Film Review: Merci pour le chocolat (2000)

Every Friday I review a French (or very occasionally, a French-related) film. Like my book reviews, they merely represent what catches my eye at the local indie theater or my Netflix queue.

I’m not sure why, but I had the impression that this was a comedy. A dark comedy, bien sur, but a comedy nonetheless. I’m sure some of you who read this blog will undoubtedly have already seen the film and know otherwise, but I kept expecting some levity to be introduced somewhere in the first half hour of the film. Instead, what unfolded was a good, old-fashioned suspense movie in the tradition of old Hitchcock classics.

Isabelle Huppert plays Mika Muller, a cool and sophisticated chocolate company executive and heiress to the Muller Chocolate fortune, who remarries famed classical pianist Andre Polonski (Jacques Dutronc) at the beginning of the film. The reception introduces us not only to some of Mike’s work colleagues but also to her new stepson, the shy and clearly uncomfortable Guilliaume (Rodolphe Pauly). Guests mingle and hold hushed conversations among themselves about compatibility of the newlyweds, with a bit of conjecture thrown in about Andre’s first wife, now long dead in a mysterious accident.

Meanwhile, in another part of town (the film is set in Lausanne, Switzerland), the comely Jeanne Pollet (Anna Mouglalis) lunches with her scientist mother Louise, her boyfriend and the latter’s mom. Sometime during the otherwise innocuous meal the truth about Jeanne’s birth is revealed. Apparently, there was a mix-up at the clinic where she was born, and for a few moments Andre — whose own wife had just given birth on the same day as Louise — was led to believe that Jeanne was his child.

Naturally, Louise denies any possibility that Jeanne is actually Andre’s daughter. Still, the curious Jeanne becomes obsessed with the idea, even more so as she contemplates the unusual coincidence of her chosen vocation — she’s a budding classical pianist — and that of the well-known Polonski. She pays the man a surprise visit at his home the next day, unbeknownst to Louise, and brazenly makes the suggestion to the entire Polonski family that she might actually be his daughter. And that’s when the real fun begins.

Like the best of all suspense films, including that of Alfred Hitchcock, the question that’s introduced at the beginning of Merci pour le chocolat (English title: Nightcap) turns out to be far less interesting than the darker truths that are later revealed. The uncertainty of Jeanne’s pedigree is revisited frequently throughout the film, and while there are hints that she may actually be on to something with her sleuthing around the Polonski house — portraits of the late Mrs. Polonski do reveal a striking resemblance to the beautiful young Jeanne — it’s also apparent that something else about the cold, monochromatic, and oddly sinister mansion that bodes ill for not only herself but for its inhabitants. On the other hand, it’s obvious that while Polonski — himself quietly frustrated that Guillaume never followed in his footsteps and became a pianist — immediately welcomes Jeanne into their home, neither the son nor the stepmom is especially crazy about the sudden appearance of this stranger into their otherwise ordered lives.

Mika is the most fascinating character of all. Disciplined, almost calculating, it would be easy to say that she’s the kind of person (woman?) accustomed to getting her own way. Indeed, during a particularly tense meeting with her executives, she patiently listens to the suggestions of one of her most senior executives before cutting him off and telling him that she will continue to pursue her own agenda, regardless of how it affects the company’s bottom line.

On the other hand, she displays an almost (not quite, but almost) motherly concern for Guillaume and Andre, making sure that they get their nightly chocolate drinks and inquiring about their welfare. When she accidentally spills boiling water on Guillaume’s foot, she rushes to bandage his foot and even picks up a few video tapes that she thought he would like at the store. Gliding smoothly and perfectly around her home, she can remind one of Mrs. Danvers from the 1940 Hitchcock film Rebecca — one eyebrow perpetually raised, face impassive, always a cloud of suspicion hovering over her perfectly coiffed head — but at the same time give off the impression that she does indeed care very much for her family as well as her new guest.

So just who is the villain in this piece? There’s the question of the circumstances of Jeanne’s birth, but soon the young pianist begins to question the motives behind Mika’s interest in her after she catches the latter purposely spill a Thermos of hot chocolate meant for Guillaume. Or at least, she thinks it was on purpose — it’s never quite clear. Jeanne manages to wipe some of the spilled beverage on her sweater and have her boyfriend — who works in the same forensic lab as her mother — test it for any suspicious substances. The results come back inconclusive, which leads one to believe that Jeanne’s enthusiasm masks a latent paranoia.

Who exactly is Jeanne, and why is she so keen to insert herself into the Polonski family? Why is Louise so visibly upset by the recollection of the entire incident that happened during Jeanne’s birth? Why does Andre want so desperately to fold Jeanne under his wing, despite having only known her for a few hours, that he would be willing to have the girl live with them for a few days so that he — a world-renowned pianist — can tutor her? And what exactly happened the night that Andre’s wife died?

Director Claude Chabrol clearly knows his Hitchcockian structure and draws heavily from that timeless model. Virtually no one — save perhaps Louise Pollet — escapes suspicion as the mystery grows ever more layered in its complexity. Huppert’s characterization of Mika as a redheaded ice-queen anchors the film with its hint of malevolence behind her oh-so-competent demeanor. And Mouglalis is a delight, a gorgeous young actress (her looks remind me of a cross between Nigella Lawson and Liv Tyler) with the kind of lithe grace and ingenue appeal that catapulted the twentysomething Audrey Hepburn to global stardom. Behind the wide-eyed vivacity, though, lurks a snarky cynicism that only raises more questions about her role in this twisted tale.

All in all, a fairly good, solid film with a great cast. The rhythm is appropriately slow and methodical, just like a good murder should be, but it never bogs down and only succeeds in heightening the suspense. Chabrol derives great meaning from the smallest detail, whether in costume design or choice of musical masterpieces to convey drama, but makes sure that none reveal his final hand. A viewer may ultimately find the ending unsurprising, but the trip getting there is a nail-biting one all the same.

Note: Francophiles especially interested in daily life a la francaise might find this film very educational. Huppert’s wardrobe reminds me of Doris Day’s clothing in her heyday (form-fitting sheaths in pastel colors, pearls, high heels), but her signature flippy bob and freckled face offer another version of the low-maintenance Frenchwoman image. Plus, I loved the scene where Jeanne and Louise have breakfast — even on busy days bracketed by Hitchcockian puzzles, the two women manage to look smashing first thing in the morning and still put out a whole basket of toast and bowls of cafe au lait. Brilliant.

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