The contrast between surface-level frivolity and the turmoil it masks makes this film remarkable. Redolent of La Notte, Faces has the uncanny ability to universalize domestic misery and, deliciously, teach us nothing but that we are accountable for our own suffering. I love the scene at the end when husband and wife sit on the staircase, the morning after both have explored the mixture of melancholy and liberation in adultery. It occurs literally minutes after the wife recovers from a suicide attempt. On the staircase, they smoke cigarettes which they've lit with a grudgingly shared lighter. At a certain point they both cough violently. There's a certain elegance in this tragic moment: a marriage has just ended, but the habit of idiotically seeking happiness continues.
Faces (1968) - Criterion Collection
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