Rust and Bone (2012) is a penetrating meditation on the physical human body—what constitutes it and what it contributes to our psyche. The film consistently fixates on body parts: in a tightly framed extreme close-up of a woman's nape, in a truncated view of a man's muscular torso, in an all-exposing shot of a breasts, in an extreme close-up of battered fists. All these merciless truncations give us a consciousness of our bodies’ physical limitations. While our bodies’ are ours’, they are just as much subject to our environment.
The first time we are introduced to the woman, Stéphanie (played by Marion Cotillard), she is lying on the concrete, the result of a bar fight. The high-angle shot is only of her legs, accentuated by her black, strappy heels. The scene then cuts to a close-up of her. Despite her bloody nose and dazed expression, she is undeniably attractive—a complete image of a sexy woman.
That is, until an accident changes everything. She loses her legs, knees-down and embarks a wandering journey of acceptance, with the help of an unexpected friend, Ali (played by Matthias Schoenaerts). Prior to the accident, Stéphanie is emphatically physical. An orca trainer at an oceanarium, she spends her days commanding with hand signals and performing elaborate routines for visitors. From the impression we get when we first meet her, we can assume she spends her nights at clubs, dancing with strangers.
(Girl's Barefoot Legs. Licensed under Creative Commons at Flickr.)
The accident creeps up on us. In the middle of show, an orca hurls its six-ton body onto the stage. The stage crumbles and submerges into the water. Along with it, goes Stéphanie. In a horrifying underwater shot, wires and grates sink out of the frame. What’s left behind is a sole human body, eerily silhouetted, surrounded by unnaturally blue water and floating debris. From the angle it is shot, Stéphanie’s body is completely warped, her limbs appear alien and blood darkens the water around her. It’s a grisly and isolating shot.
When Stéphanie awakes in the hospital, her realization is heart wrenching to watch. After frantically groping around for her missing legs and falling off her hospital bed, we see the overwhelming emotion in her twisted expression. It is an utter sadness that is terrifyingly out-of-body, a disbelief that is paralyzing. Her tragedy brings her back to infancy in a way, back to Lacan’s mirror stage. Her constitution of self is irrevocably altered. She has to redefine the boundaries of her body and accept a new set of physical possibilities. On top of that she has to learn how to move in her new condition, how to maneuver a wheelchair, and eventually, how to walk using prosthetic legs.
The first time Ali and Stéphanie spend time together after the accident unravels into a beautifully transcendent scene. Up until Ali’s visit, Stéphanie has been cooping herself up in her apartment for weeks. After seeing her state, Ali insists they go outside. He takes her to the beach. Although Stéphanie is hesitant at first, she eventually enters the water with Ali’s help. The shot that follows is in striking contrast with the disturbing underwater shot from the accident. Here, the rippling water is dazzling in the sunset. Stéphanie is overjoyed, floating on her own, her leg stumps bobbing in water. This isolation has a completely different feel than the previous shot; it is a one of liberation and release. We see in her, a distinct transformation as she begins to gain an awareness of her body in another way.
Rust and Bone takes us on a gritty, emotional ride as it tries to understand not just what it means to lose something but what it means to lose something that is so inherently, so biologically, yours. It is perhaps the hardest experience to go through. Stéphanie’s revival is definitely a struggle worth watching.
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