Jeanne Dielman, 23 quai du Commerce, 1080 Bruxelles
A meticulous housewife’s tightly controlled routine slowly unravels over three days, exposing the quiet despair and buried tensions beneath her domestic rituals.
NOTE: Below is a review I originally wrote for my Letterboxd account some months ago before uploading it here. This explains to brief mention of “reviews, on this site or others.”
It’s interesting how we project our own interpretation on art. Without prior context, I might have initially read Jeanne Dielman as a meditation on capitalistic alienation and existential despair, rather than a feminist social commentary which often anchors discussions of the film (Akerman herself rejected the label of “feminist filmmaker”, perhaps to avoid restrictive framing). And yet, such analyses (i.e. feminist social critiques) bias my own rewatching.
What’s most obvious about the film is its pacing, to the point detractors of the film are the first to point this aspect out, calling it “pretentious” or “self-indulgent” or any other pejorative descriptor. Ironically, I think defenders of the film unintentionally trivialize the film’s deliberate slowness (“but that’s the point [to be ‘boring’]!”) when they refuse to engage in questions over whether or not tedium aestheticizes Jeanne’s suffering or instead invites empathy. I actually think there are interesting questions to be posed from critiques over the supposed “boringness” of the film. Does Jeanne Dielman’s pacing open up space for reflection, or is it closing off that space through disengagement? Certainly, some defenders are at least partially self-aware of the film’s challenging formalities given they often refer to the film as an exercise in patience. Bold choices like this invite both critical interrogation and simplistic dismissal. While some discussions have been productive, others may dismiss the film outright. I myself thought about the oh-so very clever one liners I could write as a review of this film, but such quips miss the film’s depth (though I still think “John Vealman” is pretty good).
If the viewer can look past their own boredom they may instead begin to focus on what is literally being depicted on screen. In particular, Akerman’s prolonged takes and meticulous framing are essential to the film’s identity. Each shot’s unrelenting focus on domestic routines elevate banal actions into high art (however we want to define that), and we can discuss its formal innovations until we’re blue in the face. I think what’s most apparent when reading reviews of this film, on this site or others, is that there is a tendency to examine the technical aspects of the film over its emotional or narrative resonance (with exceptions of course). We might then see discussions around the film’s technical prowess and art-house sensibilities as a dialectic in aesthetic elevation over the immediacy of Jeanne’s emotional plight. Is the film too self-aware in its deconstruction of narrative? Of filmic language? The precision of Akerman’s compositions一her symmetrical framing, the sparse pops of color, the exact timing of her cuts一invites admiration of the filmmaker’s craft. Indeed, the film is a technical marvel. However, does this analytical distance remove us from empathizing with Jeanne’s own experience? In this way, we could view Jeanne Dielman as a film about its own style, where the audience is encouraged to reflect on the act of watching rather than fully immersing themselves in Jeanne’s internal struggles. Depending on Akerman’s personal intention, we might consider whether she aimed to evoke a certain emotional response or challenge cinematic expectations. Maybe what the artist intended isn’t even relevant. Regardless, the film’s apparent self-awareness asks us to confront our own viewing habits and biases, and ironically, the film itself.
As such, the film’s form is both central to its social critique but also risks undermining it if the viewer lacks introspection. Akerman portrays Jeanne’s routine in impressive, excruciating detail where the monotony of domestic labor is particularly emphasized. Is this approach, then, an inadvertent aestheticization of the drudgery the film seeks to critique? The choreography of tasks like peeling potatoes and folding linens transforms them into objects of visual and rhythmic fascination as we come to appreciate their formal qualities rather than their oppressive repetition. This, of course, places us in a paradoxical situation: are we meant to feel the weight of Jeanne’s alienation, or are we encouraged to admire the artistry with which it is presented? If the latter, I think there may be a risk of turning Jeanne’s labor into spectacle rather than a lived experience for empathetic engagement (and anecdotally, Letterboxd users’ lack of critical engagement with this tension furthers my point).
If so, the film could be seen as potentially placing its viewers in a voyeuristic position. To force us to sit with Jeanne’s routine for such prolonged periods of time, we turn her life into something to be observed, dissected, analyzed. On one hand this probably aligns with most traditional discussions revolving around the film; that the film’s central project is to critique how women’s labor and lives are trivialized in patriarchal societies. However, the more detached the audience becomes from Jeanne’s own internal strifes, we may unintentionally replicate the objectification Akerman seeks to question.
Voyeurism is particularly fraught in this film if we view it through a feminist lens. Ironically, though Akerman seeks to make Jeanne’s invisibilized labor visible, the unrelenting gaze of the camera一and by extension, the audience一renders her life as a sort of spectacle. Discussions of the film analyze the divergent peculiarities of repetitive actions一the shoes, the meal prepping, Jeanne’s errands, etc. Are we not, then, objectifying Jeanne’s suffering, presenting her as a symbol of patriarchal oppression rather than a fully realized person? Further, are we complicit in Jeanne’s alienation as filmic voyeurs, or are we meant to feel implicated in the structures that perpetuate her suffering? It’s a question Hitchcock might have posed in his own explorations of voyeurism.
Analyzing this film from a feminist lens makes these questions especially significant. Akerman’s depiction of Jeanne in real-time is a radical act of defiance against traditional narrative cinema which often limits women’s roles as passive objects or plot devices. This systematic erasure is brilliantly captured in Jeanne's interactions with her son, who at one point condescendingly suggests what he’d do if he were a woman in a particular situation. Jeanne’s following line "but you're not a woman" encapsulates how women's specific experiences are perpetually minimized. The son's casual mansplaining becomes a microcosm of larger patriarchal dynamics: women's lived realities are consistently explained away, their interior lives seen as irrelevant by both filmmakers and society at large. Yet in depicting these moments, given the inherent, observational qualities of slow cinema, are we subverting objectification or reproducing it? The static, observational camera gives Jeanne autonomy in the frame, but it also denies her privacy as it exposes her most mundane and vulnerable moments to the audience’s gaze. Perhaps this tension enhances the film’s critique as we are forced to confront our own complicity in systems of observation and judgment. Maybe it weakens it by “framing” (haha) Jeanne as a subject of detached scrutiny rather than solidarity.
I think ultimately what makes this film intriguing is that the film’s style challenges us to question our own relationship with cinema: are we passive voyeurs complicit in Jeanne’s alienation or are we active participants in dismantling systems that render women like her invisible? This ambiguity is part of what makes Jeanne Dielman so enduringly provocative as it refuses to offer easy answers and leaves us with our own discomfort and complicity. Yet, this same ambiguity invites valid critiques: does the film’s self-awareness undermine its emotional resonance? Does it aestheticize suffering? And, perhaps most crucially, does the act of watching Jeanne’s life as a spectacle risk replicating the very dynamics that the film seeks to expose?
