August 16, 2018

The Style of Fritz Lang 
by Georges Franju 



Lang, whether or not he is shooting from a script by Thea von Harbou, seems haunted by an ideal of justice and a balance that transcends human affairs. 

When he first began making films, Lang chose the mythological, archetypal subjects typical of the German school in that era, and he handled them in an equally typical epic fashion. Even then, however, his sociological bent was visible; but he was unable to isolate humanity—or rather, to consider humanity its own means and end. He quite naturally could not apply his ideas of equality and reform—both functions of the realism which is a marked characteristic of his later work—to material that was basically romantic in nature. 

The concept of balance occurred for the first time in Destiny, a highly symbolic and extraterrestrial work. The film tells the story of a young woman (played by Lil Dagover) whose tremendous spirit lifts her above almost overwhelming contrary forces, and at the end of a series of terrible trials she moves the celestial authority to pity. 

This celestial judgment in Destiny became the prototype and example. In his second film, Mabuse the Gambler, Lang passed on to a study of aggression in the form of scientific nihilism. Then Metropolis gave him the opportunity to focus upon an organized, conceptualized world the dichotomy implied in the other films, bringing man face to face at last with his own nature. This is the first stage in the sociological evolution of the theme. 

Five years later, Lang' s obsession with the tribunal made its appearance, and he was able to launch a frontal assault upon the real world, by opposing to the idea of transcendent justice the actuality of the man-made laws determining our daily lives. For the first time Lang openly attacked the official representation of authority, and in particular, those officials who dispense justice—a justice, moreover, regimented by laws—and the laws themselves resting upon privilege, mindless tradition, and stupidity. For the courts, in Lang's vision, are intrinsically human, and the right to judge others is shot through with private interests. Decrees, codes, and rules are revised to suit the moment and the result is often chaos, contention, and error. When this happens, those forces existing upon the margins of society—the pariahs, the cripples, the thieves—inherit the problem of constructing a new justice. 

Lang's sympathies always lie with the little man, the man of low condition, who, by whatever means at his disposal, is willing to combat the dogmas of a stultified society. 

I am speaking, of course, of M, Lang's first sound film (deliberately passing over the minor films that followed Metropolis). It is significant, particularly in view of Lang's interests and the fact that sex murder generally carried the death penalty, that Peter Lorre, through his defense counsel, pleads his cause in terms which cannot fail to place responsibility squarely upon an indifferent and narrow-minded society. More interested in revealing himself than in evoking the excuse of his insanity, which in intellectual circles would constitute an extenuating circumstance, Lorre bares his wounds to a horrified bureaucratic, bourgeois world which looks upon him as an aberration, a little dreg in the cup of creation. At the end of the film the "vampire" is snatched from the jaws of his mock judges and brought to a conventional court. But these magistrates in Lang's view are no more qualified to pass judgment than the underworld, and their verdict is never revealed. 




In his next picture, Lang, still pursuing his constructive-destructive thesis, still aggressive and critical, turned once more to that awesome old tyrant Mabuse, and created an almost evangelical testament against the prejudices, incrustation, and basic injustices of the Nazis (The Testament of Dr. Mabuse). Once again, however, the guilty protagonist, because of his madness, escapes punishment. Mabuse (played by Klein-Rogge) trades the guillotine for the padded cell, and in fact actually reaps a sort of revolutionary esteem. 

With Liliom (adapted from a play by Molnar) Lang returned to the heroic era of celestial justice. This time preferring suicide to imprisonment, the hero, Liliom Zadewski, escapes the intervention of the courts and is sent instead to Heaven, where an angelic and competent commissioner sets about his social and moral rehabilitation. It is too soon, I think, to remark upon the judicial preoccupations of Fury, Lang's newest production (and ill-made in my view, but that's another matter). Certain critics seem to have found in it a protest against lynching, but I tend to see here, once again, an indictment against arbitrary arrest. This, it seems to me, is the idea behind the events in the film. In any case, when Spencer Tracy accuses the court of destroying his faith in justice, he summarizes one of the preoccupations that make up the force and originality in Lang's work. 







Decoupage Principles 

The basis of a well-constructed, well-edited screenplay is, of course, a disciplined relationship among the images, the succession of shots, and the rhythms established from unit to unit. Lang, however, uses a system which I call intuitive editing, a stylistic device he first employed, I believe, as early as 1921—in an era, moreover, when even the best directors limited themselves to an orderly development in the narrative, or sought artistic enlargement in the expressionism of the performances and the impressionism of the camera. The simplest example of this intuitive technique is found in the opening sequence of Destiny


Opening shot: Iris diaphragm. A man Standing by a country crossroads. 

Fade out . . . Fade in: A thicket. A coach drives by. 

Subtitle: Anywhere, at any time. Two lovers on their wedding trip. 

And that's all. But it is enough, and we understand that, juxtaposed in this fashion, the coach will encounter the man at the crossing. 

Lang uses this technique—the conditional arrangement of shots, creating place and time solely through editing—in many of his films. Near the beginning of M, for example, there is a scene which creates such a sense of contribution in the viewer, such a feeling of intuitive perception (yet ordered and derived) that he cannot help but feel here, indeed, he has touched the wellspring of dramatic emotion. We are shown, by a shot of the clock, that an hour has gone by. There is a recurring image of an empty place at the table and an empty chair. We begin to lose hope that Elsie will return to her mother. Then the camera plunges into the stairwell, and we know we cannot hope any longer. The sight of this simple stairway—steep, narrow, bleak—is decisive. We, the audience, are caught up by a sense of doom. Little Elsie will never climb these stairs again. And the following sequences confirm our presentiment. 

In other films Lang uses a similar mechanism, one that acts upon us not through the narrative, in reflection and reason, as in the scenes above, but through a rupture in the narrative that produces a reflex response. Early in Liliom a quarrel breaks out between Boyer and Rignault. After we see them fighting, a pan shot focuses upon a crowd of bystanders who are laughing uproariously. Then, abruptly, all heads turn in unison, and the emotional atmosphere of the scene changes completely as their expressions alter. We know that something dreadful has taken place over there, but what? A reverse pan shot to one of the friends, knife in hand, on the point of stabbing the other. 

In this way, using intelligent and dramatic cutting to reveal the image of the emotion before showing the action that stirred that emotion, the director makes his point far more forcefully than if he had merely followed a strict narrative line. Our very ignorance of the cause provokes a strong reflex of feeling. 

Lang probably introduced this technique in Destiny, in the scene at the inn. In any case, it appears, in addition to the scenes I have mentioned, in The Testament of Dr. Mabuse (the scene in the amphitheater) and once more in M (the arrival of the police to the basement room). 



The Mise en scène 

At first glance, Die Nibelungen seems singularly theatrical in concept, and even in its effects, which are closely tied to the sets and background in a manner associated with the stage. Yet actually this transposed legend is constructed entirely by the one element most essential to the cinema: the action of the camera. The subtlety of this instrument and the sobriety that marks Lang's use of it do not diminish the effective action in the slightest. No matter how well-equipped a theater might be, it could not possibly give a comparable treatment to this story. Nothing on the stage could equal, for example, the evocative power of the filmed image of the treasure entering the courtyard at Worms: this power is solely the function of camera action—a tracking shot that zooms down into the view. Again, the sequence of the chase in the forest depends upon a long shot. And in another—the unforgettable close-up in the forge—a feather drifts down in slow motion and is split upon Siegfried's sword. All pure cinema, pure products of the photographic lens, unattainable except through the artificial eye of the camera. 

The very atmosphere of the film depends upon a physical system impossible on the stage: dwarfs turn to stone, mists swirl in the forest, a plain stretches out across the screen, in flames. 



When M appeared, critics were quick to find fault with the courtroom scene. Even as they acknowledged its undeniable drama, they found it lacking in cinematographic qualities. It existed, they claimed, purely as a gratuitous effect. Yet this scene, which intercuts statistical and decorative elements very intelligently, could not have stirred audiences to a fever—as it did—if its message had not been, in the end, both final and inevitable. Those animate and inanimate forces came to a head in a manner that was filmic—far more filmic than theatrical. 

There are, unquestionably, many reminiscences of the theater in Lang's pictures. "I see three bicycle riders," in Liliom; in M, the young beggar on Lorre's trail says to the blind man: "I see him. He's stopping . . . now he's going on again." These are rather clear examples and in the best stage tradition. Yet, why shouldn't the cinema incorporate elements of the stage? 

In this article I have limited myself to an examination of a style and the elements which compose it. These elements are readily accessible to analysis, of course. But the ideas behind them, though they make themselves felt, are far harder to define. Perhaps the moving spiritual force behind Lang's films is best described as the search for energy, for the living force. It is a universal, even cosmic, concern, one of the great imponderables. No doubt this search is at the bottom of Lang's fascination with spectaculars. Great epic spectacles like Metropolis and Woman on the Moon, to name only two, allow a certain free play to the imagination. There are sequences in these films that are charged with tremendous power—the flood in Metropolis, or the rocket blasting off in Woman on the Moon. Though they are surely among the most beautiful moments in cinema, they are really not worth examining in detail. It is important, however, to remember that every type of spectacular event and disaster one can imagine have been used at one time or another by Lang, among them flood in Metropolis and Mabuse, explosion in Spies and Mabuse, and conflagration in Destiny and Fury

The setting and decor are of primary importance in all these works. Elements of the background in many of these films take on the force of characters in themselves. The first one that comes to mind is the glass cabinet in the orthopedist's office which appears in the middle of M, as Lorre stops there to wait for a little girl. This glass cabinet is a decorative detail very typical of Lang's style—an ordinary object, remarkable only for a little black and white revolving spire, whose motion is seemingly infinite. And beside it, in contrast, a balance pointer which moves from side to side at a slow regular pace. In the same manner the nude mannequin in the shop window in The Threepenny Opera is typical of Pabst, and the haber-dasher's display case is representative of Rene Clair in The Italian Straw Hat


Acting 

In all these films, performances are characterized by extreme attitudes, energetic expressions, and nervousness of gesture. It is difficult to determine whether Lang discovers personalities, or exploits them. Whichever the case, the chilling magnetic charm of Brigit Helm, the mesmerizing presence of Bernard Goetzke, the physical power of Klein-Rogge, the intensity of Peter Lorre—these suggest a determination to impose a sense of force, not so much through the varied talents of the actors as through the evocation of archetypes, chosen for their dimensions. This, of course, calls for certain physical characteristics, a radiant active power, for example, as seen in Klein-Rogge as Mabuse, or a passive power (Sylvia Sidney in Fury). It is a problem, no doubt, to find actors whose physical attributes tally exactly with the role, but it also means that the director must spurn the rules of the drama school, and its methods, which stress finely shaded psychological interpretations. 

For Lang, in effect, the role is not carried within the character, but upon it. His cinema is less an art of externalizing interior qualities than one of creating the appearance of a certain exterior in itself. It really does not matter to us if an actor is sincere provided his portrayal is true. It has to be, however, absolutely true. Anyone who confuses "apparent truth" with the "appearance of truth," that is, the embodiment of a quality as opposed to the representation of it, should make a point of seeing Bernard Goetzke's magnificent creation of Death in Destiny

A safecracker, let's say, is not on the whole readily distinguishable from an academician. Only his hands are peculiar to his art. Therefore to them and to them alone Lang gives the task of characterization. 

Certainly a concern with truth is unmistakable in these details of personal significance. It has become, indeed, a sort of personal signature for Lang. We have already observed his affinity for the riffraff, if there is such a thing, when respectability is in such bad odor. But it's not really a matter of simple affinity, which is hardly forceful enough to justify his glorification of alienation and crime. Lang sanctifies, so to speak, the underworld of crime. But to give him his due, his chosen spokesmen from this world are never weak or lacking in courage. Instead, these individuals often assume a very high-class polish. Lang seems to delight in this; and so, some gangland boss, as in M, might wear sleek black gloves or a young thug might appear to be the boy next door with a dash of distinguished debauchery. All in all, this super-criminal world emerges as so intelligent, and so very admirably organized, capable of giving such an impression of strength, culture, and breeding, that its omnipotence cannot be questioned. 

In short, a world of self-willed individuals, projecting, as a group, a powerful magnetism which leads us back to the idea of energy, life force: spiritual and physical energy which touches our hearts from time to time—and our nerves always. 


This study, perhaps, should have been entitled "Nerves on the Brink." It calls to mind a simple interpretive action; a signal, a gesture: Sylvia Sidney, in anguish, strikes her temples with her fists (Fury). This gesture is found, executed in exactly the same manner, the same rhythmic little blows, same clenched fists, in Destiny. It passes through Spies (the scene in the taxi), Woman on the Moon (the scene in the space ship), The Testament of Dr. Mabuse (in the printing house). This little gesture is evidence of the spirit of precision in the director, a characteristic of an almost obsessional purpose. The affirmation of a very personal conception, manifested cinematically by style. 








Cahiers du cinéma, no. 100 (November 1959) 
Revised by the author from an article that first appeared in CINEMAtographe (March 1937). 
Translated by Sallie Iannotti. 

July 12, 2018

Jean-Marie Straub on THE 6TH OF JUNE AT DAWN
(LE 6 JUIN À L'AUBE, Jean Grémillon, 1944-46)



It was probably the first film of Grémillon’s I saw. And it’s surely the one that left the biggest traces on my soul and conscience. Not only did it leave traces on my soul and conscience but consequently on some of the films that we then did.


The film for me was a school: an aesthetic, moral, and political school. Why an aesthetic school? Because it’s a documentary of great acuity and great objectivity. And this is very rare. This acuity goes so far that it shows the sham, the trickery, the lies about aerial bombing. They say it’s for military purposes but this is impossible, it’s nonsense. One can see it in the film when the bombs are dropped. It’s nonsense. It’s all over the place and consequently they invented, as the Americans did, “carpet bombing”. They crush everything they can crush, with no strategic or precise aim whatsoever. And this, you can see it in the film.





You can see many more things thanks to the acuteness of Grémillon’s work. You can see for example, “after the storm”, if I can say it that way, you can see people walking, people of a certain age, and you say to yourself “Good God, it’s over, no one, not even the peasants, still walks that way.” It hit me, last time I saw the film. This is what objective documentary work is.


And there is a third thing that you can see, thanks to Grémillon’s acuteness, it’s that even in an interview domain like this, like what we are doing right now, fooling around between us, or even when TV journalists stop passersby on the street and ask them “So how was it?”… The people who answer in this movie–there is a school teacher and a carpenter–absolutely have (and not only for social or class reasons) a way of speaking that has nothing to do with the way people talk who undergo the same interview treatment nowadays. They have a way of talking that, without them knowing or wanting it, is a theatrical and even Brechtian way of talking. It’s completely different; we have the impression that they are reciting their experiences. They re-quote them, they recall them and they recite them. And they don’t pretend to be natural. And this is important; there aren’t many films where you can see these sorts of things.


This film is a sum, a little cinematographic sum, also because there’s a mix of genres in it that’s unique, very rare. That’s what Truffaut was always dreaming about, a mix of genres. And a mix of genres, a mix of tones, a mix of extraordinary variations. The film has several levels and they are very clear. What I called the “little cinematographic sum” is the fiction part in the film.


I saw this film again in a retrospective of long films (compete versions of previously abbreviated films –Ed.) that happened not long ago, at the Centre Pompidou in Metz and later demanded to show this as a carte blanche. And we saw one of the two copies from the Bois d’Arcy Archives, and, something happened to me: I suddenly caught myself crying, big teardrops, in the dark. Because for the first time I was discovering destruction and waste. 


Me, I am a “Lorraine patriot”, let’s call it that way. Let’s say that way before the Normandy landings, and even before the winter of ‘42, the Stalingrad winter which I recall very well because I was ice-skating on the Moselle, completely frozen, and my father said “That’s it, this is the beginning of the end,” with a huge smile on his face. And then we knew that there was a possibility that someday we would be liberated. There was an attic up there, at my parent’s house, and in this attic I was alone, and there was a dormer window and a map of Cotentin and Normandy and there were little flags. And when they landed my heart jumped and I was happy. And I raised the little flags. And we believed it was liberation. And one fine day we saw this film, and on the spot: the reality. But one day you’ll see this film and discover what I discovered. When the Normandy landings happened we were relieved, we thought it was liberation. And what this film shows is the price of liberation. The price of this liberation. And it introduces doubt into the spectator’s mind about this liberation. This is what’s important because one realizes, slowly, without Grémillon having to say it, and poor him he was really incapable of saying it because it was only in the process, it was only the beginning, and it was concealed, hidden, as usual, like everything American imperialism does before becoming cynical, and one slowly realizes that this liberation was the beginning of a colonization, very simply. Ours, first–it wasn’t the goal because they wanted to liberate us – but they did want to colonize all the rest of Europe and they would have done it all the way to the Urals, but it so happened that Stalin was stronger.


And the film doesn’t last one hour, it’s a little less than one hour, so it couldn’t be released that way, and then they said 'Let’s make a short film out of it'--at that time you had to show short films, and the CNC pushed people give them over to the owners of theaters. They called it “support short films”. And they (cut it and) made it a short film and reprogrammed it that way, until something better would be possible. I’m not even sure there would have been a cinema, at that time, able to release it in its full version. It should finally have the right of return. And if it can’t exist there it means the French were colonized to the core, to the bone. E guarda caso, as the Italians say, it wasn’t by accident that it was not financed by the Popular Front, nor were any of his films. He may have been a communist (être au PC), he was Grémillon, and no one resented him. Not only because he drank a little too much, they sank him, and he didn’t manage to finance 1848 (Le Printemps de la Liberté, The Springtime of Freedom; Grémillon’s unrealized epic on the revolutions of 1848 -Ed.), his dearest project; it remained in the desk drawer. 


Since THE 6TH OF JUNE AT DAWN we refuse to start shooting a film before the 6th of June. Because in Germany as well as in Italy and France, around the 6th of June there always is a deluge of rain. Whatever the year. So we wait until the 10th. And what happened on the 6th of June? They had disgusting weather and more GIs died from drowning than from the German bombs. It’s a known fact. And what did Eisenhower tell them? Ragazzi rest assured, the weather report predicts good weather. Well isn’t that something! Eisenhower lied of course. There were other reasons; he didn’t want to change the date. If he had been a General who had a little consideration, who knew the importance of meteorology, he wouldn’t have been a General, he would have made films.





Excerpted from a video interview with Jean-Marie Straub 
“Un amour de jeunesse” by Freddy Denaës and Gaël Teicher
Rolle, Spring 2014


Translation by Ariane Gaudeaux and Andy Rector


The original interview is a supplement included in the superb DVD edition of THE 6TH OF JUNE AT DAWN bPOM Films /Editions de l’Œil. More information about the edition can be found here.



May 9, 2018

JEAN GRÉMILLON 

by Bernard Eisenschitz





By way of introduction to a filmmaker who is unknown outside France, and known in France only "conditionally" as a man of aborted projects, the contexts for two different Grémillons should be distinguished. First there is the filmmaker's career, embracing several great periods of French cinema. Then there are the films, not much resembling each other, thanks to production problems as well as to a desire to repeat nothing and to refuse nothing, whether routine melodrama or an entry in the Encyclopédie Filmée. Films—an oeuvre? —which always remain slightly out of key with the norm, with that "French tradition" into which Grémillon (1901-59) seems to fit so comfortably. 

He was one of the latecomers to the French avant-garde of the 20s. The traditional, almost obligatory manner of his arrival—a young man presents himself at the Vieux-Colombier with his reels of film under his arm; Jean Tedesco programs the film and the controversy gets under way—should not blind one to the usual coupling in his three silent films (Un Tour au Large, 1926; Maldone, 1927; Gardiens de Phare, 1928-29) of sophisticated structures culled from Impressionism with the regional background and "documentary" reconstructions which were often to be held to epitomize Grémillon. He thus becomes the poet of Normandy, Brittany, the men of the sea and the land. Of greater importance during this period of technical discovery, it seems to me, is the assimilation of the concept of cinema as an art of synthesis, employing the widest possible variety of techniques. For Un Tour au Large, Grémillon himself composed a musical score, using a short-lived synchronization process. The optical track, in other words, was only one of a series of techniques, and it is no accident that in 1946, in an article analyzing "the soundtrack" (La Revue du Cinéma  No. 1), Pierre Schaeffer drew his examples from Grémillon when he wrote: "One can therefore say that the text is much less important than the intonation given to phrases, the texture of the voices, even the degree of intelligibility. . . The text must impose itself on the microphone, just as the image imposes itself on the camera." 


Concerned above all with creating a popular cinema, Grémillon was able to attempt this only on the basis of a highly intellectualized mastery of the instruments of cinema. Hence the unusual, the sense of strangeness arising from the paradoxical confrontation of Grand Guignol (Gardiens de Phare) or melodrama (La petite Lise, 1930) with the subtle interplay that produces, in the latter film, a fusion of sound and image scarcely inferior to Renoir's La Nuit du Carrefour


During the first ten years of the sound cinema, while young filmmakers were being brought to heel and integrated into the anarchic French and European production systems, Grémillon made a series of films without individuality. Yet Gueule d'Amour (1937) and Remorques (U.K.: Stormy Waters, 1939-41) each introduces a contradiction: in the first, two Hollywood types (the femme fatale, the Legionary) are subverted; in the second, two myths of French populism (Jean Gabin and Michèle Morgan) are deflected into becoming social representatives (and not types). Grémillon belongs to a politically progressive tendency—a tendency which producers and critics have all too often contrived to stifle. Exemplary in its difficulties, his career remains consonant with that belief in the artist's responsibility referred to by Louis Daquin: "Aesthetic and technical con-siderations were soon abandoned in favour of a problem which was still rather confused in my mind: a man and his craft, the creator and his art, the artist and his public, with all the responsibilities that ensue." 










More generally known is the battle Grémillon waged as a film-maker under the Occupation, both through his portrait of a degenerate society in Lumière d'Eté (1943) and through the lofty sentiments extolled in Le Ciel est a Vous (U.S.: The Woman Who Dared, 1943), which was taken by French audiences as a call to arms. Paradoxically, following the hopes of 1945 and 1946, the post-war period was one of ominous regression. With Bresson and Tati consigned to a marginal place in the cinema and remaining silent for years, Grémillon expended himself in projects which would have revived the mass spectacles (e.g., La Marseiliaise) of Popular Front days. After the shelving of Printemps de la Liberté (about the 1848 Revolution) and Massacre des Innocents (about the Spanish Civil War), he was effectively eliminated from the French cinema and reduced to making short films, a format to which he returned for the last years of his life and perhaps—aesthetically speaking, as well as in terms of natural harmony and the unity of his work—for some of his finest films. Needless to say, the borderline between documentarist and fiction film-maker is not very distinct; the two approaches go hand-in-hand, and the concern for composition in Le 6 Juin à l'Aube (1944-45) or André Masson et les Quatre Elements (1959) is as acute as in any of his fiction films. Describing Le 6 Juin à l'Aube, Grémillon said: "Don't forget what materials I was working with: mines, stones, trees, fragments of statues. It was by arranging these images in time, according to a musical scheme, that I was able to give these inanimate and impassive objects a certain emotive quality." 



Above: a two-page illustration from Pierre Kast's article "Exercice d'un tragique quotidien: Notes sur l'oeuvre de Jean Grémillon". From La Revue du Cinéma, No. 16. August 1948. The right caption reads: "The combination of sound, noise, and image is, in Gremillon's work, capital to the very articulation of the story..."



Here, dreaming (like Jean-Daniel Pollet after him) of silent techniques rather than the raw reportage used in a film like the admirable La Liberation de Paris, Grémillon reveals, in a scene that parallels one in L'Espoir, the same structural understanding as the "fiction" filmmaker Malraux. "The simple, unadorned account of his experience by the carpenter de Guerinel who, for the only time in his life, became the observer and navigator of a bomber in order to locate a German artillery emplacement for allied air-men." (Pierre Kast.) 







So on the one hand there is this insistence on a cinema of responsibility, a popular cinema combining the strengths of fiction and non-fiction, and the values of craftsmanship with the inspiration of an auteur. There is that description of "everyday tragedy" (Kast), firmly rooted in France and its trades, customs, speech and provinces: "To understand and to show the real social circumstances of the time, to reveal the inner contradictions of the regimes imposed or suffered: here is a starting point for those who tomorrow will bear witness to an epoch now approaching maturity." This is the Grémillon to be found in his most accomplished films, in his mastery of his material, whether an abstract dramatic device (Gardiens de Phare), a social tapestry (Lumière d'Eté, one of the best critical hommages to Renoir and La Règle du Jeu) or a tribute to the crafts of France (the last shorts: La Maison aux images, 1955, Haute Lisse, 1956, Andre Masson, 1958). 


But another aspect, ignored in critical commentaries yet glaringly obvious in the films themselves (even though their air of euphoria may seem to contradict the point) lies in the affirmation of the impossibilities of harmony, the conflicts between love and vocation resolved without the mythology which seems consubstantial to them, the social contradictions that explode in sexual frustrations. It was Sadoul, in an article published during the Occupation, who linked de Sade and Aragon together in connection with Lumière d'Eté, the most explicit of Gremillon's films in this respect: "Eagerly awaited as a hero, master of women and destiny as well as of himself, the artist falls drunkenly off his motor-cycle and immediately establishes himself as the demoralized Hamlet in whose costume he ultimately dies. The aristocratic owner of the chateau is at first merely an insignificant, excessively well-bred young man. Gradually the veneer cracks and begins to peel away, revealing a monster ravaged by regrets, vices and evil passions. His costume at the masked ball completes the transformation into a degenerate libertine from another age of decadence. He is not so much des Grieux as some manic hero from de Sade—Dohnancé or Blangis—possessed by lust and murder and destined either for exile or the guillotine, as the Hamlet at his elbow predicts, mindful of Ribérac's example and careful to speak obliquely of rats and the kingdom of Denmark." 








This lesson taught by Ribérac (or strictly speaking by Aragon)—the use of metaphor and allusion in art to encourage resistance—may be seen as applying to Grémillon not if he is taken as the Jacques Becker he is claimed to be (he is much closer to Renoir) but if one acknowledges the basic ambiguity of his work. For connoisseurs of the Hollywood cinema that was so foreign to Grémillon, it seems self-evident that the role played by the conditions and limitations of the commercial system could not be purely negative. So Grémillon tends to be noted more for an "enduring'" baroque quality than for the "realism" that is linked to historical circumstances. This stylistic reduction probably makes it difficult to see the merits of an approach to cinema (however hesitant) which attempts to affirm the realistic norm and, simultaneously, its exception. 




Translated by Tom Milne



Postscript by Richard Roud: Grémillon is not only underrated outside France; he is almost totally unknown. True, in the days of SequenceLumière d'Eté had a certain reputation in Britain. But he made a number of other interesting films, too. In France he has not been entirely forgotten: Jean-Marie Straub claims him as one of the directors whose use of sound most influenced him. (Indeed Straub has gone on to say Le 6 Juin à l'Aube is the film that made him become a filmmaker—A.R.). Cocteau cryptically epitomized him as "A singular being in a plural world."




Originally published in Cinema: A Critical DictionaryVol. 1, edited by Richard Roud. London: Martin Secker and Warburg. 1980.

Reprinted by permission of Bernard Eisenschitz.

See Grémillon's Le 6 Juin à l'Aube (1944-45) along with Straub's Gens du lac (2018) and Peter Nestler's Väntan (1985) at the Echo Park Film Center on Sunday May 20, 2018 !


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Also published today: Bernard Eisenschitz's letter to Godard (in French and English) after having seen Godard's latest feature, Le Livre d'image (2018). 


May 3, 2018



Sunday 
May 20th, 2018 
8pm



KINO SLANG​

at the

Echo Park Film Center
1200 N. Alvarado St. 
Los Angeles, CA. 90026 



presents


VÄNTAN​
(DAS WARTEN, WAITING)
Peter Nestler, 1985


GENS DU LAC 
(PEOPLE OF THE LAKE) 
Jean-Marie Straub, 2018


L​E​ 6 ​JUIN ​À​ ​L'AUBE​​ 
(THE SIXTH OF JUNE AT DAWN) 
Jean Grémillon, 1944-45 ​













On his 85th birthday this year Jean-Marie Straub was celebrated by his friends at the Swiss cinémathèque in Lausanne. Video tributes by Peter Nestler, Valérie Massadian, Jean-Claude Rousseau, Jean Narboni, and Bernard Eisenschitz among others were screened and Straub—"menace of the cinema, by his cinematograph"—brought his own gift: a new short film called GENS DU LAC (2018), "People of the Lake". 


It is a tremendous honor and pleasure for us at Kino Slang to present the North American premiere of Straub's GENS DU LAC in Los Angeles. It was made with his long-time friends, cast and crew, Renato Berta, Barbara Ulrich, Christophe Clavert, and Giorgio Passerone.

For our program a carte blanche was proposed​ and Straub et cie chose Jean Grémillon's LE 6 JUIN À L'AUBE (1944-45) to accompany their picture. 

Grémillon, ​who wrote that filmmaking "implies looking for and finding what’s essential: to denounce the contradictions of imposed or endured regimes; to reveal the alienation that develops in very different conditions–from the most obvious modes of slavery to the most clandestine ones, but all the same efficient–as well as the decomposition of social milieus that are about to disappear.”

Preceding the Straub and Grémillon films will be Peter Nestler's VÄNTAN (1985), a six minute film documenting a 1930 mining accident in Lower Silesia which killed 159 workers. These imagesfilmed photographs rescued from oblivion by Nestler in cooperation with several other filmmakers/producers who saw in them indispensable historical detail and value—show moments of terror, protest, bewilderment, repression and mourning during one particular catastrophe inside the "murder-system", as the miners call it during their demonstration, one which can be taken to characterize the whole.


— A.R.
       



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VÄNTAN​ (Das Warten, Waiting. Sweden. 1985. Peter Nestler. Production: Sveriges Radio. 6 minutes)  ​​​"Thursday, July 9, 1930. Big eruption of carbon dioxide​ ​at the Wenzelslaus pit in Hausdorf​ ​near Neurode, Lower Silesia.​ ​In the 17th section​​​ ​where 82 men worked​ ​there was an eruption of​ ​a large amount of carbon dioxide.​ ​​Gas flooded into the 18th section​ ​where 118 men worked.​ ​Nearly all workers​ ​​were numbed almost instantly." In this film Peter Nestler shows the rescue effort and aftermath of this​, one of ​"many catastrophes ​​during these years of rationalization", culminating in ​a ​massive ​demonstration and ​funeral of the workers. With music by ​​Schoenberg and ​​Webern. Th​is​ film's existence ​in ​itself ​was ​an emergency​ under capitalism​:  i​n 1985, Swedish Television (Sveriges Radio) was about to sell a​ "valuable, huge and unique" collection of photographs and newspaper clippings to a commercial photo agency in London. Sveriges Radio had acquired this German collection, 'Text und Bilder', after World War II. Nestler, in cooperation with other filmmakers made use of this archive to prevent the deal. "By doing short films with this material we wanted to show what a treasure we had in our picture archive down in the cellar of the 'Radiohuset': We, the filmmakers/producers, were Olle Häger, Hans Villius, Inger Etzler, Kristian Romare and me... The pictures remained in our archive (bildarkivet) and have been digitized since then! It was a good example of necessary and successful cooperation among us colleagues at SVT." (Nestler)





GENS DU LAC (PEOPLE OF THE LAKE, Jean-Marie Straub, 2018. 18 minutes. Based on the novel GENS DU LAC by Janine Massard. **North American Premiere**)​ — A man remembers his youth as part of a fishing family on the Vaudoise coast of Lake Geneva, the traffic on the lake during the Second World War, and the political upheavals in the immediate aftermath of the war. "A lake is also a border, but out on the water this designation is lost: in the fishery, 'the profession of free men', the Savoyards and Vaudois find themselves confreres, and if out loud we speak only of nets and fish, in silence we sometimes enter the Resistance..." GENS DU LAC, the 50th movie by Jean-Marie Straub, does not depart from the rule noted by critic Serge Daney 35 years ago that every Straubfilm is an examination of a historical situation in which men have resisted. 


L​E​ 6 ​JUIN ​À​ ​L'AUBE​​ (THE SIXTH OF JUNE AT DAWN, Jean Grémillon​, 1944-45. 56 minutes) ​​—
​ A few days after the liberation of Paris in August 1944, ​director ​Jean Grémillon departed with a team of cameramen in order to “​establish the most exact record of the state of Normandy” and the ​brutal ​effects of the​​ war​ on the land and the people. "T​HE SIXTH OF JUNE AT DAWN is a​n​ ​'assessment', ​in ​the same way that​ Goya painted the ​THE DISASTERS OF WAR, . . .made ​with a rigor ​that ​the ​documentary ​film ​generally does not tolerate. The ​storytelling, the alternation ​between didactic, demonstrative, explanatory and purely ​emotional sequences,​ the thematic recalls,​ ​and ​the suppleness and ​pleasure of the ​m​usic​ which intervenes​ ​all ​make ​THE SIXTH OF JUNE AT DAWN​ an example of lucidity​ ​and art in the ​recounting of a ​story​. ​Towards the end, there is a​ key document: the simple report of ​a carpenter​,​ Le Guerinel​,​ who​ for the first time in his life found himself​ ​signaling airmen and guiding bomber​s​. A man is suddenly thrown into a world ​he ​​does​ not understand​ and​,​ with his everyday words​, ​he tells his story. This simple fact, raw ​and ​in the most naked ​of ​style​s​, draws ​a most tragic force." ​(Pierre Kast) 



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Program total running time: 90 minutes
There will be no introductions
Doors open at 7:30pm
$5 Suggested donation
Program notes will be provided at the door 

Maximum thanks to Barbara Ulrich, Chloe Reyes, Ricardo Matos Cabo, Miguel Armas, Bernard Eisenschitz, Peter Nestler, and JMS. 



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“Kino Slang” is a regular series of cinema screenings programmed by Andy Rector at the Echo Park Film Center. It aims at projecting the silent alarms and naked dawns one can still find in the cinema. Our screening this month marks the one-year anniversary of the series, which began last May as a double-bill of A GIRL'S FOLLY (1917, Maurice Tourneur) and GRANDEUR AND DECADENCE OF A SMALL TIME FILM COMPANY (1986, Jean-Luc Godard). Since then we have screened films by Boris Barnet, Jerry Lewis, Alfred Hitchcock, Edgar G. Ulmer, Pedro Costa, Jacques Tourneur, Aleksandr Dovzhenko, Charlie Chaplin, Jean Renoir, Luis Buñuel, and João César Monteiro.



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May 1, 2018

Straub / Huillet
talking


JMS / Jean-Marie Straub
DH / Danièle Huillet
MW / Martin Walsh
PG / Peter Gidal
SH / Stephen Heath
RC / Regina Cornwell
JF / Jonathan Rosenbaum






MW   A general question: all your work has been quite unique in cinema in the sense that all of your films deal with a pre-existing text or texts of some kind; that is to say, you always work through other artists in some form. Roland Barthes speaks of the contemporary convergence of the acts of reading on the one hand and writing on the other as being a characteristic of much modern art. Perhaps this is one direction that we should be aiming for, if you like, a convergence of criticism and creativity in the older jargon. I was wondering whether from a general perspective like that we might move to your approach more specifically to HISTORY LESSONS and MOSES AND AARON?

JMS   . . .We tried to find a subject that resists us because we have to live with the subject for many years, because to find money needs many years. And the secondary reason is that we tried to find subjects that are interesting enough for the audience, for people, and a subject more intelligent than we are, to give the audience a gift that is worthwhile. Do you want to take it further?

MW  Well, it seems to me that the subjects Bach, Schoenberg, Brecht, are all artists that. . .

JMS  It is clear that the reading of MOSES AND AARON is a critical one.

MW  Would you elaborate then on your interest in Schoenberg specifically? Why Schoenberg?

JMS  I don't know. No, it has to be said first that MOSES AND AARON is an old project--a project from '59. It's a thing that I don't think I would make now. It would have been the second film we would have made. The first project was CHRONICLE OF ANNA MAGDALENA BACH and the second MOSES AND AARON. But why Schoenberg, I do not know. . .

DH   Anyway, it's not Schoenberg, it's Moses and Aaron.

MW   But your handling of both Bach and Schoenberg has in a sense been markedly different from, one might say, conventionally bourgeois approaches to performances of the works of these people.

JMS   I don't know, because I am a bourgeois. . .

MW   But you are a bourgeois who is attempting to escape that or so it would seem. . . you said at the time that THE CHRONICLE OF ANNA MAGDALENA BACH was your contribution to the fight in Vietnam, for instance.

PG   Do you regret having said that?

JMS  Having said it? No. The approach is trying to. . . if you like, it is anti-bourgeois. I don't like this, but it is anti-bourgeois in what belongs to the mise en scène, to the theatrical, but not necessarily to the approach to the music. The treatment of the mise en scène is a reaction to the whole tradition of bourgeois opera, that has to be said. But at the same time, what interested us was the making of a film which would allow a public which doesn't ever go to an opera, to see an opera. This is what infuriated the music critics in the German papers--DIE WELT, SUDDEUTSCHE ZEITUNG, DIE ZEIT. They didn't talk about the music but, with the idea of the cinema they have, they thought you could make the film more pornographic than bourgeois opera. By pornographic I don't mean showing the people naked, I mean the art of mise en scène in bourgeois opera, if you can talk about art in relation to something like that. They thought, with their idea of the cinema, that you could go further than Cecil B. DeMille, that one could see better things on the screen than what was actually done on the operatic stage. Ours was a reaction, a systematic subversion, destruction and reduction. In that sense all the--very precise--directions given by Schoenberg in the score regarding the staging (mise en scène), we reduced to spectacular points, a succession of spectacular points. We did this where he, Schoenberg, dreaming and working for the stage, established a simultaneity.



Schoenberg, it is true, like all of us, had a very limited ideology. He repressed politics systematically and determinedly. As Danièle said, he had an idea. . . well, that was his personal ideology and, as we see in the Kandinsky letters, he had fantastic intuitions which are even Marxist sometimes. But there is also the other aspect as related by Brecht in his ARBEITSJOURNAL (Work Journal) which has just been published. Brecht's last meeting with him was in front of a drugstore in Los Angeles, or at least in California, and he relates. . . (to SH) will you tell it?

SH  Brecht had been to courses by Schoenberg under the patronage of Eisler who had encouraged Brecht to go to these courses and had, in fact, inspired in Brecht the idea that Schoenberg was to be treated with kid gloves and definitely not to be gotten on the wrong side of or rubbed the wrong way. At their last meeting, I'll be corrected if I'm wrong in saying that Schoenberg said, "look at the way the world is going now."





JMS  What he said was "the proof that your democracy is useless is that it doesn't last long. That's why I am a royalist." And a few months before, Eisler had told Brecht "I am going to introduce you to my teacher, above all don't provoke him, even if he says terrible petit-bourgeois things, don't say a thing." And Brecht kept quiet when he saw him the first time. After that he went to one of his classes and had an impression of great clarity. Brecht said, "unfortunately, with the education we've had, we have no understanding of music, but listening to one of Schoenberg's lessons you feel that with only the slightest grounding in music, everything would be very clear, you would understand everything." And to get back to that last meeting in front of the drugstore, Brecht said nothing. He says himself in his ARBEITSJOURNAL, "I contented myself with shaking the old man's hand" . . .Seeing METROPOLIS again we saw that there are an enormous amount of Schoenbergian elements there. Perhaps Schoenberg had never seen it, nor did Lang know Schoenberg, but it's the atmosphere of the time. . .

. . .In fact we saw--and this is what the project came from--the first stage performance in Germany, Berlin in 1959, of MOSES AND AARON. It was totally a kind of stylization and theatrical abstraction. I detest stylization, all this talk of stylization but, I ask myself, what is it? What style? Not really abstraction obviously, but the costumes aimed at being abstract and stylized, and everything, even the scenes which Schoenberg did not envisage as being danced were danced in the form of a stylized ballet, not even bourgeois ballet but something even more academic. It was a reaction against this that gave me the wish to make a film in 1959, and the idea which immediately raised itself was--it should be in the open air. That was clear.

So to the question "Why Schoenberg?"--it was always a reaction to theatrical mise en scène etc. Now, as to why music?--where music is concerned there are no restrictions, still less because I am not a musician. Eisler didn't have any restrictions in the face of Schoenberg's music, the dialectical musical tissue of his work.

I believe it's possible to do one work, not ten. That's why you cannot make films and engage in political action. You can't have a political action and make films. That's why Lenin said he couldn't listen to music because he was engaged in political action and it was too absorbing. . . And I think a man like Schoenberg has pushed his musical work so far precisely because he repressed everything else and not just politics. For example, he also painted but he himself said that in painting he was an amateur. He did not take the work far in the area of painting.

Well, that's about music, now to return to Eisler who said that what we have is an unbelievable, impossible, very bad text set to irreproachable music. I don't agree with him. For the benefit of those who don't know, it must be said that Schoenberg wrote the text, since most people who write opera compose them around texts by others, and secondly he says in the letter to Webern or the one to Alban Berg. . .

DH  . . .that he transformed his text as the composition of the music progressed. On the other hand there is the third act where for whatever reasons, either he didn't have the time or I don't know what, he didn't write the music. And the text here, in relation to the texts which were set to music, is in some sense a draft. What's interesting for us in the film is to have both a text which has been re-written, tightened up and reduced, re-worked as the music was composed, and another stage in the work of Schoenberg, which is the first stage of work on the text.

What also interests us is the films we make is to leave the various layers, not eliminating anything. This is contrary to a whole Western artistic tradition, bourgeois of course, which consists of destroying, in effacing the traces and destroying these layers. There are other traditions. Western civilization is only a little drop in the bucket. For example the Bible, of which Brecht said when asked what had marked him most: "Don't laugh it was the Bible" and he of course meant the Lutheran tradition. It's a question of epochs--instead of taking away one adds, the things written five hundred years earlier are not removed, they're left. In a film what interests us is the stratification, like in geology.

PG  To what degree was the text changed?

DH  By us? Not at all.

MW  The last line of the libretto though says "Aaron, free, stands up and then falls down dead."

JMS  That's not the last line.

DH  That's the last indication (stage direction).

JMS  Yes, certainly in the film you don't see Aaron fall because we have left Aaron in order to pan round to Moses. He is off and therefore can't fall. I've been told by someone who knows Hegel well (I don't know the text myself), that this is a very precise reference to Hegel. Aaron falls because he no longer has substance.

But the text was not changed by us, the indications (stage directions), yes.

DH  Another change (in stage directions) is at the beginning, the burning bush. In our work there is no burning bush.

JMS  It is something which is changed so that the voice of the burning bush is no more the voice of the burning bush but already the voice of the people later. And he (Moses) already had mountains behind his head, which Schoenberg did not have. Other things changed, but not the text. But to finish with these questions of the text, and with reference to Eisler, we know the text by virtue of having reheard it, retyped it, translated it into English, French, Italian, we read it over a hundred times and each time we see it stronger. . . therefore I believe Eisler was mistaken on this. From the point of view of the textual tissue, these texts are not far from the work of Brecht. Ideologically, it's another thing of course, but. . . one could even speak of a dialectical texture. . . It is not just the music which pushes things very far in this kind of dialectical tissue, it is also the text.

PG  I didn't understand how you recorded the sound--I must have just not understood what was written in the notes. . .

DH  Every singer has it coming through one ear.

PG  That's what I couldn't figure out, where they got their timing.

DH  And they could hear naturally what was recorded in Vienna.

PG  It was all wired up right?

JMS  But the timing came from the musical director.

DH  And we had the music director Guillaume, as we shot the film because he had to direct them; and the problem for us was to find not only where the camera should stand but also where he had to stay, because when they look at each other or when the chorus looks at them (Moses and Aaron) it's always the right direction but a bit off.

JMS  We anticipated the constraint, each time, of having to find the position. . . this is very, very theatrical, really a work which goes in the direction of what interested Brecht in the sense that the singer sings in two directions. He sings for the person standing in front of him; that is, when it is the chorus, for Aaron or Moses; when it's Moses, for the chorus; or when it is Aaron, for the chorus or Moses. In other words, in each case, he sings for the interlocutor (the person he is singing towards in the action), but also for a slightly displaced pole--we're concerned here with displacements (a staggering)--which is the musical director. And often the real pole for which the singer was singing, was not there: the chorus was effaced, or Moses, when Aaron was responding to them, was not there--often, not always. Most of the time Moses and Aaron are together. So there is a displacement which really creates something more than distanciation.

PG  Do you think that comes out in the text of the final film?

JMS  Well, if I were to see the film as a film not made by me, I would sense that there were such displacements. You feel that these are groups which are opposed to each other but at the same time that those who decided the framing and placing of the groups have decided to de-psychologize the relations between them and to establish relations of power between singer and the group to which it is opposed, and between the group and the singer. These relations of power at the same time concern--in the moral rather than in the physical sense although in the first instance it is physical--the spectator. In other words we have relations of power which are addressed to the spectator, after having addressed themselves to the group to which the singer directs himself. . . they are no longer psychological relations (between singer and group and vice versa), they are relations of force.

DH  . . .which are addressed not only one to the other, or to the group, but also to the audience, because of the slight shift.





JMS  Perhaps one might ask if people have felt something of that kind without having a clear idea what. We will put the question when Danièle has finished outlining the way the recording was done. I have only a thing to add: not only did they sing in the direction of the musical director which was of concern for them and the director and consequently for the spectator who is behind the director because he is behind the camera, but the director had both ears plugged--he heard absolutely nothing of what the singers sang, he only heard the orchestra.

RC  I wondered about the relations and tensions producing this case, i.e. the theological conditioning... (inaudible) how this fits into the political considerations. . .

JMS  Theology is very important because it still guides the world. . . very important. . . It will still take centuries for mankind to be able to do without God, to learn to do without God. Moreover, you don't have to be called Engels--who did an analysis of the question--to know that monotheism within a civilization of flourishing polytheism which in the last stages consisted in, to an ever increasing extent, representing the gods in pharoahs and became more and more oppressive, the idea of a single, unrepresentable god who was nowhere and unimaginable is an enormous and revolutionary idea and a break. The fact that afterwards the idea of monotheism again becomes an oppresive idea is another question. That's what it turned into, but at the outset it was an enormous break.

PG  But the film isn't in at the start. Schoenberg's attitude towards monotheism is presumably not the same as the two of yours. . .

JMS  But the film is a historical reflection, nothing more. It's no different to. . . I don't wish to set myself on the same level, I'm only a little man, but if you read the letters between Karl Marx and Engels which run into seventeen volumes, you become increasingly aware of the interest these two had in plunging ever deeper into history to try to see what happened and to study the relations they were interested in and analyze these relations further and further in the past. I don't see this as a problem. Or perhaps you could clarify your question?

PG  You mentioned that it would take a long time to get rid of ideological power of God, of the belief God and I just wondered whether or your position and Schoenberg's--which in the film seemed to be such--whether your position and Schonberg's to some degree coincided and not questioning, but rather reproducing.

JMS   . . .The film. . . I hope, it's for you judge, but I hope the film is in relation to the work of Schoenberg. I hope the work of mise en scène-- I don't like the word very much--the mise en images, the mise en objet audio visuel is displaced in relation to the attitude of Schoenberg. I hope that at the en of the film not only has Moses destroyed Aaron, Aaron has also destroyed Moses. Aaron, even if he doesn't fall dead, disappears absolutely; Moses, even if his strong idea, the idea of the desert, lives on--has destroyed himself. One destroys the other and simply two aspects of the same thing. I hope that what is left is only the people and that the idea of the film is precisely, not just displaced in relation to Schoenberg, but even opposed to him; the idea that you have to invent a politics which starts from below and that it is not up to the leader to invent it but it's up to the people themselves. And while these two have destroyed each other and disappeared, you have to start from scratch. At this point I hope the idea that asserts is precisely that from the moment you have blown up the leaders who have blown themselves up, you have to. . . well, I don't need to indulge in rhetoric. . . In any case I hope when you see the pan, at least the second pan onto the Nile taken from the mountian, there I hope the audience feels through Schoenberg's music a call to violence which does not concern the Hebrew people alone. Schoenberg moreover stresses this in his text. He says "Vor allem Volke", he doesn't say, "Von allem Volke": not "From" but "Before" all people. This is a stage (etage), a people who were to be a stage. And the pan onto the Nile valley below shows the fields of peasants who are no longer Hebrew, but Egyptian. And at this point I hope the audience senses that this concerns not just a tiny people who no longer exist as a nation and who founded a State. . . well, enough said. . . Because you see in the background the cultivated fields of the Egyptians and in the foreground you see something which though not easy to distinguish, you sense to be the ruins of Egyptian temples. After that it ends on the mountain because you return to Moses' obsession which is the desert. But there is also the word Frei, Frei, Frei, which is a call to freedom. Has that cleared it up or are there still questions? I would like to clarify what I said at the beginning. This is no longer a project I would have done today. That ought to be clear; in that there is a kind of negative answer to your question, or positive, it depends. I have changed, and if I came across MOSES AND AARON  now, I would be just as interested but I would no longer wish to make a film of it. It is an old project, a fulfilled project.





JR  One last question of a different sort involving your short on Schoenberg, This may sound like a frivolous question but it's meant seriously. In all your films but particularly in this short I feel that each detail, each element carries a great deal of weight, both dramatically and in terms of the meaning of the images. And I was wondering if you could comment on two specific things in the film: one is your lighting of a cigarette, and there other is the cat.

JMS  I can tell you about the screen in INTRODUCTION TO ARNOLD SCHOENBERG'S "ACCOMPANIMENT TO A CINEMATOGRAPHIC SCENE" which is behind me when I'm reading Schoenberg's letters. I wanted to have the screen because I wanted the audience to have the impression that on the screen newsreels would be projected. But the cigarette was because the film had been envisaged without the stone figure of the fountain. It was to begin with me. But as the film was commissioned by the third channel of German TV. . . The Germans had two films, one made by Jan Mortensen, a Swedish musician, another by a young French musician called Luc Ferrari, two very different films (to ours), absolutely a-political.

DH  On the same piece of music.

JMS  We had an agreement, our film would be shown last, if it was put out at all, because there was a risk that it would not be. But if it hadn't been, well we had the negative, we'd made the film and we could have shown it somewhere else. The beginning had to be a rest for the audience and since I couldn't just stay like that, I lit up a cigarette. But after the fountain shot was added we left it like that because to go straight into the reading would have mean't there would have been no breathing space. The cat, that's a bit more complicated. It's a cat we had at home. We found it three years before, starving in the street. The vet said it had to be put down at once. It had no hair left, it had rabies and every other disease imaginable, it was undernourished, it walked like this. . . Now it's beautiful. The cat is part of Danièle because without her it would have died, since it was isolated from other cats because its illness was contagious and people didn't bother with it, precisely because it was sick. Apart from that, I was beginning to have an immense problem almost of the class struggle. I think there is a reflection to be made from this standpoint, and it's been going on for centuries, like the other. Obviously it will need centuries to solve it. . . and I believe it is important, really important. But what did you feel about this cat, to ask another frivolous question?

JR  It was a chance element, whereas everything else was in a sense pre-set, it's that you couldn't completely control what the cat was doing.

DH  It was very afraid, not of the camera, but of the microphone. . .

JR  It's sounds like a contradiction, but I like it. . .

JMS  Besides it's an elementary device when you have one who is not an actor, to have something which distracts him. Renoir does it better than anyone, and Brecht too for that matter. . . Moreover I think it was very important since it was a very terrorist text, to have an alien element. . . There is the terrorist direction vis a vis the audience, but at the same time there is an element of tenderness. There is a third pole, not just one, two, but one, two, three, because of the cat.

For the first time. . . For ten years I have been trying to film someone facing the camera and I've never succeeded. It always angers me in Godard's films to see people photographed facing the camera. I told myself, I'll do it one day and I'll do it differently. And they don't look as if the're photographed facing the camera. I wanted to do it and at the same time I didn't agree with it. And I found a way there, precisely thanks to the cat which is a third element. Because from the framing you don't know if the camera's looking at the cat or the person.

And now the final frivolous answer. The cat was a bit Chinese, the black and white pattern is a bit Chinese and this brings us back to Brecht who was interested in Chinese painting. It also had a relationship to the dress Danièle was wearing, one she'd had about ten years but we chose it deliberately from three others.

To take up just one last thing. I think that CHRONICLE OF ANNA MAGDALENA BACH is a film which should have been shown in the villages of Bavaria. If this wasn't possible it's because we live in the kind of society we do and that's that. I don't mean that I agree with taking a 16mm projector and showing films outside factories or in villages which people see badly because they are uncomfortable, tired, acoustics are bad, the equipment doesn't work, the prints are bad, etc. I'm talking about cinemas where people normally go.

(Vladimir) Posner tells a story in a thing he wrote on great men he had known. There are three or four and among them Brecht--the book came out a year ago. Brecht arrived one day with a text for one shot, which would have lasted for two minutes of speech. Potsner and Cavalcanti had to explain to him that really, that wasn't done and you couldn't devote two minutes just to one shot. What interested me in this text was that one could make things longer than with a theatrical text. And our film is, in a way, as a revenge on Potsner and Cavalcanti for Brecht, to prove, even if he can't see the result, that you can go as far as four minutes, because there are four shots which last four minutes. . .

PG  Are either Danièle or you familiar with Warhol?

JMS  Warhol'? I don't know Warhol. I have seen some of his films once.

DH  We didn't see the last. . .

PG  Which ones did you see?

JMS  CHELSEA GIRLS, another I don't remember. . . I don't hate Warhol, I don't know what he is doing now. . . But what interested me in Warhol is no that he takes 10-minute shots, that's not what is important.

PG  I just wondered what you thought about Warhol.

JMS  What I think about him is more complicated.

PG  That's what I meant.

JMS  To a slightly lesser degree what I felt watching the Michael Snow film the other evening (RAMEAU'S NEPHEW), that is, that it's very interesting for the use demanded of the spectator of his eyes and ears. Obviously seeing and hearing is a question of brainwork, but he isn't asked to use his brain elsewhere. I mean, there is a determination, but there too there is a repression, and not just the political. . .

PG  But Warhol. . .

JMS  They are different, but similar in one direction. Instead of aiding people to think, or to discover dialectical materialism, these films are a bit like a drug. But I must say, in spite of that, that I saw three hours of Snow's film, the first and the second reel, not the third.

DH  We saw WAVELENGTH years ago.

JMS  But I must say that afterwards I had gone to CITIZEN KANE. After seeing three hours, two reels of Snow, I saw about 10 or 20 minutes of CITIZEN KANE and it was CITIZEN KANE which became unbearable, it no longer existed, it was like glycerin. That speaks in favor of Snow in spite of what I have said.

DH  And I mean we should have seen the full four and half hours. If we did not it was not because we did not want to, but because it was really too warm, and we were tired and without air.

JMS  Above all without air.

JR  I just want to ask you some general questions which come out of the discussion of Warhol. Just which contemporary filmmakers do you admire?

JMS  I don't know, Mizoguchi. No, I mean it, but he's dead.

PG  Does that answer for both of you?

DH  Yes.

JMS  Then at the other end of the ideological scale, it would be John Ford. Of course there is Renoir and lots of people, Fritz Lang.

JR  I was thinking more about filmmakers now.

DH  He means the living. Lang is still living, Renoir too.

JMS  Well the one I respect most and will continue to respect is Godard, although I got to know his films very late because I didn't want to see them in dubbed versions in Germany. There first film I saw by Godard was VIVRE SA VIE. At the other end of the ideological scale, if one can say that, I don't know. And then there are others. You can't just draw up a catalog like that. I've seen Oshima, for example, and I'm not interested. I say simply because you know, Oshima's there, and he may well be more important than I think. But I don't think so because perhaps he has too much talent, I don't know. Talent isn't enough. The first film of Oshima's I saw was THE CEREMONY. That made a big impression, boom! Then we saw others and we saw THE CEREMONY again and it didn't work anymore. I find him too rhetorical. He tries to deal with everything. I'm not in agreement with Martin Walsh about Dusan Makavejev. I don't much like MAN IS NOT BIRD, but the second and third are interesting. Then the film about the fascist sportsmen, what's it called? That's interesting in its material forms. . .

Then there is a filmmaker I admire very much. I am willing to defend him until next year--things can change--even against all those who accuse him of being a fascist which he is not. He's the most important filmmaker of the French post-Godard generation--Luc Moullet. Especially for LES CONTREBANDIERS more than for the other two.

JR  I wanted to ask you particularly how you felt about, because of their use of sound, Bresson and Tati.

JMS  I like very much the last Tati.* Rivette was right when he said that Tati has become a political filmmaker. What he does with the blown up video material, what he gets from it is extraordinary. And it's outside that political group, those people who come out of the cinema in the evenings and experience reality entirely differently. What is exciting in PARADE it that is a film about all the degrees of nervous flux, beginning with the child which cannot yet make a gesture, which can't coordinate its hand and its brain and it goes up to the most accomplished acrobats. You know when you ask a question like that I'm sure I've forgotten ten filmmakers at least as important as us. I mean among contemporary filmmakers, young filmmakers, who are perhaps more interesting, I don't know. And among the old, living and dead, there are others. For exapmle, seeing LIMELIGHT again, you are struck by something you've never seen before in the cinema and which has a relation to the class struggle. Knowing how far this is conscious, etc., is not of much importance.



There is a filmmaker who has just been discovered and whose THE NEW ICE AGE you will be able to see on Monday, who has made films with all the means that I am against, which I even thought ought to be condemned. He is called Johan van de Keuken who makes films on which he sometimes works for more than a year. You'll see this one. I think this too has a relation to the works of Brecht. It is a film which seems at moments almost to use the means and methods of capitalist oppression and television but seems to invert them into something which is a critique. Brecht said, Lenin not only said different things from Bismark, he also said them differently. Yet this is against the idea of using those methods. Johan van de Keuken has precisely proved to me that you can't be dogmatic. When you work responsibly, you can go very far with opposing methods.


The above is approximately half of the tape; the other half deals with HISTORY LESSONS, Schoenberg, Baader-Meinhof, etc.



Interview conducted at the Edinburgh Film Festival, Wednesday 27 August 1975
Originally published in the Journal of the Royal College of Art, January 1976
Translated from the French by Diana Matiaf.


*The last Tati film is PARADE, a film of a circus performance in Sweden, which is in videotape blown up to 35mm. (JR)



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Past commemorations of Danièle Huillet on this day

2006 - Danièle Huillet, in memory of...
2007 - Examine Caesars 
2008 - Song of Two Humans, But...!
2009 - This Land is Mine
2010 - Men Without Women
2011 - Freedom
2012 - Small Grasses
2013 - That's Just What We Intend
2014 - The Lizards
2015 - (no post - misery)
2016 - Free Horse
2017 - M'aider
2017 - Huillet at work




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