It has been suggested that the most significant novels of the twentieth century often feature scenes set in hotels, reflecting a widespread upheaval that occurred in the last century. For instance, James Ivory's Quartet features a montage of Parisian hotels as a prelude to the story of Marya (played by Isabelle Adjani), her husband Stefan (Anthony Higgins), a manipulative English art patron named Heidler (Alan Bates), and his wife Lois (Maggie Smith). The film is set in the Golden Age of Paris, where Hemingway's "moveable feast" of cafe culture and extravagant nightlife was prevalent, yet beneath this polished facade lay a sinister undercurrent.
When Marya's husband is accused of selling stolen art works and sent to a Paris prison, she is left penniless and taken in by Heidler and his wife. The predatory Englishman, who bases his character on Ford Madox Ford, quickly exploits their new living arrangement, leaving Marya caught between her husband and his wife. Lovers alternately gravitate toward and are repelled by each other, now confessing their love, now revealing their brutal indifference - all while maintaining an appearance of respectability. The film explores the vast territory between "nice" and "good," between outward refinement and inner darkness. After one violent incident, Lois asks Marya not to speak of it to the Paris crowd. "Is that all you're worried about?" demands an outraged Marya. "Yes," replies Lois with icy candor, "as a matter of fact."
Adjani won Best Actress at Cannes for her performances in Quartet: her Marya is a volatile compound of French schoolgirl and scorned mistress, veering between tremulous joy and hysterical outburst. Smith shines in one of her most memorable roles: she imbues Lois with a Katherine-of-Aragon impotent rage, as humiliated as she is powerless in the face of her husband's choices. Her interactions with Bates are scenes from a marriage that has moved from disillusionment to pale acceptance.
Ruth Prawer Jhabvala and James Ivory's screenplay uses Rhys's novel as a foundation from which it constructs a world that is both true to the novel and distinctive in its own right, painting a society that has lost its inhibitions and inadvertently lost its soul. We are taken to mirrored cafes, then move through the looking glass: Marya, in one scene, is offered a job as a model and then finds herself in a sadomasochistic pornographer's studio. The film, photographed by Pierre Lhomme, creates thoroughly cinematic moments that Rhy's novel could not have attempted: in one of Ivory's most memorable scenes, a black American chanteuse entertains Parisian patrons with a big and brassy jazz song, neither subtle nor elegant. Ivory keeps the camera on the singer's act: there is something in her unguarded smile that makes the danger beneath Montparnasse manners seem more acute.
