The Eagle with Two Heads

After the storied highs and artistically daring work of Beauty and the Beast, Jean Cocteau’s follow-up is something of a drastic comedown and a minor work. It’s the odd man out in his small canon. There’s no flights of poetic lyricism, no smoke-and-mirrors special effects that enchant with their hands-on approach. It’s a claustrophobic and stage-bound film, and incapable of removing itself from its origins.

There’s a strong sense of romanticism here, like many of Cocteau’s films, in the traditional sense. Not only is it sweepingly emotional, with melodramatics that thunder from the mountaintop, but there’s a potent sense of tragedy and danger lurking around. This is romanticism in a literary sense, with the emotionally turmoil reflected in the weather, atmospheric castle, and baroque clothing that swallows up the cloistered characters.

Even better is how effective the two leads are in engaging in their dance with love and death. Jean Marais again does multiple parts, but this time one of them is a spectral role that is only mentioned and felt but never seen. The late king and his poetic anarchist bear a striking resemblance to each other, one of these roles is only glimpsed in paintings that lurk in the background. The king haunts everything in the castle walls, and Marais’ poet occasionally seems possessed by his spirit.

But The Eagle with Two Heads is a clear showcase for Edwige Feuillère as the doomed Queen. She delivers a twenty-minute monologue to a mute Marais that is just astounding for the sheer emotional control and dexterity she brings to the material. She manipulates the actions with subtle control, and navigates the elevated quality of Cocteau’s cinema with ease and comfort. There’s a scene where she’s dressed like a fairy queen come to vivid life with stars placed in her flowing hair. It’s a damn shame that Feuillère never worked with Cocteau again in another film.

For all of the sustained atmosphere and wonderful acting from the leads, The Eagle with Two Heads doesn’t add up to very much in the long run. The queen and the poet bicker, fall in love, and drive each other towards inevitable tragedy. This tragedy is a mythology of their own making, a meeting of the bourgeoisie and the rebel to dance with death. It’s very French, enchanting in its own way, but slightly formulaic in its court-bound intrigue. It’s a little shocking to see Cocteau go so routine with his material even if its deeper implications and meanings are baffling among all of the fluttering and loud emotional proclamations.