Journey Through French Cinema (Voyage à travers le cinéma français)

JOURNEY THROUGH FRENCH CINEMA 

(Voyage à travers le cinéma français)        B                    

France (195 mi)  2016  d:  Bertrand Tavernier

Born in Lyon, home of Lumière’s first studio that is considered the birthplace of film, so Bertrand Tavernier, director of such diverse films as A SUNDAY IN THE COUNTRY (1984) and ‘ROUND MIDNIGHT (1986), feels an inherited birthright to preserve what survives of French film.  Given the best of a postwar education, Tavernier is the son of a Resistance fighter René Tavernier who provided shelter to French communist poet Louis Aragon during the occupation, a patriot whose writings and moral outlook helped shape his view as an artist, as his father believed words were “as important and lethal as bullets.”  Accordingly, Tavernier devoured French films as a child, deciding at the age of fourteen that he wanted to direct, keeping a scrapbook of cinema memorabilia for his favorite films and directors, developing a lifelong obsession for French film’s place in history, which this film lovingly examines over the course of more than three hours, exploring directors, composers, and actors, providing a treasure-trove of clips while offering his own unique commentary.  This is a whirlwind project that may only just be the tip of the iceberg, as Tavernier plans an additional 8-hour television series that delves into Tati, Bresson, Pagnol, Ditri, Clouzeau, French cinema during the occupation, foreigners working in French cinema, forgotten people like Raymond Bernard, Maurice Turner, or Anatole Litvak, and lesser known women or underrated directors, including an additional 40-minutes on Julien Duvivier, one of his personal favorites.  So consider this a Master class on French films, perhaps a parallel work to Godard’s HISTOIRE(S) DU CINÈMA (1989) or Scorsese’s A PERSONAL JOURNEY WITH MARTIN SCORSESE THROUGH AMERICAN FILMS (1995), but viewed through the gentle refinement of a man of letters, as Tavernier has been described as “a warm and gregarious man with an encyclopedic knowledge of American and international film,” who has worked within the industry his entire life and currently serves as the president of the Institute Lumière in Lyon, while Cannes Festival director Thierry Frémaux, a graduate of the university, is also its director, where the primary goal is preserving French films.   As a law student who preferred to write film criticism, Tavernier founded his own cinema magazine L’Etrave, worked as an assistant director with Jean-Pierre Melville, and got a job as a press agent to help usher in the French New Wave, so it appears there is no one better to provide a bridge between the past and the present for modern day viewers.    

One of Tavernier’s earliest memories at the age of four is looking out the window and seeing bombs flashing in the sky, which he feels is reminiscent of a similar feeling he gets when stepping into a movie theater, where in a darkened theater a projector illuminates images that bombard his imagination.  At about the age of six, he was sent to a sanitarium where he was bedridden while treated for a misalignment of his eyes probably due to tuberculosis, very possibly caused by malnutrition due to wartime shortages.  Once a week they showed films at the sanitarium, where the first film he recalls seeing is Dernier Atout (1942) by Jacques Becker, which left him deeply impressed, claiming Becker loved American films, particularly Ernst Lubitsch and Henry Hathaway, taking from them what he liked, in terms of rhythm and pace, keeping dialogue to a minimum, but making his films exclusively French.  Offering clips from half a dozen of his films, many of which have recently been restored by Pathé and Gaumont, who funded the film, where mutual interests in this project collide, allowing Tavernier to take delight in some of his favorite scenes, pointing out Simone Signoret’s enthralling entrance to a dancehall in Casque d’Or (1952), seen later gunned down on the streets of Paris by Resistance informants in Jean-Pierre Melville’s Army of Shadows (1969).  The opening image of the film comes from Vigo’s L'Atalante (1934), one of the most enchanting films ever made, claiming the music composed by Maurice Jaubert gave the film a sublime lyrical quality, with Tavernier standing in front of the camera overlooking a beautiful pastoral view from his home, recalling his initial taste of cinema where he rarely left the screening rooms of Henri Langlois’s Cinémathèque Française, taking it all in, where he still recalls taking to the streets in May ’68 to defend the proposed firing of Langlois by French culture minister André Malraux, but New Wave filmmakers protested, shutting down the Cannes Film Festival that year until he was reinstated to his position.  Tavernier tries to restore the fallen reputation of Marcel Carné, claiming the man couldn’t write a screenplay, yet could direct masterpieces, holding a special affection for Hotel du Nord (1938), claiming it is years ahead of its time in depicting the working conditions of women, while making no moral judgments about prostitutes and homosexuals, instead showing them with a great degree of warmth, finding a common humanity.   

Tavernier exalts in the films of Jean Renoir, while taking a look at actor Jean Gabin, who could do no wrong before the war, displaying his versatility in La Grande Illusion (1937), where he interrupts a vaudeville style performance by French prisoners in a German POW camp to announce a French victory at the epic battle of Verdun, a momentary glimmer of hope, where the entire group spontaneously bursts into singing “La Marseillaise,” but was later chastised for joining Jean Renoir and Julien Duvivier in the United States while France was occupied, where Gabin wasn’t viewed the same upon his return, claiming he spent the war in Beverly Hills.  While resurrecting interest in relative unknowns like Duvivier and Edmond T. Gréville, Tavernier’s insight into Melville is particularly noteworthy, having worked with him at Melville’s own Studio Jenner set, pointing out a familiar staircase used in several films, but also side doors and back alleys.  Melville was known as a tyrant on the set, yet was never punctual himself, often appearing hours after the actors were scheduled to arrive, where Jean-Paul Belmondo goes into a incensed screaming rant on his obvious inconsideration of others on the set of Le Doulos (1963), yet Tavernier also exclaims the virtues of Melville, who loved American films as well, especially William Wyler, recalling a long tracking shot of Lino Ventura running down the street in Army of Shadows (1969), where he refuses to interject music, as American filmmakers would do, where instead all you can hear is the sound of his feet hitting the pavement, nothing else, in a style that more closely resembles Bresson.  Tavernier apparently previewed a rough cut with American director Martin Scorsese, showing him scenes from Jean Delannoy’s Macao: LeEnfer du Jeu (1939), including a terrific tracking shot of a war between China and Japan, with the Japanese relentlessly bombing the city, shown through continual explosions, where houses are destroyed, but the shot ends on the legs of a beautiful woman mending her stockings in the midst of this mayhem.  Scorsese reportedly stood up and exclaimed, “What a great shot!  I want to see that film.”  This reaction is precisely what the director is looking for, to reinstill enthusiasm for French films, both known and unknown, where he greatly admires Godard, Chabrol, and Varda, showing clips from Godard’s Contempt (1963), with the obligatory Brigitte Bardot nude scene (that is not a nude scene) demanded by the producers, but also Pierrot le Fou (1965), Varda’s Cleo from 5 to 7 (1962), holding a special place for Eddie Constantine’s Lemmy Caution in Alphaville (1965), reminding one of the characters who breaks out into English, “Speak French.  Nobody likes subtitles.”  Chabrol is curiously described as “understood only by pharmacists and himself,” as if he’s some kind of danger to the status quo, but by the end, Tavernier is extolling the virtues of Claude Sautet, an author who also studied painting and sculpture before discovering a passion for cinema.  By the end, Tavernier can be seen chatting with Thierry Frémaux, as both are intimately involved with preserving French films.  A beautifully edited work, that includes inspirational clips from Truffaut’s The 400 Blows (Les quatre cents coups) (1959), but also, oddly enough, an evaluation of French film composers, it continuously elicits a love for cinema through an appreciation for French culture, challenging our long-held perceptions with plenty of fresh new insights.   

Out 1: Spectre

Rivette (right) on location shooting Out 1 in Paris, 1970

 

Jacques Rivette

OUT 1: SPECTRE            B              

France  (255 mi)  1974  d:  Jacques Rivette

Rivette’s offshoot work extrapolated from his massive, near 13-hour, experimental tour de force Out 1 and Jacques Rivette R.I.P. (1971), which never had a release, existing more as a working copy, believing it was too unwieldy at that length, figuring there would be no audience for it at the time.  Instead Rivette struggled to whittle it down to a more manageable length, chose an alternate title, and released it in theaters with a run time of more than four hours.  While ostensibly using the same footage, it is recut and reconfigured in a totally different manner, making it near incomprehensible if you haven’t viewed the original.  Instead of relying upon lengthy shots that comprise the rhythm and improvisational uniqueness of the original, this is instead an example of rapid-fire editing, cutting off scenes before they develop, where it’s much more fragmentary.  Interjected throughout are the black and white stills that were used between segments to recap the action from the previous episode, but here they are edited into the overall narrative, often disrupting any established rhythm.  Not everyone will admire this jagged cutting technique, though some have hailed it as a “masterclass” of editing, as the unique improvisational method, considered a cinema of risk, with the actors continually stressed out, especially for such an extended period of time in the original, is barely noticeable here.  Some of the best parts of OUT 1 are not included in this shorter version, featuring few lengthy sequences, where there is an emphasis on building character that was absent in the original, which instead focused on duration, spending plenty of time with a group of actors from rival theater groups.  Storyline was barely noticeable in the original, while it’s essential here, completely altering the tone, adding an elevated sense of growing paranoia by the end.  Both versions follow the exploits of two Parisian theater groups, each rehearsing for a different Aeschylus Greek tragedy, one led by Thomas (Michael Lonsdale), the other by Lili (Michèle Moretti), both resorting to extremely unorthodox methods and techniques, where barely any time at all is spent with the actual text.  Nonetheless, what they’re doing is fairly self-explanatory.  More curious are the actions of two significant characters, Colin (Jean-Pierre Léaud) and Frédérique (Juliet Berto), both street con artists who go through an improvisatory charade pretending to be something that they’re not in order to extract money from strangers on the street, hitting on unsuspecting customers of street café’s and bars who are innocently relaxing and lulling about.  While their methods are clever, requiring a certain audacious charm, they are really the two innocent spirits who drive the story, as their normal routines are interrupted by something inexplicable, that may as well be destiny, but it appears to them disguised in coded letters that they receive that on the surface make no sense, where they have to uncover the underlying mystery.  These two figures intersect at the exact middle of the film without even acknowledging one another.  

With two characters criss-crossing throughout the city, Emilie (Bulle Ogier) lives a middle class life with two young children and a nanny, but her husband Igor has been missing for six months without a word, while she also runs a hippie boutique known as “L’Angle du Hasard,” or “Corner of Chance,” which is featured more prominently in this version.  Brightly decorated in psychedelic artworks and colors, where the use of color is particularly expressive, the store is a front for underground political activities, while occasionally they put out an underground newspaper, but mostly this appears to be a stoner hangout, the kind of place that existed in Berkeley or Haight-Asbury in America at the time, but was non-existent in Paris.  The behind-the-scenes shenanigans are more pointed throughout, with much more visibility, played with more suspense, where clues are secretly delivered to Colin, where the unasked question is bound to be why him?  How did he get selected?  How could they have predicted Colin’s behavior?  And how could that benefit the group?  Colin quickly deciphers the name of an underground group by the name of The Thirteen, which is mentioned in the preface to Balzac’s History Of The Thirteen (Histoire des Treize), revealing an unscrupulous secret society that controls the levers of power in Paris of the mid 1830’s.  As a result, Colin scours the city searching for evidence of this group, with surprisingly little to show for it, including a visit to a professed Balzac expert, none other than Éric Rohmer, preserved exactly as it was in the original, with an extended scene that is reduced to comic absurdity, as Colin’s character remains mute from the outset, with the professor showing reservation about any influence from this group.  Nonetheless, his search rattles the confidence of several of the people that he contacts, who resurface out of self-interest, protecting some hidden secret that is never identified.  In fact, this is accentuated by another scene involving Frédérique, who wanders into the home of a complete stranger, an upscale businessman playing chess with himself, Etienne (director Jacques Doniol-Lacroze), where she feigns an interest in chess, while her real intent is theft, seen rummaging through a desk drawer looking for money, but instead finds a collection of old letters that she stuffs into her purse.  As she investigates further, the letters allude to a secret underground group named the Thirteen.  Like Colin, she learns next to nothing other than a few mentioned names, like Pierre and Igor, where her attempts at blackmail are amateurish, especially when she contacts a prominent attorney, Lucie de Graffe (Françoise Fabian).

Only Emilie is willing to pay Frédérique for the missing letters, thinking it may lead to her husband’s whereabouts, but immediately realizes she’s been scammed, as they are all old letters.  Nonetheless, they mention some of the important players.  What’s especially different in this version is the ominous influence of unseen characters, namely Igor, the absent husband of Emilie, whose name is mentioned in the letters Frédérique absconds with, and Pierre, the apparent author of the letters sent to Colin.  Lucie and Etienne meet, along with Thomas, in a long walk along the Seine River, where we discover all five are members of a secret underground group that goes by the name of The Thirteen.  There is never any identification of their origins other than the suggestion that they abandoned shortly after the May 1968 protests in France, remaining dormant for several years, but people poking around asking about them have aroused fears they might be exposed.  Lucie is fairly certain nothing incriminating has leaked, but they each question the motives of Pierre, thinking this may be his attempt to get the group back together again.  While conspiracy theories drive this version, one other difference is the amount of time spent at “L’Angle du Hasard,” an address Colin figures out from deciphering clues from a Lewis Carroll poem, a revelation of such importance that he regains his voice for the occasion, only to become infatuated with Emilie (known as Pauline at the store), spending most of his idle time observing who comes in and out of the store while waiting for his chance with Pauline.  Both theatrical groups are undermined from within by what amounts to indifference, though Thomas attempts to revive interest by driving to the Normandy coast to find Sarah, Bernadette Lafont from Chabrol’s Les Bonnes Femmes (1960) and Eustache’s The Mother and the Whore (La Maman et la Putain) (1973), who happens to be living in a seaside home owned by Igor, suffering from writer’s block.  If anything, her presence only drives the group into extinction, while at the same time she’s driven to physically attack Emilie in her own home after discovering her intentions to send Pierre’s letters to the newspapers in hopes of fleshing out her missing husband.  But in this version, the boutique and the house on the coast take on special significance, as both are connected to members of The Thirteen, where members Lili and Emilie take drastic measures to protect their anonymity, while the ghostly presence of Pierre and Igor continues to wreak havoc with the rest of the members, where rumors swirl that Igor is still locked away somewhere inside his coastal house.  While there is a gathering of souls at the house, particular attention is paid to a single locked room, where there are suggestions the house is haunted.  Emilie wanders inside at one point when the door curiously opens, leading to what amounts to a dream sequence, where she sees an image of herself in a mirror casting infinite reflections.  As if the clouds have dissipated, this opens up an entirely new outlook, as unlike the disillusionment found in the original, with no tragic end to Frédérique (who is less prominently featured in this version), this couldn’t be more hopeful and optimistic, where the entire film feels more like a road movie following clues exploring the fragile psyches and discovering the whereabouts of the secretive Thirteen group members.