Juliette Binoche and Vincent Lindon star as lovers whose relationship disintegrates when their pasts return from the depths of memory to haunt them in Claire Denis’ Both Sides of the Blade.
★★★✰✰
Winner of the Silver Bear for Best Director at the Berlin International Film Festival, Claire Denis’ Both Sides of the Blade is a labyrinth of latent emotions, lingering lust, and lost loves. But there is not much beyond the grey world carved by neat camera work and fiery spats between the two central lovers.
Vincent Lindon and Juliette Binoche spend most of the time exchanging icy cold stares. Their histories follow them like shadows. For Lindon’s Jean, it’s his time in prison (left mysteriously vague), but for Binoche’s Sara, a radio host, it’s her unsettled love for Francois, Jean’s old friend and new business partner (played by a suave Grégoire Colin). As the distance between Jean and Sara grows, so does the heat of Francois’s allure.
A Chekhovian power play unfolds. But there are no curveballs or twists. It’s a banal story, but that’s exactly what it wants to be, exploring themes of anger, betrayal, and desire. It also notably takes place during Covid, with characters nonchalantly wearing masks. Of course, there are no shots of Covid swaps rummaging up noses and being shoved down throats—that wouldn’t be sexy enough. Covid is also probably the reason for the restrained theatricality; most of the exchanges take place in the confines of Sara’s swanky Parisian flat, creating a sense of thrilling claustrophobia.
Adapted from Christine Angot’s 2018 novel Un tournant de la vie, Both Sides of the Blade is a film driven primarily by emotions. Eric Gautier’s chic cinematography ensures a marauding atmosphere, the camera silently invading Jean and Sara’s space and bringing the audience along with them for every argument, but also every moment of peace. Each muscle of their faces is rendered uncompromisingly, probed for the slightest details. The slightest twitches are the tip of the iceberg, with the unseen turmoil hidden beneath.
Talking of what remains unseen, Both Sides of the Blade interestingly shies away from violence. Jean often boils over with anger, seemingly on the verge of bursting, but restrains himself. There is mention of a gun, but it remains mysteriously unseen and unused.
But without an engaging narrative, the film is ultimately disappointing and without payoff. The story feels present only to buttress the central performances but does not lead anywhere. Narrative strands do not tie together, leading to an unsatisfying conclusion.
What’s worse is that our sympathies ultimately lie with nobody; everyone is as unlikeable and morally repugnant as each other, whether they’re keeping secrets or conducting affairs. Denis seems to believe that love is this undefinable Platonic form, something that cannot really be grasped. It bewitches us with its unpredictable magic and makes us act crazy. Sure. But this interpretation does propel the film into lumpy melodramatic territory that feels at odds with the often unapologetic cinematic realism.
There are also underdeveloped questions about racial politics. Jean’s disaffected son is mixed race, something apparently straining their relationship. It is no coincidence that Sara interviews guests who discuss the work of Frantz Fanon. But again, perhaps it’s the banality that is the point; just as in reality these questions remain unresolved, forcing us to live without resolution. As Sonia laments at the end of Chekhov’s Uncle Vanya: “What can we do? We must live our lives.”
The Verdict
Lindon and Binoche bounce off of each other’s energy in shared scenes to create equally subtle and poignant scenes. Although it does venture into melodrama, Both Sides of the Blade is worth watching just to see two award-winning actors in their prime go head-to-head on screen.
Words by Alexander Cohen
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