L’Apollonide: Souvenirs de la maison close is an astounding work of unmitigated genius, hailing from the beautifully twisted mind of Bertrand Bonello, who once again returns to deviant narrative territory in the most astonishing way, delivering a gorgeously complex historical drama that extends much further than just being a lavish period piece, flourishing into one of the most affecting films the genre has ever seen. Not a film that will entice viewers in the traditional way (which makes the subject matter even more potent), but rather a daring social odyssey into the mind of a few different women living and working within an establishment rarely ever given this kind of attention, especially not in the way that Bonello does, where he frames every scene as a painting and embraces the challenge of constructing a film that not only focuses on prostitutes, but also humanizes them in a way very few filmmakers ever dared to, showing them not merely as one-dimensional figures associated with a life of debauchery, but as fully-formed individuals with their own unique qualities.  L’Apollonide is an extraordinary film, one that takes many risks and comes out being almost sheer perfection in all instances, and even when it does come across the occasional shortcoming, it deftly uses it to the advantage of this intentionally imperfect film, where the flaws of the story complement the damaged nature of the protagonists, making this a truly unforgettable, if not transfixing, experience.

Set in the titular “House of Tolerance”, a Parisian brothel that services higher-ranking individuals, in the days leading up to the turn of the nineteenth-century, L’Apollonide tells the story of a group of woman working as prostitutes, delighting the various men that weave their way through the luxurious hallways that the madam, Marie-France (Noémie Lvovsky) of the bordello maintains so impeccably. Each woman has a different reason for choosing this lifestyle, but its clear very few of them enjoy it, with some of them even being irrevocably damaged by the years, and even decades, they’ve been working there. Among them is Léa (Adèle Haenel), a young but feisty young woman conflicted with her life’s decisions, Madeleine (Alice Barnole), who was permanently scarred by a client with a peculiar set of interests, and Pauline (Iliana Zabeth), the newest addition, who soon finds her innocence stripped away by the demands of a group of men who hide their perversions behind their prestigious careers and sacrosanct reputations, taking advantage of these women as if they were merely beasts hired to satiate every desire. However, it becomes clear that none of the employees are purely defined by their decisions, with each one of them engaging in their own form of spiritual and emotional healing, trying to evade the inevitable mental decline that drove so many of their peers, past and present, to lunacy. They try to remain sane, which proves to be extremely difficult in an environment designed to degrade and humiliate these woman purely on the basis that they are there to serve these men, and while acting out may be unthinkable, they try and remain in good spirits, or risk falling victim to any of the unfortunate fates that anxiously await to consume another casualty.

From the outset, we should note how L’Apollonide is just about as far from a traditional period piece as you can possibly get, and while it isn’t exclusive in its efforts to try and reinvent a popular but taut genre, it certainly is one of the most interesting, mainly through the bizarre but effective narrative and stylistic choices made by Bonello, who combines a set of anarchic ideas into a complex film about a side of society rarely ever spoken about in such frank terms. This film is a hypnotic portrait of Paris in the daunting transitional period between the centuries, with the social upheaval and uncertainty being represented almost entirely within the confines of the supposedly elegant bordello that stands as a proud institution for the working man and his desires, no matter how unconventional. The first, and perhaps most fascinating, indication that Bonello was going to take a very different approach to this kind of film can be seen in his total disregard for a traditional narrative structure – L’Apollonide is less concerned with the story, and more with constructing a compelling portrait of a specific time and place, through the most unconventional means possible. The film is focused on the episodic machinations of the kind of establishment that isn’t only avoided in most mainstream art, but often openly derided, which this film peers upon with such an intense but affectionate gaze, we cannot help but be captivated by a story that feels both enthralling and non-licet. Bonello leaves behind the overwrought commentary of slavery that often tends to be associated with the sporadic forays into looking at this profession, instead delivering something more simple but no less effective, where the indentured service of these women is not outright ignored, but rather traversed with a kind of delicate intimacy that most probably would not expect.

Instead of engaging in the kind of pseudo-moralistic grandstanding that many would anticipate would come from a film that shows the inner workings of a brothel, L’Apollonide engages with a higher form of narrative, looking at the psychology of its subjects, and by association the role of women at this particular time in history. Bonello’s priority with this film seems to be to delve deeply into the minds of the protagonists, allowing us to momentarily have access to their lives, as we watch their daily activities with a kind of permitted voyeurism (a contradiction describing a film built out of them) and in the process not only learn about a faction of society rarely given such a platform but also earning some fascinating historical context surrounding society at the time. Essentially, L’Apollonide focuses on a group of women who surrender their lives to men – a repeated motif in the film sees the newest employee being guided through the process of the establishment, and told that the various lotions and colognes she is meant to use will hurt her – the phrase “it stings, but that’s normal” is repeated often enough to not just be an amusing reference to the discomfort of archaic medicines, but a chilling indication that these are women that are putting themselves through pain as a way of pleasing the men who keep them employed. Bonello carefully looks at the complexities of a patriarchal society, especially from the perspective of a group of women who depend on heteronormative ideals as a way of surviving (this itself being something that Bonello questions, with an early scene showing the madam of the brothel offering to provide “a young, pretty boy” for one of the clients, should he desire a change of pace). The more sinister side of Parisian society is funnelled through these women, who find themselves the subject of strange desires, without any hope of escape, not only because their choices in life have unfortunately restricted them to stay there or face financial burdens they could not handle, but also because the stigma associated with these women is far too immense for them to ever hope for an ordinary life. “A man doesn’t want to marry a prostitute” is perhaps the most haunting line in the film, uttered to a woman in a moment when she realizes that this is her life, where she’s merely the property of a homogenous group of men.

Bonello brings together an astonishing cast, who he tasks with the incredible but daunting responsibility of bringing his complex social commentary to life. The film features an incredible ensemble of women, each one being given the chance to play a fascinating character with her own individual storyline, presented in fragments throughout the brief period in which this film takes place, all converging into an incredible historical mosaic. From the cast, there are three actresses that stand out the most, not only because of the sheer might of the performance but because of what they contribute to the story as a whole. Adèle Haenel plays Léa, who finds herself moving away from being the young and most desirable of the women, and into a position where she becomes a guiding figure to the newest addition to the house. Haenel commands the screen with the blend of fragility and intensity that she has received immense praise for, and while the film understandably can’t devote too much time to her, the authenticity she brings to the role is astounding, and only further proves how she’s already a guiding light for contemporary French cinema, deserving every bit of acclaim she’s received. Jasmine Trinca plays Julie, who doesn’t make much of an impact until the second half of the film, where she learns that she has syphilis, which only drives the man she was slowly falling in love with away from her, leaving her more broken than ever before, with the rest of the women being tasked with helping their increasingly-fragile companion recede into an inevitable death in peace, knowing that no matter what they do, no one will ever care enough about a lowly prostitute to give them another chance at life. Finally, Alice Barnole is exquisite as Madeleine, a woman scarred by a client, and forced into a position where she’s no longer desirable – given the name “The Woman Who Laughs” by the regulars, she is treated as a novelty at best, a monstrosity at worst, and can’t ever hope to escape, knowing that the outside world is far more perilous for a woman like her. Each one of these individuals carry their own scars, but Madeleine is forced to wear hers like a macabre grin, hiding her true feelings, repelling those who can’t bear to look at her, with the only people willing to look beyond her physical shortcomings being her fellow workers, who understand the feeling of being judged not by the nature of your soul, but the appearance of your body.

In this regard, L’Apollonide is a film less about the profession, and more about a set of underlying social themes that Bonello investigates through the guise of a historical drama. The director is very careful to not violate these women as characters, showing incredible sensitivity to how they’re portrayed and avoiding any exploitation, while still presenting us with a stark tale of sisterhood in the midst of changing attitudes towards sexuality. Bonello uses desire and lust as a tool of commenting on deeper issues, rather than as the folly for meaningless erotica, which is, unfortunately, the default tone for these kinds of stories. He breaks the boundaries of sexuality by presenting taboo concepts, both metaphorical and tangible, in a way that shatters the apprehension surrounding them, and allows him to look at these characters not merely as archetypes, but as fully-formed individuals in their own right. These women may be prostitutes, but they’re not limited to this – and the film is most compelling when showing the spaces in between their working hours, where they engage in spirited discussion, or take a moment to themselves, whether to compose themselves after a particularly difficult bout of insecurity or just for some relaxation from what is clearly an extraordinarily taxing life. This is what makes L’Apollonide so powerful – it gives these characters space to express their own quandaries and anxieties in a way that feels natural, with the film never veering towards heavyhanded commentary. The friendship between these women is one of the few glimmers of the home present in the film, a positive quality in an otherwise bleak drama that is often just purely agonizing in the most effective way. The historical context of the film may certainly be fascinating, but it’s the bond that exists between these women that enriches L’Apollonide and makes it such an enthralling work of art that may be quite unsettling but is still a truly mesmerizing experience.

L’Apollonide is a marvel of both historical storytelling and visual filmmaking, with Bonello blurring the lines between bohemia and desperation in his foray into the lives of these women. We’ve already mentioned how he avoids all taut conventions in the making of this abstract period piece, where he doesn’t dismiss the lavish styles that normally occur in these films, but rather uses it as a way of commenting on the internal states of these women. The excess of the brothel contrasts heavily with the emptiness these women are experiencing, making ti a powerful narrative device, where the director seems to be almost outright derided the tendency of period dramas to be propelled by the visual spectacle while avoiding the more human sides of these stories. The film subverts expectations by situating its events within the most gorgeous setting imaginable – the production design is impeccable, and the elaborate costumes serve the purpose of showing the luxury these women supposedly live in, hiding the fact that behind the extravagance, there’s a certain despair that is far more indelible than any of the material possessions flaunted as a way of feigning opulence, when the lives of these women were far from it. Bonello’s choices in L’Apollonide are certainly not conventional – the fragmented style may be jarring for those who are expecting something more linear, and certain motifs, such as the music (with recurring cues to The Mighty Hannibal’s “The Right to Love You” being an unexpectedly powerful way to ground this film and give it the soulful gravitas of the song’s desperate wailings), but they all go towards constructing an intrepid portrait of a small community divided by their various challenges, but united by their devotion to remaining as independent as they can in their feminity, evading the treacherous gaze of a patriarchal society as much as they possibly can.

L’Apollonide is a film that requires immense patience because it certainly works at a very unhurried pace, where the emphasis is placed on the specific moment rather than the plot as a whole. It may alienate some viewers looking for something more traditionally riveting, but it’s all very much worthwhile, as it pays off in a truly exceptional way. If anything, the measured pace contributes to Bonello’s brilliant portrayal of the banal existence of these women, yearning for some release, whether through physical escape or emotional catharsis. Bonello isn’t interested in exploring the sordid details of the profession he’s portraying here, even though the film offers us a glimpse into the daily trials and tribulations of these women in a way that feels far more kind than most would tend to be when looking at people in this line of work. The film is not a love-letter to prostitution, but rather an ode to the revolutionary women that occupied parts of Paris most art often refuses to portray. This is made beautifully evident in one of the climactic scenes, where the women of L’Apollonide engage in a mystical masquerade ball on Bastille Day, with the resounding sounds of fireworks commemorating victory resonating just outside the confines of an establishment that could be both restricting and liberating, depending on how each woman feels about their position in life. L’Apollonide finds itself succeeding in these smaller moments of introspection, where the director refuses to allow his film to descend into scandal, avoiding the scabrous enticement many less-skilled filmmakers would resort to when telling this kind of story, and rather delivering a beautifully poetic manifesto to the exceptional women who suffered under a harsh society, where their feminity was exploited rather than celebrated. It’s a truly poignant tale of the intersections between desire and despair and a hauntingly beautiful portrait of the human condition.