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A sophisticated American in Paris, psychiatrist Liliane Steiner has a habit of recording her sessions. Is it because her patients speak French, and she’s afraid of missing a thought? (I doubt much eludes Jodie Foster, who plays the almost Hitchcockian character in her first significant French-language role in more than 20 years.) Or is it because Liliane isn’t really listening to these people, whose problems all sounds so frivolous, they practically blend together in a torrent of white noise on the soundtrack of “Private Life”?
In Rebecca Zlotowski’s sleek but slippery psychological thriller, Liliane is caught off-guard by the news that Paula Cohen-Solal (Virginie Efira), a woman who failed to appear for her last three appointments, has in fact committed suicide. Liliane didn’t see it coming and now she’s rattled, wondering what else she might have missed. Paula’s death sends Liliane back to her archives, listening for clues, though she’s not likely to find the truth there.
In fact, Anne Berest and Zlotowski’s playful screenplay suggests that much of what Liliane’s patients share with her is a kind of invented reality, in which they appear as the heroes or victims of their own stories for their therapist’s benefit. To what extent might they be weaving entire fictions, and how much does she actually know of the lives they lead outside her office? That’s an intriguing premise for an old-school psychological mystery, the likes of which Hollywood once made in abundance, before the genre migrated to TV.
When Liliane shows up at a memorial ceremony for Paula, she’s caught off guard when her late patient’s husband (Mathieu Amalric) loses his temper and ejects her from the gathering. Apparently, Paula died of an overdose, taking all the medication Liliane had prescribed at once — though Liliane prefers to think that foul play might have been involved. In theory, she should have to answer to the authorities, although Liliane takes it upon herself to investigate, starting with the recordings.
If Liliane were seeing a therapist of her own (as in a scene with an ex-mentor played by Paris-based filmmaker Frederick Wiseman), that professional might call it a case of countertransference: Rather than accept her own responsibility or negligence, Liliane looks for another explanation. But her body is sending contradictory messages. For starters, she can’t stop crying. It’s not out of sorrow, insists Liliane, but a short circuit of some kind in her tear ducts. Liliane’s condition seems especially embarrassing for so stoic a woman, unaccustomed to showing the slightest emotion.
Though nothing in “Private Life” looks banal, the sight of Foster’s eyes streaming nonstop ranks among Zlotowski’s more striking visuals. Liliane’s ex-husband Gabriel (Daniel Auteuil) is a doctor, so she books an appointment, but the crying continues. So Liliane does something she never thought she would, going to see a hypnotist who’d succeeded where she couldn’t (convincing one of her patients to stop smoking) and giving herself over to what she’d always considered a quack procedure.
Whatever you make of such alternative methods, hypnosis certainly makes the film more interesting, as it gives Liliane access to a vision in which her patient also appears — a flashback to World War 2-era Paris that looks like something out of a Claude Lelouch movie — with the added twist that they might have been lovers in a past life. Could this explain the affinity Liliane feels toward Paula? And might the sight of Liliane’s son Julien (Vincent Lacoste) dressed as an SS officer explain her lifelong coldness toward him?
The specter of antisemitism isn’t just a passing detail, but an issue of personal significance to Zlotowski, who is Jewish. Here, the director implies that Liliane’s vision is no less valid a reality than the one Paula was spinning for her, though you might want to brush up on your Lacanian dream analysis before trying to unpack a sequence that recalls such films as “Dead Again” and “Spellbound”). There’s a deliciously overripe, almost campy quality to much of “Private Life” that’s expertly balanced by the intense focus of Foster’s performance.
Liliane always seems sure of herself, even when we the audience are fairly certain she’s barking up the wrong tree. Practically every step of her investigation involves overstepping the ethics of her profession, and yet Foster’s conviction never wavers. Would it surprise you to learn that the whole experience provides a much-needed form of therapy for Liliane as well? She’s become complacent in her profession, and her personal relationships (with Gabriel, Julien and her newborn grandson) are a shambles.
Running around like Nancy Drew from one corner of France to the other reignites something in Liliane. And while the ultimate destination somewhat underwhelms, it’s a thrill to see Foster navigating a fully bilingual role, while tossing off the kind of snide remarks only an expat could feel toward the French — a tiny glimpse into Foster’s private life, perhaps.
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