 La Belle et la Bete (Beauty and the Beast) (1946, 96 min.) screenplay by by Jean Cocteau (also story) (also dialogue), Jeanne-Marie Leprince de Beaumont (story). directed by Jean Cocteau, René Clément (uncredited) Making Oneself Believe in a Beast Who Transforms “ I have a good heart, but I am a monster.”  Film history contains many treatments of the Beauty and the Beast myth, from King Kong (which openly references
the story), to The Werewolf
and even The Creature from the Black
Lagoon. Such stories end badly for the beasts, which in Freudian
analysis represent man’s primordial instincts and sexuality, or Id,
that threaten lofty values such as chastity and virtue, born of the
Super-ego. This analysis holds that the beasts in our myths must be
destroyed and the distressed damsels rescued by less interesting, but
decidedly safer and more attractive, princes so that the two Super-egos
can live happily ever after in a delusional fantasy that has nothing to
do with the cold hard truths of human existence.To my mind, however, that is a pretty bleak and inadequate reading of a much richer story. Jean Cocteau’s rendering of Beauty and the Beast ultimately draws upon the ancient Latin tale of The Golden Ass in which a young man’s fascination with sex and magic result in his physical transformation into a donkey (as does Pinnochio’s fascination with worldly pleasures). What makes this myth compelling is that the golden ass (formerly the youth Lucius) did not crawl out of primordial muck as essentially animalistic, but instead was cast from an original humanity into a more base state. The soul of the real Lucius is masked and trapped by the wild instincts of his fallen nature. Moreover, The Golden Ass includes, as its centerpiece, the myth of Cupid and Psyche, representing the search of the human soul for union with the divine that is only achieved through love and devotion. Such redemption is possible in The Golden Ass. Rather than simply being destroyed, the beast is transformed back into humanity by the kindness of the goddess Isis. He is helpless to save himself, but he can be saved. Thus it is the beast that is rescued, rather than the delusional damsel. These two very different approaches to the Beauty and the Beast myth—one concluding that transformation is not only possible but necessary, and one concluding that humans are only psyches, the simple products of biology without souls—obviously reflect two very different worldviews. One worldview positions the supernatural at the center of the story and provides a template by which we humans might adjust our assumptions according to greater truths. The other positions our assumptions at the center of the story and provides a template by which we might justify our behaviors and serve our own interests. In turn, these very different worldviews lead to very different uses of myth. Myth making can either reveal deep and ineffable truth to emancipate and empower us, or it can mask truth to enslave and weaken us. One is an art form, the other an artifice. We need myths to make sense of the world, and in the absence of a truthful myths, any myths will do—even those of propagandists. At the close of World War II and German occupation of France, with the Nuremburg Trials beginning and with Europe staggering to its feet, the artist Jean Cocteau brought to the screen a classic fairy tale. Cocteau was a famous poet and visual artist, but at 56, this was his first mainstream film and much was anticipated of it, including the restoration of an annihilated French film industry. Many were disappointed by his choice. In response, Cocteau cited the poet Eluard’s observation that to understand this film version of Beauty and the Beast, “you must love your dog more than your car,” a possible reference to Cocteau’s organic rather than technological production methods, among other things. Then, appealing to an American audience, which he imagined as more youthful and open to discovery, Cocteau observed: There
has never been an instance of something new not baffling the esthetes,
the
critics and the public lazily accepting familiar formulas. The least
challenge
is apt to awaken a brutal and unpleasant response. The only hope for a
film is
that the public, less blind and less deaf than our judges, I should say
more
childlike and more open to persuasion, may disobey the veto of Beauty
and
the Beast, see simply and lovingly what blinkers hide from the
enthroned
intelligentsia. (Original 1940s press
book for the U.S. Premiere)
“Children believe…” Thus begins Cocteau’s film in the patient voice-over and blackboard script of a teacher. According to film cultural historian Sir Christopher Frayling, Cocteau is addressing his critics, who listed among his crimes the lack of a political voice in his work. All he wanted was to devote himself to his craft, regardless of where it took him. He did not want to submit art to the temporal agendas of man. He sought to explore the unknown dimensions of art and submit himself to the purposes of a more eternal force.  To this end, unconcerned with conventions of historical
accuracy, he approached Beauty and
the Beast building on the high art of Dutch painters such as
Johannes Vermeer, who used light to create tableaus communicating
character, mood and imaginary spaces, invoking emotional responses and
a sense of wonder. Costumes and sets therefore resemble 17th century
Holland rather than 18th century France or England, the actual setting
of the story’s original author. “Where are we?” Cocteau asks the
viewers of the film’s trailer. “In what world? In what era?” In the short documentary Opening at the Majestic, Cocteau remarks that he loves film because it allows a man to dominate time and space and create his own magic world; it is what he references in the film as “The ‘Open Sesame’ of children, ‘Once upon a time.’” This seems to imply that if one is unable to disencumber oneself of immediate concerns and contemporary exigencies, one cannot grasp the valuable truths apprehended by making (oneself) believe in something unseen and, as yet, not experienced. Such truths are more likely to shed light upon our current issues, political and otherwise, than any blunt, shortsighted, and simplistic treatises based on “observable reality” alone. Belief is, of course, tied to faith, the faith of children who “believe what we tell them.” The specific intentions of the original Beauty and the Beast were those of a French governess in England instructing her female charges in the value of choosing virtue over wit and physical attractiveness. After all, that was the position in which many governesses found themselves: bound to marry employers they did not love out of obligation and gratitude, with the enduring hope that they would find more in the relationship than appeared possible. In the original tale, this requires the supernatural presence of a fairy to make all things right—rewarding virtue and punishing evil, an appeal to the melodramatic imagination. However, Cocteau means to tell us (children) “a fairy tale without fairies.” He means to tell us that, in this world, a family’s destiny might hang on one impulsive human decision, and that, “the smoking hand of a beast might produce shame in the presence of a pure maiden.” That pure maiden, Beauty, who floats into the Beast’s domain and offers herself sacrificially in response to a promise made by her father, is overtly Christ like. Cocteau goes so far as to film her in the arms of the Beast precisely in Christ’s pose from Michelangelo’s Pieta. Again, Cocteau seems interested in themes of redemption, not moralization. The verities of domestic life--here given a Commedia Del ‘Arte treatment involving stereotypes and broad physicality--are somehow tied through human foible and pride to the much more realistic depiction of an alternate reality. To achieve this effect, Cocteau enlisted the help of French realist Rene Clement (best known for war film), to create an enchanted universe involving oddly human technologies. It is an overt depiction of the tension between our most base instincts and our most ethereal longings. When the magical powers of Beast’s kingdom intrude upon the mundane environment of the home to which Beauty returns, with all its dull vices, those powers remind us that there is something more real to be grasped if we have the courage and character to grasp it, which is why the beads turn to ugly rope at the grasp of an evil, shallow sister. She has no faith. She sees and seeks only the material, available world. Faith still requires belief but can now be directly and indirectly experienced thanks to the monster, Beast. The Beast, in Cocteau’s calculus, is the creative process itself, that which overtakes the human and forces inhuman acts. Interestingly, while filming, Cocteau had an attack of post-Occupation eczema that so badly disfigured his face, he was forced to don a black veil with eyeholes. Moreover, he began to suffer from a host of physical ailments, eventually becoming hospitalized, and likened himself to Beast on more than one occasion. It was as if the process of filmmaking were tearing his flesh as the monster tore the flesh from the deer in order to extract its heart. Having made the point through Beauty that most of us are beasts, though some conceal it well, Cocteau tries to help us come to grips with our duality as human animal and longing spirit. That tension is bridged by Beast--the artist, the provider of nourishment and lovely gifts, the creator of wonder, adventure, direction and possibility--once we are rid of our worst assumptions and steadfast fears. Art will not destroy us, after all. It seeks to serve and the artist here seeks to be accepted despite his baffling instincts and struggles. Moreover, he seeks inspiration from Beauty; for all his technological powers do him no good without the presence of beauty, courage, commitment and honor. The artist, especially the film artist, seems to know that, despite his autonomy and technological prowess, his ultimate fate lies in the hands of others. The Beast and Cocteau make themselves as vulnerable as children both by exploring the wilderness of creation alone and by returning to make a frank appeal for love and trust before a variously repelled, bewildered and/or captivated audience. We will find that by the time the Beast turns into the handsome prince we’ve seen a million times, or some boring version thereof, we, like Beauty, will wonder “Where’s the Beast?” And we will miss him, as Cocteau intends, even as we are transported to a better place as the result of his efforts. Essay © Monica Ganas Monica Ganas, Ph.D., is an associate professor of Communication Studies at Azusa Pacific University and a 20-year-veteran of the entertainment industry, performing as actor, writer, and occasional producer/director, principally in satirical comedy. She holds a doctorate in Communication from the University of Kentuck, and a masters degree in English from San Francisco State University. Her areas of scholarship, publication and teaching are popular culture, media, theatre, community development and communication for social change. Having developed the Media Studies emphasis in Communication Studies, she recently co-authored APU's new Cinema and Broadcast Arts major. The wife of a pastor, she is co-director of the Azusa Renaissance Center, a grassroots movement to restore arts in Azusa through workshops and performance venues. She also directs plays for APU Theatre, and is now co-authoring a Theatre major at APU. She serves on the organizational boards of the City of Angels Film Festival and Reel Spirituality and is a frequent presenter at the National Communication Association and Popular Culture Association conferences. |
