Villa Amalia
About the destruction and rebuilding of one life, that of a middle-aged French woman who decides to leave her husband.

Villa Amalia is a film about the destruction and rebuilding of one life, that of a middle-aged French woman who decides to leave her husband. When Ann Hidden (Isabelle Huppert) sees hers husband kissing another woman, she absorbs this information silently and decides to write it off to the past, along with the marriage as a whole. From that moment on, Ann systematically leaves every external facet of her identity behind her – her career as a composer, her flat, her Steinways, her location in the world – and begins again, alone. Momentous events are portrayed as exactly what they are – mere moments and nothing more.

Taking solitude as a driving theme in a film is quite a bold move by anyone’s standards, since it is a state many people choose to avoid in life and tend not to seek out in popular culture. It also means a lot of camera-time for just one face. However, even though Huppert spends much of her time by herself, it is remarkable how well she carries the film, thanks to her captivating ability to look both fragile and strong in almost the same moment. This is her fifth collaboration with the director Benoît Jacquot and it shows; the camera portrays Ann’s gaunt appearence in a realistic yet tender light.

This film (based on Pascal Quignard’s novel All the Mornings of the World) can’t exactly boast a wildly original plot, but it still feels modern. It brings to mind the classic Trois Coleurs: Bleu, which follows a woman as she grieves for the loss of her husband (who is, like Ann, a composer) and rediscovers happiness through reconnecting with others. It is about being passively abandoned, and the subsequent search for new roots. Villa Amalia, on the other hand, completely subverts this formula. Ann leaves her husband very deliberately; she purposefully and professionally cuts all ties, all the while dry-eyed and certain of her own need to be alone. Even those who have a claim on her affections cannot divert her from her steadfast journey across Europe to an isolated Italian island. In an echo of Trois Coleurs: Bleu, classical music is a feature of the ended marriage and the film itself – but it is Ann who composes acclaimed music, not her husband. She also finds solace in the arms of new acquaintances, but in a surprisingly non-traditional manner. Villa Amalia updates the narrative of how life can go on for a woman who no longer claims the title ‘Madame’. As such, it makes for intriguing viewing.

Villa Amalia is at times quite a sad film, in that it did not shy away from the moments where the pain of acute loneliness win out over a sense of liberation. And, as one might expect from an artistically rendered French film, there wasn’t much in the way of Hollywood endings – but one wasn’t necessary. The point made is that Ann contains within herself the fortitude and confidence to exist on her own terms, and her determination to tread her own path is quietly inspiring. The idea that independence can be won through renunciation and reflection is what lingers in the mind as the credits roll, and that is a quietly remarkable conclusion for any film to make.

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