2 of 3
Where, then, do these alternate categories come from? Moulin Rouge quotes from many songs and movies, but Camille (1937), with Greta Garbo and Robert Taylor, is pointed to as the main source beside the myth of Orpheus. In that story, we do indeed get much more, but still not enough. Garbo plays Marguerite, the consumptive courtesan of Montmarte who finally falls for Taylor's Armand. Armand's father pleads with her to abandon her love for his son, which is certain to ruin the family name once it becomes public knowledge. She agrees, then reneges, and dies in Armand's arms. Again, many elements of this show up in Luhrmann's collage.
But just as with the Orphean myth, Camille doesn't provide enough categories to complete the Moulin Rouge story. The love of Camille never rises above narrow, individual interests. It is a painful sentimentalism that suffers and doesn't fight. It is the selfish love of romanticism, individualized and melancholic.
Camille shows itself best in Luhrmann's hands as a reflection of a Dantean purgatory, an "almost" realm. The love in Moulin Rouge can be seen to separate into three distinct levels, with a Dantean feel. The early segment is the Inferno—crass, rebellious, and sweaty. Christian and Satine rise above this level during the middle of the movie and delight in an individualistic romanticism—Purgatory, Camille. But the narrative won't let them stay there; it punishes them and drives them beyond noncommunal, self-focused love. It drives them to a love that lasts "come what may." By this time even many of the nightclub costars have been "bewitched with the words" of love, and they recognize that Satine is a Christ figure, who has "gone to the tower to save us all," redeeming the Underworld for true love.
But what is the magic that drives the protagonists toward such sacrificial love? Effectual calling. Love songs. Silly love songs. Love songs from the Seventies and Eighties. These lyrics provide moments of great humor, but they also contain a power beyond what the singers imagine. The lyrics move from "We should be lovers" and "I Was Made for Loving You" (Kiss) and "Just One Night" (Phil Collins) to "I will love you until the end of time"—a transition, like the couple's love, from narrow horizons to eternal oaths. Audiences simultaneously delight in and squirm at these pop songs; we're embarrassed to admit they move mountains. The lyrics outstrip their contexts; songs of eternal love burst selfish wineskins. And their silliness is no worse than the "silly" passions of the Song of Solomon. Solomon and the Shulamite are utterly lovesick for each other, too. It's a failure of our own sensuality to mutter against passions and "losing ourselves" in love, when Scripture itself embarrasses us with greater sensuality.
In the film, as Christian and Satine move toward the goal of sacrificial/sensual love, they are still both compromised with baggage from the past. Christian can only see naÏve appearances and doesn't recognize Satine's true faithfulness. Satine, though motivated by sacrificial love, is compromised by her Moulin habits and uses deception as the means to save.
Both compromises unravel in the final scene. Satine finally puts away all the appearances, and, dooming the Moulin Rouge to destruction, sings out the song of their first love, the song of eternal love. Instead of Christian calling her, she now calls him to a higher love. And when everything ultimately falls apart, Satine exhorts Christian, the writer, to "Tell our story, Christian." And adds, as the other Christ-type, "I will always be with you."
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