The Duke of Burgundy – Review

Sex, sex, sex. That’s what it all boils down to, even over a hundred years ago: Sigmund Freud gesticulated in Three Essays on the Theory of Sexuality that it grips us from infancy, and never loosens its maddening hold. Although the term ‘Freudian’ doesn’t entirely comply with Peter Strickland’s dark yet droll vision – as little in its vortex of domination / submission is left to the imagination – this film’s psychology goes much deeper than its deceptively smooth skin, and ultimately, tells a near-Gothic tale of how we always try to be what our lovers want, even if that means destroying ourselves.

Set sometime in the ‘60s, we meet mild-mannered Evelyn (Chiara D’Anna), a maid who serves a hardened red-haired vamp, who throws countless unenviable tasks at her for the upkeep of her enormous house. As she suffers through these chores, she wishes for some kind of appreciation, or acceptance, from her stern employer – but instead, she receives strict, and disarmingly sexual punishments for the most arbitrary mistake; the following scenes then show the two of them in bed, the red-haired mistress gently stroking Evelyn the Maid’s hair and looking lovingly into her eyes. Here is where we meet Cynthia (Sidse Babett Knudsen), a mild-mannered butterfly and moth researcher, post role-play. Following this rug pull, it’s thrilling to see where The Duke of Burgundy may take you next.

For these lovers, the bedroom is at once both temple and purgatory; Cynthia plays along with Evelyn’s incessant desire to role-play and be dominated over, while Evelyn seems to coast merrily on nothing more than her sex drive. And so, they tumble with each other toward mutual oblivion – only one of them doesn’t want such a fate. The Duke of Burgundy could be one of the most exquisitely shot pornos ever, but genuine substance drips (excuse the adjective) from every orifice. As such, style is its main concern; there are points when the sheer aesthetic of the film is put square in the foreground, most notably during a bravado sequence in which a host of butterflies and moths attack the screen in an epilepsy-inducing onslaught of formal experimentation. The abstract nature also bleeds into the more conventional bulk of the movie; there are considerable chunks which are virtually wordless, leaving Knudsen and D’Anna to prove themselves as astonishingly perfect picks for these messy roles. The vacant yet sprightly Evelyn conveys her lust with nothing more than a sultry glance, while you can read on Cynthia’s troubled face how torn she is between the woman she believes she loves, and the woman who uses her in reality. The narrative is driven by these two, who themselves are driven by desire – but as it nears its conclusion, the picture is damaged slightly by a sense of repetition. But even then, repetition is somewhat of a theme in The Duke of Burgundy, or at least a modus operandi: these two may orbit each other forever, in a never-ending dance of obsession.

Strickland, who before befuddled and horrified us with Berberian Sound Studio, has crafted The Duke of Burgundy so that it plays like the shared wet dream of film fans everywhere. Its erudite erotica will make you think, feel, and perhaps throb – but the blood will be exclusively rushing to your head.