Between terrific filming locations, careful cinematography, and Louis Delluc's keen direction, this can claim a splendid artistry in the fundamental arrangement of shots and scenes. In an unsophisticated manner, this movie is plainly beautiful as it greets our eyes. I'm not as fully convinced that this extends to the acting; though early cinema gradually shifted toward more nuanced and natural performances, no small part of the silent era was characterized by exaggerated body language and facial expressions to compensate for lack of sound and verbal dialogue, and carrying over from the stage - and this absolutely fits in the latter category. That's not inherently a bad thing, though for some modern viewers it certainly might be a factor that limits engagement. Star Ève Francis, in particular, pointedly approaches each scene as if she were in a theater, trying to emote for those seats in the very back of the gallery, to the point that even as someone that dearly love silent films and firmly believes that some of the best films ever made hail from the silent era, her style is a tad off-putting.
Just as noteworthy, or possibly even more so, is that the story Delluc wrote is decidedly simple: straight, narrow, and short beyond what mild deviations its flashbacks could be said to portend. A woman must choose; a stranger, briefly invited into the home, is less an integral part of the narrative and more a symbol, a theme in and of themselves or a plainspoken reflection thereof, hearkening to another type and time of storytelling. When the woman does make her choice in this picture of barely over one hour, that symbol becomes emphatically heavy-handed in the last minutes. Other characters are seen in passing, but they are of even less importance. Don't get me wrong - I appreciate the forthright tack of authenticity that Delluc strikes with his film-making, and in the tale he imparts, and there's little mistaking the discerning mind of a literary critic putting together this abbreviated story with the same hands that would pull another apart bit by bit to examine each piece. I also appreciate that this represents fare that would surely appeal only to those who are already enamored of the silent era, and even then not necessarily to all.
I do like 'La femme de nulle part,' for my part. I see what Delluc was doing, and I admire it, even if I don't agree with every creative decision that was made along the way. Is this something that one needs to go out of their way to see? I don't think so. It's a fine feature, worth remembering and recognizing; one hundred years later, however, it isn't necessarily a silent feature that demands viewership in the same way that many of its contemporaries do. Mark this as one for those cinephiles curious and devoted, in my opinion.
