Lancelot du Lac (Robert Bresson, 1974)

BY REQUEST: Ryan Wu

Lancelot du Lac is nowhere near my favorite Bresson. It wouldn't even be top five. But watching it again for the first time since 2004, I am struck by its particular use of the Bressonian language. It might be the most Bressonian film, in other words. This begins on the level of its primary themes. In most respects Lancelot works against the inherent mythological subject matter of King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table. Bresson starts his study in the immediate aftermath of the knights' disastrous quest for the Holy Grail, and in so doing, he fixates not on honor or nobility but on the dissolution of those ideas -- in other words, on chivalry in ruins.

Lancelot (Luc Simon) remains the most legendary of Arthur's knights, but his reputation is immediately compromised upon his return to the kingdom. It's not just that he is unequipped for the backhanded political jockeying of his enemy Mordred (Patrick Bernhard). Lancelot comes back a broken man, and although he knows he must break off his affair with Queen Guineviere (Laura Duke Condominas) for the good of the realm, he is powerless against her entreaties. While a lesser artist would cast Guineviere as an unfaithful woman whose desires undermine the greatness of Camelot, Bresson absolutely refrains from this. Instead, he suggests that she is the only figure with the courage of her convictions -- in other words, a proto-modern subject.

Formally, Lancelot may be Bresson's most elegant, economical film. Of course it contains his typical use of synecdoche, with isolated objects and body parts (feet, legs, hands, horse-hooves) doing the dramatic heavy-lifting. The first act of the film ends with a lengthy shot of Guineviere's forgotten scarf, the garment that will reveal her adultery with Lancelot. But Bresson's method hits a kind of apex in the second act, during the jousting tournament. The entire scene plays out like a methodical loop, with the same shots and sounds iterated throughout. We see musicians play a fanfare on the bagpipes; we see the raising of the heraldry flag of the next challenger; we see the horses' legs galloping left, then right; and then Arthur and the crowd in the stands, registering their reaction to the hit. Finally, we see Lancelot's vanquished foe in a heap on the ground.

As for Lancelot's use of sound, Bresson uses foley work to generate the atmosphere of the Middle Ages. There's the frequent whinnying of horses, the sound of tent flaps waving in the wind, and above all, the heavy, relentless clank of armor, as the knights tromp through the forest, around the castle, and pretty much everywhere. This metallic din registers the toll of gravity on these noble men, the physical effort required to simply move around. But more than this, as we watch so much dented junk pile up around Camelot, we realize that we are at the end of the age of the chevaliers, their remains knocked about like toy robots. 

In recent years, folks have observed that some of the more ridiculous moments in Monty Python and the Holy Grail may owe something to Bresson.  And indeed, Lancelot du Lac's lopped-off heads and limbs are kind of amusing, leaving behind squirting fountains of blood more suitable for a GWAR concert than an Arthurian period piece. But the Pythons' preposterous attempt to downplay absolute disaster -- "it's only a flesh wound!" -- actually coincides with Bresson's own interests. Lancelot du Lac is a snapshot of a dying culture, running on fumes and utter denial.