The Unfaithful Wife

Men tend to conceptualize women's nature as either beauty or sexuality. Charles and Victor, the two male protagonists of Chabrol's "The Unfaithful Wife," adhere to this pristine practice. To Charles, his wife, Helene, is a romantic figment, up on a pedestal, sublimely apportioned, and temptation denied. To Victor, Helene is is a type of erotic object, a cinematic material dream, who he pencils in on alternate days--with the understanding that he's servicing a sensually deprived suburban wife.

The unfaithful woman in movies and literature is almost invariably married to a rich older man, or to an unimaginative bore. Charles, the husband, is spelled out as the latter: he's restrained, formal, spiritless, and timid; he's on the flabby side, and is always fully clothed. To underscore this, Helene is considerably more attractive, modern, youthful, and enticing. Their marriage is on hold, featureless, and passionless. Helene lives the insular life of a housewife, in a cultural vacuum away from Paris; she doesn't drive; her Paris time is limited to routine glamour shop appointments; she loves her 10 year old son; she's bored stiff; she displays a subtle aversion toward Charles, but adjust her persona on his behalf--and she chiefly seems to be in a state resembling a trance.

When Charles seriously suspects Helene is seeing a lover, his first and final consideration is not the stifling nature of his orthodox upper class family, nor his own part in this stalled relationship, nor is it trying to come to terms with his wife's sterile life. It's rather Helene as a sexual suspect, and his pending loss of a prized possession. Of course, his own masculine image is also much at stake. But it's his narrow and stingy perception of his wife that edges her out of the picture, and leads Charles to hiring a private eye.

Which, of course, leads to his classic encounter with Victor, Helene's lover. Charles begins by fabricating an open, tell-all marriage to cover up his shameful spying, and to account for his peculiar visit. His manner with Victor is self-deprecating, simpering, conciliatory, and defensive. Victor, for his part, the cynical misogynist, gives us both a solicited and an unsolicited picture of Helene. He tells Charles that he met her at the cinema; he was sitting close to her, and he "noted a certain... availability." Here's where the fraternizing kicks in: "Is she satisfactory?" "Not at all bad. No complications." He calls her a "good kid." Charles breaks in to remind him that they've been married for 11 years. To which Victor responds "I was married to a bit*ch." Charles complies with a snigger: "I don't doubt it." Victor continues "You know what I like about Helene is her softness. She doesn't look it, but she's very sweet & tender... unbelievable."

It's obvious that both Charles and Victor--their subject being decidedly absent, refuse to validate her as a person.

Just as Charles can't face his dissociated wife, so too is his failure to confront Victor. And his self-belittlement gets transferred onto his wife. Victor too shuts Helene out. It's true that he chides Victor for choosing Versailles over Paris, the perfect fit for Helene. But his view of Helen is patronizing: she's precious, acquiescent, and accommodating, not that much different from Charles's secretary, Brigitte, the frolicsome, eye-catching, sex bunny to him and Paul. And more importantly, Victor admits to no wrongdoing in the affair. He simply takes what's available. He does exactly what Charles, performing the modern sophisticate for Victor, pretends that he himself does. What Helene amounts to is the unfaithful wife possessed by a husband and a lover who control and circumscribe her, and who have projected her identity as an item of exchange, or that which both men have, have had, and by all expectations, will have.

But the finale of the encounter, of course, bodes otherwise. However, it makes no impact on Helene's erasure other than to boost it. Only Charles' strange and seemingly perverted (to Victor) request to tour the flat seems to be free-willed, and what it sets off is his orchestration's crash. First it's the blue sheets, then his anniversary gift lighter. Trepidation takes over as if Charles's mind is splitting, his compressed and accumulated torment exploding into a blunt murder. His blows are obviously not those of love defended but rather the bloody language of power; his insane jealousy being the proof of his failed marriage--and of the overbearing sexual politics behind his madness. Helene's closure is sealed--a similar closure to that Charles himself is about to experience in the form of dread, isolation, and mental stunting in a prison cell. "I love you like mad" are Charles' final words as he submits to arrest.