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UK/USA 1999
Reviewed by Peter Matthews
Our synopses give away the plot in full, including surprise twists.
The north of Sweden, midsummers night, 1894. In the kitchen of a country estate, the cook Christine upbraids her fiancé Jean, the footman, for dancing with the Count's daughter Miss Julie. Julie commands Jean to dance with her again. On his return, he and Christine fondle each other. Julie interrupts them and orders Jean to put on clothes befitting a gentleman. When Christine falls asleep, Julie asks Jean to drink beer with her. Then she insists he kiss her shoe. In the garden, Julie flirts with Jean, but slaps him when he kisses her. Back in the kitchen, Jean describes his impoverished childhood and confesses his desire to rise. When revellers erupt into the kitchen, Jean hides Julie in his room and there seduces her. Afterwards, he confesses his dream of owning a hotel and proposes that they run away.
Jean suggests Julie rob her father to finance the scheme. Drunk, Julie leaves to search the Count's desk. Christine appears and surmises what has occurred. She demands that Jean accompany her to church, and tells him to shave. Julie returns with the stolen money and a suitcase. When she tries to take a pet bird along on the journey, Jean kills it. After a confrontation with the pair, Christine goes to church alone. Julie asks Jean to give her the razor. The Count rings from upstairs, and Jean hastens to attend him. Julie slashes her wrists.
Though August Strindberg's 1888 play Miss Julie is one of the great war horses of western theatre, few film-makers have been drawn to the material, and it's easy to see why. Strindberg himself worried that audiences used to the pomp and circumstance of 19th-century stagecraft would not accept a brooding chamber piece where just three characters (Miss Julie, the well-heeled daughter of a Count, and servants Jean and Christine) are confined to a single set. Striving for a heightened realism, the Swedish dramatist arranged the action in an unbroken flow and (shocking at the time) instructed the players to turn their backs on the spectators now and then.
In this regard, Miss Julie anticipated the sustained voyeuristic illusion that is cinema; still, screen adapters have largely steered clear of a work that puts so many obstacles in the way of conventional opening out. Once an unassailable classic, Alf Sjöberg's 1951 version seems to have fallen off the map of late, despite the stunning virtuosity of its flashbacks, through which the tortured heroine's past was made to occupy the same physical space as her present.
The one indulgence director Mike Figgis permits himself in his bargain-basement version (the film was shot chronologically over a relatively short period of time) is a brief split-screen sequence showing the erotic grappling of Julie and her footman lover Jean from fractionally varied angles. Other than this redundant bit of punctuation (which anticipates his extended split-screen experiment Timecode), Figgis has burned off the slightly disreputable swank that characterised such earlier pictures as Internal Affairs. Far from opening out the theatrical frame, he closes it down, not only keeping to Strindberg's kitchen set, but pinioning the actors with a mock-vérité style that emphasises every blemish and fleck of lip spittle. The movie was shot on Super 16mm using two handheld cameras, which judder and lurch as though whipped up by the stormy passions; the editing could have been done on a butcher's block, so prodigal are the mismatched eyelines and jarring reverses in screen direction. While Figgis isn't quite as root-and-branch in his asceticism, it would appear that Dogme 95 has spawned another fellow traveller. By sacrificing the frills of mainstream film-making, he presumably hopes to free the play's primal anger. In this, he follows Strindberg, whose jagged psychodramas were an assault on the stuffy conventions of bourgeois theatre.
High-born Julie is possessed by a fantasy of wallowing in the mud, while the rising young Jean entertains few illusions about his motives in seducing the Count's daughter. Their liaison carries a kinky sadomasochistic charge, and that's perhaps what caught Figgis' interest - it's hard to miss the parallels with the destructive symbiosis of the couple in Leaving Las Vegas. Screenwriter Helen Cooper faithfully preserves the play's vituperative atmosphere, and indeed amplifies it by a coarsening of the language (when Jean narrates a childhood recollection, his monologue builds into a scatological aria). Since it was only censorship that inhibited Strindberg from spelling out the earthier implications of his naturalism, this is one case where vulgarisation makes sense. Indeed, the film shows thought and care in practically every detail; so it's a real cause for regret that it never catches fire. Saffron Burrows gives a technically accomplished performance as Miss Julie, but is perhaps working too hard to arouse much pity and fear. Or perhaps the wobblyscope technique is at fundamental odds with Strindberg's tightly deterministic structure, and ends up cooling things down when it should heat them up. Simplicity, you're left thinking, may be the toughest goal to achieve in movies.