Spain's Albert Serra is a proponent of slow cinema. How slow can he go? Really slow. His latest starts with the titular Sun King (the sublime Jean-Pierre Léaud) suffering from leg pains. It’s 1715. The pain gets worse. End of.
Actually, if you like this kind of thing, The Death of Louis XIV is fascinating. All the characters are flawed and human. There’s a great deal of candlelit pomp (Léaud, in huge, frizzy wigs, resembles a cross between Grandpa Munster and Brian May). But actually, beady-eyed Louis, nauseated by pain and the stench of his own rotting body, could be any terminally ill patient.
At first, the long nights make his temper short. After a while, he’s too weak even to be cross, pictured. Some kind of musical celebration underlines his isolation (as we listen to the melodies, Serra films the great, green outdoors, through a window; all of life is there, but out of reach). No amount of pampering from doctors and valets can make up for the loss of freedom.
In fact, the pampering itself becomes invasive. Sickness turns treats into torture: the king’s agony is palpable.
Some critics see the presence of New Wave legend Léaud as a comment on how art-house cinema is itself in decline. Really? It makes more sense to read The Death of Louis XIV as a sly salute to Léaud, the puckish upstart from 400 Blows, now viewed as a grand old man. It’s lovely to see the 73-year-old stretched (unlike the king, he’s at the height of his powers). It’s lovely to realise that, in many ways, this is a comedy. True, in terms of laughs-a-minute it’s not up there with Sausage Party. But the bit where Louis’s doctors inspect his innards is one for the ages.
The king is dead. Check out his fabulous intestines!
Cert 12A, 115 mins
