DIRECTOR Georges Franju’s Les Yeux Sans Visage, or to give it its English title, Eyes Without A Face, has long had a reputation as a masterpiece of European cinema. Watching it in all its freshly restored glory courtesy of the BFI’s new duel disc release, it’s easy to see why.
Released under a variety of titles down the years – from The Horror Chamber of Dr Faustus to Occhi senza volto – it remains a film that is difficult to watch but hard to drag your eyes away from at the same time.
The unsettling mix of poetic imagery and coldly delivered horror that Franju dishes up here is unique. While many film-makers from John Carpenter to Pedro Almodovar have tried to bottle its dreamlike beauty few have even come close.
Pierre Brasseur is Dr Génessier, a brilliant but clearly damaged plastic surgeon who is driven to push the boundaries of his craft by the need to restore his daughter’s horrific facial injuries caused when he crashes the family car.
Helped along by his loyal assistant Alida Valli, who procures young women and brings them to his remote mansion, he sets about trying to restore his daughter’s face through full facial skin grafts. That Franju shows these surgical procedures in full, unflinching close up remains the most difficult aspect of this film to stomach.
Shot with an almost medical-training-video sense of detachment in a crisp black and white as sharp as the doctor’s scalpel, these scenes are, even today, shocking indeed.
As the story of the father’s increasingly deranged attempts to find a face donor for his daughter unfolds in typical horror fashion so Franju cranks up the iconic imagery. The often silent shots of the poor, disfigured girl trapped behind the featureless mask are remarkable.
Special mention should be made for Eugen Schüfftan's incredible cinematography that bathes the whole thing in a stark, dreamlike world and for Edith Scob who is simply astonishing as the girl left without a face and forced to wear a plain porcelain mask until her father can find a solution to her dilemma. She wanders doll like through each frame and her ability to emote through her mask is hugely impressive.
All this drama unfolds gorgeously on the screen and all to a creepy early soundtrack from Maurice Jarre. This new blu-ray issue has a print that almost leaps out at you in its startling clarity and even the sound feels like a step up from previous releases.
At times it’s offbeat blend of high art and pulp sensationalism makes it a hard watch but as an example of European film-making at its most lyrical it’s genius is almost impossible to deny.
This lovingly curated BFI release includes an informative feature-length audio commentary from film historian Tim Lucas, some early Franju shorts – including the eerily effective La Premiere Nuit from 1958 which tells the tale of a young boy spending the night on the metro – a 45-minute overview of the director’s career and a booklet on the film-maker and his art.
