Le Bonheur and the Fabrications of the Picturesque

French New Wave film is no stranger to unconventional storytelling. The genre thrives upon dramatizations of life's mundanities, an era particularly concerned with philosophical explorations, and often, these heavier, more nuanced topics are accompanied by visuals so striking that one can be both entertained and radicalized by a film. I find this latter point to be particularly relevant within the directorial works of Agnes Varda, who consistently uses film as a lens to evoke thoughtful images of the female perspective and gendered complexities. What strikes me as unique within Le Bonheur, and what contributes to its conceptual ambiguity, is that it is shot entirely from Francois's (Jean Claude-Drouot) perspective, the patriarch of the family. The film is called “Happiness” in English. In many ways, it illustrates not only how far we are willing to go to achieve happiness but the varying levels at which the emotion fluctuates as an illusion and as a driving force.  

I find there to be two ways one can perceive the POV depicted in Le Bonheur. The first, as I mentioned, is that the lens reveals a world seen through Francious’s eyes. We follow François’s day-to-day life in vignettes, each scene coming together to show us fragmented images of his jovial life. From the second the film begins, we are assailed by the beauty of the French countryside captured by the camera, nature as an additional character alongside the family, which is made up of François’s wife, Therese (Claire Drouot), and their two children, Gisou (Sandrine Drouot) and Pierrot (Olivier Drouot). Even the camera movement convinces you of this happiness, the frame consumed by the nature surrounding the family, perspective languidly swaying trees, avoiding the brush and greenery that encloses the point of view. At times, it rests statically upon the couple, watching the family's movements from afar, or it follows them jauntily as if the sequences were shot by a child. François’s movement often controls these motions; his arms tracked as he raises his son above his head or pans to him resting against a tree. While it will occasionally deviate its focus, as if distracted, the camera continuously returns to François, as if the narrative revolves entirely around him, his existence the crux of the world that is depicted. 

Even as François decides to have an afair with the postal office worker Emillie (Marie-France Boyer), no visual or aesthetic change marks his deviation from his picturesque family. Once the affair is underway, the paradisial perspective continues even in its aftermath. At this point, it becomes clear that the excess, both of happiness and perhaps also of love, is no longer entrancing and appealing to watch, but the source of a deep unease, which is felt as the film continues. The beauty is too much, to the point where it feels too good to be true, and this turns into trepidation. We know that this delight cannot be maintained, and we wait for François’s perspective to darken once his meticulously preserved reality falls apart. 

The second way that one can perceive the film's POV is as an invention of the world as it appears to the kind of man Agnes Varda depicts. While this perception appears far more convoluted than the first, it's pertinent that one is open to it, given the political climate of the 1960s with the rise of second-wave feminism. I will admit that while the film does an excellent job convincing you that what we see is indeniably François’s viewpoint, I couldn't help but question how a film made by a woman would in any way work to encourage François’s behavior, insofar as he receives little to no real consequences for his actions, his life in the films conclusion unmarred by the changes that happen in the third act. His infidelity is romanticized as he truly seems to maximize his happiness, at least for a time, and when this changes and his personal contentment starts to impede negatively on his life, he is able to immediately reconfigure his situation so that he regains what he had in the film's exposition.

François appears almost as a caricature, one that represents the irony of the amplified male perspective within film that became de rigueur in the 60s. What we see is not toxic masculinity or the negative impact of gender norms but a rich display of the privilege gifted to men and what happens when they utilize it to their hearts' desires. They can “have it all,” enjoying the pleasures of a perfect wife, children, and life, and yet they still want more, and for the most part, are capable of attaining this surplus. Le Bonheur reveals the emotional labor required of women, who must take in their lack of similar privileges and “be fine with it,” defined entirely by the man in their lives, fully at his whim. Therese’s reaction to François’s infidelity feels almost Beauvoirian, the film a visual depiction of Simone De Beauvoir’s A Woman Destroyed (1967) published only two years after Le Bonheur, where a wife is forced to save face in response to her husband's infidelity. What Varda displays instead is how quickly this lack of subjectivity can affect the identity of a woman, speeding up the process of realization that Beavoir fictionalizes. This lack of subjectivity that women face becomes all-encompassing, and the difference between these two works is that in Le Bonheur, Therese immediately succumbs to the destruction of her identity, while François easily moves on to the next convenience presented. 

Varda demonstrates this privilege down to the smallest details, showing it in the way François walks, talks, and moves through a world that he confidently understands as his own. He has his way with life: he is attractive, charming, confident, and entirely unstressed, even with the ongoing affair. François prides himself on his honesty. He claims never to lie, and his words and actions support this to the extent that he believes his honesty is enough to protect him from his lack of dedication. When he already has so much happiness, he does not question whether he deserves more and sees it as something he has a right to. François believes this so wholeheartedly that he expresses candidly to his wife and mistress that more “happiness” does not take away from its separate sources. What occurs in the film's final act delivers this message, certifying François as the center of not only his universe but his wife's, and what follows this breaking point doesn't just bring into question François’s morality but also his ability to maintain this happiness. In the final scene, we see a mirror of the opening sequence, this time set in fall, and while the vivid displays of nature allude to a mimicked situation, François appears far more detached, physically distant from his family, head turned away from the camera, looking into the distance as though he is waiting for something to appear. This enigmatic conclusion forces the audience to decipher what the film is disclosing about our ability to feel and hold “happiness,” whether our access to it is all that determines its existence or if it is that very access that allows for a perversion of even the most pleasurable of things. 

What makes the film so successful, not just as a piece of media but as a work of art, is that it works more as a visual representation of a concept rather than the linear, direct narrative that we are used to seeing in film. One must already be oriented towards a particular concern, whether it be a stance on the complexities of feminism or a question of whether happiness can ever be properly measured, and these orientations open up the film's ability to be more than just a masterful display of cinematography. Le Bonheur is radiant and striking, groundbreaking because it is, at times, carried by its imagery, and only in the strength of its visuals does it allow for its important themes to develop unnoticed in the background.

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