Carol (2015) Review
Carol (2015)
Director: Todd Haynes
Screenwriter: Phylis Nagy
Starring: Cate Blanchett, Rooney Mara, Sarah Paulson, Jake Lacy, Kyle Chandler, John Magaro
It takes a good film to trust its viewer, but a special one to let them in. Some movies you arrive at, bearing nothing but your memories and your questions – is this love I’m feeling? Will this pass? Why can’t I forget? A good movie will simply distract, offering the solace of separation from a busy mind. But, there will be movies that invite you to confront; they spill their souls and ask that you do the same. And, in that space between character and viewer, vows are spoken, and conclusions are made. Never to be shared, never to be repeated – your memories, fears and dreams, for the film to keep. Carol is that kind of film.
Todd Haynes’ cinematic perspective on queer love has earned him his flowers and our respect; in a world where cinema is flooded with tragic stories of same-sex love, Haynes champions true humanity. He was quoted as saying that the moral of Carol is “not whether society will accept [Therese’s, Carol’s lover] feelings or not; it’s will this person return her love or not?… That is what… just humbles us all and levels us all.” Haynes doesn’t want to exploit difference to evoke pity, an age-old Hollywood fast-lane to success. He removes the suffocation of societal judgement to reveal the clasped hands of ordinary love. And this is why, in 2016, the BFI named Carol the best LGBTQ+ film to exist.
As with most queer media, attempts were made to silence, snip and sugarcoat Carol. Airlines removed any trace of physical intimacy between the female leads, and it was “the standout snub” at the 2016 Academy Awards. This is a regrettably familiar tale, echoing the treatment of Brokeback Mountain. But, in spite of these attempted blackouts, Carol still stands, her chest raised and chin proud. Her gaze unashamedly rests on her lover Therese.
The film’s vintage tale unfolds in 1950s Manhattan, enfolded within the Christmas period. Therese Belivet (Rooney Mara) is an aspiring photographer who works at a department store. During a shift, she meets Carol (Cate Blanchett), a mother in the middle of divorce proceedings. Carol shares a moment of connection with Therese. And, after Therese returns her misplaced gloves, they begin to see more of each other. However, Carol’s husband Harge (Kyle Chandler) becomes suspicious of her behaviour, questioning her stability as a mother. So, as Carol’s relationship with Therese deepens, she is forced to choose – abandon who she is to survive? Or live truthfully?
Carol is a sensory picture, from the dust on the record player down to the flowing winter’s air. Its nostalgia-scented atmosphere delights, much like a trip to an old museum; it is familiar yet alluring. Its vintage feel gives the effect of walking amongst a memory, one that a past lover has kept secret. Carol’s screenwriter, Phylis Nagy, said that the film should have the viewer “sit on the shoulder of Therese and makes regular advances into (and retreats from) her head.” We are given the privileged role of observation, of witnessing a love story, brewing with Christmas sentiment. To watch Carol is what it feels to cherish.
Overflowing with classic Hollywood charm, the film’s appearance is meticulously crafted; each scene could’ve been ripped from the pages of old Vogue issues. With cinematographer Ed Lachman using Super 16mm film to shoot, an ornamental recreation of 1950s film is created. Stubbled with grain and smoothed with muted colours, watching the film is like viewing a painting of Monet’s. Furthermore, the influences of photographers like Vivian Maier and Esther Bubley continue to hold women at the film’s core.
Hayne’s attention to detail and cinematic references create a trust in each of us; we know we are in the hands of a capable and imaginative director. The first shot captures the interconnecting metal of a pavement grate – it may seem unassuming, but nothing in this film is done without intention. Haynes uses this to evoke a sense of fate; Therese and Carol’s lives were always meant to be intertwined.
The promise of fate is then extended with the film’s many references to Brief Encounter. The 1945 romance is echoed within Carol, with its many callbacks to trains and windows clogged with condensation. Even the very structure of the film is embedded within Carol; beginning with one of the concluding scenes, we push onwards with the knowledge that fate is ever-lurking.
When we look to romances on the big screen, the most affecting ones look the most effortless. We don’t sit down for a film where actors grapple their way through scenes and through snogs; we arrive for the film where love feels real. Actors who lose themselves in the chemistry, the expression, the dance. Actors who look at their co-star with galaxies of emotion – it’s the stuff of magic. And when Blanchett and Mara’s eyes meet, it is as if nothing else exists but their love.
Rooney Mara plays the reclusive Therese Belivet as a wide-eyed observer. Hidden behind the protection of a camera’s lens, she captures the world without ever truly stepping into its light. When encountering Carol for the first time, her naivety is amplified; she feels lifetimes away from the journey Carol has been on. As a lover, Carol emboldens the soft Therese, a transition that Mara makes with ease. She counters Blanchett’s maturity with a delicate sweetness, and she takes Therese through a satisfying character arc; by the film’s end, she is unrecognisable from the muddle her early twenties had left her in.
Carol’s effect on Therese, and the viewer, is instantaneous. Emerging from a crowd in her coffee-cream-coat, her sultry and knowing demeanour casts a spell over all. Blanchett leans heavily into the film’s perspective to craft Carol; no matter what we learn about her, Carol remains an enigmatic figure, just beyond our full understanding. But this aloofness never impedes upon her character. When falling for Therese, Blanchett allows Carol to become familiar; she cares for Therese, her “angel, flung out of space.”
Together Blanchett and Mara melt into one another, melt into us. Their devotion has real physicality to it; it is full-bodied, timeless and as warm as a hand in your own. Carter Burwell’s score adds a rising resonance to their outings. Echoing as a memory does, the piano keys add ache and need.
An unexpected layer of depth is added to Carol when the film explores her life away from Therese. As Carol fights for custody of her only daughter, we learn that she carries around a gun for safety. Blanchett gives full credence to this aspect of Carol’s life, bringing out a defining moment for her career. However, it dominates the narrative, especially in the film’s latter stages. In turn it brings about tonal inconsistencies, jumping from blessed intimacy to darkened, looming peril. Therese begins to feel like an after-thought, despite the film’s focus residing on her for the majority.
Another standout performance comes from Kyle Chandler, the disenfranchised husband of Carol. His desperation to maintain their old life is palpable, as is the realisation of Carol’s changing ways. John Magaro as Dannie, a worker at the New York Times, also adds a soft-serve of charisma to the film.
Screenwriter Phylis Nagy adds yet another layer of powerful nuance to the film. She takes the original novel of “Carol”, by Patricia Highsmith, and amplifies its quintessential themes. With poignant simplicity, the concept of lesbian identity is explored without external interference. “I am no martyr,” Carol declares, cementing herself as nobody to be mourned. So often queer stories are boxed up as background fodder or burdened by society. But, not Carol.
Throughout our lives, we will peer into films like we do windows. We will watch their silent stories as an observer, not a guest, and then we will move on. However, one day, there will be a window that invites us in. Just beyond it is a blonde woman, standing at the shoulders of a younger woman playing the piano. They are lost in the quavering notes, the honeyed company, the covered tracks of time. You remember a forgotten detail of a memory you have recounted many times. You look up at the winter’s night and get your phone ready; to tell them you love them. And you will think to yourself, how grateful was I, to be invited in by a film that let me in?
Score: 21/24
Recommended for you: 50 Unmissable Christmas Movies
Written by Bella Madge
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