Nana (1926)

dir. Jean Renoir
writ. Émile Zola (novel), Pierre Lestringuez, Jean Renoir
feat. Catherine Hessling, Jean Angelo, Werner Krauss, Raymond Guérin-Catalain

Renoir's production of Émile Zola's novel, Nana, rides the line between the silent films that long soured me on the form and the expressionistic masterpieces that reeled me be back into their favor. The stunningly lavish costumes and sets manage to fill the gaps, holding attention when acting and story lag. Nana (Hessling, Renoir's wife at the time) plays that baffling archetype, the untalented actress, prone to overwrought displays of just about everything that demands the money, favors and attention of all the men around her. Other than a general sense of excitement revolving around such characters, I can't see the draw. But thankfully, many other men do, or there wouldn't be much of a story.

The film follows Nana as she connives her way into bigger theatrical productions and deeper pockets, finding a reliable sponsor in the aristocrat, Muffat (Krauss), who puts up with her flings and bad behavior simply to share a little time with her. Much of the entertainment comes in the form of these desperate men, willing to kill themselves to spend a little time at her feet. While Muffat may seem above all that in posture, it doesn't take much to get him to slip money into a candy box to win Nana's audience, then prance and bark like a dog to earn a chocolate. This scene in particularly is wonderfully uncomfortable to watch, a credit to the skillful filmmaking if not to Muffat's honor.

It is such powerfully executed scenes that lift the film above Nana's limitations as a character, whether a raucous, untethered dance hall scene where Nana becomes the center of attention, that prancing dog, or Muffat's final visit to Nana, the sprawling staircase heavy with other suitors and the dread of disease as he marches to certain doom.