I’ve seen The Passion of Joan of Arc five times—the first time on a VHS tape I bought new, based on recommendations alone. I never do that.
I watched the tape a second time at home, with a friend. We watched it in silence. When it ended, she stayed perched at one end of my couch-bed, turning only her head to give me her verdict. “Joan’s in pain the whole time,” she moaned. Not a criticism, exactly.
Third time was just me again. Fourth time was at Jackman Hall, in Toronto, with another friend. She said nothing when it was over; we left the theatre, ordered some takeout and trod through the slush to the car. “So…?” I prodded. She patted her sandwich, still wrapped. “So,” she said, “that was really high art.” That was all. What she’d felt, watching this film—this thing—was not quite entertainment. Nor was it was appreciation; it was almost concession. She felt confident enough to praise The Passion of Joan of Arc, but unqualified to appraise it—though in so many ways it was still a tiny, simple film.
