Sometimes the best horror films have an unknown enemy. A common feature in many horror villains, especially within the slasher subgenre. It is used with incredible effectivity in Bertrand Bonello’s House of Tolerance. The film begins with little to no anticipation of the horrors to be inflicted upon the characters, playing on the viewer’s reasonably low expectations that this will not be a horror film, but the erotic drama the synopsis may suggest.
A “bawdy house” is assumed to be, by definition, somewhat bawdy, and certainly not as viscerally terrifying as it becomes. Bonello’s film lulls the viewer into a sense of ease. An almost trance-like state within the confines of a late 19th-century Parisian bordello christened L’Apollonide: luxurious and decadent, but ultimately trapping.
It opens with a shot of a hallway, where two women, equally central to the film, Madeleine (Alice Barnole) and Clotilde (Céline Sallette) meet, pausing as they pass to repeat to each other a gesture of encouragement, the latter reflecting that she could sleep for a thousand years. This gesture is repeated later, normalizing the continuity of their work, and matching the trancelike atmosphere of the opening. Even this beginning numbs the viewer to the tedium and pain of these women’s day to day lives, despite fleeting escapes from the cruelty found in moments of closeness between the women.
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When feelings of unease arise with a particular man who consorts with Madeleine, it feels off, but the thought supersedes that while odd, it must also be a regularity in this setting. When the camera cuts back to her face sharply, bloodstained and howling, this illusion is over. Not only does it mark the end of the semi-ease the viewer is lulled into, it also marks the beginning of the decline of the women’s comfort and prospects.
This jarring and horrific moment of violence fills the rest of the film with palpable anxiety throughout the women’s encounters with clients, and in their lives when the financial stability of the bordello itself is lost. The previously comfortable space of the house becomes all the more confining; its dark walls and spacious stairs feeling more cramped by the minute. The sluggish and hazy feeling of the opening, aided by the use of champagne and other drugs throughout the film, becomes untrustworthy to fully sink into.
The film plays with anxiety heavily, particularly on those anxieties that come with change and false hope. The latter is the driving force for the women of the bordello. They are all searching for an escape from their position, through the hope of a client purchasing their freedom. Every feature of this film slowly reveals the horror caused by the lack of self-ownership of women’s bodies. And the determination of their worth solely by their ability, or lack of ability. In Clotilde and Madeleine’s case, to capture the desire of their clients. Their way of escape is also through this trade of their bodies and, while it saves them from the continuum of customers, and exposes them to some of the joys of life, it does not free them from this system.
Clotilde, who has stayed there for twelve years, comes to the realization of both her diminishing worth, and consequent inability to escape, proliferated by the ongoing deterioration of the house, and turns to opium. There’s a general sense of powerlessness and instability following Madeleine’s attack, a brutal reminder. The powerlessness is literal in Madeleine’s case, who is shown physically restrained as she was mutilated, with no ability to free herself even after the act. She had no choice but to continue there: the reality is that the male “customer” could do whatever he wanted, as long as he had paid for his time. There is no way to escape, even once she realizes.
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Another equally disturbing scene demonstrates the same principle. A client requests that Léa (Adèle Haenel) portray a living doll for him, and while this performance is not as externally violent as Madeleine’s assault, it’s, for the viewer, almost just as distressing. While Léa is not restrained by ropes, she is denied agency of her body at that moment, and broadly so in any other moment with the clients. The scene slowly continues, after she studies a cockroach on the wall, an omen of the downfall of the household, and it traps us in the experience with her.
The subsequent arrival of Pauline (Iliana Zabeth) is particularly painful to see, as her hopes of freedom through the profession are far from the reality she experiences. As is explained to her rather solemnly to her by Marie-France (Noémie Lvovsky), the owner of the brothel. She’s young and has no debts, but this will change swiftly as she enters, trapping her in this cycle of destitution. This is not uncommon. Many of the women arrived in her state, choosing one unappealing profession over another.
Julie (Jasmine Trinca), a remarkably sympathetic young woman, reveals that her previous occupation as a laundress destroyed her body in a different way, leaving her with lung damage. Marie-France, who is assumed to have originated from a higher class, is as trapped into this cycle as they are: though she is the mistress now, she has the same origins as the rest of the women and, despite managing to escape from the tedium and depressiveness of the day-to-day work, she’s still an outcast to society.
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Although she holds the managerial role of a mistress, there’s an earned warmth towards her by the women, and towards her children, to whom she is fiercely committed to keeping from these circumstances. It’s a fight to keep them from the same position as the rest of the women, through small actions like practicing multiplication at the breakfast table to give them the best shot she can at escape.
Like everyone else, the women of L’Apollonide have the same wants for love, for family, and for intimacy. The latter of which is painful, considering that their occupation revolves around providing “intimate services”. Loneliness and uncertainty permeate their lives as the film goes on, despite the strength of their almost family. These moments of comfort and solace found together are both unexpected and beautiful.
Bonello captures their love for each other with surprising warmth, and shows gorgeous smaller moments interspersed between those scenes of the surreal and disturbing normal. Clotilde slipping into bed with Madeleine, who’d shunned herself after the attack, and holding her close for the both of them. Samira (Hafsia Herzi) waking up next to Léa and leaning over to gently kiss her are a kindness less rare than expected from women bonded by their shared traumatic circumstances. The warm atmosphere of the habitual chattering at the breakfast table, giving way to deeper anxiety as Samira reads the tarot cards to them, aligned with an unstable present and future, sadly juxtaposes that they are unable to escape their distressing reality.
Another scene shows them all finally released from the confines of the house on a warm summer day, basking amongst each other, infectious joy amongst some, and tranquility for others. Three women lie with each other and crack jokes, the most lighthearted moment in the entire film, particularly for Clotilde. Brothel mistress, Marie-France, watches over them as we, the audience, do, relaxed, but now with the same fear and knowledge that it may all come to an end soon.
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Sudden increases in rent and inescapable debt cause Marie-France to begin to lose control of both her fate, and the fates of those dependent on her, spelling the almost certain end of L’Apollonide. Julie’s contraction of syphilis marks an even darker turning point, followed by her suffering and subsequent death. Which dashes any hopes viewers might have had for any sort of positive ending for these women.
Bonello masterfully numbs the audience with continuous violence and despair: the days and experiences blurring together so easily even as the situation deteriorates. Despite the traumatic experiences the women had already endured, they had so far evaded the pain and grief of death. Death is terrifying and final, and there are so few ways to comfort the dying, especially from a disease that ravages the body like syphilis.
Léa does her best to comfort Julie by reassuring her that she will be with the man she loves soon before her death, despite his role in infecting and subsequently abandoning her. Her death jarringly disrupts the attempted composure of the other women, culminating in an incredibly moving scene with Clotilde arriving from an opium session, finding the others grieving and fainting. She wakes up in the arms of the recently deceased Julie and an achingly tender scene transpires, the surreality of the former barely shocking to the viewers, only painful. The arrival of death at L’Apollonide, specifically the loss of Julie, only adds to the air of despair.
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As the film closes, the question is posed repeatedly: what do we do now? The last few parties at L’Apollonide retain the same hazy atmosphere, but with anxiety looming never far, even overwhelming the excitement of the Bastille Day fireworks, and the death of Madeleine’s attacker. Nevertheless, the image of four women with painted red smiles mimicking the wounds inflicted on Madeleine, standing outside the room as a client’s puma delivers his painful ending, is undoubtedly one of the most powerful and satisfying shots of the film.
The question of escape remains unanswerable for the girls of the bordello, outcomes dim as everything they worked for and hoped for becomes more and more elusive. Some of the women, notably Samira and Madeleine, have clear futures retaining their status, which appeases some anxieties. However, the fates of Marie-France, her children, Clotilde, and even Pauline are scarily indefinite.
The film comes to an end with an unknown fate. Change and uncertainty, while less direct horrors than the physical violence earlier in the film, are terrifying in a much more lasting way. The isolation from society, leads to constant intimacy and apologetic tenderness when that goes wrong.
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Marked by a scene much earlier on, set in the lazy early morning with no commerce, only rest, Léa offers a man a place to sleep between her and Samira, seemingly understanding his loneliness and his need to connect with someone. From time to time, the male clients are just as lonely, and the women learn to trust those they can find kinship in.
The final trick of the film is a full break from the initial setting, presenting a modern-day Clotilde. She’s finally outside, which would suggest her freedom, but this feels equally as confining as before. These consecutive endings leave the viewers spiraling, and this scene lands Bonello’s final blow.
The film’s magic lies in the crushing effect of the reality of these women’s lives. Intoxicating the viewer with opulence, and then destroying their expectations with a calculated blow. Horror is a fascinating genre established on playing to viewers’ different fears via experiences that can be terrifying for some, and offer comedic relief for others.
House of Tolerance offers no comedic relief through fear. Only discomfort at the pain of the misogynistic exchange that is the idea that a woman comes with a price, making it scarier through the subtlety of its undefined yet omnipresent patriarchal enemy than the face of a killer could be.