‘L’Opéra-Mouffe’: Agnès Varda’s experimental exploration of pregnancy and Paris
Before François Truffaut released The 400 Blows and Jean-Luc Godard released Breathless, Agnès Varda made several films that proved her to be one of the earliest contributors to the burgeoning French New Wave. While the former two directors were major cinephiles and spent their time writing movie reviews, Varda’s knowledge of the medium was limited. She had worked in theatre and as a photographer, using these as a starting point for her entry into the world of cinema instead.
She made her first feature, La Pointe Courte, in 1955, which saw her experiment with some beautifully composed shots, weaving between a fictional couple and the real occupants of the port town where it was filmed. Then, three years later, she made her next project, a 19-minute short called L’Opéra-Mouffe or The Diary of a Pregnant Woman. Continuing with her seamless blend of documentary and fictional storytelling, it can’t be easily categorised.
L’Opéra-Mouffe was personal for Varda, who was expecting her first child while making it. Thus, the film explores the myriad of emotions felt by a pregnant woman, including her anxieties about the world she’ll be delivering her child into. The movie begins with scenes of a naked pregnant woman sitting in a darkened room, her rounded belly filmed in closeup. It’s rare for movies to depict such images, yet this was just one instance of Varda leading the charge in pushing the boundaries of cinema, challenging what viewers were used to seeing.
We see the belly move up and down, bringing our attention to the fact that a real human is growing and breathing in there before a sharp, almost violent contrast occurs. A large pumpkin is sliced in two, its stringy, pulpy insides ripped and scrapped out until it’s left hollow.
Varda continues to use metaphoric images to convey her feelings of fear surrounding the physical aspects of pregnancy, focusing on ripe fruits and vegetables ready to be eaten. Meanwhile, Georges Delerue’s score moves between moments of chaos – almost mimicking classic horror soundtrack tropes – and playfulness. The auteur allows the music and images to do the talking, instructing audiences to make their own connections between the specific objects and people she’s chosen to film and the overarching themes of pregnancy and birth.
The bustling streets of a Paris neighbourhood are depicted without a trace of luxury. It’s slightly claustrophobic, with the camera settling on wrinkled faces, bodies brushing past each other and people standing in the street to observe others. A cracked mirror, people struggling to walk down cobbled streets, old men wiping their eyes with handkerchiefs, and rain are all shot with a level of detachment. The pregnant woman is merely reflecting on the cycle of life – the way we become one in a mass of plenty, eventually growing old and tired. She’s about to bring a child into a world that isn’t perfect; it’s dangerous, bleak, unpredictable, and, as the last segment of the film suggests, can result in pain, poverty and, finally, death.
Varda brings our attention to human corporeality, zooming in on pieces of meat hanging on market stalls, dead fish laid out for purchase, and even animal brains, which look unmistakably human. These images are horrific in their framing, even though we might not think twice about seeing hunks of raw meat if we were to walk past them while shopping. But in this context, these cuts of cows, pigs and chickens have an air of the grotesque about them.
At the same time, the pregnant woman fantasises about the purity of being in love, depicting a naked couple lying in bed together, enjoying each other’s company despite living in a rather decrepit and dilapidated house. For them, the presence of their bodies and the promise of making love is enough. Varda moves between her subjects and themes fluidly, drawing parallels between each, from lovers laying in each other’s arms to drunken men curled up on the pavement together.
By using title cards and a lack of narration, Varda asks us to cast our minds back to the early days of silent cinema – a time of newness and a medium in its infancy, ready to grow into something spectacular. Drawing similarities between the cinematic medium and human birth and growth, Varda truly asserts herself as a monumental filmmaker here. She would soon go on to release Cléo from 5 to 7, arguably her greatest achievement, which contains echoes of L’Opéra-Mouffe with its constant observations of Parisian city streets and the simultaneous horrors and joys to be found within the world.
