[The following is a translation of a dialogue between Hélène Frappat and Jacques Rivette originally published in La Lettre du cinéma in 1999 and reprinted in Textes Critiques, the collection of Rivette’s film criticism issued by Post-Éditions in 2018. The reprint carries an introductory note by editors Miguel Armas and Luc Chessel, reproduced hereThere are no images accompanying the reprint, the additions here are mine.]

Hélène Frappat and Jacques Rivette

Towards the end of 1997, Hélène Frappat contacted Jacques Rivette, who was about to finish editing his film Secret Defense, in order to propose a conversation intended for publication in a new quarterly magazine called La Lettre du cinéma, whose first four issues had come out that year. Their constant exchange, following the release of the film in March 1998, gave way to two recorded conversations, held on 30 September of the same year and then on 6 January 1999, whose transcription was revised and reworked by Rivette, who added three footnotes with his pen.

Together, they constitute a truly collaborative work, published in two parts in issues 10 and 11 of La Lettre du cinéma in the summer and autumn of 1999: the first part carried the title “Trailer”, as a quick introduction to an upcoming dialogue; the second, initially announced under the title “Hunt down the imposters!” was finally titled “Secrets and Laws”, providing the text its general and final title.

It wasn’t the first time that Rivette participated in this kind of exchange: recall the importance of the sprawling conversations he had with his companions at the Cahiers du cinéma, attentively read over and corrected by the filmmaker himself, on his films L’Amour fou (“Time Overflows”, issue no. 204, September 1968) and Le Pont du Nord (“Interview with Jacques Rivette” in two parts, issue no. 323-324, May 1981, and issue no. 327, September 1981); or his dialogue with Serge Daney in two parts, “Day” and “Night”, filmed in Paris by Claire Denis as Jacques Rivette, the Nightwatchman, for the collection “Cinéastes de notre temps” in 1990.

But “Secrets and Laws” seems like a separate work in itself. While presenting it then, Hélène Frappat gave the following guideline:

“What you’re going to read isn’t an interview, but more precisely what Rivette prefers calling a ‘dialogue’, for him a more interesting form than the traditional ‘Q&A’, a form more open and closer to his usual method of working when he’s writing, preparing or shooting a film with members of his crew. The concern of this dialogue will be more general and theoretical (what is a film?) than particular and circumstantial (how to evaluate this or that film?). It’s perhaps for this reason—though he is loath to mention his older writings most of the time—that Jacques Rivette returned to two foundational texts published by Cahiers du cinéma, one in 1953 and the other in 1956: “The Genius of Howard Hawks” and the “Letter on Rossellini”. In these two articles, Rivette reflected on a double evidence: the self-evidence of Hawks’ genius and that of Rossellini’s modernity; a question all the more crucial because, in a way, it poses a threat to the very activity of criticism: how can one prove a self-evident fact (if it can’t be demonstrated, only confirmed)? And what are the conditions that make it possible to think about the feeling of self-evidence that often underpins our critical judgment [1]?”

“Secrets and Laws” thus constitutes as much a reflection on the work of criticism in its relation to the history and practice of cinema as a return to Rivette’s journey, his thought and his work by the filmmaker himself: a major text on the theory of art, which develops invaluable and unexpected ideas in trenchant orality, soberly offered for the use of future readers, where the questions “what is a film?”, “what makes a film a work of art?” register as political questions, in line with the one that Rivette never stopped asking under the name of “modernity”.


[I wrote this review of Textes Critiques, the complete collection of Jacques Rivette’s film criticism issued by Post-Éditions, earlier this year.]

Textes Critiques

Jean-Luc Godard quipped that his criticism represented a kind of cinematic terrorism. Serge Daney said his writing taught him not to be afraid to see. The Parisian publishing house Post-Éditions has made available a long overdue collection of his articles in French to decide for ourselves. Jacques Rivette became a filmmaker even before he became a critic. When he came to Paris from Rouen in 1950, he had already completed a short film, unlike Truffaut, Godard, Rohmer or Chabrol, his colleagues-to-be at Cahiers du cinéma and later fellow New Wave directors. By his own admission, he never wanted to be a film critic, not in the traditional sense of the term. But, considering his own dictum that “a true critique of a film can only be another film,” he never ceased to be one.

Textes Critiques as an object has the appearance of a cinephilic totem: half-a foot in size, portable, with a French flap cover in black and white featuring only an evocative photo of the author taken by Truffaut in 1950. The minimal outer design flows into the volume, a collection of Rivette’s writings devoid of photographs, film stills or images of any other kind‑an austere presentation that reflects the solemn quality of Rivette’s texts. Apart from an insightful introduction by co-editor Luc Chessel, there’s no extra fat to go with the articles: no biographical sketches, testimonies or commentaries. In other words, you don’t get any information about Rivette’s early years, his gravitation towards cinema, his activity during the months he didn’t publish reviews, the momentous “putsch” of 1963 at Cahiers or the (in)famous December ’63 special on American cinema running over 250 pages that appeared under his editorship, partly responsible for driving the magazine to the verge of bankruptcy.

Collected in the first of the five sections of the book are all of Rivette’s writing between 1950 and 1965: about 75 pieces, most of them published in Gazette du cinéma, Cahiers du cinéma and Arts. The second chapter is a re-publication of an extended discussion between Rivette, Jean Narboni, and Sylvie Pierre from 1969 on the topic of montage. The third, short section is a collection of tributes to André Bazin, Truffaut, and Henri Langlois, while the fourth brings together nine unpublished articles. Among the latter is a valuable collection of entries from a diary Rivette maintained between 1955 and 1961—a series of short, Bresson-like maxims, theoretical pilots and notes-to-self. The book ends with an insightful interview between Rivette and Hélène Frappat on the question of what makes an object of art worth critical consideration. No explanation is offered as to why the discussion on montage (published without the accompanying photograms or its original four-column format) merited selection over any of Rivette’s other roundtables at Cahiers or why the Hélène Frappat interview is more befitting a concluding chapter than any other interview with the cineaste. Ce qui est, est.

The mode of address is clearly different between the pieces from Cahiers and those from Arts. While the former’s specialized audience and acknowledged partisanship gives Rivette—and his young colleagues—license to passionate excesses, emphatic declarations and mystical aphorisms, the wide readership of Arts imparts discipline and argumentative clarity to the articles. Yet Rivette’s prose remains complex, constructed with long sentences and hefty theoretical arguments. Like the American critic Manny Farber, he feels no obligation to even summarily describe the plot, the cast or the circumstances of a film’s production. The focus is squarely on setting up the polemic or deriving general precepts about the seventh art.

In “Critic Going Everywhere,” Donald Phelps characterized Farber’s film criticism as multi-directional, gnawing away at the peripheries of what a film has to offer and “getting as far away as possible from any point, any centripetal force.” Rivette’s writing reaches outward too, frequently spiraling away from the film at hand to arrive at a provisional theory of all cinema—a theory that is always in the making, redefined and refined with every new encounter with the screen. Thus, a commentary on Chaplin’s Monsieur Verdoux (1947) serves as a launchpad for a meditation of the tension between reality and cinema. An evaluation of Alexandre Astruc’s Les mauvaises rencontres (1955) becomes a demonstration of the possible ways of talking about a debut work. A review of Otto Preminger’s Saint Joan (1957) provides an occasion for revaluating all post-war American cinema.

Yet, Rivette’s is far from an academic approach that takes films as mere evidence for substantiating a theory. These centrifugal reflections emanating from a single film are nevertheless rooted in it, enabled by it. When he concludes, in a review of Angel Face (1953), “What is cinema but the play of the actor and the actress, of the hero and the décor, of the word and the face, of the hand and the object?”, Rivette is offering as much an appreciation of the specific pleasures of Preminger’s new film as a general manner of looking at the cinema. Despite the constant evolution of Rivette’s critical position, several concerns have a permanent presence in his writing, almost all of them rooted, incredibly enough, in the sparkling, lucid first essay he published at the age of 22, “Nous ne sommes plus innocents” (1950), in the Bulletin of the Latin Quarter Cine-club run by Maurice Schérer.


An abiding belief in realism—not the representational realism of the novel or the psychological realism of the qualité française, but the brute ontological realism of the film image—comes across as a cornerstone of Rivette’s thought as a critic and a filmmaker, a conviction that what is seen on screen derives its power from the camera’s mechanical transcription of what did take place in reality. In his first essay, he prescribes a goal for the filmmaker: “Simply inscribe on film the manifestations, the mode of life and being, the behaviour of the little individual cosmos; film coldly, in a documentary manner: the universe goes on; the camera reduced to the role of a witness, an eye.” And, in a review of Cocteau’s Orphée (1950): “The filmmaker must know to respect what he films, to submit himself to his object.” Such strong faith in the realist axiom perhaps goes some way in explaining the indifference, if not downright hostility, of the Young Turks of Cahiers to vast areas of experimental cinema engaged with more plastic-painterly qualities of the medium.

In this, and their unerring, uncritical celebration of Jean Renoir, Rivette’s earliest articles, like Godard’s, reveal a strong influence of André Bazin. Godard would work his way out of Bazin’s shadow by defending classical editing over long-shot filmmaking in pieces like “Defense et illustration du découpage classique” (1952) and “Montage, mon beau souci” (1954). Rivette, for his part, turns to technology for coming into his own. In “L’âge des metteurs en scène” (1954), an enthusiastic appraisal of the possibilities of CinemaScope, one can see him working with and against the ideas of his mentor. A characteristically Bazinian statement early in the essay—“One must be deaf not to be haunted by the clear, lively timbre of Lilian Gish’s voice.”—makes way for a grim pronouncement—“The search for depth of field is outmoded”—and a Greenbergian criterion: “Could great mise en scène, like great painting, be flat, revealing depth, not through gaps, but through notches?”


One more aspect that Rivette’s written work shares with Farber’s is its eye for the human element of films. The physical presence of an actor, the concrete nature of his/her gestures and movement are, for Rivette, the primordial, structuring components of cinematic aesthetic. In his first essay, he compares the inescapably specific quality of the film image, its uniqueness of time and space, with the universal quality of literary production: “a shot always belongs to the realm of the accidental, to a unique and unrepeatable success; a sentence can be rewritten at will.” The following piece on Renoir’s The Southerner (1945) furthers the thought: “It’s once again proven that the word ‘script’ has no meaning and that there is neither now or ever a ‘script’: a film is people who walk, kiss, drink and bump their heads.”

An even more formidable but unpublished article from the same year, “The Act and the Actor,” made available in Textes Critiques, broaches the question of film actors. After some provisional but compelling reflections on the viewer’s identification with the figures on screen, Rivette goes on to anoint the actor not only as the single most important ingredient of a film, but as its very purpose to exist. “Every film is a documentary on the actor,” he remarks. “Everything must be subjugated to the actor […] Everything is but a means to reach him, from the camera movements that search him to the décor that refers to him.” He continues: “The universe has no cinematic value but in its certain relation with man who confronts and enters it […] Far from subjugating him to some or various ‘components’ of the film, everything must be ordered according to him, from him who gives everything its raison d’être.” And finally, after establishing a monistic relation between the actor and his “acts”: “Movement, gesture, act: these are then the elements the filmmaker employs; he must harness the actor as his only means of expression.”


Rivette’s writing, right from “Nous ne sommes plus innocents,” militates against the pervasive idea of film as language. He traces this original sin in the universalization of D. W. Griffith’s specific idiom by later filmmakers: “The clumsy systematization of a language, of a syntax that Griffith must’ve confusedly elaborated to express himself and which was simply the superficial consequence of his particular universe put the worm into the fruit, which was to literally devitalize cinema in increasingly deaf and subtle forms.” This starkly resembles Luc Moullet’s arguments later in a lecture titled “On the Toxicity of Film Language” delivered in Pesaro in 1966: “The French who imitate American cinema are but appropriating the means conceived by Griffith and DeMille to express in the best possible way their personal universe, marked by Southern spirit and a puritanism that has nothing to do with the universe of the French directors.” While Moullet goes on to declare that “language is thus alienation,” Rivette simply characterizes cinema as a “language without law.” In other words, a means of information and expression with no inherent grammar.


Refusing to engage in the debate concerning cinema as a pure form—which also amounts to a refusal to engage with the other hot debate of post-war French culture between “form” and “content”—Rivette’s criticism, covertly but consistently, thinks of cinema as a non-sovereign if not parasitic form. Certainly, there is mise en scène and authorship, but “nothing opposes or even separates [theatre and cinema]: both pertain to the realization of an ‘active’ universe.” This leads Rivette to some startling aphorisms: “cinema is nothing but what filmmakers do,” “mise en scène is the script,”, “[cinema] exists only its becoming, it’s what we make of it.” And from an unpublished text from 1963: “Don’t box cinema into its (so-called) classical definition. Like tonality is not the entire history of music, American cinema (of mise en scène) is only an era.” This conception of cinema as being in continuum in other art forms goes hand in hand with Rivette’s increasing interest and education in modern painting and music: his reviews of the period allude to an atonal cinema and Jean Fautrier, Jean Dubuffet, and Anton Webern are constants points of reference. It also fits together with Cahiers’ theoretical turn under Rivette’s leadership in the same year. This period saw the magazine’s first interviews with figures truly outside of the domain of cinema—Roland Barthes, Pierre Boulez and Claude-Lévi Strauss. This opening up—and perhaps the eventual subjugation—of film discourse to other sociological disciplines has, as the essays in the book show, as much to do with Rivette’s theoretical proclivities as with the magazine’s general sensitivity to the spirit of the times.


Throughout the book is an active if tentative search for a definition of what constitutes modernity in cinema. So, Journey to Italy (1954) makes “all films [grow] older by ten years” and Les mauvaises rencontres is “a young film, made by a youngster, for the young.” One gets a feeling that, for Rivette, modernity and youth were indissociable, just as it was for Daney who could see only a “continuation of Vichy” in the old faces still populating the post-war French screens. Elsewhere, in a review of I Confess (1953), Rivette bluntly announces that the secret of modern cinema is beyond the realm of criticism, being available only to filmmakers. But modernity is also, of course, related to conscience. A series of notes on the concept of modern cinema simply begins with the postulate, “Modern art is conscience.” The somewhat mystical passages that follow describe various forms this conscience could take: distance from the object, a rejection of classical efficiency, the preference for confession over fascination. It’s only decades later, in “The Secret and the Law,” the interview that concludes the book, that Rivette rejects the idea of innocence (in opposition to which a modern conscience could be set up) as fiction. Leaning on Kleist, he submits that the best an artist could do is “to see if there isn’t a small door at the back which would allow us to return to the original paradise.


Religious parlance is most obviously present in “Lettre sur Rossellini”: “The genius of Rossellini is possible only within Christianity […] Rossellini has the eye of a modern, but also the mind of one: he is the most modern of us all; it’s always Catholicism that is the most modern.” But it also makes its appearance in diverse other forms—“Sin,” “Soul,” “God”—across the essays: “The flesh is visited by the spirit” (on Under Capricorn [1949]); “More than any other art, cinema knows to approach the mystery of incarnation.” (Tale of a True Man [1948]); “The perfect ‘neo-realist’ actor… body in search of a soul.” (Il Bidone [1955]). While it could be seen simply as florid language laden with colorful metaphors, the historical and cultural climate they were written in demands scrutiny. As Antoine de Baecque examines in La cinéphilie: L’invention d’un regard, the Young Turks at Cahiers du cinéma and Arts were consciously positioning themselves against the Old Guard of the left, hobnobbing with extreme-right figures and assuming conventional, right-wing stances. In a critical context where Truffaut could defend Nazi collaborators and Rohmer could write about cinema as the “expression of a superior race and civilization,” it’s hard to see any irony or innocence in Rivette’s lament that the contemporary public “believes neither in God nor the devil and snickers when one speaks of sin” or his proposition that cinema is at heart a Catholic form embodying the mystery of incarnation.

But the single most important object of Rivette’s critical quest is the relation between mise en scène and metaphysics—a question that features so regularly in the reviews and notes that it seems the critic was unsatisfactorily wrestling with it all through his life. A fetishization of the material aspect of cinema was always a part of post-war French cinephilia, but it was the young critics of the period writing in magazines like Cahiers who gave it intellectual and moral legitimacy by tying the purely material quality of mise en scène to metaphysics, to ethics, to specific ways of looking at the world. That is how Bazin defended the excesses of the young critics in an essay titled “How can one be Hitchcocko-Hawksian?” (1955). That is how tracking shots became a question of morality and vice versa. That is how, in “On Abjection” (1961), a single forward movement of the camera deemed a filmmaker morally contemptible.

Rivette invokes this metaphysics in many forms: as an idea of the world that comes into being just as the world is represented, a personal secret that reveals itself in its conflict with reality, a fidelity to the fundamental laws of the human body. Again and again, the filmmaking enterprise is defined as the unconscious disclosure of an invisible world, “a link between something exterior and something secret that an unexpected gesture unveils without explanation,” and the filmmaker as “the one who has the sentiment of a thing before filming it, who expresses this sentiment by varying his turn of phrase and whose sentiment is linked to a general philosophy (a metaphysics or at least a moral).” This line leads him to declare metaphysics as precisely that which escapes all human control: “Perhaps metaphysics is the arbitrary part of creation, which, surpassing the frameworks of human creation and everything capable of pinning it down, can only be the work of the hand of some god.” A filmmaker’s either got it or he hasn’t: la politique des auteurs as Jansenism.


Essai d'Ouverture

As of today, my critical activity stretches over fifty-three years, with a gap between 1969 and 1982 that can be easily explained: Cahiers du cinema had suddenly converted to the cult of Marx. Oh, Karl was a nice guy with a bunch of good ideas, but I confess having trouble working in his sole dominion.

My first texts were pinched from Rivette and Truffaut: I devoured their prose on my way to high school on Wednesday mornings (the day the Arts weekly hit the stands) at the risk of getting run over. I learnt their writing by heart. This groupie mentality, coupled with an inferiority complex, didn’t sit well with me. That’s why I revolted. I frequently reproached Truffaut for some of his texts, something which irritated him. I don’t know if he understood the painful ambiguity of my status as a conformist. Today I regret having upbraided him at a time when not everything was going easy for him.

At the same time, I multiplied my oaths of loyalty to Truffaut. He had replaced the old guard and he thought that I and Straub were going to overtake him, just like Barbara Bates was to overtake Anne Baxter who replaced Bette Davis in Mankiewicz’s All About Eve. And when chatting with Straub at the entrance of a theatre, I had to hide whenever I saw Truffaut coming, who suspected me of colluding with Straub…

My other favourite critic was Georges Sadoul; I wanted to become the Sadoul of Hitchcocko-Hawsians, a daring paradox if we think that Truffaut was diametrically opposed to Sadoul… I admired the clarity of his writing, his encyclopaedic mind, his kindness, even if the content of his texts often seemed odious to me. His adherence to communism, for which he was criticized, particularly expressed his wish to belong to one family or the other (there was the Surrealist family before this). In fact, he used to snore at the CP meetings.

I too felt the need for a family. Things were a little turbulent during my adolescence. There were families that I chose myself later, that at Cahiers, the Société des réalisateurs de films, les Films d’ici etc. It was the same situation with the others, such as Godard, who came to Cahiers because it was for him an oasis of civilization, a point of reference, essential for the morale, in face of adversity or stupidity.

Why was I accepted so easily at Cahiers at the age of eighteen?

Because, the perfect bookworm that I was, I was the most well-informed cinephile in Paris.

And then it was always nice to have fans at a time when the straight-shooters of Cahiers were broke and, moreover, highly contested.

Everyone at Cahiers sensed my passion for cinema, which appeared worthy of respect.

And I was the Naïf, the innocent one, the “blue-eyed boy of Cahiers” in Rohmer’s words, the fan incapable of dirty tricks (frequent in the milieu). I was even surprised the day Lydie Doniol-Valcroze handed me my first cheque. I would’ve paid to be able to write in the “yellow magazine”.

Most of all, I made people laugh because I spoke, because I wrote. When I used to bring my papers to Rohmer, I looked forward to the moment he would blush, the moment when tears of laughter would trickle down his right cheek. If you knew Rohmer, you’d know it wasn’t easy to get to this point. For me, it was the kicker. Also, when Daney admitted to me later that the first text he rushed to whenever he opened Cahiers was mine.  

I must confess that, on the 5th of November 1955, I almost fainted when I opened Truffaut’s letter where he told me that my article on Ulmer was accepted at Cahiers. At that second, my whole life was planned out, with several pitfalls to be avoided. The hardest part was done. Now that I had my foot on the stirrup, the passage to filmmaking was like dropping a letter at the post office: I’d written the first long and serious text on Godard, so Jean-Luc, that marvellous Pygmalion of French cinema, advised his producer (who was on his knees since the success of À bout de souffle) to produce my film.

In the beginning, my texts were a little too reverential towards Rivette and Truffaut. It was ridiculous to suck up to them: it was obvious that I took their side in all matters, no matter they wrote. There were also pointless gibes in my articles against overrated directors.

But soon I tried to be more poised and, especially, to be always comprehensible. The great fad at Cahiers then was to write unreadable texts. Demonsablon was a champion of this literature. There was a snobbism of hermeticism. If the reader didn’t understand a text printed on the fine, glazed paper of the magazine, it meant that the editor was superior to him. Even Bazin gave in at times to the sirens of obscurity.

My ingenuousness brought a breath of fresh air.

Godard pointed out to me that my strong point was the art of the catchphrase, the art of finding the right title, more than of getting lost in long sentences like Faulkner, my literary god at the time. And I tried to follow this advice.

My first texts were disorderly, strings of readymade sentences already read somewhere else, sweeping, gratuitous stylistic effects, pretty pirouettes and aggressive positions to get myself noticed (the very first articles by Truffaut, from the year 1953, and Godard were of the same kind), to the point that, in the beginning of 1957, Rohmer made me completely rewrite my text on Eisenstein. He explained to me that every sentence must have an internal coherence and that each one must be organically linked to the next. The ABCs, you’d think. But no professor told me that in the high school or the university. They were too square, always dedicated to teaching stupid rules (no “I”, introduction-thesis-antithesis-synthesis). In a word, it was Rohmer who taught me to write. And it was very kind of him to not have rejected my text outright.

Bazin, too, had blocked some of my writings at Cahiers or at the Éditions du Cerf. I’m grateful to him for that today for I would’ve found myself guilty of having produced many stupidities. Bazin considered me an irresponsible, mad, young dog of nineteen. That’s why I was so moved later when he complimented me for my review of Les Tricheurs.

I have thus chosen in this collection texts defended or praised by Rohmer (A Quiet American), by Godard (Men in War and the Tazieff) etc. Rivette told me later that my text on Les Honneurs de la guerre, the first Jean Dewever film, had made him like the film. I’d never have thought of receiving such a tribute from a man from whom I’d stolen so much.

My texts try to resume Truffaut’s principle: start from the particular (the picturesque if possible) – a detail from the film – to veer into the General. Never the opposite, as in the worst kind of criticism which stopped at the General (especially in the years 58-69).

The golden rule: every good film engenders a specific critical approach.

To make the reader laugh, to interest him, was my first concern. I’d set down the list of possible word plays before writing a text. To help inspire me, Rohmer had offered me a copy of the latest Vermot almanac.

I tried to be simple (didn’t always succeed), to narrate the story of a film in a few lines, which still remains an excellent exercise.

Before writing on an important film, I’d read the original novel end to end or skim through it – something which few did. Even Bazin, who was a serious guy, had produced five pages in Cahiers on The Red Badge of Courage without having read the book, which was as famous in the USA as Le Grand Meaulnes is in France.

I shouldn’t tell you this, but I always made sure I made a negative remark when I wrote a lot of good things about a film. I also practiced the opposite. It gives the reader the (misleading) impression that the critic is objective.

Similarly, I’d gather technical information – number and duration of shots and shooting, budget, box office of the film etc. – which made subjective positions sound objective.

I’d manage to insert a shock sentence which could help advertise the film, thereby glorifying the film and myself. My greatest shortcoming when it came to a good film by a great director was to attribute everything that was good to my cherished auteur and everything that was bad to his collaborators. The truth is not so simple.

My first years as a critic (1959-1960) were the ones that brought me the most attention from readers, perhaps because people were then interested in criticism that was less tepid, less ecumenical and laudatory than today, perhaps also because I wrote in a flagship magazine which had all the good articles.

Texts today are more dispersed, and they get lost.

Nevertheless, my writings from that time are less pertinent than the ones I’ve written in the past few years, which are more level-headed, generally without controversy and very precise owing to my practical knowledge of filmmaking and, thanks to time, my deeper knowledge of the history of cinema: I must’ve seen eight thousand films in sixty-five years.

This manifestly positive evolution of the quality of my writing is at loggerheads with my career as a filmmaker. I don’t think my later films are any more successful than the earlier ones. My most appreciated productions belong to the midperiod of my career (from 1977, year of Genèse d’un repas, to Essai d’ouverture in 1988).

Here I want to note the similarity between criticism and documentary filmmaking: in both, one studies something which already exists, a projected film or a city, a place or a social fact.

The difference, at least for me: to be a film critic is to say good things about a film; to be a filmmaker is to say bad things about the society, about the absurdity of the world, about a city, about everything… the filmmaker criticizes, and the critic praises.

Today, as a critic, I have the advantage over other reviewers of not being dependent on current events. From 1957 to 1960, I lived on commissions as a critic and so I was subjected to weekly releases by my editors-in-chief. In 2009, I’m a freelancer and can allow myself to write on unknown filmmakers from the present or the past.

These are the days of video criticism. There’s not much difference in there for me who, in 1960, was practically doing video criticism before it even existed, with my chronometer and the light pen that Sadoul had found for me in Moscow and I used to see films twice consecutively in the theatre. But, with video, it’s nevertheless easier and it avoids silly mistakes. The essential thing, today as yesterday, is not to flit from one thing to another, but study one or two points of the film more attentively. I’ve written seven pages on James Stewart’s acting during one and a half minutes of film.

Almost all these texts were written very quickly.

This speed (which I find again during the drafting of the scripts of my films: two mornings for a short film, three to twenty-four days for a feature film) gives me the pleasure of observing the faces of my astonished sponsors when I hand them over my copy. One of them asked me for twelve pages on Bergman. It was complete three hours later, and Rivette even found it good.

This promptness is also a (completely relative) form of humility. You shouldn’t think that the Culture revolves around you.

It’s a question of personal discipline, of habit. You must be able to take the plunge, to abandon yourself. To me, it’s a question of honesty before the reader. I give him what I feel without calculation or detour.

You are deemed guiltier when you commit a crime with premeditation.

It should be the same for an article (or a script).

I think this practice stems from an opposition to my father. He used to write several letters (to Mitterrand, to Hitler and tutti quanti) which he’d start all over when he made a mistake. It’d take him all day, a little like the hero of El. And I love doing the opposite. Many of my acts were accomplished against the father (even though, the diplomat that I am, I wasn’t on bad terms with him). My first girlfriend was Jewish while he was very anti-Semitic. And I specialized in eulogizing Jewish filmmakers (Lang, Preminger, Lubitsch, Ulmer, Gance, Truffaut, Fuller, DeMille). I made a corpse of my dad in my Billy the Kid.

I say I’m fast, but I’m boasting. My texts with writing quotations (on DeMille, Deleuze or Ellroy) took a lot of time. Moreover, what I write is the result of sixty years of cinematic experiments.  

Whenever it’s possible, I let these texts sleep in a drawer. I let them simmer for thirteen days in order to look at them with new eyes.  

It could be longer. The first version of my text on Bresson is fifteen years old. Re-reading after a long time, you correct everything very fast and with much fairness.

My articles sometimes contain a dense analysis, far too dense. They must always be aerated by humour. They fail otherwise.

What use writing on Renoir or Rossellini?

Besides, Truffaut would never have allowed me to do it: it was his private hunting ground. So, I prefer being THE FIRST. The first to extol a great filmmaker forgotten or unknown at the time: Baldi, Bava, Bernard-Deschamps, Compton, Cottafavi, Dewever, Ferroukhi, Fuller, Godard, Guiraudie, Hers, Itami, Jansco, Kumashiro, Oshima, Rudolph, Skolimowski, Ulmer, Valentin, Zurlini.

I’ve corrected certain articles (very little). For example, when I made a remark based on an wrong colour grading, or when I invoked an event from the era unknown to today’s reader, or when a piece of information turned out to be false, or when my editor in chief had changed the title, made typographical mistakes or didn’t notice that a line was skipped.


[From Luc Moullet’s Piges choisies (2009, Capricci). See Table of Contents]

After seven months, 700 tags and several thousand keystrokes, The Seventh Art reaches its 100th post (or as many Indian bloggers would like to call it, my 100th ranting/rambling/musing). First off, my thanks to the handful of readers who have been increasing my hit counter over the months. It couldn’t have been possible without you (Well, it could have been, but thanks anyways). So being the 100th post, I would like to take the opportunity to scribble about an event that celebrated the number 100 in some other way.

It is now a widely accepted fact that the Lumiére brothers are the fathers of the seventh art, though a few films had already been made as early as 1888 (Roundhay Garden Scene, Dickson’s experiment, Carmentica et al). Their series of films starting in 1895 notably Arrival of a Train at La Ciotat and Employees Leaving the Lumière Factory have become pieces of historical interest. It is said that the audience fled the theatre thinking that a real train is heading their way!

Take a look at the piece:

Cut to 1995. To commemorate the event of 100 years of cinema, a project called Lumiére et Compagnie (Lumiére & Company) was undertaken. Its intention was to gather the most important contemporary directors at one place and give them a task – To make a film using the same camera that was used by the Lumiére brothers!. Not just that, there were three more rules:

1.    The movie should not be more than 52 seconds.
2.    The directors should not used synchronized sound
3.    Only 3 takes allowed!

The film as such follows the directors making their films with the bizarre device interspersed with miniature interviews upon various questions including their views on mortality of cinema and their own motives for taking up the medium in order to express themselves. Some interesting opinions come out during these sections.

Lumiere and Company - Gabriel AxelThe list of 41 directors by itself is mind boggling with the likes of Abbas Kiarostami, David Lynch, Theo Angelopoulos, Michael Haneke, Zhang Yimou, Wim Wenders and many more (See Tags for the list!). The result- 41 minute films with totally different perspectives. Abbas Kiarostami’s “Dinner for One” is typically his style as he makes an omelet.  David Lynch’s bizarre piece, as usual, set in a quiet little suburban town that has more mystery than meets the eye is an instant hit. Zhang Yimou’s “cultural piece” near the China Wall, Gabriel Axel’s tracking sot of the various arts and Wim Wenders’ extension of Wings of Desire are all immensely amusing to watch.

Here is David Lynch’s piece for you:

And Spike Lee’s cute one:

The film by itself is not very extraordinary. But it is all about the event and the massive operation of bringing all the masters under one place and putting them under such constraints that no one else would dare to in any other year. A celebration of Cinema and one for the cinephiles.