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Letter from an Unknown WomanLetter from an Unknown Woman

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Scenes for study (require RealPlayer, available as a free download from www.real.com):

A pianist seduces an impressionable adolescent and promptly forgets her; years later he meets her again, thinking her a fresh conquest. But in the intervening years she has borne him a child and remained hopelessly in love with him.  

Letter From an Unknown Woman (1948) is the classic romantic film of the bittersweet theme of unrequited, lost love. Max Ophüls’ deeply-moving film demonstrates his lyrical, gliding camera movements, atmospheric melancholy and romantic dialogue, and the recreated flavor of turn-of-the century Vienna.

"From his tempestuous past..."Abstract

The film is set in "Vienna, About 1900." During a rainy night, a horsedrawn carriage with three men inside winds along a cobblestone street. One of the occupants who leaves the carriage and enters his apartment, a middle-aged, refined-looking gentleman, Stefan Brand (Louis Jourdan), is on the eve of a duel. After ascending a winding staircase, he assures his grey-haired, mute servant John (Art Smith) that he will not keep his engagement, clarifying his life’s values of irresponsibility and self-indulgence: "Honor is a luxury only gentlemen can afford." Lacking a sense of duty and sacrifice, he plans to flee town in an hour in a cab, exiting through the back entrance of his apartment.

John shows Stefan an envelope with a "letter from an unknown woman" on a tray that came during the night. When he opens the letter while splashing water on his face from a small washbowl, he is startled to see its letterhead from St. Catherine’s Hospital and the opening lines which read: By the time you read this letter, I may be dead.

"The happiest moments"He turns and walks into a study where he places the letter on a desk, lights a small lamp, and then leans over to read it. The female voice of the author of the letter (in voice-over) is heard explaining her memories and how her life was a series of inevitabilities: I have so much to tell you and perhaps very little time. Will I ever send it? I don’t know. I must find strength to write now before it’s too late, and as I write it may become clear that what happened to us had its own reason beyond our poor understanding. If this reaches you, you will know how I became yours when you didn’t know who I was or even that I existed.

The view blurs and fades, signifying a flashback (for virtually the remainder of the film) from the deathbed, written confession of an unknown woman, as she tells of her lifelong obsession with a pianist. Her unrequited passion began when she was a young, shy fourteen year-old teenage schoolgirl Lisa Berndle (Joan Fontaine), fascinated by the furniture and possessions of a musician moving into an upstairs, neighboring flat.  The "new neighbor" is a younger, handsome Stefan Brand, an accomplished pianist, his hands gliding over the piano keyboard, playing Franz Liszt’s No. 3 in D flat major. 

So begins this most haunting of romances — a kind of ghost story, really, in which a woman reaches out from the past, and beyond the grave, to finally touch the man she spent her whole life loving, even though he was barely aware of her existence. At the narrative's conclusion, however, the effect of this unknown woman's letter on this unremembering man is, indeed, ironically profound — and, ultimately, final.

"The happiest moments...."Critique

Letter From an Unknown Woman is the classic romantic film — a tearjerker par excellence — of the bittersweet theme of unrequited, lost love (a quintessential "woman’s picture"). Legendary European director Max Ophüls’ deeply-moving, timeless film, considered his greatest American film but a film unlike most Hollywood films, demonstrates his lyrical, gliding camera movements, long tracking shots, atmospheric melancholy and romantic dialogue, the recreated flavor of turn-of-the century Vienna, and the exquisite acting talents of its delicate blonde heroine — portrayed by actress Joan Fontaine.

Although the film was not a commercial success upon its release and criticized as sentimental soap-opera (the director’s name is misspelled in the credits by an uncaring, unsupportive studio), it has attained well-deserved status as one of the greatest films of its kind. In one memorable scene, Lisa climbs up to listen to Brand’s music pouring through the transom, where it flows on the breeze through her golden hair.  Other memorable scenes include a number of parallelisms (what some critics have called the film's "rhymes"): settings, symbols, perspectives, angles, and movements are often recreated from one scene to a second with a single important change.  For example, in one scene Lisa watches, from top of the staircase, as Stefan escorts one of his many conquests to his upstairs apartment; in a later scene, the point of view is preserved, sans Lisa, as Stefan escorts her to that same apartment in the same manner.  The single change — from Lisa-as-witness to Lisa-as-object — dramatizes one of the film's many ironies:   that in her desire for Stefan, Lisa has become no more than another in a long line of his romantic liaisons. 

The film's other "rhymes" work to similar effect, achieving considerable meaning through a relatively simple device.  In the film's touching conclusion, as Stefan leaves his apartment, he stops and looks back from the iron gate to the door, where he tries to remember Lisa's image as he first saw her — a wraith of a girl, only fourteen, shyly holding the door open for him.  He smiles sadly at the vision which appears and then fades from view.  He closes his eyes and looks down, sensing the loss and all that Lisa sacrificed for him.  Then, he enters the waiting carriage (another carriage scene, one which rhymes with the beginning of the film) — the carriage which will take him to his own death in a suicidal duel with Lisa's husband, an excellent duelist.  Were it not for Lisa's letter, Stefan would have avoided his death, yet remained a coward; fulfilling this last responsibility, for Lisa's memory, proves redemptive.

Joan Fontaine and Louis JourdanAdapting the 1922 Stefan Zweig novella proved a challenging but irresistible task for Ophüls and screenplaywright Howard Koch.  Zweig's story's none-too-subtle seductions of the unnamed "unknown woman" by the celebrated author "R." (the male lead, whom Koch gave both a name and another profession) proved far too risqué for the Breen production office financing the film.  Fearful of the Hays Code that had dictated Hollywood production morés for nearly two decades, the Breen office did not allow frank discussion of overt seductions, demanding that any obvious allusions to Stefan's bedroom be shifted to another setting — or dropped altogether.  

Ophüls, though perturbed by the interference, cleverly shot Stefan's champagne cooler business in a hallway, confining Lisa and Stefan even as they become more and more separated by each of Stefan's excessively hurtful remarks. Other demands, however, could not be addressed so adroitly.  The Breen office not only would not allow what producer John Houseman called the story's "supreme irony" — R. slipping bank notes into the woman's cuff — it also was adamant that any final narration from Lisa condemn, rather than romanticize, her illicit love.  Finally, the era's fiscal conservatism cost Ophüls the liberties of extended reshoots, elaborately-staged long takes, and leisurely-paced scenes he had enjoyed overseas.  As its financiers were mindful of the selling of the film as a star vehicle, the studio's bottom-line mentality forced the insertion of numerous close-ups of Fontaine in the final editing.  The result often interrupts the effect of Ophüls' long-take style, but, at the same time, adds a layer of irony to the film as Lisa becomes the object of the spectator's gaze — just as she does of Stefan's.

For the most part, Ophüls and Koch addressed the limitations of the Breen office with panache and success.  With the reconstruction of a narrative situation of Stefan's impending duel and the white roses motif that motivates the film's resolution, Ophüls and Koch managed to preserve the tenor and spirit of Zweig's ending (where R. is seen deeply pondering, but ultimately failing to remember, his lover), yet still provide a cinematically dramatic conclusion, with Stefan's final decisive action motivated by the reading of the letter and the recall of memory. 

Director Max Ophüls was the master of the moving camera, and in this most exquisite of memory-movies (other classics include the lovely "Madame de ..." and "Lola Montes"), he miraculously conveys the process — the experience — of memory through fluid camerawork that takes on a ghostly, spiritual resonance.  His fondness for the long take was even the source of some well-natured ribbing, as his colleague, the actor James Mason, once wrote:

A shot that does not call for tracks
Is agony for poor dear Max,
Who, separated from his dolly,
Is wrapped in deepest melancholy.
Once, when they took away his crane,
I thought he'd never smile again.

Max Ophuls, a.k.a. Max Opuls, born Max OppenheimerMuch of Ophüls’ life was spent dealing with a series of adverse experiences: being a Jew in Nazi Germany, forced eviction from two countries, unemployment in America, innumerable terminated projects, limited distribution of his pictures, and lack of critical appreciation in his lifetime. However, Ophüls persevered and drew strength from this adversity. In his 25 years of filmmaking he completed 22 films, at least a third of which are now considered masterpieces, and Ophüls has finally been recognized as one of the great directors.

Following an unsuccessful career as a stage actor, Ophüls began directing plays in 1923 and directed his first film in 1930. Four more films followed in the next two years. Ophüls left Nazi Germany for Paris in 1933 and became a French citizen five years later. Between 1933 and 1940 Ophüls directed 10 feature-length films in France, Italy, and Holland; with the fall of France in 1940, Ophüls and his family fled to Switzerland. A dispute with the Swiss government over his status in France resulted in termination of a film project and his expulsion from Switzerland. Ophüls eventually arrived in Hollywood in 1941.

Ophüls directed five films in America for different studios, including his American masterpieces: Letter from an Unknown Woman (1948), and the two films noirs, Caught (1949) and The Reckless Moment (1949). Ophüls then returned to France and directed four more films.

Ophüls’s reputation rests on both his choice of subject matter and its presentation. Most of his pictures take place in "fin-de-siècle" Vienna. Against this historical and cultural background, Ophüls focused on women in love. However, this love is neither sweet nor romantic but fraught with unhappiness, obsession, betrayal, male mistreatment and exploitation, misfortune and tragedy. All of this unfolds in an environment of opulent and luxurious décor: palatial buildings containing ornate furnishings, chandeliers, staircases and mirrors. His three American films have the same feel as his European work: Letter From an Unknown Woman has the same setting, while Caught and The Reckless Moment are contemporary treatments of the same themes set in America.

A timeless world...Technically, an Ophüls film is characterized by complex and dramatic camera work which emphasizes fluidity and motion and is accomplished by masterful use of framing, lighting, tilts, tracking shots, crane shots and pan shots. Letter from an Unknown Woman is no exception, despite the concessions Ophüls had to make to the Breen office's demands for "moral" content and intrusive close-ups.  The effect of Ophüls' fusion of content and style is to produce an intensely personal and emotional encounter which transports the viewer to a timeless world in which basic human experiences, feelings, emotions and states of mind are compellingly presented.

Letter from an Unknown Woman may have been unfairly dismissed by American audiences upon its initial release, but it was well-received in Europe, and it remains a quintessentially European film despite its Hollywood production.  Ophüls' idiosyncratic direction, the elegant setting, the exquisite suffering of its leads, the problematic-yet-moving subjectivity of its points-of-view, and its studied interpretation of the Zweig novella all contribute to its current international reputation as one of the most moving — and rewarding — films of all time.

Questions for Discussion:

  1. What would have been some obstacles to adapting the Zweig story to the American cinema in the late 1940s?  Think in terms not only of the story's structure,  but also in terms of its contents, themes, and morés. 
  2. How does the film's narrative structure affect or enhance the film's meaning?  What other choices might have been made, and to what effect?  Is the film's narrative structure similar to any other films we've seen so far?
  3. Critics are divided over the issue of point-of-view in Letter from an Unknown Woman: some argue that we are witnessing Lisa's recall of her moments with Stefan; some argue for an objective presentation of those moments; still others argue that we are witnessing Stefan's interpretation of the events described by Lisa's letter.  What do you think?  Support your claims with descriptions of particular scenes.
  4. Both Stefan and Lisa are characterized quickly — and a bit superficially, as callow cad and smitten schoolgirl — in the film's early scenes.  Through the rest of the film, how are Stefan and Lisa characterized?  Do they become more three-dimensional, more dynamic, as the film progresses?  By what means are they characterized, and to what ends?
  5. Letter from an Unknown Woman makes use of a number of parallelisms: repetitions of camera angles, settings, phrasings, symbols, etc. from earlier scenes.  For example, there is the framing device of the film's beginning and ending carriage scenes, the "staircase" ascents, the cafe scenes, the train departures.  Discuss any of these — and/or any other — uses of parallelism and their effects.
  6. Letter from an Unknown Woman seems especially problematic from a feminist perspective.  As Lisa, Joan Fontaine models and is "the model": always radiantly dressed and lit, she circles for the gaze of dress-shop customers just as she does for us as spectators, and again as she does for Stefan. (And, of course, the context of the Hays code of Hollywood productions of the time suggests that Lisa must be punished for her transgressions, for becoming something other than the object of a gaze.)   How do you see the film from a feminist perspective?  And of the other interpretive approaches Boggs catalogs for analyzing the whole film, which do you think seems most useful in analysis of Letter from an Unknown Woman, and what insights or meanings does it yield?