It starts not with a bang, but with a conversation. Or rather, two conversations, running parallel like separate streams destined to merge into a turbulent river. That’s the structural genius and thematic heart of Denys Arcand’s Le Déclin de l'empire américain (1986), known to most of us VHS spelunkers as The Decline of the American Empire. This isn't your typical 80s fare; forget the explosions and high-concept hooks. Instead, Arcand invites us into the intimate, often uncomfortable, spaces where words about sex, love, and infidelity are exchanged with startling frankness, leaving us to ponder what lies beneath the sophisticated chatter.
Worlds Built on Words
The setup is deceptively simple: four male academics prepare an elaborate meal in a beautiful lakeside house in the Quebec countryside. As they chop vegetables and stir sauces, their conversation flows freely, dissecting their sexual histories, desires, and perceived conquests with a mixture of intellectual detachment and barely concealed ego. Simultaneously, their female counterparts – wives, colleagues, lovers – work out at a university gym, engaging in equally candid discussions about their own experiences, dissatisfactions, and the men in their lives.
Arcand masterfully cuts between these two worlds, highlighting not just the differences in perspective, but the shared hypocrisies and vulnerabilities. The men often posture, boasting or lamenting with academic flair, while the women’s talk carries a sharper edge of lived experience, sometimes cynical, sometimes hopeful, often cutting through the male pretense they anticipate encountering later. It’s a film built almost entirely on dialogue, demanding attention, rewarding the listener with sharp wit, surprising turns of phrase, and moments of profound, uncomfortable truth. This wasn't the kind of film you stumbled upon easily in the action-packed aisles of the video store, making the discovery feel like uncovering a hidden, more adult corner of the cinematic world. I remember renting it based purely on its intriguing title and Oscar nomination buzz, unprepared for the sheer volume and velocity of its talk, yet utterly captivated.
An Ensemble of Exposed Nerves
What elevates The Decline beyond mere talkiness is the astonishing ensemble cast. These aren't actors delivering lines; they inhabit these conversations. Rémy Girard as the history professor Rémy, whose cheerful cynicism masks deeper anxieties, is a particular standout, a role he would later reprise magnificently in Arcand's 2003 thematic sequel, The Barbarian Invasions. Pierre Curzi as Pierre, grappling with his own desires and frustrations, and Yves Jacques as the younger, more reserved gay academic Claude, navigating his own path amidst the heterosexual complexities, are equally compelling. They perfectly capture that specific blend of intellectual confidence and personal insecurity common in academic circles.
On the women's side, Dorothée Berryman (Louise), Louise Portal (Diane), and the formidable Dominique Michel (Dominique) create a dynamic counterpoint. Their gymnasium conversations possess a raw energy and camaraderie, yet individually, they reveal layers of longing, disillusionment, and resilience. The performances feel utterly lived-in, the actors navigating Arcand’s intricate verbal choreography with a naturalism that makes you feel like an eavesdropper at a very revealing dinner party… and the workout session preceding it.
Arcand's Scalpel
Denys Arcand, who also wrote the screenplay, wields his dialogue like a surgeon's scalpel, dissecting the pretensions and contradictions of his characters, and by extension, the society they represent. The "American Empire" of the title is less about geopolitics and more about the fading dominance of certain assumed truths – about relationships, gender roles, and the power of intellect to govern primal urges. It's a subtle, almost melancholic observation woven through the witty repartee.
Retro Fun Fact: It’s fascinating to consider that this dialogue-heavy, distinctly Quebecois film, shot on a relatively modest budget (around $1.8 million CAD), became such an international arthouse sensation. It secured Canada's first-ever Best Foreign Language Film nomination at the Academy Awards. Arcand reportedly drew heavily on conversations he'd overheard amongst his own intellectual friends, lending the script its sharp, authentic sting. Filming largely took place at a serene house on Lake Memphremagog in Quebec's Eastern Townships, its natural beauty providing a poignant contrast to the often messy human entanglements unfolding within. Its frank discussion of sexuality, particularly from the female characters, was certainly ahead of its time for a mainstream North American release in 1986.
The Lingering Silence After the Talk
For all the talking, what lingers most is often what isn't said, or what's revealed in the spaces between words. Does all this frank discussion actually lead to greater understanding or intimacy between the sexes, or does it merely underscore the vast distances that remain? Arcand doesn't offer easy answers. When the two groups finally converge for the dinner party, the initial sparks of shared revelation give way to tensions, misunderstandings, and the reassertion of old patterns. The intellectual dissection of sex seems ultimately powerless against the messy realities of human connection.
Is the "decline" then a commentary on the failure of communication, despite our endless capacity for analysis? Or perhaps it’s about the crumbling of personal empires – the carefully constructed facades we build around our desires and disappointments? The film leaves these questions hanging, resonating long after the credits roll. Its influence on Canadian cinema was significant, proving that intimate, character-driven stories could find a global audience, paving the way for Arcand's later successes like Jesus of Montreal (1989) and the aforementioned The Barbarian Invasions (2003), which revisited some of these characters decades later.
Rating: 8.5/10
This score reflects the film's exceptional screenplay, its perfectly pitched ensemble performances, and its intelligent, unflinching exploration of complex human relationships. It's a masterclass in dialogue-driven cinema. While its pace and heavy reliance on conversation might not appeal to everyone, its sharp wit, emotional honesty, and insightful observations make it a standout from the era – a film that uses words not just for plot, but to reveal the very landscape of the human heart.
The Decline of the American Empire remains a potent reminder that sometimes the most revealing dramas unfold not in grand gestures, but in the quiet, charged spaces of conversation, leaving us to reflect on the empires – both societal and deeply personal – that shape, and sometimes limit, our connections.