I agree with the French critics: 'Les fantômes du chapelier' is typical Chabrol, in it's immersion in the seedy side of small-town bourgeoisie; and also I agree with the general French view that this is one of the director's finest, in it's stifling and utterly convincing accumulation of horror, and in his precise and unshowy command of all aspects of the film's development.
I also agree with the French view that Michel Serrault's disturbingly haunted strangler is a miracle of the highest theatrical achievement, as that great actor develops a portrayal of the inner turmoil beneath the dapper and respectable exterior of a monster: The spectacle of the abnormal psychological disturbance M. Labbé is unable to quite conceal under a stiff and formal manner is a sustained tour-de-force by Serrault. Anglo-Saxon critics have done him little justice for this astonishing, riveting performance.
The performance of Monique Chaumette as the difficult but ultimately unhappy and tragic Mme Labbé - in a flasback to the Labbé's dangerously dysfunctional marriage - is also a dramatic high point, and every bit as perfectly judged a murder scene as anything in Hitchcock.
Nor should we ignore the horror shown in the face of Kachoudas, the sad little Jewish tailor, who sees the abyss of evil in Labbé before anyone else, and is hypnotised by it as by a threatening ghost from his own racial past, until eventually the wounded soul of Kachoudas succumbs to the fearful proximity of the seemingly unstoppable mass-murderer, and the return of this refugee's existential and radical insecurity, already burdened with the inescapable psychological damage of a surviving victim, prove overwhelming - indeed, Labbé's dark warnings to keep quiet are sufficient to crush the tailor's spirit, already weakened from pneumonia brought on by the chill he caught following the hatter one wet night, when he witnessed the latest murder.
Some have objected that the story is merely 'unpleasant,' but I would have to say that there are here many cameos of decent, ordinary folk to provide a humane context that makes the disgusting spectacle as pitiable as it is horrific: The silent observers of the final murder/guilt tableaux at the conclusion,when Labbé is found asleep next to the corpse of his last victim, is a scene almost out of Greek tragedy, except that the Chorus is a largely still and silent one, evincing on our behalf, as the audience, the mute horror of all outraged normal sensibility.
The queasy mix of black humour and moral horror is created by a director who was a master of his craft and art: Talk of this being somehow 'lesser' Chabrol is simply ridiculous. This is supremely well-judged cinema by a film-maker still at the top of his game.
It is all more metaphysical than it is mere ''policier.' A very great film, i.m.h.o.
I also agree with the French view that Michel Serrault's disturbingly haunted strangler is a miracle of the highest theatrical achievement, as that great actor develops a portrayal of the inner turmoil beneath the dapper and respectable exterior of a monster: The spectacle of the abnormal psychological disturbance M. Labbé is unable to quite conceal under a stiff and formal manner is a sustained tour-de-force by Serrault. Anglo-Saxon critics have done him little justice for this astonishing, riveting performance.
The performance of Monique Chaumette as the difficult but ultimately unhappy and tragic Mme Labbé - in a flasback to the Labbé's dangerously dysfunctional marriage - is also a dramatic high point, and every bit as perfectly judged a murder scene as anything in Hitchcock.
Nor should we ignore the horror shown in the face of Kachoudas, the sad little Jewish tailor, who sees the abyss of evil in Labbé before anyone else, and is hypnotised by it as by a threatening ghost from his own racial past, until eventually the wounded soul of Kachoudas succumbs to the fearful proximity of the seemingly unstoppable mass-murderer, and the return of this refugee's existential and radical insecurity, already burdened with the inescapable psychological damage of a surviving victim, prove overwhelming - indeed, Labbé's dark warnings to keep quiet are sufficient to crush the tailor's spirit, already weakened from pneumonia brought on by the chill he caught following the hatter one wet night, when he witnessed the latest murder.
Some have objected that the story is merely 'unpleasant,' but I would have to say that there are here many cameos of decent, ordinary folk to provide a humane context that makes the disgusting spectacle as pitiable as it is horrific: The silent observers of the final murder/guilt tableaux at the conclusion,when Labbé is found asleep next to the corpse of his last victim, is a scene almost out of Greek tragedy, except that the Chorus is a largely still and silent one, evincing on our behalf, as the audience, the mute horror of all outraged normal sensibility.
The queasy mix of black humour and moral horror is created by a director who was a master of his craft and art: Talk of this being somehow 'lesser' Chabrol is simply ridiculous. This is supremely well-judged cinema by a film-maker still at the top of his game.
It is all more metaphysical than it is mere ''policier.' A very great film, i.m.h.o.