While rewatching Catherine Denueve’s breakthrough performance in 1965′s “Repulsion,” in which she plays a transplanted Frenchwoman losing her mind in London, I was struck by the magnificent paradoxes of her lead performance. She’s at once numb and alert, opaque and transparent. She’s lost in her own thoughts, her own manias, and yet even though neither she nor the dialogue give you many specific clues as to what, exactly, is happening to her, you still feel it, and get it. It’s a performance that ought to seem boringly general but that instead seems achingly specific. It’s not “insanity” that’s being portrayed, but one particular character’s insanity. All this comes through because Deneuve has turned herself into a blank slate onto which the film’s environment can inscribe itself.
To me, this reads as textbook Libra. ;)
