Charlotte Gray

I feel utterly churlish when I criticize a film like "Charlotte Gray." It's that rare war film that doesn't feel compelled to talk down to its audience, that allows itself to explore the moral contradictions in how war is waged. This courage is doubly unexpected and doubly welcome coming in a film about World War II, which we comfortably refer to as the "last good war." Further, "Charlotte Gray" is not the name of an airplane or stripper or something but of an actual female spy, making "Charlotte Gray" one of the few wartime films to even acknowledge that women exist outside of pinup or civilian-in-danger form.

And it's a well-made film, too. Director Gillian Armstrong displays a sure command of her craft, and Cate Blanchett as the title character unflinchingly explores the way war tests her resolve and certainty. But when I left the theater, I wasn't thinking of all that, but how with a few simple changes the movie could have made that leap from very good to nearly great.

The setting, for example, tempts Armstrong into some errors of judgment. Wartime Britain is perpetually overcast, both meterologically and psychologically, and Charlotte's decision to enlist as a spy seems driven as much by the lowering skies as by her desire to be a patriot. Fortunately, she's fluent in French, and France happens to be a place where things are happening. A chance encounter on a train gets her an audition with the spooks. The audition, in turn, brings her into contact with an RAF pilot named Peter (Rupert Penry-Jones - can't hate on the name) who's handsome and gentle and, as Charlotte soon discovers, wonderful in bed. He gets shot down over France, and Charlotte deceives herself into thinking that finding him hasn't become her primary mission.

When she gets to France, this self-deception proves costly, as errors she makes for Peter's sake drag her deeper and deeper into Resistance fighting, with morally ambigous results. But perhaps Charlotte was merely convinced that nothing bad could possibly happen in a land so unfailingly gorgeous. Fields of grapes and wheat are untouched by tank tracks. The German trains are photographed so luxuriantly that one is tempted to admire them. Even the country mansion of her French contact's father, dilapidated as it is supposed to be, oozes culture and gracious livability. Not to underestimate the many charms of the French countryside, but no country living under the specter of war has ever looked this good.

The rampant prettiness extends to the actors as well. Billy Crudup, as Charlotte's French contact Julien, has a laughable French accent but a strong jaw and an irresistible smile. Charlotte herself never has a hair out of place or an even vaguely ill-fitting frock on her body; when she embarrassedly admits to Julien that she ran out of clean clothes, the average viewer will be hard-pressed to tell the difference. Charlotte and Julien lay some bombs, get fired upon, and race from place to place in this film; they should look less than their best occasionally. They never do. This never-failing beauty means that at times "Charlotte Gray" plays more like a French tourist infomercial than a war film, with a corresponding loss in gravity.

And it's too damn bad, because grave stuff is happening here. The plot isn't so remarkable in and of itself except for the female protagonist, but Blanchett communicates it with frightening immediacy; rarely has moral uncertainty seemed a more untenable state onscreen. Charlotte comes off as mulishly convinced of her own rightness at the beginning of the film and utterly exhausted after all has happened, and in between Blanchett trembles and quakes and palls and perseveres while only rarely losing her spookish composure. We feel as if we can see right into Charlotte's turmoil, and it is a terrible place to be.

Armstrong is to be commended for staying out of the way when Blanchett is onscreen, giving her room to breathe with refreshingly relaxed direction. But everyone else stays out of her way too, which isn't so good. Crudup remains a handsome cipher for the entire film, and the people who are supposed to stand up to Charlotte (who, remember, is naive and confused for most of the film) fill most of her requests with astonishing alacrity. And in truth, Armstrong's direction is sometimes too relaxed; when a German munitions train explodes, it probably makes a more impressive noise and a more awful impact than it does in this film. All it is here is a pretty fireball in the night from which Charlotte and Julien swiftly run.

As the above analysis indicates, there is much to appreciate and enjoy in "Charlotte Gray"; indeed, Blanchett's performance alone will be enough for most intelligent and inquisitive patrons of the cinema. But we movie reviewers so rarely get to see truly excellent films that if a film comes close, we get a bit frustrated. I hope you'll forgive my impertinence, and if you like films featuring complex women and/or pretty French countrysides, have a look at it anyway.

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