Léonard Keigel’s Leviathan (US: Dark Journey) is a strange film. Half art film and half psychological noir, the film intrigues from the opening scenes which introduce the overall tone of obsession that will color the proceedings, but it’s an obsession that seems a product of boredom as much as anything, the slick, shadowed streets of Larges (a town in “the provinces”) connecting unhappy characters from the dread and confinement of their homes. Keigel is excellent at showing instead of telling, introducing each image without clear connections or exposition: the spectral beauty of laundromat worker Angèle (Marie Laforêt) through a clouded window, the watchful stare of restauranteur/madam Augusta Londe (Madeleine Robinson) behind her counter, the hand of affection-deprived Eva Grosgeorges (Lilli Palmer) smacking her child’s face violently as if out of sexual frustration. Lust turns into derangement in the character of Paul Guéret (an outstanding Louis Jourdan), his desire for Angèle both thwarted and intensified when he learns that she’s having sex for money, her guardian (“aunt”) Augusta pimping her to the men who dine at her restaurant. One of Angèle’s clients is Eva’s husband (Georges Wilson), which may explain why Eva jumps at the chance to shelter Guéret from the police after he beats and disfigures Angèle in a jealous rage and accidentally kills a man during his escape. The film boasts a camera held by legendary cinematographer Nicolas Hayer, who creates constant and at times otherworldly brilliance with light and reflections, like Guéret’s assignation with Angèle by the remote, windy river or his climb into her empty bedroom groaning with blood on his hands or his walk through the moonlit coal depot surrounded by mountains of gleaming black. The film’s musical centerpiece is “Verklärte Nacht” by Arnold Schönberg, a symphonic refrain that guides prayer inside the church and emotional breakdowns on the outside.