In a conversation with Barry Jenkins, the French filmmaker Claire Denis recalls the final scene in the script for her 1999 film Beau Travail. She paraphrases, "He starts dancing like it is the last night of his life. Like he danced to death." As a follow-up remark, she notes, “With a static camera, sometimes you feel so much (of the) movement”. Denis’ burst of pleasure as she expresses the energy of the scene is matched by Jenkins’ illustrious take that has more to do with the ‘sadness' of Denis Lavant contorting his body in the final sequence. The alchemy of a cathartic outburst and lingering sadness is the fine line that Claire Denis’ film articulates, and to see that expand into conversation reinforces the thesis of the film she sought to make.
Set in Marseille, France, where Foreign Legion Officer Galoup (an impeccably brilliant Denis Lavant) remembers the time he spent leading a group of French Foreign Legionnaires in the Gulf of Djibouti, Beau Travail is a serene portrait of masculine intimacy at the height of Claire Denis’ powers.
I had seen Beau Travail just a few years ago, and the impressions it made on me were too immediate and powerful to ever forget it. Having only seen the film once, I could go my entire life without seeing it again because the awe that washed over me as it concluded was too overwhelming. The feelings were too intimate and personal to forget, but this emotional arc is not exclusive to my experience. There is a mutually accessible aura permeating through every image of the film, but when we arrive at Galoup’s final moment, it is strikingly individual. We can’t help but feel like the film took the weight off our shoulders to give us the catharsis we were looking for. Interestingly, the scene is at odds with the mood of the entire film, yet the geyser of emotion explodes in harmony with the film as an act of poetry.
The film opens with the French Legionnaires reciting an excerpt from Billy Budd, Sailor (the Herman Melville novel the film is based on) over a mural of what we can presume is Legionnaires conquering African countries. They recite, “A mighty phalanx hoisted up our banners. Its motto, "Honor and Valor” makes for brave soldiers. Its flag, that of France, is a sign of glory." The booming voices of the off-screen soldiers reverberate with pride over the painted wall of France’s colonial campaign through Africa. As they recite the glory that comes with such honor, their camaraderie bolsters the uniform display of the mural and their voices. Denis deliberately uses this sequence to ease us into the film so that we may get used to hearing (and seeing) a succinct group of men acting in part with one another.
Sacrificing individuality for a larger, uniformed cause is a crutch for any militaristic force to lean on. There is plenty of order, hierarchy, badges, and ranks to identify, but there are few margins to disrupt a complex infrastructure that maintains an image of prestige and honor. The mural is a painterly expression of the identity that best resembles how any military would prefer to be perceived, but Denis is quick to disrupt it. With uncoordinated movement inside a Djibouti nightclub, we get a good look at a few legionnaires, most notably Gregoire Colin as Sentain. The ranks of these men don’t particularly matter, but how we identify their movements absolutely will. They move in and out of frame, winding around the crowded dance floor and through the beat of the music. Despite the lack of coordinated movement in the image, the nightclub is a purgatorial reprieve separate from the physical control of Galoup in the gulf. Denis captures the spirit of the legionnaires beyond what is expected of them by their highest-ranking officials before Galoup conquers their souls with a jolt.
When we think of high-ranking military officials in film, our minds may wander to the explosive personalities of Jack Nicholson as Col. Jessup in A Few Good Men (1995) or R. Lee Emery as Gny. Sgt. Hartman in Full Metal Jacket (1987). Lavant rarely comes to the front of our minds because he doesn’t fit into the traditional cinematic template of how we view those men in their roles. But really, Galoup is not all that different from those men as Denis has a different means of expressing it. Jessup and Hartman are great examples of conniving, plotting, and demeaning men, but as it turns out, Galoup is one of those men too. The difference in how we understand Galoup compared to the others is how Denis allows the narration to internalize the tides of emotion he surfs through. Galoup is an inward expression of emotion rather than the outward explosion of a character like Jessup. Galoup will explode at the end, but it isn’t an accessory to his character as it is for the aforementioned examples. It is the emotional linchpin rather than a personality trait.
We see this in how he leads his men to abide by the uniformity the French Legionnaires expect from them. They stretch, march, simulate military tactics, and do chores with a meditative rhythm as if tethered to a pulsating nucleus. This core is so synchronized that every waking moment appears like they are acting beyond the terrain of the world around them. For most of the film, the legionnaires' methods are rarely disrupted, but Galoup boils with tension that will come to dismantle it. To Galoup, there is a sensation within Sentain at odds with the expectations of Galoup. In a stunning scene near the gulf, Sentain and Galoup circle each other. With every step, the men collapse into a tighter orbit around one another — like wild animals prepared to fight. Sentain and Galoup stare intently at one another as if the other’s existence challenges their sense of priority and being. Their faces come close, their eyes hyper-fixated on unmasking the other. Their movement is rhythmic, their breathing equally so, and without uttering a single word, Denis establishes a warring perspective between the men.
In the same interview with Barry Jenkins, Denis mentions that the film was initially disapproved of for having a 'gay' message about the legionnaires. The disapproval comes as no surprise when we consider how often tender moments with men are misidentified as something derogatory – outside of the movies or not. What Denis is conveying between Sentain and Galoup is the established complexes seeking to toughen these men are often at odds with the natural forces of the human spirit. Galoup sees the gentle gestures as an affront to his expectations of his legionnaires. He also has an image to maintain for his Commander, and if his men act outside of what he expects of them, how would that look to his Commander? Galoup believes that Sentain’s kind gestures will disrupt his ability to control his men, and if he loses control, he will be unable to conceal the perception he is supposed to maintain.
Military complexes tend to mold men to fit behavioral expectations regardless of the good causes they proclaim to be fighting for. Do they even know, or are they manipulated by the idea that conquest is the only way to achieve power? Beyond the traditions arced by Hollywood glitz and glamor that wow us with the complexion of movie stars, Denis serenades us with a rhythmic portrait of fallible men in positions of power. Shaped by Denis’ compositions, she often infringes on Galoup's role by framing him on the same level as his men as he looks up at them or observes from afar. Her camera keeps him in check, but the restraint placed upon him continues to apply pressure until he explodes at the sight of Sentain offering a canteen to a legionnaire under petty discipline. Denis frames the action with a gentle, peaceful outreach until Galoup smashes into the image by kicking the canteen away. Sentain reacts by punching Galoup, and Sentain is left in the desert to find his way back to camp with an altered compass from the hands of Galoup.
Galoup, by all accounts, is the arbiter of his downfall. When Sentain is perceived to have died in the desert, Commander Forestier strips Galoup of his honor and sends him back to Marseille. The language of the film speaks through insert shots of Galoup traveling throughout Marseille as he reflects on what he once had. The memories appear so intensely that they validate the higher sense of control Galoup sought to achieve. Sure, it slipped from his grasp, and his more intense impulses juxtaposed to Sentain cost him valuable honor, but what he was attempting to achieve is validated by the physical spaces he and his men inhabited. There is a truth-telling style to Galoup's control located in the languid pace of the story, but his narration expands the dichotomy between the physical form and most internal spaces.
Men like Galoup – military men, men who believe they fight for the good cause – often feel like there is no way to live unless you’ve given yourself to the cause. What happens when the cause deteriorates the spirit of men who no longer have access to those positions of power? These men, warped by the propositions of the military, often forget they are limited vessels by design – not particularly fit for being manhandled by complexes designed for inciting conflict. This means the insinuation that Beau Travail is a gay film because the Foreign Legionnaires physically express themselves in front of other shirtless men is a direct consequence of a society that has forgotten the significant role intimacy has in our lives. In an infrastructure designed to eradicate inward thought and expression, the mindsets of powerful people cannot bear being disavowed by the systems that empower them. There is no room for them to believe there is another manner in which we can approach one another. Galoup is one of those men who believes exercising a continued order set by governed bodies is the only option.
In a perfectly made bed, Galoup rests with a gun on his stomach, and he recites the tattoo on his chest, “Serve the good cause and die.” Denis pans to a vein gently pulsing through his bicep as Corona’s, "The Rhythm of the Night” beats in before she cuts to the nightclub where Galoup stands alone. It looks like he does dance until he dies, but is this the same purgatory we saw the legionnaires in before they were whisked away to the gulf? It could be, and if this is the case, then Galoup has isolated himself entirely from being unable to discover the sensitivity found within the others. But if Galoup were insensitive compared to his men, how could he easily detect that Sentain’s presence was at odds with his own? You’d have to have some microcosm of sensitivity to be aware of what has gone largely unspoken, but why did he wait so long to tap into it? Look at what happens when he finally does.
He unleashes every pent-up emotion suffocated beneath the conquest that rolled through Eastern Africa in an explosive dance number. Does he dance until he dies? Potentially. But this isolated moment is a stunning juxtaposition to the words recited at the beginning. Only this time, Galoup can’t share that realization with anyone other than himself. Honor and valor are didactic points that suppress the mind into believing our bodies serve governed things meant to control conquered spaces. Claire Denis proposes that harmony is achievable when we acknowledge each other through the generosity that defines our waking lives. Allowing a fellow man to participate in prayer, to hand bloodied, overworked hands a canteen of water, and even challenging power structures are contrary actions on the planes of normalcy. But they embroider the stark individuality inherent to our existence. Denis asks us to look at the rhythms of our lives with further introspection beyond routine - beyond practice and into each other.
There is a beating heart within all as it pulses with a rhythm; we have to tap into it before it's too late. When we do, we might erupt like a dormant volcano that has been waiting to ignite for centuries. We’ll pulse with the rhythm of all things, but we must see it in others to understand it is within us too.
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