'The Duke of Burgundy' conceals a sensual love story within a Eurotrash cocoon
Please note: This article is published as an archive copy from Philadelphia City Paper. My City Paper is not affiliated with Philadelphia City Paper. Philadelphia City Paper was an alternative weekly newspaper in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. The last edition was published on October 8, 2015.
An exacting replica of the sort of taboo-teasing softcore sex film.
Photo courtesy of The Duke of Burgundy on Instagram
City Paper grade: A
Despite their pitch-perfect recreations of 1970s European genre aesthetics, "homage" is an inadequate descriptor for the films of Peter Strickland. In Berberian Sound Studio, the British writer-director turned the Italian horror film into a set of nesting dolls with an uneasy sense of alienation at their center. Now, with The Duke of Burgundy, Strickland creates an exacting replica of the sort of taboo-teasing softcore sex film trafficked in by the likes of Jess Franco and Radley Metzger, but as an incisive peek into the negotiations, compromises and rituals that make up a truly loving relationship. At the outset, the dynamic between stylish entomologist Cynthia (Sidse Babett Knudsen) and the younger Evelyn (Chiara D'Anna) appears to be that of a domineering employer and her fragile European maid, but it soon becomes clear that the two are a couple involved in elaborate BDSM roly-poly.
Their interactions are minutely stage-directed by the submissive Evelyn and reluctantly indulged by Cynthia, whose overwhelming adoration and need for her lover show through the cracks in her steely adopted facade. For those familiar with Strickland's Eurotrash models, the mood of uncanny eroticism is instantly suggested by the prismatic light, the gently psychedelic flute-and-string score, and the black capes and leather gloves of the severely clad extras. But even for the uninitiated, Strickland infuses every moment with a claustrophobic sensuality, from the musty opulence of the pair's lavish home to the piercing butterfly calls that occasionally erupt into the soundtrack. All of which is unsettled by the mysterious otherworldliness of the setting, a vaguely European village lost in time, devoid of men and cars and populated entirely by women with an avid interest in lepidoptery.
In some instances, the odd details hint at something strange and unsettling, at other times they're wickedly funny — Fatma Mohamed's inscrutable gestures when describing a "human toilet" out of earshot, in particular. In the end, though, Strickland examines these lush and forbidding specimens like the film's pinned butterflies, only to discover an empathetic and touching love story beneath the glass.
