Bernardo Bertolucci makes the wish to fit in frightening, helped by Jean-Louis Trintignant and Vittorio Storaro’s seductive images. We recommend it, despite a tendency to make sexual repression explain too much of its central man’s politics.
The Conformist is an absorbing political drama with an explanation of its central man that is sometimes too convenient. Bernardo Bertolucci writes and directs this adaptation of Alberto Moravia’s novel, following Marcello Clerici’s wish to be accepted into respectable society. Fascism suits him because it tells him how to belong. The film takes that small, recognisable desire seriously enough to make it frightening, without asking us to admire the man who acts on it.
Jean-Louis Trintignant makes Marcello’s insecurity the most important thing about him. We keep looking for a conviction strong enough to explain his allegiance, and finding a man anxious to avoid being singled out. His need for approval is uncomfortably easy to recognise, and the performance allows no reassurance about where it leads. Marcello’s weakness is unpleasant to spend time with, but the actor gives us enough to watch without making him secretly admirable.
Vittorio Storaro’s cinematography makes the attraction of this world difficult to dismiss. His rich colours and carefully arranged frames work with Ferdinando Scarfiotti’s luxurious production design to make fitting in look worth the effort. We were unsettled by how inviting the Parisian rooms looked. Their comfort helps us understand Marcello’s hunger for acceptance, even while his behaviour makes us recoil.
Franco Arcalli’s editing is just as important to the effect. The flashbacks interrupt a straightforward account of Marcello’s behaviour, asking us to revise our reading of him as the film moves through time. This takes concentration, and the occasional difficulty is worth it: a tidier sequence would make him too easy to explain. Georges Delerue’s music contributes to the film’s sensual appeal, giving us another reason to enjoy spending time in uncomfortable company. The score’s attractiveness works here because the whole film makes us suspicious of what we find pleasing.
Stefania Sandrelli gives Giulia a welcome ease beside all this self-consciousness. Dominique Sanda makes Anna Quadri harder to read, and the uncertainty keeps our attention on her rather than solely on what she means to Marcello. Both performances help a film so preoccupied with one man’s fears. The women can feel overburdened with the job of explaining his sexuality, yet the actors make them interesting enough that we want the film to give them more room.
That appetite for explanation is the substantial weakness. Bernardo Bertolucci connects sexual repression and political obedience so insistently that Marcello sometimes seems to have been built to prove a diagnosis. We believe the cowardice more readily than the account of what causes it. The film has already shown how attractive it can be to follow rules and receive approval; it does not need to make private shame explain quite so much. A little less certainty about his psychology would have made him more troubling.
At 108 minutes, this is a demanding but rewarding evening, especially for anyone who likes a thriller to give them more to think about than the next danger. Its noir unease comes from having to stay close to a man whose judgement we distrust. There is little relief in his company, even with so much beauty around him. Watch it when there is time to look properly, and expect to argue about Marcello afterwards.
