La
voix humaine isn’t
easy listening, nor is it meant to be. We’re eavesdropping,
literally, on an intimate, private moment, as the protagonist
disintegrates emotionally. We’re intruding, yet compelled to
follow the drama because we care about the woman as a human
being. The text, by Jean Cocteau, is natural and understated,
and for that very reason, we connect. Surprisingly, seeing it
on film actually helps, because it provides a kind of buffer
to the raw emotion, and helps you focus more fully on the music.
In
this performance, the quality of orchestral playing is very
good, very sensitively attuned to the voice part, and quite
fascinating on its own terms. Serebrier captures the underlying
structure of the music well, which matters because the piece
unfolds gradually in a series of stages which mirror the development
of the narrative, as it gradually dawns on the protagonist that
she can’t escape from reality. The tense, stabbing strings sound
like an overture to a classic film noir, which is rather appropriate.
The woman explicitly calls the telephone “a weapon that leaves
no trace”. She may physically die by her own hand, but she’s
been pushed to it in a peculiarly sinister, impersonal way.
In the film, the introduction is expressed visually as the camera
pans from outside the woman’s window into her private hell.
We’re voyeurs at a crime scene.
The
relationship between playing and singing here is particularly
impressive. Even though the music has to accentuate the tension
of the scene through sharp, metallic outbursts, it also seems
to cradle the voice part. The cymbals crash, but their lingering
resonance softens around the voice. Part of the reason this
performance works well, is that the conducting really brings
out the chamber-like restraint in the orchestration. The playing
is deft, but refined and supports, rather than competes against
the voice. At one point, Farley sings with steely, suppressed
tension, while the orchestra builds up to a big crescendo. Then
she cries “I feel I can’t go on”, and you know the steely control
cannot hold. Farley and Serebrier of course, are an artistic
partnership, so the close rapport in this performance springs
from very deep roots indeed.
La
voix is a tour de
force for any singer because it involves so many sudden changes
of mood. Moreover, the character of the protagonist is difficult
and quirky. This role is a challenge because it involves very
intuitive understanding of character before it can be interpreted
fully. Farley seems to have developed the character “from within”,
understanding how she’s built up her delusions as a kind of
armour around her essential fragility. Even before the woman
was dumped, she had problems : she even lies about what she’s
wearing, as if pretence is second nature. She’s inscrutable
because she veils her feelings with many layers, all of which
are valid, though contradictory. She’s certainly not stupid,
for she immediately picks up she’s being dumped, even though
she can’t bring herself to face it. Farley captures the multiple
layers of feeling well. When she sings “Oui, oui, je te promêtte”,
she infuses the line each time with a different nuance. She
pretends to be the “good little girl” her lover used to care
for, but she can’t conceal the edge of wariness and anxiety
that sharpens her delivery. Similarly, her “tu es gentil” works
on two levels: it’s meant to placate the lover, yet it is, at
the same time an accusation of quite the opposite. The protagonist
keeps finding excuses for her lover’s cruelty. Of course she’s
staving off reality, but she’s also motivated by genuine love.
When Farley sings “I swear nothing’s wrong”, she sings with
grave dignity and tenderness, as if even in extremis,
she wants to protect and forgive someone she loves so dearly.
Another
reason why La Voix works so well on film is that an infinite
amount can be conveyed by body language. Farley is a natural
stage person. She moves like a cat, stretching and moving alertly,
as if she were “on the prowl”, tense and alert. On film, you
can see her face in close-ups, mobile and expressive. When she
looks into the mirror and imagines herself old, she seems to
shatter, as if we’re seeing her inner image, not the relatively
youthful one on the outside. Best of all, she wraps herself
around the telephone, crouching and cradling it lovingly, then,
wrapping its cord around her body. “I have the cord around my
neck” she sings, “your voice is around my neck”. The double
meaning is sinister. She screams “Je t’aime! Je t’aime!” with
rising desperation, and suddenly the image is cut off, like
the phone line and the set is plunged into darkness. The film
seems to have been shot in half-light, and there’s a rationale
for that, but it’s not easy on the eye, and looks dated. It’s
a pity as this is a performance to watch as well as listen to.
In
complete contrast, then is the blinding brightness of Gian-Carlo
Menotti’s The Telephone. The set is a spotless apartment
stuffed with unbelievably naff kitsch. It’s hilarious, a parody
of the dumbest TV sitcoms. But that’s the point! A lady named
Lucy lives here, an air-head bimbette in a fantasy world where
everything is in the right place but nothing means anything. Her
boyfriend tries to propose but she won’t get off the phone to
her friends, so he has to call her. It’s the ultimate in safe
sex, perhaps. The brightness of the set is matched by the perkiness
of the orchestration. Hence, Farley’s characterisation of the
heroine is particularly trenchant. Her diction is clear, crisp
and pert, capturing Lucy’s wide-eyed vacuity. There’s a lovely
lyrical perkiness in her voice, too. Farley is a born comedienne,
who manages to create mindless Lucy convincingly, yet comment
on her shallowness at the same time. This is light-hearted material,
but extremely well performed.
Anne Ozorio
[65:00]
