Jean Cocteau was an artist whose name immediately brings one of two projects to mind – we immediately associate him with either the gorgeous 1945 version of Beauty and the Beast (the finest version of that story told until Angela Carter reconfigured it many decades later), or his Orphic Trilogy (consisting of Orpheus, The Blood of a Poet and Testament of Orpheus, which span three decades), in which the director tackled one of the most famous stories from the Antiquity across three distinct works of unhinged artistic expression, each one unique but tied together to Greek mythology in increasingly creative ways. One title that is rarely mentioned at all when it comes to his work is The Eagle with Two Heads (French: L’Aigle à deux têtes), which is one of Cocteau’s more unheralded masterpieces. It is somewhat understandable why this film would not be remembered as fondly as others – it is much smaller (not necessarily in length, even if the 87-minute running time is appealing to those who enjoy more compact works), but rather in both its literary origins, and the clarity of the message that resides at the heart of the film. However, despite its relative obscurity, this is not a film that is lacking in any area – in fact, it remains one of the director’s most enigmatic works, a film that reveals very little of itself, and in the process allows the viewer to make up their own mind about what it represents. It can be frustrating, but all great art tends to be bewildering from time to time – and if anyone was going to effectively use the element of confusion, it would be Cocteau, whose artistic and philosophical curiosity are truly unprecedented

Understanding the details of The Eagle with Two Heads entails a form of triangulation – this is a film that distributes its ideas amongst three very distinct areas, succeeding in each and every one of them. The first is the writing – despite the setting and general atmosphere, this film was not derived from some ancient literary text, but rather adapted from Cocteau’s own stage play that he produced a few years earlier. However, regardless of its recency, the film plays like a vivid portrayal of an older text, a glimpse into the trials and tribulations of the individuals that populated a distant time and place, so much that it almost feels like a fantasy film. Tonally, we never quite know where this film is heading – this isn’t so much a criticism as it is a bold assertion to its genius, with the shifting atmosphere being one of the primary reasons we find ourselves drawn into this world, even if it is the complete antithesis of resonant. Narratively, we are constantly looking around for answers – how else can we explain a film that is so fantastical, yet so deeply grounded within reality? This is all part of the appeal of The Eagle with Two Heads, which contains a story as bizarre and evocative as its title, which creates a feeling of tension, not necessarily only between the characters, but also that which occurs between the viewer and the director himself, as both parties negotiate the very concept of asserting meaning onto a film that sometimes feels like it is far too nuanced in its specific to fully comprehend – but that is ultimately all part of the brilliance that pulsates throughout the story.

The second essential component that comes about when discussing The Eagle with Two Heads is tied intrinsically to the first – there would be very little purpose in having a film that is as character-based as this without having the strong performances to accompany it. As a result, Cocteau makes use of a small but intriguing cast – the two leads are played by Edwige Feuillère and Jean Marais, and both fit perfectly into this specific world. Feuillère is the most memorable part of the film, playing the queen who exists somewhere between sanity and madness, mourning the death of her husband, while doing her best to maintain her composure in the face of her constituents, who see her as teetering on insanity, which essentially sets the stage for the arrival of Marais. He is just as strong as his co-star, playing the enigmatic anti-hero with complex bravado. We never quite know if “Azrael” (as he is named, since it supposedly evokes both “mystery and beauty”, according to his star-crossed paramour) is who he says he is, or if he is simply a conjecture – and it is in this very ambiguity that The Eagle with Two Heads feels most effective, since it never seems to be intent on taking an easy route out of the situations it places itself in. The rest of the ensemble doesn’t really register much, but they are uniformly good, supporting the two leads while never taking too much of the spotlight for themselves. It’s a great cast, and one that lends itself to a lot of deep analysis, with the central duo and the characters in the periphery being well-formed individuals across the board, and integral to the film’s success.

Finally, the visual scope is where everything ties together to form a coherent piece of cinema. Cocteau is particularly adept at capturing the spirit of the past in a way that not many filmmakers are able – he knows how to evoke a particular emotion or sensation simply through the use of a camera and some creative production design. The Eagle with Two Heads is not a film that is necessarily all that complex in terms of its appearance – it helps that it was filmed in and around a real castle, and a lot of what makes it effective are the small details, whether it be the design of the film (with the intricate placement of certain items being captivating, and contributes to the pleasure of watching this film, since the eagle-eyed viewer will feel enthralled by the amount of information contained within every frame), as well as the cinematography, with Christian Matras’s camera drawing our attention to the most precise and meaningful aspects of the film. Matra was known for helping bring to life some of the finest work of European auteurs around this time, having worked with the likes of Jean Renoir and Max Ophüls – but it was his collaboration with Cocteau that seemed to present him with an enticing challenge, and one that never fails to keep us in a state of awe-inspired wonder. Every frame of The Eagle with Two Heads is brimming with life, which elevates it above a common period drama, and adds an element of mystery to what is already a very intriguing and compelling film.

The Eagle with Two Heads is a film that feels like it should be a lot less accessible than it is. Cocteau’s work is beautiful but polarizing, and he’s not someone who necessarily leans into the more approachable sides of his approach, instead choosing to bewilder in increasingly creative ways, without steering too far off course. It’s a fascinating document of a film – it gradually reveals more peculiarities as it goes along, but never feels like it is being secretive to the point of becoming too off-the-wall, which is one of the primary reasons it has remained such a mysterious work. A good film is one that reveals where it is heading in order to allow the viewer to feel comfortable on the journey, while a great one makes the entire purpose of the project to put the audience in the position where we have to decode and unravel the many mysteries that lie beneath the surface. The Eagle with Two Heads is a tremendously intriguing film that may not be entirely straightforward, but is well-adjusted to how it uses both broad strokes and intricate details in its formulation – and the final result is a captivating period drama that is filled with a sense of peculiar enchantment and a genuine curiosity, which is all the more reason to view Cocteau as not only a great artist, but one driven by a distinct set of idiosyncracies that guided his work and made him one of the most enduring creative minds of his generation.