LFF – Carol – A ravishing, relentless romance

The verb ‘to ravish’ has two meanings. In one context, we can use it to describe being transported to a place of ecstasy, where our emotions take flight, and we are overcome with an inescapable delight, swirling upwards to a higher plane. In another, it describes something far more brutal: to take by force, to seize and carry someone off, kicking and screaming, against their will. In both senses of the word, exploring this freakish dichotomy, Carol is utterly, irresistibly, achingly ravishing.

Based on Patricia Highsmith’s convention-busting 1952 novel The Price of Salt, Carol is at its core a love story. Therese Belivet (Rooney Mara) is a young shop-girl who is unable to reciprocate her boyfriend’s feelings for her, and has a vague dream of becoming a photographer. Carol Aird (Cate Blanchett) approaches, following some meaningful eye-contact across a crowded shop floor, to ask for help buying a Christmas present for her daughter Rindy. Making her first move, Carol leaves her gloves behind on the counter, relying on Therese to pick up on the flirtatious undertones in their conversations; returning the gloves leads to a lunch, and then to home visits, and finally a trip out west. It is this sojourn that allows Therese to distract herself from her boyfriend Richard (Jake Lacy), Carol to forget about the impending divorce from husband Harge (Kyle Chandler), and the two lovers to establish their physical relationship. Moving around each other in a carefully choreographed dance of a love that must remain hidden, things eventually – as they inevitably must – come crashing down: Carol returns to New York to fight for custody of her daughter, and Therese’s anguish at the abandonment takes on a brute physical force, as she violently vomit up her emotions on a highway returning east.

Haynes’ camera almost always views Carol and Therese obliquely

What was radical about the novel – and, indeed, remains radical over half a century of progress later – is the possibility of a happy ending that opens up for the couple. It is one that is not explicitly stated by director Todd Haynes, who deals in subtle clues rather than dramatic outbursts: the hand lingering just a little too long on the shoulder; the gaze that is caught and held; the meaningful pause. Haynes is clearly in his element with Carol, which – after 2002’s Far From Heaven – cements his place as a key interpreter of 20th century America.

Haynes’ camera almost always views Carol and Therese obliquely: through doorways, marking off the boundaries of private and public; within cars, ensconcing them in their own bubble of chrome and upholstery; through windows, their faces smudged into blurs by greasy smears. Trapped within their passion, the pair place a buttress between themselves and the world, retreating into their own private domain – a necessary technique for coping with the social pressures of the day, but also a perfect portrayal of the all-consuming passion love can bring.

The dialogue is poignant, with every pause and ellipse pregnant with unfulfilled longing. Phyllis Nagy’s screenplay brings with it a soft sense of a beat, offset by the visual melody provided by Edward Lachman’s cinematography. Carter Burwell’s score, all swelling strings and plucked harp, contributes to this harmony, although on occasion it does outstay its welcome. Carol is, to not mince words, simply stunning. Sandy Powell’s costume sumptuous costume design alone conjures up the idea of a mid-century Manhattan, but Jesse Rosenthal’s pitch-perfect art direction takes this to new heights. The audience is transported out of the cinema, and stand blinking, blinded by the midwinter sun, and the possibilities of love it can bring.

As Therese, Rooney Mara is at a career-best; in her hands, we watch Therese mature within the course of several months, from a naïve young girl, one who agrees without knowing what she wants, to a fully-fledged woman. Her sexual awakening creates a fire within Therese, one that burns off any soft corners, leaving behind hard edges; her warm dimples traded for an angular jawline; hairbands exchanged for high heels.

Blanchett’s Carol, although on the surface more composed, is perhaps even more vulnerable than the young Therese. Hidden beneath the veneer of make-up and furs that mark her as a possession of the affluent, Carol seems impenetrable: confident in her wants and needs; resolute in her refusal to live against her own grain. And yet Blanchett’s nuanced performance teases out the complexity of the character. Therese is not just Carol’s plaything, a passing infatuation; at multiple points Carol lets her guard down, in a performance that – despite the fact that she is always ready to retreat – is completely heart-breaking.

Phyllis Nagy’s screenplay brings with it a soft sense of a beat, offset by the visual melody provided by Edward Lachman’s cinematography

For Carol, ‘would you?’ becomes a rallying cry, one that echoes throughout the film: ‘would you like to have lunch with me?’, ‘would you like to come visit me this Sunday?’, ‘I was hoping you might want to come live with me – but I guess you won’t. Would you?’ Earlier on, in the cinema, one of Therese’s friends tracks the correlation between what the characters on screen are saying and how they really feel; at points like these, where Carol breaks down the barriers she’s so carefully constructed, there is a true intersection between desire and action.

Carol is a visually stunning, emotionally arresting, powerhouse of a film. Shot through with a sense of tender melancholy that – despite the uplifting ending – imbues it with an aching, almost nostalgia-like sentiment, Carol is a depiction of a love so powerful as to be combustive. Charring all in its relentless path, we are consumed in its beautiful fire. Carol is a lipstick mark on the rim of a martini glass. It is the old photograph that has become too painful to clutch on to. It is the greatest love story in recent memory. It is simply ravishing.