, there’s no shortage of people who either hate her or who MIGHT hate her. The plot thickens when the man behind the mask begins to send her creepy messages. It thickens even more when we’re not sure if this all turns her on or if she’s got a plan forming in her head. Huppert’s eyes tell us everything and nothing. Her every gesture changes the temperature of the scene, but we’re not always sure what that means. She’s hurt and angry, but also stoic. She’s neither a symbol of female empowerment or female victimhood. Rather, she’s—gasp!—a real person, strange and flawed and beautiful. I can’t think of many other actresses who could have carried a weight so heavy, but Huppert does it like it’s nothing.
You can almost see Verhoeven beaming behind the camera.