Madness. Crossed boundaries. Genius. Passion. With themes like these, French cinematographer Bruno Nuytten has some great material to use in sculpting Camille Claudel, his directing debut. A visually stunning work, the film transports us back to a sensual 19th century France. One can fell the warmth of the aged wood furniture, the curves of the polished marble, the frowns wrinkling the face of Claudel's mother. The film operates on several levels, with intriguing psychological issues woven into the story. How does Rodin's treatment of Claudel contribute to her eventual breakdown? How do her brother's thinly veiled incestuous feelings toward her affect the choices they make? And does a father's indulgent love give the daughter the strength to act against society's constraints, or an arrogant self-absorption that damages those around her?

The tale begins with Claudel (Isabelle Adjani) digging clay in a back street of Paris, unaware of her cumbersome skirts dragging in the mud, more concerned about the material for her next project than her family's worries about her whereabouts. When she meets Rodin (Gerard Depardieu), he is famous, twice her age, and accustomed to having his way. She has an unschooled talent and a strong will, raised by her father to reach for the best, and earnestly concerned about Rodin's opinion of her work. At this point her greatest desire is that Rodin consider her sculpture good enough to sign his own name to. The seeds of trouble are already evident.

The camera shapes the film, circling around the characters as they play out their lives. It only pauses to take in the sculptures of Rodin and Claudel-sculptures of clay and marble as alive as the hands which shape them. The line between stone and flesh becomes blurred; one sees stone chipped smooth until it becomes human, while human models lie fixed in their poses until they seem like stone. In this unflattering portrait of Rodin, it is not merely his models whom he treats like objects. Just as we see him move a model's leg this way or that, fondling her one moment and setting her neck line just so the next, so we see him move Claudel.

Gerard Depardieu once again gives a smashing performance, portraying a complex Rodin torn between ambition, romance, his talents, and his limitations. One moment he scales the heights of arrogance; next we see him humbled by self-awareness. We never doubt that Depardieu is Rodin, that he is a sculptor and an artist. His artistic vision is most clearly revealed in an impassioned scene where he takes Claudel's face in his hands. Eyes closed, he feels the contours of her face with all-seeing finger. Nuytten then cuts to a scene of Rodin shaping a clay bust, then returns to him feeling his flesh and blood mistress.

Yet one cannot forget that this is a film about Claudel, one shot from her perspective more than any other. Hence Rodin's genius is sometimes obscured by his dependence on her , by his admission that she is his only inspiration, by the suggestion that his greatest works were based on her ideas, and sculpted, in part, by her hands. Undoubtedly, this revisionist view of his work will continue to spark controversy in both artistic and feminist circles.

But this is her story, not his. As a tale of one woman's struggle against the boundaries of her world, it's remarkably complex. It is not merely that she lives in a world dominated and defined by men, in which the greatest compliment paid her is that she sculpts like a man. No, she is a willing player in this world, letting herself be most influenced by her men (father, lover, and brother) and choosing distance from other women (mother, friend, and rival). With her life tied up in her men, her fate is ultimately determined by them.

But Adjani is always center stage, the role demanding that she play a woman of courage, vision, strong will, passion, and madness. Although some critics hail her performance as "superb," I often found her unconvincing. Her smooth, still face doesn't reveal the strength and passion that her character requires. Her movements are too disciplined for her impetuous nature--she seems too passive, too controlled. Although I found it hard to see her determination in these early scenes, it was easy to imagine how her will was shaped by Rodin, how she allowed him to take so much from her. And when she becomes increasingly mad, her wildness and hysteria are fully believable.

Though a pleasure to watch, this film also stays with you after you leave the theater--something unheard of with the current summer flicks. Maybe Hollywood should try to learn something from the French.