Film Review: The Unfaithful Woman (La Femme infidèle, 1969)

Claude Chabrol’s filmography has long been anchored in psychological thrillers, yet the director paradoxically enjoys an elevated status among snobbish critics and academics who typically dismiss genre cinema as lowbrow. This acclaim stems not merely from Chabrol’s arthouse-inspired ascetic, but also from his incisive, often misanthropic dissection of the French bourgeoisie. During his creative peak in the late 1960s and 1970s, Chabrol’s films became vehicles for scathingly cynical critiques of the hollow pretensions of the upper-middle class, a subject matter that resonated deeply with left-leaning critics eager to interrogate societal structures. His 1969 film The Unfaithful Wife epitomises this approach, blending moral ambiguity with sharp social commentary to craft a narrative that transcends its superficially conventional plot.

The screenplay, written by Chabrol himself, introduces Charles Desvallées (Michel Bouquet), a prosperous insurance broker whose life appears flawless on the surface: he resides in a picturesque countryside estate near Paris, is married to beautiful Hélène (Stéphane Audran), and dotes on his intelligent young son Michel (Stéphane Di Napoli). Yet, beneath this veneer of perfection, cracks begin to emerge. Charles grows increasingly suspicious of Hélène’s frequent absences and her increasingly transparent excuses for them. When a private investigator confirms his wife’s infidelity with Victor Pegala (Maurice Ronet), a writer, Charles’s response defies expectation. Instead of confronting Hélène first, he seeks out Victor, adopting an unexpectedly conciliatory tone. In a bizarre power play, Charles pretends to endorse the affair as an open marriage, only for the facade to shatter abruptly when Victor’s careless showing of Charles’ personal gift to his wife provokes a violent outburst, resulting in Charles’s impulsive murder of the man. The remainder of the film traces Charles’s desperate efforts to conceal both the body and his complicity from Hélène, whose confusion over Victor’s disappearance escalates alongside the police investigation.

Critics have frequently likened The Unfaithful Wife to the works of Alfred Hitchcock, particularly citing the influence of Psycho in its some of its scenes. Chabrol, however, resisted this comparison, arguing that his intent was not to craft a suspense-driven thriller but to delve into the psychological rot festering beneath bourgeois respectability. While the film’s pacing and structure may superficially evoke Hitchcock’s mastery of tension, Chabrol’s priorities lie elsewhere. The murder, which occurs relatively late in the runtime and serves a poor catalyst for suspense. The thriller elements—concealing a corpse, evading detection—are treated almost perfunctorily, with the final act feeling rushed and its resolution muddled. Chabrol’s true interest lies in the characters’ emotional and moral contortions: Charles’s pathological need to maintain appearances and Hélène’s detached indifference to her husband’s unraveling psyche. The film’s climax, which hinges on a confusing effects of Hélène’s discovery of what her husband did for her, underscores its prioritisation of thematic depth over narrative cohesion.

Modern interpretations have also attempted to classify The Unfaithful Wife as an “erotic thriller,” a label that stretches credulity. While Stéphane Audran’s performances in scenes of domestic intimacy—particularly in lingerie—hint at the sexual dissatisfaction underpinning Hélène’s infidelity, the film’s eroticism is understated and subordinated to its broader critique of marital emptiness. The sexual dynamics are less about titillation than about illustrating the transactional nature of the Desvallées’ relationship. Hélène’s affair, framed as an attempt to reclaim agency in a loveless marriage, is presented not as a liberation but as a symptom of systemic carnal neglect. Chabrol’s camera lingers on the stifling opulence of the family home, its polished surfaces mirroring the characters’ emotional barrenness. The film’s eroticism, such as it is, serves as a narrative device to underscore the hollowness of bourgeois conventions rather than as a thematic focus.

The film’s success hinges largely on its cast, particularly Michel Bouquet’s tour-de-force performance as Charles. Bouquet embodies the protagonist’s duality: his outward composure as a pillar of respectability contrasts starkly with the simmering rage and insecurity beneath. His portrayal of a man fraying at the edges—exemplified by his chillingly abrupt murder of Victor—captures the fragility of self-delusion. Stéphane Audran, Chabrol’s then-wife, is equally compelling as Hélène, whose icy detachment masks a capacity for self-interest that borders on amorality. Together, they create a tableau of characters whose flaws and hypocrisies are rendered with brutal clarity.

Technically, The Unfaithful Wife is a polished, if occasionally flawed, piece of filmmaking. Chabrol’s direction is meticulous, with compositions that amplify the characters’ emotional isolation—long takes in the Desvallées’ home emphasise their entrapment within their own constructed realities. However, the film’s most glaring weakness is its intrusive musical score by Pierre Jansen. The jarring, atonal soundtrack, punctuated by dissonant piano motifs, often disrupts the narrative’s natural rhythm. While its intent may have been to heighten tension, the score instead creates a dissonance between the characters’ internal struggles and the external auditory chaos, making prolonged viewing feel laboured. This misstep is particularly jarring given Chabrol’s otherwise restrained aesthetic.

In 2002, The Unfaithful Wife was remade as Unfaithful, directed by Adrian Lyne. The American version, starring Diane Lane and Richard Gere, streamlined the narrative into a sleek, commercially oriented thriller. While Chabrol’s original retains its jagged edges and moral complexity, Lyne’s remake prioritises eroticism and suspense, transforming the material into a more conventional, emotionally manipulative drama. The remake’s slick production values and heightened emotional stakes make it more accessible.

The Unfaithful Wife is a flawed yet fascinating exploration of bourgeois hypocrisy and marital disintegration. Chabrol’s refusal to pander to genre conventions or sentimental resolutions ensures the film’s enduring relevance as a critique of societal and personal delusion. While its technical choices and pacing may frustrate many viewers, the performances and thematic depth make it a cornerstone of his oeuvre—and a reminder of cinema’s capacity to unsettle as much as to entertain.

RATING: 5/10 (++)

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