While reading the beautifully melancholic but hopeful Patricia Highsmith pulp classic, The Price Of Salt a few years ago, I had a passing thought that this would be the perfect Todd Haynes venture – an apt follow-up in some respects to one of the most graceful odes to the 1950s era, Far From Heaven. His studies in Semiotics heavily influences his film career and Haynes has proved himself a master of his trade. Much of the style employed in his films explore how sign processes can indicate meaningful communication. His obvious interest in the 1950s and trapped housewives ‘ is a perfect marriage – an era where strict patriarchal structures created an atmosphere of suspicion, bigotry and judgement – a stranglehold on personal freedom and civil liberties that inhibited any true expression. Self expression in that time occurred in minute actions where small deeds meant everything.

I re-read this incredibly intimate book, renamed Carol  (so auto-biographical it was released under the pseudonym of Claire Morgan) just before watching the film, which upon my first viewing proved to be a bit of a rookie mistake as any big fans of books anticipating the screen adaptation would expect. However, the second time around I reviewed my thoughts about the following question: Could the combination of my love of the novel and my devout faith in Todd Haynes’s abilities make Carol the adaptation I wanted it to be?
The bar was set unrealistically high. Did Haynes reach my unreasonable expectations?

For the most part – yes.

The story of Carol is both simple yet riveting, a tale of forbidden romance. Highsmith’s only non-crime novel (although the book is a mediation of society’s view of homosexuality being a crime, at the very least ‘deviant’ and ‘immoral’ behavior) New York shop/aspiring photographer Therese (Rooney Mara) encounters elegant socialite and mother Carol (Cate Blanchett) as the latter Christmas shops for her daughter. Therese’s world literally stops upon this encounter (symbolised by Carol accidentally turning off a toy train). The two begin a tentative affair that is threatened by societal rules and Carol’s messy divorce and custody battle. More than just a love story – like Far From Heaven – Carol explores themes of queerness in an unforgiving time as well as the role of women in a society where their very identities were dictated by the men around them.

Carol’s success lies in its sumptuous exploration of longing and desire. Lingering close-ups of possessive touches on a lover’s shoulder, long wistful gazes out of windows (quintessential Haynes) and shots that are as watchful as the protagonists observing their objects of desire; it all packs so much passion, the eroticism created is palpable. Small, indistinguishable moments such as these, to anyone other than these two women and the audience, mean the world. That is where the power of Carol lies. The longing in the novel is perfectly translated in the mood set in the film. These women use other means to express all that cannot be said.  When the small action of one is understood, the reaction of the other is almost electrifying. Haynes may be the master of melodrama, in Carol he becomes the master of understatement. Carol is a masterclass in creating an onion effect through quiet moments. What one does, however minimal contains layers of meaning.

Like Far From Heaven and TV mini-series Mildred Pierce, the 1950s is meticulously recreated. The detail is impeccable. While Heaven has a heightened beauty to its mise-en-scene, creating an almost unreal world in its blistering beauty, a deliberate tool used to exemplify the ugly dysfunction hidden under the stifling pursuit of outward perfection. Carol’s colours are more muted, shot in grainy Super 16, while nonetheless still striking, Ed Lachman’s realistic depiction of a post-war griminess still manages to be hauntingly beautiful. Others have remarked of being reminded of the photography of Vivian Maier. I was also reminded of the recently discovered photography of Fred Herzog (the photographs were shot in Vancouver but the aesthetic remains the same). The film has an almost film-noir quality to it, there is an overwhelming sense of surveillance and expectations of an adherence to ‘step in line’. This is maybe why people looked so good. Appearance of conforming was everything during the Eisenhower years.

Phyllis Nagy’s script is restrained to compliment the actions of its characters. People have described the film as somewhat cold and mannered, so much so that its hard to relate to it. I interpreted it as realistic and indicative of its setting and of the novel. It would be unrealistic to employ modern romantic tropes of grand gestures and loud declarations of love and would be a disservice to  Haynes delicate use of surroundings to infuse meaning and emotion in the tiniest of details creates a potency that is quite simply intoxicating. The women’s love is intuitive and deeper than words.

It’s realistic of the era and realistic of romance in general. The giddy expression on both Carol’s face when Therese agrees to go on a trip with her before the camera pans up as they observe the first snowfall is a beautiful moment that would have been undone if Carol had started expounding her thoughts. Her smile is all that is needed. Quiet moments like this reminded me of my discovery of Julianne Moore’s genius in The Hours as the camera holds on her silent grief (which made it all the more frustrating that she lost an Oscar to Halle Berry’s lesson in overacting in Monster’s Ball).

Why have characters explain when it can be shown? Early in the film, after Harge – Carol’s soon to be ex-husband unexpectedly arrives at home, Carol scrambles to put on her heels lest Harge see her with just stockened feet. She’s not quite quick enough and Harge’s reaction says it all – that innocent action to a modern audience informs Harge all he needs to know. It establishes an already established level of intimacy between these two women despite that all that has passed is a touch on the shoulder, which he comments to Carol as simply “bold”. Expounding all the intimacy it needs to with lingering looks and touches also makes any kind of declaration that more poignant. My heart literally broke when Carol finally tells Therese that she loves her. There is an acknowledgement of supplication to the sacrifices she has made and will continue to do so in order to be with Therese and have her own personal freedom.

The script is also economical. It succinctly expresses the resentment and dissension of women to their circumstances. Carol in particular can be clipped when addressing people – “You’re early” she snaps at Harge when he arrives unexpectedly and “What are you thinking? Do you know how many times a day I ask you that? She demands of Therese – displaying the frustration of life’s circumstances.

Two leads are symbiotic. Therese is a perfect embodiment of the Highsmith surrogate. While in Salt, the thrust of the novel is not only Therese’s blossoming sexuality but also an exquisite yet brutal coming-of-age tale, the film’s focus subtly shifts from Therese to Carol and her pursuit of Therese, personal autonomy and right to happiness within a claustrophobic, meddling society.

While personal interests lie in Therese’s journey into womanhood, it is understandable why the film focuses on Carol’s story as a larger conversation about women’s rights, drawing an interesting comparison to women 60 years ago and the struggle that continues today. With a slightly reduced presence in the film, Rooney’s Therese is still a dominant presence – this is a showcase of refinement and subtlety. A casualty of someone else’s fight who is forced to grow before Carol’s and audiences’ eyes. Once a young woman of timidness and uncertainty we watch as Therese blossoms into self-assuredness and steadiness. Role reversal occurs as Blanchett’s Carol, enchanting and predatory in the beginning becomes the more vulnerable, unsure, and needy of the two (still nonetheless ravishing). The first to verbally open her heart and speak her desires.  As Therese’s and the film’s object of affection Blanchett’s appeal is exquisitely highlighted. Everything about her stands out – her clothes, lipstick and gestures against a deliberately muted background. This slowly starts to shift as the women’s lives change. Therese is who we begin to gaze at, sharing the space Carol has dominated, becoming her equal.

Blanchett is the embodiment of Carol. Sophisticated siren, sensual and alluringly mysterious to Therese, Carol is the ultimate fantasy for the adoring Therese while simultaneously presenting, a tender vulnerability with a certain iron will in the realities of her world. On my first viewing of Carol, I wasn’t entirely convinced by such focus on Carol’s vulnerability, at points willing her to get her shit together. However, I was turned around the second time, realizing to portray the version in the book might have made her too unlikable and wishing (up until the book’s touching, hopeful ending) for Therese to see the light. Screen version of Carol has warmth added to all of the aforedescribed, creating understanding to her sometimes aloof nature.

Special mention must also made of Karl Chandler as Harge. The potential boogeyman is instead portrayed with compassion. This proves to be an inspired direction to take the character. It would be simple for him to be villanized – the physical embodiment of the male oppression and societal obstacle to Carol and Therese’s love. However, Harge’s tale and Chandler’s portrayal of a desperate man trying with any means necessary and with any tools at hand, including his male privilege, to hold onto his ideas of the American Dream makes him strangely sympathetic. Carol and the audience, sees this and the potential destruction it threatens not just to Carol but to himself. She succinctly acknowledges that they are both to blame in some regards for this destruction but implores them both to stop before they come “ugly people. And we’re not that”. His actions are not condonable but they are understandable.

One of the most succulent draws to Carol is the score. Courtesy of Carter Burwell (Mildred Pierce),  this is wonderfully artful music. Effective without ever feeling manipulative, perfectly capturing the mood of the two women’s deep desires. It gives a visceral effect to the film. Just hearing it has a resounding effect. The score, essential to all great cinema can be as effective as what’s seen on screen, sometimes even more so because of its insidious nature. For me this particular score tapped into something deeper offering the declarative passions the protagonists cannot.

This near perfect cinematic experience wasn’t quite perfect. In some regards the film up until the women consummating their union is like foreplay. When the sex scene does come (no pun intended) it offers the women release but strangely enough doesn’t quite translate the passion that preceded it. One could observe this as a deliberate attempt to make the union as something private between the two women – even to the audience. After all this film isn’t about sex in terms of gratification but desires of the heart. (If I were to be honest, my main quibble with this scene was that it had what I call the unequal sex equation: one person naked + one person not = unrealistic sex scene. Usually this refers to men/women scenes but I’m an egalitarian and I call it when I see for any such sex scene regardless of gender. It’s both clothed or both not.) The scene is swift, the story moving onto fallout and repercussions from societal intrusions to privacy.

For all the nuance of some characters, it does seems at the expense of others. In particular Richard, Therese’s boyfriend. He’s a bit of a throwaway figure, demonstrably unlikable in his clingyness, with a lack of depth in character and his relationship with Therese made him dull. To be fair, he’s not that different in the novel but at least there’s more interest in exploring his relationship with Therese. It’s important to Therese’s development and change. In the novel Therese has slept with Richard a number of times, and really hating it, feeling a sense of resentment and alienation that she can never quite understand – until she’s with Carol. This is an interesting comparison that I wished would have stayed in the film. Portraying Therese as virginal, doesn’t add anything to the narrative or to the emotion of her journey.

SPOILER ALERT: DO NOT READ UNTIL AFTER YOU’VE SEEN THE FILM
The private investigator plot line was a missed opportunity. In the novel its integral to the whole tale as this is the moment Therese sees her fantasy vision of Carol shattered,  as well as the innocent existence she’s had up until then. For Therese the realities of an unjust world is foisted upon her and we see how childish Therese is and it’s not an entirely admirable personality trait. It’s an explosive scenario with Carol finally reveals her turmoil. And it also shows the very selfish side of Therese who becomes bitter at the thought that the all consuming love she has for Carol cannot entirely be reciprocated because of Carol’s devotion to her daughter. In the film it feels rushed and incidental lacking the emotional punch it needs and the opportunity to see the less likable but very interesting side of Therese is lost.

Conclusions:
An obvious nod to the greatest love story to grace the silver screen, Carol is a worthy ode to Brief Encounter. This is about the love of two women, which may get it pigeonholed as queer drama, but with its themes, the execution of the story and focus on the emotional aspect of attraction carries such universal themes make it secondary to its primary function as a searing love story. I’m not sure how everyone couldn’t relate or engage with such a tale. Carol is a hopeful, evocative, affecting reflection of the simplicities and complexity of deep devotion and the right to self-expression. A love story for the ages, would it to be too bold to state that Carol is the Brief Encounter of the 21st century?
You decide.
This film is released this Friday (27th November). I don’t ask you see it. I demand you do.