The walls of the narrow corridor that leads to the loo at the Curzon Soho are papered with posters that have become not only familiar over the years but, insofar as filmgoing and urinating are two strictly connected biological needs, somehow part of the experience of watching a film there. Among those, the one of Les yeux sans visage has always made me linger and engage in fleeting contemplations. I just couldn’t avoid being hypnotised by that woeful gaze buried behind the mysterious white mask. Having finally watched the film, I now understand why it has earned its place as a classic, and such a coveted spot in a public bathroom. Franju’s famed horror serves as a brilliant case study of narrative exposition, both in terms of explicit versus implicit storytelling and timing. The opening is deliberately ambiguous. Hints of an eerie plot are hardly flashed, leaving us blind in the thrilling obscurity. Yet, only shortly thereafter, the conundrum is surprisingly unravelled, shifting the focus from the what to the how, and somehow elevating the genre from mystery to drama. The film cleverly paces its unfolding by using a measured approach to the most unsettling material. In the first part, any graphic depictions are ingeniously spared, allowing our imagination to conjure the most frightening images. Yet, just when we think we’re not in for a certain cinematic type of gruesome spectacle, we are plunged into a painstakingly long sequence of surgical horror that exposes us to everything we had hoped not to see. The misery of the unwilling protagonist is transfigured into the flesh of the unaware victim, imbuing both fates with a physical weight that persists as a dire shadow throughout the film, only to be revived in the horrific climax and ultimately resolved into a different, more poetic form of freedom.
