Melancholy, beauty, resilience, and the times that are a-changin’. L’Apollonide portrays life in a luxurious Parisian brothel au crépuscule du XIXéme siècle from the candid point of view of its girls. ‘Ça pue le sperme et le champagne ici.’
An electrical sense of imminent end flows all other a maze of rooms and corridors. A century is over, leaving some bits behind for good. Habits are evolving. Who’s young is ageing, who’s old is dying, children are blooming unaware of it all. The maisons closes are the last remaining hideout of those who are desperately fleeing the passage of time—the secret place where self deception is sold and bought more than actual desire, where the cildish obsessions of a decadent bourgeoisie are satisfied more than their erotic urges. Uncertainty looms over a sensuous intricacy of fears, anxieties, dreams—some nightmarish, some illusory, other crudely real. ‘Si nous ne brûlons pas, comment éclairer la nuit?’
L’Apollonide is not a flawless film, but its sincerity is captivating, its mise en scène superb, and the love given to both the practical and dramatic insights absolutely enchanting.