The title is certainly not the only provocative element of Jean Eustache’s magnum opus, the daring social odyssey The Mother and the Whore (French: La Maman et la Putain). A deeply fascinating investigation into issues facing the French youth at the time, such as sexual identity, gender politics and the role of of the individual in a society built upon certain institutionalized beliefs, the film ventures below the surface of what we normally see in these kinds of films, with Eustache extracting a profoundly meaningful set of moments from everyday life, repurposing them into a daring and complex piece that serves to form a compelling snapshot of a social group that not only demonstrate the mentality governing this generation at the time but remains deeply relevant to contemporary issues. Many of the same questions asked throughout the course of this film are still found within young adults, the people who are now just venturing into the world on their own, but without the same explicit and honest conversation that the director seems to be able to evoke here, with The Mother and the Whore taking the form of a series of dialogues that all converge into an extremely resonant and often darkly comical work of unflinchingly strange and profoundly unconventional fiction. This film is a masterpiece of the French New Wave that is unfaltering in its intelligence and deeply convincing in its approach to a risky storyline that could have been gauche or controversial if not handled with the deft precision demonstrated by Eustache, who was at the apex of his craft with this film.

The Mother and the Whore follows Alexandre (Jean-Pierre Léaud), a young man in Paris who has found himself a comfortable niche in his early adulthood – he is happily unemployed, and spends his days engaging in spirited discussions with anyone willing to lend an ear as he laments about any of the multitudes of issues he apparently is an expert on. His favourite subject is obviously sex, and his target audience has always been young women who find themselves unintentionally thrust into the often frustrating path of a man who seems to relish in the intelligence only he seems to believe he possesses as if this suddenly qualifies him to be irresistible to any woman. His girlfriend is Marie (Bernadette Lafont), a strong-willed woman who does not entertain Alexandre’s delusions, and often has no problem calling him out on his numerous pretentions – but she is easygoing enough for him to stay with her, and the fact that she is happy to share her apartment with a man who has no intention of ever finding work (the closest he comes to having a job is going down to a café and reading). This changes with the arrival of Veronika (Françoise Lebrun), a nurse who takes a strong interest in Alexandre, with the pair starting a passionate affair that is driven by the overly amorous Veronika being very different from Marie, with the two often standing in stark contrast in the mind of Alexandre, who believes himself to now have the best of both worlds. However, it soon becomes very clear that this isn’t the case, and the relationships start to intersect, proving that despite thinking himself to be quite a lothario, Alexandre still has quite a bit to learn about love, and his education will be at the hands of two women who have been taken advantage for far too long.

Modern romance forms the centrepiece of The Mother and the Whore, with Eustache endeavouring to develop a film that serves to be a definitive representation of the Parisian youth he was surrounded by at the time, especially in terms of their more personal desires. Like many films of the Nouvelle Vague, it focuses on the emotional and psychological plight of a group of young people, and how they compensate for the existential dread embedded in them by institutionalized post-war trauma through engaging in a variety of vices that they justify as a means of keeping the ennui of existence at bay. The difference here is that The Mother and the Whore is more intent on looking at a subject that is not absent from films at the time but rarely explored with this kind of intensity. Throughout the film, the three central characters (as well as many in the periphery) explore their sexuality and are in search of some deeper meaning that they believe can be found in the lascivious follies of youthful passion. This certainly isn’t proven to be false, but the ways in which Eustache goes about representing their behaviour is very unique for the time, and often stands on the precipice of being too intense for this kind of film, even by modern stands, where such direct honesty is rarely utilized, especially not in the casual way presented here. There aren’t many films, especially not those in the arthouse, that are this explicit when it comes to the subject of human sexuality. The earnest and straightforward approach to seduction and desire is almost unprecedented, and it almost feels as if Eustache was laying the groundwork for a new form of French cinema, a revolutionary brand of filmmaking that was not reluctant to explore the difficult issues that had previously been subjected to brief implication or allusion, foregrounding them here in a delightfully twisted way.

Eustache, to venture into his intentions even further, seems to be commenting on conventions of the film movement in a way that doesn’t mock or deride it, but rather exposes some of its broader flaws, attempting to reconcile them with a more cohesive, socially-resonant set of concepts that were previously passed over to benefit the more metaphysical ideas that were far more vogue at the time. The Mother and the Whore is a visceral, complex film that doesn’t only look at romance – in fact, very few films on the subject of love have ever been less romantic. The intention of the story wasn’t to show a set of characters falling in love and overcoming challenges to protect the roots of their adoration – love itself is the challenge, with the desires these characters feel often impinging on their ability to function, being driven solely by empty libidos. Each of the three modern characters serves to be the embodiments of various social concepts and represent contemporary youth in a way that is sardonic but recognizably true. Alexandre is the womanizing young man who believes he can take advantage of others through his perceived intellect as if his status as a hypermasculine, educated and enlightened individual entitles him to some benefits when it comes to women. Veronika is a repressed woman, someone who is clearly far more inexperienced than she claims to be, trying to find her sexuality through submersion in a society where it flows liberally. Marie is at the centre point between them, a woman so assured in her desires, having gone through these experiences, and now looking for something deeper. Over the course of the film, we see them engage with each other over their passions, finding both spiritual and carnal satiation in the other, creating an almost symbiotic relationship. However, the most interesting moments in The Mother and the Whore come when the relationships start to turn parasitic, which harbours the most explicitly fascinating commentary on the human condition, as that’s where the true nature of these characters remain.

Throughout the film, the audience starts to question the meaning of the title – which of the two women represent “the mother” and which represents “the whore”? In fact, do they even refer to the women themselves? By the end, it isn’t necessarily clear, which only enriches the discourse around this film, especially through the film’s brilliant attempts to imbue these characters with a great deal of nuance, developing them much further than just being archetypes. The act of sex is pivotal to understanding why these characters behave the way they do – throughout it, each of them prioritize intercourse in different ways. For Alexandre, it is an assertion of his masculinity, while Veronika feels it is solely for pleasure, and Marie demonstrates that it is something far deeper, a bond between two individuals that are momentarily vulnerable to each other – however, all of them realize the intricate power of that momentary connection on an emotional and psychological level. However, to garner an understanding to what precisely what The Mother and the Whore is trying to convey, we need to look beyond the carnal and rather focus on the social, as gender politics are equally as important in breaking down exactly what the film is attempting to say. This relates to a further area in which Eustache is commenting on New Wave conventions, where the dominant style at the time by many of the major filmmakers working in the movement, was to position women as objects of desire, rather than well-formed individuals on their own (this is certainly not true for every film at the time, but rather an unfortunate quality of many of the dominant ones) – and even if they weren’t always malicious, they didn’t afford female characters the nuance they deserved.

The Mother and the Whore, at the outset, follows a familiar pattern: an intellectual young man navigates a changing cityscape by engaging in relationships with women that are seemingly profound on the surface, but meaningless at the core. He doesn’t feel desire for sex, but he lusts for the power that comes with having your masculinity confirmed through the act of copulating, which is almost a spiritual act of sexual reaffirmation. However, what the audience doesn’t realize at first is that Eustache is slowly shifting the perspective throughout the course of the film, changing it from being focused on the male gaze (where he draws very heavily on archetypes very much ingrained into the culture of these kinds of films), becoming a tale of quiet sexual retribution on behalf of the women at the core of the film. The final act of the film is astounding purely because the grandiose machismo embedded within Alexandre has dissipated, and has been replaced with a sense of childlike fragility, where he starts to be governed by his insecurities. The women take charge, and almost start to objectify Alexandre themselves – Veronika’s frequent requests for intercourse feel less like her desiring love, and more like her lust for attention and the feeling of being in control, and Marie finally has harnessed her beau and his massively philandering ways, where he has no choice other than to give her the respect and attention she believes she deserves. The themes at the core of the film are certainly not without social caveats, and it is unsurprising that a film like this would stir some controversy – after all, it is almost entirely focused on a trio of characters preoccupied with the idea of sex and engaged in a love-triangle, with their actions forming statements on social roles and broader rather than individual characteristics unique to the unlikable and immoral figures it depicts.

On the subject of the characters, we do need to praise the performers behind the roles. The Mother and the Whore is not an easy film, and despite the apparent simplicity of the film, this isn’t a piece that could necessarily be easy for the actors, who are given characters who are complex and interesting, but also very challenging, as they are inherently unlikeable, and the film requires them to go further than most films at the time would warrant. Jean-Pierre Léaud is at the core of the film as the manipulative Alexandre (and who I am certain is playing the same character he did in Truffaut’s Day for Night that same year), which sees him abandoning his more likeable qualities for a character whose downfall from pretentious lothario to object of petty desire is a fascinating commentary on modern gender roles. Léaud’s style throughout most of his career was always built upon subtletly and nuance, and even when given someone as dastardly as Alexandre, he finds the humanity in him. Moreover, despite the film eventually ending with the vindication of the women in his life, neither Marie nor Veronika are particularly likeable either, which is a testament to the effortlessly brilliant Bernadette Lafont and Françoise Lebrun, two terrific actresses who are clearly having a good time taking on these roles that are departures from the typical feminine archetypes of the era. Its very clear how the trio are relishing in the chance to play such despicable individuals, which only makes their performances all the more compelling, purely because they’re unexpectedly complex individuals that may be unlikable, but are certainly not without a deep set of characteristics that are almost too realistic to be contained within a fictional work.

We can attribute a lot of the success of the film, and the performances in general, to the methods Eustache utilizes for the sake of the story. The Mother and the Whore is an exceptionally simple film, one that may be extremely long, running just south of four hours, but doesn’t waste a single moment. Nothing about this film seems unnecessary, and it is one of the few films of its stature that fully embraces its length and uses every minute of it to build upon the captivating story at the core. Not much actually happens in this film – mostly constructed as a series of monologues and dialogues that take place over longer spans of times, it is often a raw and disconcerting portrayal of reality – it doesn’t leave out the moments in between that would normally be elided to make space for more traditional conventions. It is inherently theatrical, with the minimalistic style and rare camera movements meaning that the audience is solely focused on the individual, which Eustache often frames in single static shots that are almost inescapably intimate. The film does attempt to make some definitive statements on love and sexuality, but in reality, it just serves to be a frank and earnest exploration of human desire that extends beyond the visceral, which only makes the simplistic execution all the more effective, as the absence of excess means the themes at the core of the film have nowhere to hide. The Mother and the Whore is almost unprecedented in brilliance, and despite having some structural qualities that would naturally alienate some viewers, it never feels weighed down by its length or verbosity, being an enthralling and intimate tale of human lust.

The Mother and the Whore isn’t an easy film, but its certainly a great one, and its dedication to a series of themes much larger than can be contained into a single piece is admirable.  However, despite being a classic of its era (and considered by many to be the finest French film of all time), it isn’t going to be loved by everyone, and it may sometimes present a challenge for those looking for something less heavy-handed or intense, and the sometimes controversial nature of the film, and the despicable characters engaging in sordid activities, may be unsettling to many viewers. In his defence, Eustache never purports to be making a film that shows how individuals should behave, only constructing a fictional narrative that realizes the underlying discourse surrounding sexuality that he observed, being an almost neutral recording of the kinds of conversation had in the social circles he was a part of at the time. This is not a film that promises any form of moral or lesson to what is being depicted – it is just about as far from the warm and endearing fable one would expect.  Rather, it is a raw and uncompromisingly bleak story of modern society that goes to great lengths to construct a narrative that may not be particularly endearing, but endures as a masterful exploration of the human condition, and how we are, despite our belief that we are unique, all the same in one way or another, searching for the same mental, emotional and physical satiation as these characters. A beautifully simple and effectively demanding piece of constructed reality, The Mother and the Whore is a towering masterpiece and an extraordinary example of experimental realism that defined not only the tragically short but impressive career of the director but captured the spirit of an entire generation.