The opening shot of Carol focuses on what seems like an ornate, wrought-iron pattern, before pulling back to reveal filth: a forgotten floor grate on the streets of New York City, and the millions that have walked over it. The camera then follows one gentlemen as he enters real luxury, the restaurant of the Ritz Tower Hotel, and interrupts an intimate reunion. The two women swiftly abscond as if not to provoke further questioning. Much of Carol is concerned with these issues of appearance and reputation, and how people can be more than meets the eye. The film's favourite motif is to shoot Carol and Therese from and behind grimy windows, on the reflections of mirrors and glass, squeezed through gaps and doorways so we almost have to crane our necks to get a peek at their full profile. This partial obscuration reflects their fragmented sense of self in their everyday performance, to have to hide who they truly are. The seemingly single break of character from Carol comes in their second meeting at the diner, where she (once again) takes the initiative to push their relationship beyond simple gratitude, and nervously throws out a proposition for Therese to visit her home (lamely advertised to be pretty scenery, unable to fully hide her true intent), and for a tiny moment is breathless as the question hangs in the air. We get the impression that her life of luxury doesn't usually confront her with these types of odds. But more than that, she is putting her emotions on the line and risking losing it.
Certainly the production has captured the allure of the angelic Carol and her sensuous beauty in its most potent form: the textural, tactile sensations which Therese is intoxicated by and what men cannot provide. The soft fur in the mink coat she seems to don like wings, the wave of blonde hair, the immaculately crimson fingernails, and vitally, the weight and feeling behind a parting caress on the shoulder. The pair must initially resort to seduction without lingering touch, so each fleeting hand hold or rub of the shoulders must be accentuated in their gazes, and each casual action, say, a throwing back of the shoulder to waft perfume across the booth, calculated and precise. The waifish Mara is given less to do as per her written role, but sometimes her tentative nature can be mistaken for inertia, leading to some accusations of the relationship being predatory. In some ways, this could seem true; the exquisitely porcelain Blanchett just about eats the diminutive Therese up with her eyes at first glance, and at times Mara just goes along with it.
Todd Haynes is openly gay himself, and much of his filmography has been dedicated to advocating for this cause and capturing its anxieties. His debut was the scattershot anthology flick Poison, in which the visible edge and improvisation of a young filmmaker was evident (I still have no idea what the mockumentary of the flying boy is meant to signify). There was also the glitter bomb that was Velvet Goldmine, which had energy and flash reminiscent of Bowie's glam-rock peak but became embarrassingly pretentious once it retreated into its frame narrative. His big hit was Far From Heaven, a formalist exercise wrapped up in the gloss of Douglas Sirk but with a homosexual twist. He took Sirk's issues of classism and updated the story with modern moral responsibilities but retained the style. But Sirk's reappraisals were earned due to the subversive smuggling of his critiques in what were considered to be merely soapy melodramas. Far From Heaven wasn't made in the 50s but in a time where audiences and critics have seen it all, and although Haynes intent is virtuous, the people who really need to see it didn't give the poster a second glance. Its irony forbids it. So Haynes' best and most incisive film is Safe, which doesn't resort to well-tread pastiche, although its existentialist tones are familiar.
Carol has a similar notion of earnestness. Gone is the glossy, highly saturated Technicolor, and in its place an earthier palette of yellows, browns and olives. In Far From Heaven the hyper-expressionistic cinematography gave the characters no place to hide, but in Carol, the colours envelop them. Edward Lachman shoots in 16mm so that the grain is highly visible, giving each frame a impressionistic haze. It's the closest to realism that Haynes has gotten since his very early days. The New York landscape becomes a character in itself, mapping Therese's maturation and emotional development: early on timid in its gaze, mostly capturing obscured faces and turned backs, but after meeting Carol, the subjects and environments come to life.
It's all still very pretty, and at times impenetrable. The script tends to hold them at arm's length, unable to replicate the inner retrospection of the novel. Blanchett and Mara are gorgeous, too gorgeous, in fact; they rarely break the pretense of these painterly pictures, even as they are alone and away from prying eyes. Carol is never more exposed than in that one moment at the diner, even when they are entwined together in bed. And for all the arguments of category fraud regarding the two's respective screen time, it is Carol's story through and through. Even when Therese is making her own decisions the film is pushing her towards a different goal (the 'painting' of her apartment is merely a slightly lighter shade of blue - intentional, but shallow). I'm mostly and pleasantly surprised at the treatment of the ex-husband, not as an antagonistic force but channeled through impotent rage and the confusion at having his picturesque family shattered. It's happened before, and he won't forget that feeling of helplessness. But Carol's choice is the correct one. What good is a mother's love if she cannot embrace another's?
Certainly the production has captured the allure of the angelic Carol and her sensuous beauty in its most potent form: the textural, tactile sensations which Therese is intoxicated by and what men cannot provide. The soft fur in the mink coat she seems to don like wings, the wave of blonde hair, the immaculately crimson fingernails, and vitally, the weight and feeling behind a parting caress on the shoulder. The pair must initially resort to seduction without lingering touch, so each fleeting hand hold or rub of the shoulders must be accentuated in their gazes, and each casual action, say, a throwing back of the shoulder to waft perfume across the booth, calculated and precise. The waifish Mara is given less to do as per her written role, but sometimes her tentative nature can be mistaken for inertia, leading to some accusations of the relationship being predatory. In some ways, this could seem true; the exquisitely porcelain Blanchett just about eats the diminutive Therese up with her eyes at first glance, and at times Mara just goes along with it.
Todd Haynes is openly gay himself, and much of his filmography has been dedicated to advocating for this cause and capturing its anxieties. His debut was the scattershot anthology flick Poison, in which the visible edge and improvisation of a young filmmaker was evident (I still have no idea what the mockumentary of the flying boy is meant to signify). There was also the glitter bomb that was Velvet Goldmine, which had energy and flash reminiscent of Bowie's glam-rock peak but became embarrassingly pretentious once it retreated into its frame narrative. His big hit was Far From Heaven, a formalist exercise wrapped up in the gloss of Douglas Sirk but with a homosexual twist. He took Sirk's issues of classism and updated the story with modern moral responsibilities but retained the style. But Sirk's reappraisals were earned due to the subversive smuggling of his critiques in what were considered to be merely soapy melodramas. Far From Heaven wasn't made in the 50s but in a time where audiences and critics have seen it all, and although Haynes intent is virtuous, the people who really need to see it didn't give the poster a second glance. Its irony forbids it. So Haynes' best and most incisive film is Safe, which doesn't resort to well-tread pastiche, although its existentialist tones are familiar.
Carol has a similar notion of earnestness. Gone is the glossy, highly saturated Technicolor, and in its place an earthier palette of yellows, browns and olives. In Far From Heaven the hyper-expressionistic cinematography gave the characters no place to hide, but in Carol, the colours envelop them. Edward Lachman shoots in 16mm so that the grain is highly visible, giving each frame a impressionistic haze. It's the closest to realism that Haynes has gotten since his very early days. The New York landscape becomes a character in itself, mapping Therese's maturation and emotional development: early on timid in its gaze, mostly capturing obscured faces and turned backs, but after meeting Carol, the subjects and environments come to life.
It's all still very pretty, and at times impenetrable. The script tends to hold them at arm's length, unable to replicate the inner retrospection of the novel. Blanchett and Mara are gorgeous, too gorgeous, in fact; they rarely break the pretense of these painterly pictures, even as they are alone and away from prying eyes. Carol is never more exposed than in that one moment at the diner, even when they are entwined together in bed. And for all the arguments of category fraud regarding the two's respective screen time, it is Carol's story through and through. Even when Therese is making her own decisions the film is pushing her towards a different goal (the 'painting' of her apartment is merely a slightly lighter shade of blue - intentional, but shallow). I'm mostly and pleasantly surprised at the treatment of the ex-husband, not as an antagonistic force but channeled through impotent rage and the confusion at having his picturesque family shattered. It's happened before, and he won't forget that feeling of helplessness. But Carol's choice is the correct one. What good is a mother's love if she cannot embrace another's?