Lady Chatterly

There is something decidedly odd about watching a French production of D.H. Lawrence’s most notorious work. We are quite accustomed to seeing English being used as the Official Galactic Language – Sean Connery isn’t speaking Russian with subtitles for very long in The Hunt For Red October – and, in theory, French should do just as well. In the case of Lady Chatterley’s Lover, however, the entire substance of the tale is deeply rooted in a particular time and place. Parsecs away from the class system that defined her, nobody gives a toss if their wife or servant reads Constance Chatterley’s exploits.
It’s strange then to encounter Pascale Ferran’s award winning film version. You can’t help but do a double take when some Johnny Frenchman announces he’s off to squash the rabble down mill. For the same reason, subtitles that mimic the Derbyshire vowels of Oliver Mellors’ (here called Parkin) accent – a “yar” here, a “yer” there – seem ill advised.
But there’s something gorgeous about this production nonetheless. Though Ms. Ferran’s earthy, grunting depiction of ‘relations’ seems to hail from the same naturalistic school that brought us the feelbad sex of Baisez Moi and Irreversible, she takes great care to ensure Lady Chatterley is all done in the best possible taste. Marina Hands and Jean-Louis Coullo’ch are neither too pretty nor too airbrushed. Dangly bits are shown against forest glades and picture-postcard pastorals, without the benefit of baby oil.
There is, of course, a fundamental problem with the material. The director has returned to ‘John Thomas And Lady Jane’, Lawrence’s second draft of the novel, bringing tenderness and sensuality to what is usually down and dirty. But contemporary audiences have little interest in cinematic copulation anymore. Why, you might ask, should you plump for rustling petticoats when a nine-on-one pile-up is just a mouse-click away? It’s sleek French heritage with subtitles, that’s why.