Carol is a simple love story of enormous depth, kept within a basic narrative construct before pulling off the vital subversion of a classic formula. Infusing swells of romance, relentless formal consistency and a meticulous attention to detail, director Todd Haynes swivels between naturalism and melodrama to convey what amounts to an acute realization of forbidden love. But in building on his sweeping drama Far From Heaven, he returns to the 1950s with a more ambitious project in Carol – a more intellectually daring vision of gay America.
That vision is one told in code, one that cinematically elucidates the coded language of people left in the shadows. It’s communicated in the eyes, scattering around before they can comfortably lock into another pair; in information parcels, restricted to inquiries of hobbies and partners and life-goals; and in the smiles, the measured demonstrations of excitement that are never to be comprehended by an outside party. This is how Carol tells its love story – through a quiet, but radical, queer lens. The film is consistently uneasy, invoking the fear (a motif visualized via a handgun that’s always kept close) that its central couple must evade the world to stay together, that their love is marked by our fatalistic understanding of the period and its culture. Yet the irony of Haynes’ work is that by telling his story in such specific and conscious terms, his finished product attains universality, reaching the pantheon of classic screen romances by emoting with force and texturing the narrative with political urgency.
The film is adapted by the British dramatist Phyllis Nagy, from Patricia Highsmith’s 1952 novel The Price of Salt. It makes for an ideal marriage of material and director – Haynes’ period films tend to operate with an authentic sense of time and place, a leveled understanding of social mores. Carol is not as aesthetically immersed in its world as, say, Far From Heaven; rather, it exists in the perennial state of societal confinement. We first meet Therese (Rooney Mara), a temporary shopgirl working the Holiday season, as she presents herself publicly: modest, with her conventional dress and hair (and mandatory Santa cap) accentuated by her pair of curious eyes. She surveys the sales floor while at the cashier’s desk, eventually fluttering her pupils around a glamorous older woman. They meet each other’s gaze, if only for a second – there’s the communication – before Carol (Cate Blanchett), the enigma piquing Therese’s interest, approaches as a customer. They share faint smiles, jokes that half-land (deliberately), bits of information – Therese gushes about her interest in trains; Carol reveals herself as a mother without much patience for the Christmas rush – and, finally, a reason to see each other again: Carol “forgets” her gloves, leaving them behind as the decisive flirtatious act.
Their first moment alone is an impeccable duet. Blanchett and Mara fall in and out of each other’s rhythms with effortless delicacy, introducing us to their characters’ mode of interaction. And Carol takes its every subsequent cue from there. The slow and near-silent relationship between Therese and Carol blossoms through their evolving dynamic. It’s almost as if they get better at hiding – as they become more sure of each other, they come to radiate a distant, collected confidence in public.
They also unveil themselves to us in the process: Therese, an aspiring photographer restricted to a passionless relationship with a bland but kind man (played by Jake Lacy), and Carol, like a ghost hanging over her, a beacon of elegant femininity on the arduous pathway out of a marriage (to the wonderfully-named Harge, played expertly by Kyle Chandler) themed by jealousy and regret. Mara’s wide-eyed timidity – captured by Haynes as she stares out of car windows and into the soul of the woman she’s falling for – works gorgeously in-tandem with Blanchett’s larger-than-life presence, complete with immaculate hair-flips and a slick cigarette-smoking pose. And when they collide, it’s unforgettable. The camera glides over the two women as they make love for the first time, intimately aware of the sexual catharsis being depicted. That patience in Carol envelops you, stringing you along before getting right to your heart. Carol and Therese study each other with such reluctance, and for so long, that their moment of unity results in a depth of passion that’s seldom managed on film.
Although Highsmith’s novel was told from Therese’s perspective, Nagy and Haynes opt to split the action between the two women. The choice could have proven a little clunky, if not for Haynes’ deft touch. A fair amount of the first half’s action tracks Therese and Carol separately, identifying their discontent and giving us a fuller picture of their respective personalities. But between Carter Burwell’s understated score and Haynes’ dedicated approach, Carol evades the episodic – the way director of photography Ed Lachman frames the two characters in back-to-back scenes, for instance, conflates their journeys and enhances their budding connection. The film is incredibly precise in that regard; every shot is positioned with exacting depth, the light seeping in from all the right directions, the music fading in and out with tremendous restraint.
This is a masterclass in technique, and Carol thrives by combining such cinematic prowess with resonant storytelling. Lachman and Haynes manage contained, atmospheric filmmaking without projecting too far of a distance. With the help of Blanchett and Mara – who are both extraordinary, in-tune with the film from every imaginable angle – Carol is seamlessly evocative of the period. It’s inviting, how the little details and lyrical dialogue keep you soaked in its world and immersed in its methods. The rich images and transfixing performances render each moment between Therese and Carol that much more powerful – they take on a greater significance, beyond the story at hand and reflective of broader notions of love, sexuality and history. In the couple’s shift from flirtatious to serious, the stakes rise and the surrounding conditions turn volatile. There’s a lush poetry to it – an enticingly traditional us-against-the-world invocation – but in the hands of Haynes, it’s also powerfully prescient. He gives the trope startling new meaning – let’s call it reformist romance.
As Carol opens, with Carol and Therese silently dining in a hotel restaurant, the two women appear amiable, as if they’re holding something back but have comported themselves well-enough to convince us otherwise. A man appears, recognizing Therese, and excitedly offers her a ride to a party; Carol then stands, excuses herself politely and places her hand on Therese’s shoulder. It’s an implacable opening – a little flat, in fact, hard to make sense of the confounding emotions at play. But when Haynes returns to the scene for the film’s climax, the effect is devastating – still composed, in Carol’s way, but devastating.
The opening registers as it does only to prove Haynes’ ultimate point. The moment between Therese and Carol initially doesn’t look like much – because how could it? They’re still in hiding, still speaking with their welled eyes and crooked grins. It’s their language, the one that we – like everyone in that restaurant – aren’t supposed to understand. We learn it by the film's end – we can read Mara’s informative expressions, and Blanchett’s comforting gestures – and, right after the climactic scene, Therese comes to learn it, too. One look at another woman, and she realizes it’s her native tongue. And there, finally, does Carol come into focus: it’s Carol and Therese, and it’s the rest of the world. That is their perennial confinement, their indetectable secret, their unyielding pursuit. Never has love felt so American.
Grade: A