Film Critic Philosopher Volume 2 BAZIN
Film Critic Philosopher Volume 2 BAZIN
Film Critic Philosopher Volume 2 BAZIN
as Philosopher
André Bazin on Euro-Japanese Cinema
1949–1958
Volume 2
Curato.
Published by Curato.
1509, Peninsula Park,
A4, Veera Desai Road,
Andheri West,
Mumbai 400053.
[email protected]
curato.co.in
2
Acknowledgements
My thanks to Cahiers du cinéma, Éditions de l’Étoile, and the late Janine
Bazin (1923–2003) for granting me the right to publish in English, for the
)rst time, these translations of Bazin’s work, and, in general, for their
cooperation in helping to bring this project to fruition.
3
Table of Contents
Acknowledgements…3
List of Illustrations…5
Introduction…6
4
List of Illustrations
1. Marie of the Port (1949), Marcel Carné
2. The Last Chance (1945), Leopold Lindtberg
3. Umberto D. (1952), Vittorio De Sica
4. The Overcoat (1952), Alberto Lattuada
5. Cops and Robbers (1951), Steno & Mario Monicelli
6. Él (1953), Luis Buñuel
7. Children of Hiroshima (1952), Kaneto Shindo
8. The Bandit (1953), Lima Barreto
9. The Respectful Prostitute (1953), Marcello Pagliero
10. Beauties of the Night (1952), René Clair
11. The Proud and the Beautiful (1953), Yves Allégret
12. Voluntary Castaway (1953), Alain Bombard
13. Kon-Tiki (1950), Thor Heyerdahl
14. Sacred Forest (1954), Pierre-Dominique Gaisseau
15. Vengeance (1958), Juan Antonio Bardem
16. Snow Country (1957), Shiro Toyoda
17. Bronze Faces (1958), Bernard Taisant
18. The Flute and the Arrow (1957), Arne Sucksdor,
19. The Cranes Are Flying (1957), Mikhail Kalatozov
20. Iron Flower (1958), János Herskó
21. Thirst (1949), Ingmar Bergman
22. The Lower Depths (1957), Akira Kurosawa
23. Fortunella (1958), Eduardo De Filippo
24. The Fabulous World of Jules Verne (1958), Karel Zeman
25. The True Story of Ah Q (1958), Yuan Yang-an
26. Handsome Serge (1958), Claude Chabrol
5
Introduction
On the Nature of Film … or Bazin, “Bazinized”
Not only may André Bazin (1918-58) well be the most in-uential critic
ever to have written about cinema, credited with almost single-handedly
establishing the study of )lm as an accepted intellectual pursuit, he can
also be considered the principal instigator of the equally in-uential auteur
theory: the idea that, since )lm is an art form, the director of a movie
must be perceived as the chief creator of its unique cinematic style.
Moreover, Bazin was a father )gure to the critics at Cahiers who would
create the New Wave just after he died: François Tru,aut, Jean-Luc
Godard, Jacques Rivette, and Claude Chabrol. He even adopted the
delinquent Tru,aut, who dedicated The 400 Blows (1959) to him. He also
befriended Jean Renoir, Roberto Rossellini, Orson Welles, and Luis
Buñuel, and his in-uence spread to )lmmakers and critics in Latin
America, Eastern Europe, and Asia—where today, for instance, the
Chinese director Jia Zhangke salutes Bazin as formative to his artistic
approach.
One of Bazin’s )rst essays, “The Ontology of the Photographic
Image” (1945, translated in volume I of What Is Cinema?), anchors much
of what he would produce. It legitimates his taste for documentaries, for
neorealism, and for directors who don’t use images rhetorically but
instead to explore reality. Criticized by communists for writing “The
Myth of Stalin in the Soviet Cinema” (which appeared in L’Esprit in the
summer of 1950, and is translated in my Bazin at Work: Major Essays and
Reviews from the Forties and Fifties [1997]), he would be posthumously
attacked by Marxist academics for his presumed naïve faith in cinema’s
ability to deliver true appearances transparently. Bazin was in-uenced, not
by Marx, but by Bergson, Malraux, and Sartre. He specialized in literature
as a brilliant student at the École normale supérieure, where he also was
6
passionate about geology, geography, and psychology. Indeed, metaphors
from the sciences frequently appear in his articles.
While many of Bazin’s acolytes are “humanists” or, in particular,
devotees of the auteur theory, it is increasingly clear that Bazin attends
equally in his published work to systems within which )lms are made and
viewed, including technology, economics, and censorship. Of this
published work—between 1943 and 1958, Bazin wrote around 2,600
articles and reviews—only 150 pieces or so are easy to access in anthologies
or edited collections, be they in French, English, or another language. He
personally collected sixty-four of his most signi)cant pieces in the four-
volume French version of What Is Cinema? (1958-62). Additional
collections appeared later thanks to Tru,aut, Éric Rohmer, and other
devotees. Obviously, then, most of those who have written about Bazin
have done so knowing only a fraction of his output. Still, that output is
considered consistent, rich, and consequential. And Bazin’s impact will
undoubtedly grow as more of his writing becomes available.
Today, in any event, Bazin remains the best-known )lm critic and
theorist of the mid-twentieth century. As a regular )lm reviewer and
columnist, co-founder of Cahiers du cinéma, champion of Italian
neorealism, and mentor to the French New Wave, he became a major
)gure in French )lm culture and beyond. The year 2008 marked the
)ftieth anniversary of Bazin’s death and of the publication of the )rst
volume of his most in-uential book, Qu’est-ce que le cinéma? (What Is
Cinema?). The anniversary also provided a focus for an ongoing
resurgence of interest in his work, as documented in the bibliography
appended to this introduction.
Until recently, research on Bazin has been hampered by three factors.
First, only a very restricted portion of his work is available. A mere
fraction of his writings (some 2,600 articles in total) has been republished
in French in book form, and little of this material has been translated into
English. Many of the re-published texts are not readily accessible: the
standard current French edition of Bazin’s Qu’est-ce que le cinéma?, from
2000, reprints only twenty-six of the sixty-three essays published in the
)rst four-volume edition (1958-62); Hugh Gray’s two-volume English
translation, What Is Cinema? (1967, 1971) also contains only twenty-six
7
essays, albeit not the same twenty-six. Timothy Barnard’s one-volume
What Is Cinema? (2009) gives us only half as many (ten taken from
selections that also appear in Gray, but three essays that Gray had passed
over).
The second factor that has dogged the reception of Bazin’s work is
the currency of a simplistic version of his ideas, what Dudley Andrew and
Hervé Joubert-Laurencin have called “Bazinism” (What Cinema Is!, 6,
26). Essentially, “Bazinism” reduces Bazin’s work to four elements: a
realist ontology, the “myth of total cinema,” a prescriptive aesthetics, and
auteur theory. First, Bazin’s realist ontology proposes that cinema as a
medium is grounded in the photographic reproduction of the real
(volume I of Gray’s What Is Cinema?, 9-16). Second, the history of the
medium is driven by a longstanding human impulse to represent reality as
fully as possible. (See “The Myth of Total Cinema” [1946, translated in
volume I of Gray’s What Is Cinema?, 17-22].) Third, the realist vocation
of cinema prescribes a )lm aesthetics that respects spatial and temporal
reality by avoiding conspicuous editing and adopting instead the
techniques of deep focus and the long take, thereby ensuring the equal
visibility of what is photographed and the integrity of human movement
in real time. (See “The Virtues and Limitations of Montage” [1953 &1957,
translated in volume I of Gray’s What Is Cinema?, 41-52] and “The
Evolution of the Language of Cinema” [1950, 1952, & 1955, translated in
volume I of Gray’s What Is Cinema?, 23-40].) Fourth and )nally, such
techniques constitute the style of the auteur director, de)ned as the prime
creative force in )lmmaking (see Bazin’s monographs on Charlie Chaplin,
Jean Renoir, and Orson Welles).
Unsympathetic critics traced these four principles back to Bazin’s
interest in phenomenology and Catholic existentialism, denouncing the
former as an alibi for the latter (see Gozlan). This reductive view of
Bazin’s work produced a tenacious caricature, which in turn created the
third problem for the reception of Bazin’s ideas: their hasty dismissal by
subsequent anti-realist variants of )lm theory. For post-1960s )lm theory
informed by structuralism, psychoanalysis, and Marxism, cinema did not
reproduce reality but took the form of a construction or representation
consisting of signs and shot through with fantasy or ideology (see Metz,
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Comolli, Baudry, and Oudart). Once these views became hegemonic
within academic )lm criticism, any )lm theory premised on realism was
either attacked or ignored. In conjunction, these three factors—a
restricted corpus, a reductive misrepresentation, and an uncongenial
intellectual environment—account for the absence of sustained research
focused on Bazin’s work in its own right. Although his name has often
been invoked in passing by )lm critics and theorists, there are as yet only
three monographs devoted to Bazin’s work: Dudley Andrew’s critical
biography, Jean Ungaro’s intellectual genealogy, and Vinzenz Hediger’s
philosophical-theological cosmology.
Bazin, Redux
Over the past twenty years, however, the situation has changed
dramatically. The Bazinian corpus has widened considerably, thanks to
the archival research of Andrew and Joubert-Laurencin and their
preparation of a searchable online database (https://bazin.yale.edu/). Due
to my own e,orts and those of Timothy Barnard as well as Dudley
Andrew, many more of Bazin’s texts are now available in English
translation. As knowledge of the corpus has grown, the variety and
sophistication of Bazin’s work have become more apparent, and a wide
range of scholars—in edited volumes and special issues of academic
journals—has begun to re-examine it in relation to its historical context
and its relevance to contemporary concerns (see Andrew & Joubert-
Laurencin, Opening Bazin). Since the 1990s, with the celebration of the
centenary of the invention of cinema in 1995 and the beginnings of the
digital revolution in )lmmaking, Bazin’s question “What is cinema?” has
thus taken on a renewed resonance for the understanding of both the
history and the future of the medium.
“Bazinism” has even begun to fragment as the complexity of Bazin’s
work as a whole challenges its reduction to the four principles outlined
earlier. First, his realist ontology is complicated by his insistence that the
essential quality of reality is ambiguity, a proposition that discounts the
prescription of a single style of realism (“The Evolution of the Language
of Cinema,” 36-37). Second, the idealist implications of the “myth of total
cinema,” where the invention of )lm is driven by an ahistorical human
9
impulse, are countered by Bazin’s adoption of the Sartrean a.rmation
that cinema’s “existence precedes its essence.” (See “In Defense of Mixed
Cinema,” 71 [1952, translated in volume I of Gray’s What Is Cinema?, 53-
75].) Third, any preference for deep-focus/long-take )lmmaking is
tempered by Bazin’s acceptance of the necessity of montage (“The Virtues
and Limitations of Montage,” 50-51). Finally, Bazin had reservations about
the status of the individual auteur director and acknowledged the “genius
of the system,” the contribution to )lmmaking made by a collective
studio culture (“De la politique des auteurs,” 116).
Ultimately, the central simpli)cation of “Bazinism” is its insistence
on cinematic realism as a kind of purist doctrine, whereas Bazin viewed
cinema as essentially impure. In the )rst instance, this impurity was due
to cinema’s relationships to the other arts, which constrained its e,orts to
establish its speci)city (see “In Defense of Mixed Cinema”). However,
two other elements of Bazin’s theory implicitly locate impurity at the
heart of cinema: )rst, because for Bazin reality itself was intrinsically
equivocal, its cinematic reproduction necessarily reproduced this
ambiguity; and second, since he insisted on the photographic origins of
cinema as the trace of the real, )lm was always contaminated by
something other than itself.
I’m sorry I couldn’t see Mizoguchi’s )lms again with you at the
Cinémathèque. I rate him as highly as you people do and I claim
to love him the more because I love Kurosawa too, who is the
other side of the coin: would we know the day any better if there
were no night? To dislike Kurosawa because one loves Mizoguchi
is only the )rst step toward understanding. Unquestionably
anyone who prefers Kurosawa must be incurably blind but
anyone who loves only Mizoguchi is one-eyed. Throughout the
arts there runs a vein of the contemplative and mystical as welI as
an expressionist vein. (Bazin, What Is Cinema?, II: vii)
Certainly Bazin was the )rst to suspect the importance and in-uence
that Akira Kurosawa would exert on the rest of the )lm world: the
American Magnificent Seven (1960, John Sturges), for example, is a
remake of Kurosawa’s The Seven Samurai (1954), a )lm that also
15
prompted Ingmar Bergman in 1959 to shoot The Virgin Spring, one of his
most famous )lms. Though Bazin wrote about Japanese )lmmakers other
than Kurosawa (and Mizoguchi)—among them Kaneto Shindo, Satoru
Yamamura, Tadashi Imaï, Teinosuke Kinugasa, Keigo Kimura, Koji
Shima, Minoru Shibuya, and Sadao Imamura—he devoted the majority
of his Japanese columns to Kurosawa, mainly because the latter’s )lms
showed up more often at the European festivals (where The Seven
Samurai appeared, at Venice, in 1954) than those of his fellow Japanese
directors. The same can be said about Satyajit Ray, one of the few Indian
)lmmakers (along with Bimal Roy and Raj Kapoor) at the time to make it
to the West, where his Aparajito (The Unvanquished) was shown at the
1957 Venice Festival, where Bazin saw it, and to which he subsequently
devoted at least four critical articles in the French press. Hence the
importance, from the point of view of publicity and distribution, of )lm
festivals before the arrival of the Internet and social media. Hence also the
inclusion in Volume 2 of The Film Critic as Philosopher of seven of
Bazin’s columns devoted solely to European )lm festivals, in particular
Cannes as well as Venice.
In conclusion, it must be said that, in contrast to the aforementioned
caricature of “Bazinism,” Bazin’s work—particularly as evidenced by the
present volume—can hardly be summed up as the product of a simple
theory of realism grounded in Catholic existentialism. The closer
inspection enabled by recent research reveals a Bazin whose work is rather
an exploration of cinema as an impure medium, a critical project
committed to the investigation of paradox and contradiction. Instead of
constituting a naïve and outdated realism, Bazin’s theory and practice
continue to resonate in the work of Gilles Deleuze, Jean-Luc Godard, and
Jacques Rancière, as well as in the work of Jacques Lacan’s disciples.
Together, the articles and chronicles collected here, in Volume 2 of André
Bazin on Euro-Japanese Cinema, 1949-1958, demonstrate not only the
complexity of Bazin’s oeuvre in itself, but also the intricacy of its multiple
contexts and hence the reason for its uneven reception. In so doing they
contribute to the debate opened by Bazin when he posed the question of
cinema’s ontology but avoided giving a de)nitive answer, leaving
subsequent generations to ponder: What is cinema?
16
Works Cited
Andrew, Dudley. What Cinema Is!: Bazin’s Quest and Its Charge. New
York: John Wiley, 2010.
Andrew, Dudley, & Hervé Joubert-Laurencin, eds. Opening Bazin:
Postwar Film Theory and Its Afterlife. New York: Oxford
University Press, 2011.
Andrew, Dudley. André Bazin. 1978, 1990. New York: Oxford University
Press, 2013.
Baudry, Jean-Louis. “Ideological E,ects of the Basic Cinematographic
Apparatus.” In Narrative, Apparatus, Ideology. Ed. Philip Rosen.
New York: Columbia University Press, 1986. 286-298.
Bazin, André. “De la politique des auteurs” (1957). In La Politique des
auteurs: les textes. Ed. Antoine de Baecque. Paris: Cahiers du
cinéma, 2001. 99-117.
Bazin, André. Qu’est-ce que le cinéma? In four volumes: I. Ontologie et
langage (1958); II. Le Cinéma et les autres arts (1959); III. Cinéma
et sociologie (1961); IV. Une Esthétique de la réalité: le
néoréalisme (1962). Paris: Éditions du Cerf, 1958-62 (reissued in a
new edition, 2003). Abbreviated edition, Qu’est-ce que le cinéma?
Paris: Éditions du Cerf, 1975 (in one volume containing 26 of the
original 63 articles; rpt. 2000). Translation: What Is Cinema?
Volume I. Trans. Hugh Gray, from the )rst two volumes of
Qu’est-ce que le cinéma? Berkeley: University of California Press,
1967. What Is Cinema? Volume II. Trans. Hugh Gray, from the
last two volumes of Qu’est-ce que le cinéma? Berkeley: University
of California Press, 1971. Translation: What Is Cinema? Trans.
Timothy Barnard, from the four volumes of Qu’est-ce que le
cinéma? Montreal: Caboose, 2009.
Bazin, André. What Is Cinema? Vol. I & II. Trans. Hugh Gray. Berkeley:
University of California Press, 1967, 1971.
Bazin, André. Bazin at Work: Major Essays and Reviews from the Forties
and Fifties. Ed. Bert Cardullo. New York: Routledge, 1997.
Bazin, André. André Bazin and Italian Neorealism. Ed. Bert Cardullo.
New York: Continuum, 2011.
17
Bazin, André. French Cinema from the Liberation to the New Wave, 1945-
1958. Trans. Bert Cardullo. New Orleans, La.: University of New
Orleans Press, 2012.
Bazin, André. Bazin on Global Cinema, 1948-1958. Trans. Bert Cardullo.
Austin: University of Texas Press, 2014.
Bazin, André. The Critic as Thinker: American Cinema from Early
Chaplin to the Late 1950s. Trans. R. J. Cardullo. Rotterdam:
Sense, 2017.
Comolli, Jean-Louis. “Technique and Ideology: Camera, Perspective and
Depth of Field” (1971). Trans. Diana Matias. In Movies and
Methods: An Anthology II. Ed. Bill Nichols. Berkeley: University
of California Press, 1985. 40-57.
Gozlan, Gérard. “The Delights of Ambiguity: In Praise of André Bazin”
(1962). Trans. Peter Graham. In The French New Wave: Critical
Landmarks. Ed. Peter Graham & Ginette Vincendeau. London:
BFI/Palgrave, 2009. 91-128.
Hediger, Vinzenz. The Miracle of Realism: André Bazin and the
Cosmology of Film. Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press,
2012.
Metz, Christian. “The Imaginary Signi)er.” Trans. Ben Brewster. Screen,
16.2 (Summer 1975): 14-76.
Oudart, Jean-Pierre. “Cinema and Suture.” Screen, 18.4 (1977-78): 35-47.
Rohmer, Éric. “André Bazin’s ‘Summa’” (1959). In Rohmer’s The Taste
for Beauty. Trans. Carol Volk. Cambridge, U.K.: Cambridge
University Press, 1989. 93-104.
Ungaro, Jean. André Bazin: généalogie d’une théorie. Paris: L’Harmattan,
2000.
18
FEATURES & FESTIVALS
19
On the Set with Marcel Carné
On a large soundstage, designed to look like a remote French town, reigns
a desert-like solitude. In a corner, however, between the wall panels of a
room, there is a spot of light … which from a distance, in this otherwise
dark and colossal setting, appears to be the e,ulgence from the
chiaroscuro of Rembrandt’s Nativity [1646].
I approach and slip into the small circle of light, where a completely
agreeable spectacle awaits me. In a bed under sheets of “albino” pink
(pink makes for a better white on screen) sleeps a pleasant young woman
in a nightgown of the same color. Then Jean Gabin in person comes
forward, knocks three times on the imaginary door of the room, and goes
to sit on the corner of the bed: “Are you still sleeping?,” he says, to which
the woman responds:
Even without this dialogue, I could tell you the whole scene in a few
words. I saw Gabin do the same scene twenty times, and just as well, and
with three di,erent women in the same pink nightgown. I will not tell
you their names, nor if one of them became the mistress of Jean Gabin
and the sister of Blanchette Brunoy in Marie of the Port [1950], because
the scene I have just described to you was, if I may say so, only for fun—
although the candidates obviously did not )nd it funny. For you have
20
guessed it: Marcel Carné was trying, through this audition piece, to select
the second actress in his next )lm.
Who says that Carné is an angry director? I saw him for two hours,
kind, patient, striving to put his future potential star in the mood.
“Come, Miss, do not be afraid, relax. I, too, have stage fright. And, yes, it’s
been two-and-a-half years since I set foot in a studio. Now put your hand
here. More naturally. No, do not wake up so fast, you are still dozing.
That’s it.” Gabin then gently repeats the scene with the young woman for
the umpteenth time. He is a little in the shadows here, out of the
spotlight. But always the extraordinary “Gabin” from Port of Shadows
[1938] and Daybreak [1939].
And what of the light gray hair? No doubt it’s there, yet how many
actors remain, in spite of the visible signs of advancing age, in the roles
that earned them their success? One does not feel, upon seeing Gabin, a
ton of regret that he has aged, for one senses right away that his almost
white hair, the slight sag in his cheeks, cannot really be a lapse. They give,
rather, the impression of a theatrical animal who is shedding his skin.
Under this strongly chiseled yet pliable face, one can guess that tomorrow
Carné will reveal to us another Gabin of a di,erent power. The actor
himself is fully aware of this. When I speak to him of his character before
the war, he lets me clearly understand that it is no longer a question of
trying to reconnect arti)cially with this pre-war )gure, and, with great
simplicity, Gabin then declares: “I must now play characters who are my
own age, roles that, in any event, are no doubt more nuanced, more
human.”
Carné, for his part, will tell me later: “Gabin regretted the fact that he
did not work with me on Gates of the Night [1946]. But this is now a
completely forgotten story, and we both basically have a mutual desire to
rediscover our professional relationship. I think Gabin has a new career
before him. Since the death of Raimu [a.k.a. Jules Auguste Muraire, 1883-
1946], French cinema has lacked an actor of such class, such
showmanship; and Gabin himself may not have in reserve the resources of
Raimu, yet he carries something comparable inside him: a heavy
humanity, let us call it, but not without a capacity for humor that has not
yet been exploited.
21
“In Marie of the Port, his character will not lack a certain truculence,
to be sure—a truculence that is readily apparent in Gabin’s earlier roles;
but I think this new part is a link between his past career and his future
one. This is the story of a forty-)ve-year-old man who falls in love with a
girl of eighteen. Naturally, it turns out rather badly, though it doesn’t
necessarily turn toward the tragic. One remains in uncertainty at the end,
as it is not said who pairs o, with whom.”
A fourth star candidate has just arrived to audition for the role of the
eighteen-year-old girl … clothed in a pink nightgown. Carné abandons
me. We returned to his o.ce the next day and, in relative calm, had the
following conversation.
MC: Why? First of all, because of the )fteen scenarios that I have
presented to producers over the last two-and-a-half years, this is the one
they accepted. But there are two others, the editing for one of which is
completely )nished; I would very much like to get this picture released:
it’s called Juliette, or Key of Dreams [1951], based on a 1927 play by Georges
Neveux. The second project is The Escapees of the Year 4000 [based on
Jacques Spitz’s 1936 science-)ction novel], with dialogue by Jean Anouilh.
What do you want, producers are incredibly suspicious of me, and
I’ve had to do most of my )lms in the face of their opposition. I have the
reputation for being an expensive director and an ogre of décor, but I have
ten additional scripts that I am ready to )lm tonight, and each of these
has a simple story with very few characters. Then the producers will be
wary of me because there are not enough décor and mise-en-scène! I did
want to direct Tender Love, you know—the 1911 novel by Charles-Henry
Hirsch. It would have been a sentimental picture, very simple, very
human; but the potential producer found the subject too thin. He would
probably have said as much if De Sica had presented him with the script
of Bicycle Thieves [1948]. Anyway, just give me a good subject that requires
only three characters. I’m ready to turn to Sartre’s No Exit [1944]!
I have always loved Marie of the Port, which is at the same time a very
simple and very rich Simenon novel, and Gabin also loves it. Besides,
22
Simenon was enchanted when we asked him to give us permission to
adapt, for in fact he had written this book with Gabin in mind. We shot it
in the very places where the narrative unfolds, between Cherbourg and
Port-en-Bessin. We even found the brewery, cinema, and two red-roofed
houses mentioned by Simenon.
MC: If you like. Finally, it will not be a film rose, but I also want to escape
the temptation of the “slice of life” picture, which is the cinematic trap set
by all the novels of Georges Simenon. I see Marie of the Port as a rather
violent story yet not one devoid of a certain humor and poetry—a kind of
“brutal comedy,” if you will.
AB: Since you shot the )lm on location, in real exteriors, and you had
already done this in The Flower of the Age [1947], has there been a change
in your aesthetic? Port of Shadows, Daybreak, Gates of the Night—these
were realizable only in the studio. The real streets of Aubervilliers or the
Rochechouart district would have completely changed their style.
MC: That’s right. I think I had to turn these three )lms into a kind of
décor because the scenarios and dialogue of Jacques Prévert required such
a transposition, and it corresponded to a search for atmosphere and
poetry in the realism of each picture’s action. However, I also believe that
it is not possible to ignore today the contribution of the new Italian
neorealist school, and I want to try to pursue the same path in poetic
realism by making extensive use of natural décor. But again, what I really
want to do is a drama without any exceptional mise-en-scène, something
simply living, breathing, and human. I think that what French cinema
needs most at the moment is to )nd a certain human warmth that it tends
to forget. For a few years now, the French cinema has lacked heart.
AB: And who are your collaborators and interpreters in this project?
23
MC: I wrote the script with Louis Chavance; the dialogue is by Georges
Ribemon-Dessaignes and Chavance. Henri Alekan will be my
cinematographer. From The Flower of the Age, I am again using Claude
Romain; the other two men are Gabin and Julien Carette. As for the
second female actress, sister of Brunoy and mistress of Gabin, you may
have noticed that I have not yet decided. (L’Écran français, July 11, 1949)
24
Cannes, 1946 and Beyond
It seems useful to me to present to any attendee of the 1953 Cannes Film
Festival a review of the )ve festivals that preceded it, with concentration
on the )rst one in 1946. [No festivals were held at Cannes in 1948 and
1950.] Seven years of worldwide production have left their mark, and
seven years are a lot in the cinema! The mere selection of entries for any
festival, however approximate or incomplete, is already in itself a
document in the history of cinema—a document that should always give
rise to some re-ection.
Everything starts from the extraordinary Cannes Festival of 1946,
which has remained a dazzling a,air in my memory because of both its
ambience and its program. This was undoubtedly the most marvelous of
the cinematic )estas to occur in the wake of the war: it amazed even the
)lm world itself. All the novelty and all the promise of the postwar
cinema were aligned in the list of competing pictures, like horses on the
starting line. The rules back then may have had their disadvantages, but
they corresponded fairly well to the situation at the time. It was better to
crown eleven of the forty-four )lms equally than to arbitrarily choose one
winner from among the )nalists, since each one represented an original
cinematic tendency about which history alone could ultimately decide—
not a jury.
Nineteen forty-six was the year at Cannes of The Pastoral Symphony
[1946, Jean Delannoy] and the a.rmation of a new French realism: of
psychology and literature, or the camera-as-pen, whose continuous
evolution and progress up to Diary of a Country Priest [1951, Robert
Bresson] and The Crimson Curtain [1953, Alexandre Astruc] prove the
richness and vitality of my country’s cinema. This was also the year of
Rome, Open City [1945, Roberto Rossellini] and the explosion of Italian
neorealism, which, unfortunately, has by now ceased to enrich and
vitalize. As for The Turning Point [1945, Fridrikh Ermler], it no doubt
25
revealed a major change in the new Soviet cinema: the end of a certain
revolutionary romanticism—the last echoes of which rumble, not so far
back, to Ivan the Terrible [Part I: 1944, Sergei Eisenstein] and Peter the
Great [1937-38, Vladimir Petrov]—and the rise of a Corneillian,
neoclassical dramaturgy where the psychology of the heroes is revealed in
the everyday explication of social truth as well as civic duty.
It is equally true, however, that our hopes at Cannes 1946 were not
fully realized: )rst of all in the case of Brief Encounter [1945, David Lean],
which is representative of a new English cinema founded on a realism of
re)nement whose intelligence and humor enable it to avoid the populist
pitfall. To the extent that there are instances where British production has
validated our original hopes, it is hardly in the line of movies like Brief
Encounter but lies instead in a comic strain whose two archetypes are
Passport to Pimlico [1949, Henry Cornelius] and Kind Hearts and
Coronets [1949, Robert Hamer]. Unfortunately, the circumstances and
the selections at Cannes were such that no )lm representing this
humorous trend was crowned in 1946, whereas The Third Man [1949,
Carol Reed] won the Grand Prize in 1949. Yet whatever the ultimate value
of this picture by Carol Reed, I cannot at the moment see in it more than
the achievement of a certain level of academicism. Last year, incidentally,
Britain was no longer on the list at all except for a short titled Animated
Genesis [1952, Peter Foldes & Joan Foldes].
The overwhelming beauty of María Candelaria [1944, Emilio
Fernández] drew attention to Mexico, whose pre-war production was
nonexistent. I admired in this )lm the miraculous alliance of a supreme
concentration of cinematographic plasticity with the profound simplicity
of a national inspiration that restored to the themes of peasant
melodrama the simple truth of epic poetry. Rare, in our time, is the
con-uence of grand, traditional inspiration and the most advanced
technique. Meanwhile, Mexican cinema happily made us think of the
drama of the Spaniard Federico García Lorca. Still, alas, its promise has
only partly been ful)lled. From festival to festival, the director Emilio
Fernández and his cinematographer, Gabriel Figueroa, have shown us
pictures better and better photographed, yet whose preciosity was able,
less and less, to hide under all the lace the melodramatic trappings of plot.
26
It was not really until 1951 that Mexico found its place on the Cannes
charts, and this time with a )lm that completely broke with the baroque
academicism that Fernández and Figueroa had championed. But Los
Olvidados [The Young and the Damned: 1950, Luis Buñuel], a raw and
cruel work in which the milk of tenderness nonetheless secretly -ows—
the kind of tenderness that will subsequently inundate Ascent to Heaven
[a.k.a. Mexican Bus Ride: 1952, Luis Buñuel]—was a sign of something
even greater: the unexpected awakening of a genius in Buñuel.
Can we now, with The Last Chance [1945, Leopold Lindtberg], talk
about a Swiss cinema? Rather, the appearance in Switzerland of an
international cinema speci)c to the postwar period? What struck me in
Lindtberg’s movie was the recognition of one of the most painful specters
of our time, which combined human su,ering, mass graves, and multiple
crematoria in the victimization of innocents from many countries.
Lindtberg was able to make this specter the very inspiration of, and the
profound justi)cation for, his )lm. Let us not try to persuade ourselves,
however, that the result has been so fruitful. By virtue of its distribution
system and commercial dimension, cinema—especially of the kind
represented by The Last Chance—is an international art, but, from an
artistic point of view, this is less an advantage than a form of servitude.
And yet the development of the practice of multinational co-production,
as in the Swiss case, seems to have con)rmed the economic sense of such a
historical conjuncture. In fact, if there are good co-productions (as was
The Walls of Malapaga [1949], by René Clément), it is in spite of their
international character, insofar as their creators know how to forget about
that aspect and not pay it any attention at all. Marriages of reason, after
all, are not necessarily more unhappy than marriages of love.
Sweden, for its part, gave us a shot to the groin with Iris and the
Lieutenant [1946], by Alf Sjöberg. Was this supposed to mark the revival
of a cinema that once was equal to the Soviet and the American ones?
Miss Julie [1951, Alf Sjöberg] and One Summer of Happiness [1951, Arne
Mattsson], to take only the most recent examples, do partially con)rm
our hopes for such a revival. Swedish cinema exists again; it is alive. But its
current qualities are not commensurate with those that constituted its
past grandeur. This cinema has a formalistic intelligence that knows how
27
to assimilate di,erent in-uences with a dexterity that is sometimes
creative; by means of elementary inspiration, these di,erent in-uences
sometimes strangely combine in such a way that the forces of the
psychological and ethnic unconscious restore to an inauthentic
aestheticism the irrefutable rigor of a dream. Still, despite a few interesting
successes that seem always to come out of nowhere, the new Nordic
cinema has not managed to rise to the forefront of postwar global
production.
I have deliberately reserved some space here for the American cinema,
since its historical, economic, and artistic importance justi)es its being
examined separately. Yet the place of the United States among the 1946
winners at Cannes is limited, since it appears on the prize list only three
times, and two of those prizes went to The Lost Weekend [1945, Billy
Wilder]. Given the quantity of its production and its obvious technical
superiority, the American cinema was the great loser, then—not only at
Cannes 1946, but also at the other four Cannes festivals. Since the war,
too many critical reasons, beginning with the vicissitudes of screen
romance, have been combining in rebuke of American )lm, such that one
no longer feels the need to react against the whore of its decadence—only
to examine it with a measured and objective attention.
The position achieved by the American cinema, both at Cannes and
Venice, certainly re-ects a reality: that Hollywood enjoyed a particularly
good period from 1940 to 1946—from Citizen Kane [1941, Orson Welles]
to The Best Years of Our Lives [1946, William Wyler]—which the festivals,
coming later, were unable to re-ect. The postwar movies of the United
States therefore were inevitably judged, on the one hand, relative to the
best of those produced by Hollywood during the previous )ve years, and
from which we in Europe bene)ted in one fell swoop following the
Liberation; and the postwar U.S. movies were judged, on the other hand,
with reference to the dazzling renewal of European )lm production
subsequent to 1945. In both cases, the comparison necessarily disfavored
an American output not only incapable of falling below a certain quality,
but also weighed down in its evolution by the very richness of its past and
its previous economic success.
28
Speaking of Hollywood decadence, however, is a little too easy. The
proof of this, to be sure, can be found in the absence there of masterpieces
or even truly original works, yet if, by analogy, we remove from the
French seventeenth-century Corneille, Racine, La Fontaine, and Molière,
and from the eighteenth century Voltaire, Rousseau, Diderot, and Sade,
what would remain? Only an immense literature testifying almost
anonymously to a general mastery of the French language. All those who
wrote at this time, wrote well. The best and truest authors dominate in
retrospect the high plateaus of style, but once you leave that place,
academic bias virtually reduces the neoclassical literary phenomenon to
the work of these great few. Is it not more astonishing, though, to see a
special rhythm of line, a particular propriety of word choice, and a certain
elegant rigor of syntax in the work of some little marquis—all of which
make him appear to be Saint-Simon? Back then, reading and writing were
skills of a privileged class. Rhetoric was learned along with grammar: both
were thus social skills, like the code of politeness observed at court and in
salons. Hollywood is also, and )rst of all, a place where the acquisition of
a rhetoric makes the most minor of masters, not equal to the greatest, but
at least connected with them. If these lesser lights do not use their rhetoric
with the same felicitousness, in any case they speak the same language.
Yet the )lm festivals by their very nature cannot retain anything of
these di,use and anonymous qualities. A prize list consists only of a few
titles and names. In 1946, for example, The Lost Weekend won a grand
prize, even though it is a pretentious work that made a false social and
psychological impression—one that somehow appeared to be a
manifestation of genuine originality on the part of its creators—on the
moviegoing public and the Cannes jury. At the same time, the better
Gilda [1946, Charles Vidor] and Notorious [1946, Alfred Hitchcock] were
treated with ironic indi,erence. But 1946 was much more the year of the
blossoming of the Rita Hayworth myth, in the admirable rhetoric of
Gilda, than the year of Billy Wilder’s )rst “great )lm.”
There is no doubt that American studios have never fully looked after
their own best interests at the European festivals. In the best of scenarios,
they have made them a launching pad for their prestigious productions,
yet these productions do not represent the best of American cinema.
29
Most of the time, they transmit an academicism that is at once luxurious,
ambitious, and naïve, and which cannot withstand comparison to the
vigor, poetry, and invention of half a dozen )lms produced each year
somewhere in the world other than Hollywood. How does the cruelty of
Sunset Boulevard [1950, Billy Wilder], for instance, measure up against
that of Los Olvidados? The most ignorant jury on earth would be able to
answer this question correctly. It is also true, however, that such a jury
could never do justice to the anonymous qualities of commercial
American production.
So? So it seems to me that the American festival selection should give
more of a place to the few special works among its annual production. I
mean )lms that are often independent, or produced by the large studios
on the margins—outside their ordinary schedule and sometimes with
small means—but where there can frequently be found a refuge for what
remains of freedom, invention, and individuality in the studio system.
Without question, to take only a recent example, a western like High
Noon [1952, Fred Zinnemann] would have found a place of honor on the
prize list of some European festival. Moreover, the American movies that
win awards at Cannes are precisely those that come closest to this special
artistic formula, be it Crossfire [1947, Edward Dmytryk], The Set-Up
[1949, Robert Wise], Lost Boundaries [1949, Alfred L. Werker], All About
Eve [1950, Joseph L. Mankiewicz], or The Medium [1951, Gian Carlo
Menotti]. Still, these titles certainly do not represent the utmost in
originality in American independent production. It was precisely for the
discovery of such pictures that the Biarritz Festival itself was founded.
I cannot describe the history of the Cannes Festival without
remembering the moral crisis through which it passed between 1947 and
1949 (like the one undergone by Venice). After the triumph of the )rst
festival in 1946, the ones that followed could only disappoint. Their
arti)cial requirements, their diplomatic concessions, and their
overpublicized worldliness condemned them to a certain academicism, as
well as to perhaps unduly serving the movie industry at the expense of
cinematic art. At the same time, the multiplication of festivals (that of
Brussels, then of Belgium’s Knokke-le-Zoute, and )nally of the Czech
festival in Mariánské Lázně [Marienbad]) diminished the prestige of each
30
one and deleteriously divided interest among the various )lms presented.
It is from this combination of events that France’s Biarritz Festival of
“Cursed Film” was born and, to a large extent, also her Antibes Festival.
Without appreciating here their particular focus or the degree of their
necessity, it su.ces to note that Biarritz and Antibes provoked a sympathy
that was not the least of their assets—sympathy commensurate with the
hope that was subsequently placed in attempts to revitalize the very
formula of )lm festivals.
That this Olympic torch of sorts was not transferred to the second
Biarritz Festival proves, )rst, that the Cannes Festival had recovered at
least some of its lost con)dence. Since Cannes and the other festivals
survived the moral crisis of 1948, I believe that their existence is no longer
seriously in jeopardy, that, beyond often exceptional enthusiasm and
sometimes excessive disappointment, they will continue to glorify the
cinema, to aid its recognition in a contest that is perhaps not without
-aws, yet whose need is de)nitely felt. Merely imagining the
disappearance of the Cannes Film Festival is enough to comprehend that
we could no longer do without it. However imperfect it may seem to us
each year, despite the criticisms made of it (but made less and less), it
forms part of the annual calendar, like the seasons and the holidays.
Before Venice, which inaugurates the autumn, Cannes heralds, in the
spring, the )rst of the two great cinematographic migrations.
From Japan and Sweden, from California and South Africa, from
India, Malaysia, Argentina, and elsewhere, all the )lms leave for Cannes’s
Promenade of the Croisette like the eels for the Sargasso Sea. Fertilized
there, for a fortnight, by the seed of criticism, they will return to their
national estuaries of exclusivity, then slowly ascend through the network
of rivers to be found in various hill countries. In three or four years,
)nally, these motion pictures will be seen in lost mountain villages at the
sources of torrents, worn down, reduced to 16 millimeter, with one less
row of teeth and the remaining row in poor condition, but still proudly
displaying their generic badge: Grand Prize of the Cannes Film Festival.
(Cahiers du cinéma, April 1953)
31
Cannes, 1952-53
Italy has rightly won the Palme d’Or [Golden Palm] for the best national
entry at the 1952 Cannes Film Festival. This country certainly deserved it,
and the grand prize for Two Cents’ Worth of Hope [1952, Renato
Castellani] was the only one that was unanimously awarded.
Its selection con)rms once again not only the vitality of the Italian
cinema, but also its unity in diversity. No other national )lm output of
this importance has exhibited so many common characteristics, and with
such continuity, over the past seven years. The term “neorealism,” which
has almost become a synonym for “Italian cinema,” perhaps covers the
many nuances among individual works of the movement. Yet whatever
the term’s intrinsic critical value, what jumps out at you again and again is
that it corresponds, at least on the level of kinship, to the irrefutable
consanguinity of everything that counts in the Italian cinema since the
war.
And the 1952 Italian roster at Cannes is no exception. On the
contrary, its very variety con)rms the consanguinity of which I’m
speaking. Between the Alberto Lattuada of The Overcoat [1952] and the
Renato Castellani of Two Cents’ Worth of Hope, there are, mutatis
mutandis, as many di,erences as between, say, Marcel Carné and Jacques
Becker. Perhaps more. But these di,erences do not prevail against the
deeper similarities—similarities for which one searches in vain in the
French cinema. Whether, like Castellani, the Italians defend themselves
against the neorealist label with the energy of a devil caught in a holy-
water font, or, at the opposite extreme, they claim it as a -ag, like Cesare
Zavattini, the word “neorealism” all the same has something good about
it.
What follows is some comment on three of the Italian entries at the
1952 Cannes Film Festival, apart from Two Cents’ Worth of Hope: Umberto
32
D. [1952, Vittorio De Sica], The Overcoat, and Cops and Robbers [1951,
Steno (Stefano Vanzina) & Mario Monicelli].
Umberto D.
In the oeuvre of Cesare Zavattini and Vittorio De Sica, Miracle in Milan
[1951] was a parenthetical work. It was an excursion into fantasy, related to
realism and in its service perhaps, but generally following a di,erent path
from the one de)ned by Shoeshine [1946] and Bicycle Thieves [1948]. With
Umberto D. [1952], this screenwriter and director return to pure
neorealism.
Now an eccentricity of Zavattini’s is his claim that Italian cinema
must, contrary to all evidence, “transcend” neorealism. This is a perilous
and paradoxical position after the success of Bicycle Thieves, which
represented the pinnacle from which any artist could only descend. But
Umberto D. proves that the undeniable perfection of Bicycle Thieves does
not delimit the neorealist aesthetic. This latest )lm succeeds, rather than
in the strict application of the laws of neorealist form, in creating an
almost miraculous equilibrium between neorealism’s revolutionary
conception of screenwriting and the exigencies of classical storytelling.
Where one would never have believed that such a compromise could exist,
these )lm artists have arrived at an ideal synthesis between the necessary
rigor of tragedy and the spontaneous -uidity of daily reality. For
Zavattini, however, this success did not come without sacri)cing a part of
his aesthetic theory, which we all know would create a cinematic
“spectacle” of ninety minutes in the life of a man to whom nothing ever
happens. An impossible task, perhaps, except in a theoretical )lm that
would re-ect reality like a two-way mirror, but such a deeply aesthetic
notion is as inexhaustible as nature itself.
From this point of view, Umberto D. tries to go, and succeeds in
going, much further than Bicycle Thieves did. Disagreement will
inevitably arise, because the )lm’s sociopolitical themes and its sentiment
may make some people consider it a plea for old-age pensions, while
others dismiss it as nothing but a populist melodrama. There will always
be the carping critic who wants to mock De Sica’s “faint heart,” yet it is
clear that the real )lm here is much more than the sum of its parts. The
33
story of Umberto D. (if one can still speak in this instance of a story or
plot), which concerns a retired bureaucrat and his dog, is as much about
the times when “nothing happens” as it is about dramatic events, such as
the protagonist’s failed suicide. De Sica dedicates more than one reel to
showing us Umberto D. in his room, closing his shutters, arranging
various objects, looking at his tonsils, going to bed, taking his
temperature. Too many pills for a sore throat, I have to say! Enough pills
for suicide … The sore throat plays its small role in the plot, but the most
beautiful sequence in the )lm, the awakening of the little maid, rigorously
avoids dramatic italicizing. The young girl gets up, comes and goes in the
kitchen, hunts down ants, grinds the co,ee … and all these “irrelevant”
actions are reported to us with meticulous temporal continuity.
I mentioned to Zavattini that this last scene sustains our un-agging
interest, whereas Umberto D.’s bedroom scene does not succeed in the
same way. “You see,” he told me, “that the aesthetic principle is not in
question, but only its application. The more screenwriters reject genres of
action and spectacle and try to make a story conform to the continuity of
everyday life, the more choosing from among the in)nite events of
someone’s life becomes a delicate, problematic issue. The fact that you
were bored by Umberto D.’s sore throat, yet moved to tears by my little
heroine’s co,ee grinder, only proves that I chose the second time what I,
and perhaps you, had not conceived of before.”
This is an uneven )lm, certainly, and one that does not satisfy the
soul as much as Bicycle Thieves, but Umberto D. is also a )lm whose
weaknesses are due only to its ambitions. This places it not only in the
forefront of neorealism, but at the very edge of the invisible avant-garde,
which I, in my own small way, hope to promote.
The Overcoat
Alberto Lattuada holds an unusual place in postwar Italian cinema. His
training (he is one of the founders of the Italian National Film Archive),
and even more so his temperament, place him at the opposite end of
“neorealism” as it is usually understood. Lattuada brings to )lm form, in
style of image and editing, a wide and highly knowledgeable interest in
cinematographic art. While most Italian movies appeal to us through
34
their lyricism, their warmth, their over-owing sensibility, or simply their
geniality, those of Lattuada, by contrast, showcase the intelligence of a
concerted, lucid mise-en-scène at the very limit of coldness or austerity. It is
perhaps because of this duality in his work between aesthetic rigor, almost
formalistic in its application, and some of the themes and means of
neorealism that Lattuada has not always been justly treated by the French
critics. Because his )lms do not seem to meet French expectations of the
Italian cinema as plainly as some other works do, our audiences have also
unfairly shunned him. The commercial failure in France of The Mill on
the Po [1949] is the most scandalous example of this.
Perhaps it is to these prejudices that The Overcoat [1952] owes its
failure to win the most important award—the Golden Palm—at the
Cannes Festival, which it well deserved. Although the )lm was nearly
unanimously admired, the grand prize was won instead by another Italian
picture, Two Cents’ Worth of Hope [1952], by Renato Castellani. The
second award won by the Italians, for best screenplay, was unfortunately
wasted on the most conventional movie in the competition, Cops and
Robbers [1951, Steno (Stefano Vanzina) & Mario Monicelli].
I hope, in any case, that The Overcoat )nally reveals to the general
public, with regard to the negative criticism of Lattuada, the real merits of
this artist. I think the )lm deserves recognition, not only because it is the
best of his pictures to date, but also because the very qualities that worked
against their author in Without Pity [1948] and The Mill on the Po serve
him well here. What appeared to be too calculated in Lattuada’s directing
of dramatic scenarios is, on the contrary, perfectly suited to comic subjects
such as this one. Precision and rigor can curb emotion, but they increase
the e,ectiveness of irony and satire. It seems to me that Lattuada should
continue in this direction.
For its part, his adaptation of Nikolai Gogol’s 1842 short story of the
same name is exemplary in its intelligence. Lattuada knew how to preserve
the spirit of the original while taking the liberty to transpose it into a half-
imaginary, almost Kafkaesque Italy. The success of the )lm version of The
Overcoat is also due to the sensational performance by Renato Rascel in
the leading role. He creates a character, in Carmine de Carmine, who
35
obviously owes much to Chaplin’s Tramp, yet without our ever feeling
that this visible in-uence amounts to something like plagiarism.
37
Alas, the intellectual level of the Cannes Film Festival, or rather its
overall climate, is insu.cient, whatever the ultimate cause. On this point,
comparison with Venice is very unfavorable. I wrote last year that it was
normal and desirable that Cannes should commit itself to the
glori)cation of cinema. To be sure, the presence of stars and of all the
other Very Important People contributes e,ectively to the Festival’s
success, but it is necessary that, over and above such a worldly liturgy, the
art to be consecrated not be forgotten. The only moment we felt the spirit
of cinema in the air this year was during the Jean Epstein retrospective,
not so much because of the )lm excerpts presented by Henri Langlois [of
the Cinémathèque Française] as because of the almost religious fervor of
speeches by the writer-directors Jean Cocteau, Abel Gance, Charles
Spaak, and Jean Dréville in honor of the late )lmmaker, theorist, and
critic Epstein [1897-1953]. No one was there except out of love and respect
for the cinema: art alone was at stake. This retrospective—really a small
ceremony—nearly took on the shape of a cult of initiates and a Mass in
the Roman catacombs. Consequently, one felt revitalized as if by the
sacrament of Holy Communion.
As for business, I am told that the )nancial transactions taking place
at Cannes are becoming increasingly important, and that they concern
not only the )lms in competition, but also all the ones that on this
occasion are projected in private screening rooms throughout the city. So
much the better. It is clear that the economic importance of the Cannes
Festival is a safer guarantee of its existence than simply its artistic scope.
Nor am I naïve enough to deny that mercantile interests can possibly serve
art. After all, a festival can ultimately prove that quality pays. To wit: it is
Venice that launched the Japanese cinema on the Western market with
Rashomon [1950, Akira Kurosawa], Cannes that sold Los Olvidados [The
Young and the Damned: 1950, Luis Buñuel] to moviegoers, as well as, after
it, Buñuel’s Ascent to Heaven [a.k.a. Mexican Bus Ride, 1952] and even
Susana [a.k.a. The Devil and the Flesh, 1951]. Encouraged by these
examples, countries of hitherto clumsily commercial production have
conducted their own e,orts to make an honorable showing on the world
stage: thus this year, Brazil. The success of The Bandit [1953, Lima
38
Barreto] at Cannes will certainly do much more to enhance the export of
Brazilian cinema than all the e,orts of )lm distributors across the globe.
Yet, if artistic quality can be the consequence of commercial
emulation, logic, and experience, what next? Art most often su,ers from
economic ambitions: that is the truth. The danger of the Cannes
Festival’s increasing dependence on its mercantile aspect must therefore
not be disguised. We see this directly in the case of this year’s American
selection, which is scandalously incongruous and not at all representative
of U.S. movie production in 1953. If Republic Pictures, for example,
prefers to send to Cannes The Sun Shines Bright [1953, John Ford], then
the nascent Berlin Film Festival and the German market are starting to
look more appealing! Hollywood is well-enough organized, from an
advertising point of view, to conquer any market in the long run, but it is
suspicious of the short-term risks of Festival prize lists—hence the “safe”
choice of Ford’s latest picture.
Certainly the Cannes Festival’s management must take into account
the more or less exclusive pro)t-making concerns of the participants. It is
in the Festival’s interest to do so, and I have no reason to blame the
leadership; on the contrary, I will praise all e,orts to reconcile the pressing
demands of the motion-picture industry with the pure prestige of
cinematic art. I will only insist that, in proportion to its commercial
success, the Cannes Film Festival understand the vital importance of
multiplying and fortifying all the behind-the-scenes, impartial intellectual
activities, so as to guarantee that, beyond the necessary spectacle of the
show window, the store shelves will be well stocked with merchandise
that does not deceive, that lives up to its hype. Beneath the super)cial
geography of recent )lm production, then, Cannes must deepen the
geology of cinema. Reduced only to the presentation of the movies that
the various participating nations wish to send it, the Festival will
inevitably have bad years like this one. At such times, I’ll be very happy to
go and consume a better product—in a bar. In short, what I and others
want is a festival of three dimensions. (Cahiers du cinéma, June 1952 &
May 1953)
39
Venice, 1952-53
No doubt that there was some injustice—and consequently some
disappointment—in the English selection at the 1952 Venice Film Festival.
Its qualities were hardly exportable, like some beers that do not travel well.
This is obviously the case for The Brave Don’t Cry [1952, Philip Leacock],
an incredibly annoying picture from a Mediterranean point of view yet in
which I well see what the British )nd so estimable. I refer to the
uncompromising transposition of the reconstituted documentary to the
movie romance. It was not for nothing that the documentarian John
Grierson [1898-1972] was interested in this )lm—so much so that he
produced it. I am told that the dialogue is admirable in its realism and
modesty. I understand this compliment, but, God, such a rejection of the
lyricism of bonhomie, such restraint in the use of spectacular e,ects, can
ultimately be annoying.
This is not the case for Mandy [1952, Alexander Mackendrick]. But at
the price, it is true, of some regrettable concessions to the most banal and
sentimental kind of conventionality. A comparison is necessary here with
The Night Is My Kingdom [1951, Georges Lacombe], to which
Mackendrick’s )lm is unquestionably superior in its essential element—
that is to say, the use of the documentary theme, here the education of a
deaf child. The three or four very good moments in the picture absolutely
do not cheat us of their subject. Besides, the heroine is a )ve-year-old girl,
and it is she alone who moves us. The sentimental relations of the mother
with her husband, then with her daughter’s teacher, leave us absolutely
cold. In this respect, Lacombe’s movie, though less pure on the whole,
was better, for it succeeded in linking the documentary element to the
love story in a felicitous and highly probable way.
The Respectful Prostitute [1953, Marcello Pagliero] is the )lm that
made the most noise at the Venice Festival of 1952, however. No doubt
only the atmospheric humidity there prevented certain discussions from
40
degenerating into )ghts. The missing ellipsis in the movie’s title and the
American defamation campaign alone cannot be held responsible,
though, for a scandal that neither the Christian Democratic leadership of
the Festival nor especially the makers of the French )lm had in any way
foreseen.
The root cause of the scandal will be grasped if one knows that even
young Americans who are not suspected of political chauvinism, such as
my friend the cineaste Curtis Harrington [1926-2007], called for the
invocation of the “insult to a friendly nation” clause, which is provided
for in the rules of the Festival. These Americans, nevertheless, are the very
same ones who have made Jean-Paul Sartre’s 1946 source play [of the same
name] a theatrical success in New York and California. Now, not only
does Marcello Pagliero’s The Respectful Prostitute decline to augment the
thesis of the original dramatic work, but it also substantially attenuates
the dénouement. Let me add, to be fair, that the Americans were not
alone in being scandalized, and that many other foreigners—to whom
Sartre’s play was not unknown—shared their indignation.
In the end, almost all the quarrels curiously had to do only with the
question of substance. For some reason, everyone acted as if the same
characters, the same set of facts, the same political and moral theses had
become false or excessive, to the point of being intolerable, as they passed
from the stage to the screen. Yet I am convinced, on the other hand (and
the success of the )lm in its few regional releases seems to bear me out),
that this dispute has taken on such magnitude only before a non-French
audience. The question is, why?
Well, for two connected reasons, it seems to me: one general, the
other particular, each of which singularly illuminates the overall
relationship between the theater and the cinema. A play is )rst a text—
that is, an abstraction, a set of ideas on the page. It reaches you initially,
not through the senses, but through the intelligence. Nonetheless, it can
reach you, in the second instance, through performance: and The
Respectful Prostitute, as presented onstage in Manhattan or Los Angeles, is
still Sartre’s play, only interpreted this time by American actors and
directed by an American for Americans. Between this abstraction, the
41
text, and its spectators in the theater, there is thus interposed a bit of
prismatic play that colors the )nal aesthetic reality.
It is a commonplace, of course, to recall the power of the cinematic
image in contrast to that of the written word. However, it should again be
noted in cases like the one under consideration here. In spite of a relative
modesty that remains well below Sartre’s boldness in turning the realities
of his play into sheer theatrical con-ict, this drama of racial tension
becomes shocking on screen as soon as that tension a,ects the viewer’s
moral and political passions. Whereas in the theater the viewer was
interested in the relationship between these passions of his, when
watching the )lm he becomes concerned only with their very reality.
More than anything else, the existence of Pagliero’s Respectful Prostitute
)xes that reality in a given interpretation once and for all; and this
interpretation, conceived in France for a French public, can be critically
assimilated by a foreigner, even a non-American, only at the price of great
e,ort—or willful ignorance.
It goes without saying that the play’s action takes place in the United
States, and that a production )lmed in a French studio is therefore by its
very nature false, if otherwise a matter of artistic convention. This was the
tremendous reproach made against The Respectful Prostitute in order to
savage it, as the )lm provoked the ridicule of a Hollywood that itself is
guilty of attempts to replicate French life on screen. But such a major
criticism of Pagliero is not a particularly re-ective one, because, )rst of all,
we do not apply the reproach to Sartre, who also is guilty of “foreign
transposition” in his choice of subject and setting. Secondly, because
Hollywood itself is ridiculous only insofar as it pretends to a faithful
representation of French life without consciousness of its fundamental
inadequacy. Yet Hollywood is ridiculous neither in the case of An
American in Paris [1951, Vincente Minnelli] nor in that of Monsieur
Verdoux [1947, Charles Chaplin], because the representation in these
instances is acknowledged to be a convention. Obviously, it was Marcello
Pagliero’s intention to do this, as well.
Unfortunately, the power of cinematographic realism is so great that,
in the case of The Respectful Prostitute, no foreign viewer would be able to
make the thoroughgoing e,ort required to critically comprehend this
42
work on his own. Such e,ort will not be necessary, though, for most
French viewers, insofar as the convention adopted by Pagliero is a French
interpretation of America through American )lms, which themselves are
already a convention in relation to American reality.
Imagine with me, now, that the International Federation of Film
Archives [FIAF] has decided to build an atomic-bomb shelter that will
permit our grandchildren or Martians to discover the masterpieces of
cinema before the disintegration of any one )lm can occur.
Unfortunately, although it is larger than FIAF founder Henri Langlois’s
famous bath (as famous as that of Jean-Paul Marat), the shelter in
question can still contain only a limited number of prints, and therefore
we must not think of preserving more than one picture for each of the
great directors. The president of the FIAF has asked René Clair himself to
designate for archiving the most representative )lm of his oeuvre to date.
Choosing is as di.cult as it is cruel! In order to get out of doing so,
the director of The Million [1931] and Freedom for Us [1931] comes up
with the ideal solution: to realize a new )lm that will be a synthesis of all
his previous cinematic creations. The quintessence of his style then
becomes Beauties of the Night [1952]. Of Beauties of the Night, one can
indeed say that it is René Clair’s masterpiece in the artisanal sense of the
word: the workmanlike companion piece to his previous achievements.
The director is pleased to assemble here all the problems of scripting and
mise-en-scène to which he once brought elegant solutions, but which he
solves in this case only through the added irony of ease and control.
René Clair came to )lm when he was just beginning to become aware
of its existence, and we know the pleasure he derived from a systematic
return to the dumb-show of early or primitive cinema: to silent tricks and
chases, in particular. But in Beauties of the Night, Clair becomes
something like the primitive of himself as, by a kind of irony in the second
degree, he returns to the origins of his own mise-en-scène. Thus the
stylization of the décor in the protagonist’s dreams comes directly from
the style of “camaïeu” [a technique that employs two or three shades of a
single color, other than gray, to create a monochromatic image without
regard for realistic color] used by the art director Lazare Meerson [1900-
38] to tint the costumes and sets in The Million and Freedom for Us. The
43
director’s most conspicuous borrowing, however, comes in the treatment
of sound and the use of what might be called counter-sound, by analogy
with the technique used in )ghting forest )res. This gave rise early in
Clair’s career to rather short gags, especially in Under the Roofs of Paris
[1930] and The Ghost Goes West [1935], in which we were prevented from
hearing dialogue through a natural obstacle like a glass door or a closed
window. In Beauties of the Night, the idea is pushed further: when the
hero wants to speak, a formidable noise (from a motor, a hammer, or a
perforator) drowns out his voice and sets up a sound wall. Hence, the
excess of sound here renders the cinema silent. The actor becomes as mute
as a carp in this particular noise aquarium.
These remarks are not necessarily meant to be restrictive or
prescriptive: on the contrary. First of all, because René Clair has the right
to be … René Clair, but also because my remarks assume on the part of
the director of The Million an unusually perspicacious cinematographic
mind. Indeed, the sentimental and absurd criticism that the author of
Monsieur Verdoux should have remade The Pilgrim [1923, Charles
Chaplin] instead, or that the creator of The River [1951, Jean Renoir]
betrayed his Rules of the Game [1939, Jean Renoir], ignores the following
psychological evidence: that, in 1952, Chaplin could no longer have made,
say, The Gold Rush [1925], any more than Renoir could have directed
Boudu Saved from Drowning [1932]. Perhaps it is the misfortune of
Marcel Carné that he himself does not dare to venture outside his artistic
“comfort zone.” By contrast, how many directors among the greatest
(Erich von Stroheim, Abel Gance, etc.) have disappeared from the )lm
game because repetition was forbidden to them and evolution
impossible? René Clair, for his part, is undoubtedly the only director in
the world capable of repeating himself with lucidity and irony—in other
words, with the intelligence necessary to make the operation a success.
What we can only fear is that so much intelligence is also a limitation.
That said, I certainly have less admiration, but perhaps more respect, for
the risks taken by Clair in Beauty and the Devil [1950]. Moreover, Silence
Is Golden [1947] itself constitutes a real novelty in Clair’s oeuvre, at least in
certain respects. Yet it is not to the René Clair of Beauties of the Night that
one could apply the serene uneasiness that Jean Renoir once felt, and
44
expressed in a letter to Cahiers du cinéma, as he looked ahead to his own
future. What we can admit is that Clair felt the need, in this latest )lm, to
take stock of himself, to liquidate his past, to )nish with René Clair. But
the whole problem lies right there: we are all waiting for the next René
Clair picture.
Legitimate Suspicion
It is a rule that the results of )lm festivals cause endless controversy, the
gnashing of teeth, even the cry of scandal! This year’s Pasinetti Award for
Ugetsu with twenty votes [Little Fugitive got twelve votes and Vasili’s
Return eight] is certainly more satisfying than the o.cial prize list. Not
completely satisfactory, though. In every art form, recognition of the most
audacious and valuable works is di.cult to achieve. In the cinema, would
it be any less di.cult to achieve such recognition at Venice than at some
other festival? Did criticism, on this occasion, assume its proper role?
Insu.ciently, I fear.
48
It’s not just o.cial juries, then, but )lm critics as well that paid
almost no attention at the 1953 Venice Festival to The Solitary Conquerors
[1952, Claude Vermorel], Monsoon [1952, Rod Amateau], and Europe ’51
[1952, Roberto Rossellini]; and at Cannes ’53, the critics similarly ignored
The Three Perfect Wives [1953, Roberto Gavaldón] and Él [This Strange
Passion: 1953, Luis Buñuel]. Moreover, if the Venice jury rewards Sadko
with a Silver Lion and not Vasili’s Return, and places on the same plane I
vitelloni [1953, Federico Fellini], Ugetsu, Moulin Rouge, and Little Fugitive
[each of these four pictures received a Silver Lion], should we be surprised
when the critics ignore Two Acres of Land [1953, Bimal Roy] and The
Vanquished [1953, Michelangelo Antonioni] in their reviews simply
because these movies did not participate directly in the 1953 Venetian
competition? So )lm critics themselves must ultimately take a good deal
of responsibility for the suspicion, not entirely illegitimate, with which
festivals are regarded when it comes to the just evaluation of
cinematographic art.
Interviews
With few exceptions, this festival-without-brilliance was distinguished less
by the works presented—which year by year, through a kind of hardening
of the arteries that has resulted in dry academicism, decline in force and
originality—than by the movie personalities who allowed themselves to
be interviewed.
50
Cahiers du cinéma itself was able to interview the most extraordinary
personality of the Venice Festival, whose Homeric look almost eclipses
that of the blond Ulysses known as Kirk Douglas: John Huston. He
possesses a royal ease, a distant charm, a studied nonchalance, and
something of the weariness of a journeyman boxer. Such are the qualities
of the director of The Asphalt Jungle [1950], which are further augmented
by the strangeness of his out)t: very narrow pants wrapped around long,
slightly crooked legs, and extending down to extravagant black suede
shoes embroidered with gold and adorned, at their tips, with fox heads.
I immediately spoke with John Huston about the recently released
Red Badge of Courage [1951]: he con)rmed my interpretation of the work
as an essay on the triumph of willpower. More than anything else, its
subject concerns the issue of discovering and activating one’s own will.
Whatever the )nal outcome, only readiness—inclination or proclivity—
matters. The -ow of words comes fast; Huston often repeats the terms
“try” and “trial” as if they were sharp reefs rising out of the sea. Asked
about Moulin Rouge, he lets me know that he was particularly attracted
(perhaps at the expense of the script on which any picture depends) to the
movie’s use of color. He sought to use it not in the banal, specious sense
of attempting to create a “natural vision,” but in a pictorial sense (like
Jean Renoir in his latest )lms, which succeed by also assigning a dramatic
function to color)—the golden rule, it seems, of everything made after
Technicolor. Since I had not yet seen Moulin Rouge, my questions lacked
precision. And since Huston then said, “What counts is not the result,
but the enterprise itself: the justi)cation is in the enterprise,” it was only
fair to grant him the bene)t of the doubt accruing from his own aesthetic
system…. In a serious tone shot through with slivers of cold irony, Huston
soon ended the interview with the announcement of a future )lm project
set in the Orient [The Barbarian and the Geisha (1958)].
During my conversation with Yves Allégret, after the screening of The
Proud and the Beautiful, he gave some explanations concerning the rather
considerable transpositions he made to Jean-Paul Sartre’s “Typhus,” the
)lm’s 1944 source story, set in China, where the theme of racism is of
great importance. The new setting of Mexico, for its part, was responsible
for a certain number of structural changes to the picture that turned it
51
into just another conventional scenario. Having arrived in a foreign
country with its own long history, Allégret, after a few months of research
that preceded the shooting, decided to change signi)cantly the blueprint
for his )lm, and the story was further nibbled away by the landscape of
the country, by the socio-cultural atmosphere, by Mexican life itself. It is
important to add that in The Proud and the Beautiful, the director has
retained the internal evolution of Sartre’s characters, without, however,
su.ciently tracing all the stages of an itinerary that one wishes had been
less succinct. At the same time, Allégret had to establish a balance
between the psychological journey of his characters and a physical
environment that seems to overwhelm them—a tour de force that is
di.cult to achieve.
The question of Michèle Morgan comes up in our conversation, and,
more relaxed and animated than usual, Allégret replies that his actress was
aware of the screenplay’s modi)cations to Sartre’s story and of what was
being asked of her in this new context, and that she willingly lent herself
to the project. The discussion then switches to the boldness of Allégret’s
cinematic realization, which is the subject of the section directly below.
The director of The Proud and the Beautiful )nally declares that he would
like to return to Mexico to make another )lm [something that never
happens] and excuses himself.
My )nal interview took place on the last night of the festival when I
met one of the most remarkable men of contemporary cinema:
Michelangelo Antonioni. His )lm The Vanquished [1952] had been
screened a few hours earlier—unfortunately, out of competition. A very
courteous man of a certain gravity, a bit distant yet outwardly calm, he has
a curious tic that suddenly makes him pull his head to one side as he
answers questions.
Initially a )lm critic, Antonioni fell quite naturally into directing.
Interestingly, one of his )rst assignments was to work with Marcel Carné
on The Devil’s Envoys [1942], but the Italian’s reserve prevents him from
revealing his exact role in the realization of this French picture. “I was
something like an assistant,” he )nally confesses. Then, both during and
right after the war, he began to make short )lms; one of them, Antonioni
was eager to tell me, was among the )rst manifestations of a nascent
52
neorealism, a kind of reportage concerning Italian streetsweepers and
their world: Dustmen, from 1948. Nine additional shorts followed. Then
came his )rst feature, the dazzling début that we all know: Story of a Love
Affair [1950]. Recently, he also completed The Lady without Camelias
[1953].
A year before Camelias, Antonioni made The Vanquished, which is
composed of three stories—one French, one Italian, and one English—
about youths who commit murders. With a bit of hesitation, a somewhat
confused ardor, I question him about the artistic secret behind The
Vanquished: apart from the common subject throughout, how did he give
the )lm its unity or homogeneity despite the fact that it consists of three
di,erent episodes, each so uniquely adapted to its respective national
climate? (The British episode is more masterfully treated than the other
two.) You always get the same response, however, when you ask a
question like this: every director defends himself against the charge of
being an intellectual. A brief but intense -ame suddenly animates
Antonioni as he says, “I try to work )rst from my … gut.” He adds: “I
especially like to go abroad to penetrate the spirit of a people I do not
know” (and, in support of his words, he joins his hands together in an
acute gesture that seems to get to the heart of the matter).
Just by seeing this man, by hearing him, one is able to grasp his
temperament and understand his method: he discovers more about
something if he does not penetrate it too deeply, for the deeper one goes
the more one upsets the layers above. Against the related charge of
“coldness,” Antonioni defends himself, or rather no, he does not defend
himself: he seems at once too clear-sighted, too tactful, even too
melancholy to be overly concerned or to get himself involved in a
controversy. He simply declares that he does not understand why he is
accused of being cold…. Cold! … We smile together.
In my questions, detail mixes with essence: I ask Antonioni about the
automobiles, the gleaming and sumptuous yet icy cars that you )nd in the
Roman episode of The Vanquished, similar to the ones seen in Story of a
Love Affair. For him, they are to our era what the crystals, mirrors, and
torches were to the period of German romanticism; times may change,
but the durability of passion or con-ict always asserts itself in the “empty”
53
context of inert and beautiful objects. So believes Michelangelo
Antonioni.
Antonioni then tells me that directing the young performers in The
Vanquished got easier as he moved from the Latin episodes [French and
Italian] to the English one. At )rst, he had to restrain temperaments
naturally inclined to exuberance. I try now to raise the subject of acting in
general: the distinction, for example, between professional actors (like
Peter Reynolds in the British episode) and the other kind. Antonioni does
not speak. He does not have opinions concerning this subject and does
not want to have them: no theory of acting. He also does not yet have a
special “interpreter” among his actors, though Antonioni does admit that
a performer’s physical appearance, especially the expressive capacity of the
face, is of paramount importance to him. Lucia Bosè, the star of Story of a
Love Affair and The Lady without Camelias, was in the second picture
only by accident, so to speak. For Camelias, he wanted Gina Lollobrigida,
but di.culties arose and he fell back on Bosè. At the opposite end of the
spectrum from Josef von Sternberg, the director/lover of Marlene
Dietrich, Antonioni presently feels the need to detach himself from his
actresses, casting over them a spell of serene fatalism.
Even though the interview is prolonged, Antonioni’s a,ability never
diminishes. I would like to talk about Story of a Love Affair again, to get
him to open up about his novelistic conception of this )lmic narrative,
but he remains vague. I would additionally like to suggest possible
relationships between his work and that of several other directors. Yet
Antonioni seems not to go to the cinema very often: for instance, he had
not seen Diary of a Country Priest [1951, Robert Bresson], The River [1951,
Jean Renoir], or several other )lms on the same artistic level. He admits to
loving The Golden Coach [1952, Jean Renoir], however. And he does tell
me that, despite his preference for original subjects, he soon plans to
shoot a literary adaptation about which he remains evasive. [Antonioni’s
)rst such adaptation did not come until 1966, with Blow-Up, inspired by a
1964 Julio Cortázar short story.] Finally, he reveals his deep, tenacious,
almost intimate desire to make a movie based on the novel Pylon [1935], by
William Faulkner [a project never realized].
54
I have spent almost an hour with Michelangelo Antonioni. He
gets up. I thank him. Late night has come and the Venice Film Festival is
in its )nal minutes. It is time to leave the gods of cinema to go revisit the
ghosts they have released onto the world’s white screens.
In the Margins
This year, as before, most of the interest at the Venice Film Festival has
been aroused by the related cultural events that it has hosted. Two of
them were particularly interesting: the retrospective of silent French
cinema (referred to above) organized by the Cinémathèque Française,
whose highlight was the projection of Abel Gance’s Napoleon [1927] on a
triple screen (at least for the episode of the Italian campaign, the only one
surviving in such form), and the screening of an ethnographic )lm by
Jean Rouch.
On this occasion, we were able to see Rouch’s admirable
documentary Hippopotamus Hunt [1950], which will become a classic of
its kind. Directed like Rainmakers [1951, Jean Rouch] with his “camera-
pencil” [a reference to Alexandre Astruc’s 1948 concept of the Camera-
Pen, according to which )lm is regarded as a form of audiovisual language
and the )lmmaker, therefore, as a kind of writer in light] in 16-millimeter
Kodachrome Technicolor, Hippopotamus Hunt recounts, with the patient
and cumulative precision of an epic, a lengthy hippopotamus hunt
conducted by blacks in Niger. Several hippopotamuses are killed but the
leader of the herd, a huge old male, escapes. He badly damages the
hunters’ great pirogue and their biggest spear, and ultimately they must
56
abandon all hope of killing him. Trailing behind them, on the water, an
island of reeds that disappears into the fog, the hunters tearfully abandon
to the Niger River this elderly, elusive god, who survives despite the fact
that his body has been hit with more than )fty harpoons.
The admirable part of this ethnographic fable is not only that Jean
Rouch hasn’t reconstituted anything but also that, as a strictly scienti)c
observer, he has con)ned himself to following the event while respecting
his own uncertainty about what he is witnessing. That is, like the hunters,
the author—if the notion of author still retains its usual meaning—
ignored himself until the very end, until there was nothing else to )lm.
Neorealism
Each year brings proof of the rigor and fecundity of what we call, for lack
of a more precise term, neorealism, although the concept covers, if not
several independent aesthetic phenomena, at least an evolutionary artistic
reality whose extreme poles may indeed seem contradictory. I dare now to
place under the revered rubric of neorealism the following )lms: I
vitelloni, Two Acres of Land, and Little Fugitive.
I vitelloni is by the screenwriter Federico Fellini, and represents his
)rst )lm as a director. The Italians made it the artistic event of the year. I
confess I am not so enthusiastic about this otherwise delicate and
plausible satire of a certain aspect of Italian provincial life. Maybe I just
don’t know the territory well enough. In my opinion, however, I vitelloni
is a screenwriter’s )lm and displays nothing original in its mise-en-scène—
something that, in the end, limits the picture’s scope.
I’d have continued to have my doubts about Indian cinema—from
which, up to now, the )lm festivals have not presented anything of
substance—had I not )nally seen, this time, a powerful and moving work:
Bimal Roy’s Two Acres of Land. I watched it at a private, out-of-
competition screening; the Indian movie in competition at Venice, The
Tiger and the Flame [1953, Sohrab Modi], was a big Technicolor spectacle,
ponderous and boring.
Two Acres of Land was probably in-uenced by the Italian neorealist
Bicycle Thieves [1948, Vittorio De Sica]. Bimal Roy’s )lm is the story of a
poor farmer driven from his land on account of debt and practically
57
sentenced to forced labor in the big city [Calcutta]. To be sure, the
scenario features a number of sentimental-cum-melodramatic situations,
but never at the expense of realism, and the intense sentiment here
possesses the sincerity and poetry of a worthy literary tradition that, sadly,
has been in decline in the West since the second half of the nineteenth
century. This is the )rst time I’ve seen good acting in an Indian picture,
by the way— and it’s good even in scenes of emotional excess. There is no
doubt that had Two Acres of Land been in competition at Venice, the jury
could not have denied it a prize.
The most original instance of neorealism in the world in 1953 has
been Little Fugitive, an independent American work produced (for a
pittance), conceived, and directed by a team consisting of Ray Ashley,
Morris Engel, and Ruth Orkin. Unlike The Quiet One [1948, Sidney
Meyers]—distributed by Joseph Burstyn, the same man who distributed
Ashley, Engel, and Orkin’s )lm—with whom, at )rst sight, it has much in
common, Little Fugitive was shot directly in 35mm, not blown up to
35mm from 16mm like Meyers’ picture. Still, the )lmic principle remains
the same.
Yet the resemblances between this new movie and The Quiet One
prove to be more arti)cial than real. The main character of The Quiet One
was also a child but a black one, and the )lm’s documentary subject was
eminently social. In Little Fugitive one can hardly speak of a subject.
Almost without a story, it is conceived as a kind of report on the -ight of
a seven-year-old boy who is frightened because he thinks he has killed his
older brother. But the real subject of the picture is the child himself, or
rather his free and intimate observation—like that of an animal who has
seized upon a telephoto lens—of the life around him. Little Fugitive
exposes children’s )lms that we thought were the most sincere and
realistic to be full of arti)ce and convention. In particular, this work
appears to me to be the most satisfactory approximation to date of the
neorealistic ideal as espoused by the Italian screenwriter and theorist
Cesare Zavattini [1902-89]: to make life itself a spectacle, to be able to
transmute into a ninety-minute motion picture the simple journey of a
person to whom nothing especially dramatic happens.
58
Sell-outs
It is not without apprehension that I went to see Moulin Rouge, a
“French” )lm made by an American. The fact that the director of this
picture was also the director of The Red Badge of Courage was as
important as my respect for the venerable oeuvre and memory of Henri de
Toulouse-Lautrec, the subject of the movie. Yet in the space of a single
reel, my apprehension disappeared and I found my fears unjusti)ed. The
re-creation of the Moulin Rouge cabaret, of the dancing there, and of the
characters of Valentin le Désossé and La Goulue [a.k.a. Louise Weber]—
all this is astonishing, along with the masterful, smoky mise-en-scène.
Marcel Vertès’s production design and Oswald Morris’s color
cinematography both contribute to an admirable transposition to the
screen of Toulouse-Lautrec’s pictorial universe.
Such a transposition, however, is found only from time to time, for
brief moments. As soon as the )lmmakers want to resuscitate not merely
the paintings, but also the life of the painter himself, what a caricature
John Huston’s Moulin Rouge becomes! Vertès’s tender shades can
charmingly revive the Belle Époque and its frou-frous, its can-can, a café
here, a Paris street there, yet how does one depict the dark colors—neither
tender nor charming—in the life of one of the most disconsolate painters
of his time? Huston, alas, reveals his helplessness here. His movie gives the
image of a Toulouse-Lautrec gliding through golden days from a “Gay
Paris” convention in 1900, surrounded by beautiful friends, and then, in
old age, piously dying surrounded by his tearful and loving peers in a
sumptuous palace in his hometown of Albi. This last sequence of the
picture constitutes the most painful distortion that can be imagined of
the atrocious end that the painter actually met. From John Huston the
architect of failure in such works as The Treasure of the Sierra Madre
[1948] and The Asphalt Jungle [1950], the moralist of The Red Badge of
Courage, we expected a di,erent understanding of the solitary and tragic
destiny of Toulouse-Lautrec.
Another sell-out is Thérèse Raquin, and even less excusable in that it
comes from a French master: Émile Zola, on whose 1867 novel the )lm is
based. [Huston’s Moulin Rouge is based on the 1950 novel of the same
name by the Frenchman Pierre La Mure.] Marcel Carné has explained at
59
length the motives that led him, in )gurative )delity to Zola, to transpose
the novel to our time. Curious )delity, this, the result of which is that
nothing remains in the movie of the essence of the novel. In Zola, the
lovers are driven by slow fatefulness to a murder that appears to them to
be the only way out of the terrible situation in which they essentially
found themselves placed some years before. Indeed, from their )rst
meeting, they were already on the road to their crime. Once
accomplished, however, a kind of physical horror seizes upon the two and
begins to isolate them from each other. Such fatefulness or inevitability—
without which Zola’s novel ceases to exist—is totally absent from Carné’s
)lm. The inexorable murder has become more gratuitous than a crime
committed by Lafcadio Wluiki [the charmingly perverse criminal
protagonist of Lafcadio’s Adventures (1925), by André Gide]. Because it is
not even premeditated. The real victim here is Thérèse, and Carné is her
murderer. (Cahiers du cinéma, October 1952 & October 1953)
60
São Paulo, 1954
The São Paulo Film Festival is severely handicapped by a lack of critical
interest in most of the national selections presented there. Indeed, it is
clear by now that no country in the world can honorably cope with
sending a picture to more than two festivals at the same time, and São
Paulo is rarely the )rst choice. Some, like the Americans, the English, or
the Austrians, get around this problem by sending to Brazil only movies
already presented the year before in, say, Venice, like Roman Holiday
[1953, William Wyler]; in Cannes, like 1. April 2000 [1952, Wolfgang
Liebeneiner]; or in some other place, like Genevieve [1953, Henry
Cornelius]. The makers of these )lms thus obviously aimed )rst for the
major European festivals and their prize lists.
France and Italy alone loyally played the game and placed São Paulo
on a par with Cannes and Venice. The Italian selection was composed of
Bread, Love, and Dreams [1953, Luigi Comencini]—presented only
secondarily at Cannes; Musoduro [1953], a rather curious melodrama
directed by Giuseppe Benatti, with Marina Vlady in the leading female
role; and Empty Eyes [1953], the )rst )lm by former critic Antonio
Pietrangeli. Each of these three works was a very honorable o,ering. As
for France, I daresay that, all in all, my country’s selection at São Paulo
was better than the one at Cannes: in Brazil, it consisted of Julietta [1953,
Marc Allégret], Le Guérisseur [The Healer, 1953, Yves Ciampi], The Love of
a Woman [1953, Jean Grémillon], and The Game of Love [1954, Claude
Autant-Lara]. These seven French and Italian pictures were undoubtedly
among the ten best at a festival whose one truly pleasant surprise was the
Spanish movie Condemned [1953, Manuel Mur Oti].
Yet, following these quali)cations made in defense of São Paulo as a
showcase for contemporary global cinema, I have something else to add
that is essential. To wit: this event was much more than a second-rate
festival; it was in fact a magni)cent and exemplary e,ort on behalf of
61
cinematographic culture, produced on the scale of a great nation. What I
have until now been calling a festival—a word that inevitably suggests a
disappointing imitation of Cannes—well, the “festival” part actually
made up just a small portion of the program, which was so big that it
opened at nine in the morning and ended at one o’clock the following
morning (if not two or three).
The program included, daily, in addition to the “festival” in the
narrow sense of the word, two retrospective sessions of screen classics,
titled “Great Moments in Cinema”; a “Retrospective of Brazilian
Cinema” (unfortunately compromised by the ill will of Brazil’s Kino Film
Company); a selection of scienti)c documentaries; critical conferences
whose presentations were enhanced by )lm clips (Henri Langlois of the
Cinémathèque Française in Paris spoke about “The Case of Jacques
Prévert,” and I myself did something on Robert Bresson); a “Children’s
Film Festival,” which was a professional triumph for the Sonika Bo
production company; “National Days,” a presentation for the Brazilian
public of the Festival’s main entries over the last two or three years, under
the aegis of the participating nations; not to mention a number of special
screenings. This collection of diverse events was dominated, however, by a
retrospective of the )lms of Erich von Stroheim, whose work represents a
landmark in the history of cinema and therefore deserves further
comment.
The )lms grouped together in this tribute to Stroheim, best known
as the director of Greed [1924], were undoubtedly not unfamiliar to the
regulars of the cinematheques of Paris, Brussels, London, or Milan, so
their being gathered here was not in itself so original an event. Yet what
gave it scope and meaning was the audience for motion pictures that, for
the last ten years or so, have been known solely to the aforementioned
denizens of cinematheques. Indeed, it is necessary to see Stroheim’s Greed
and The Wedding March [1927] in an auditorium )lled with 2,000 seats,
amidst a general public full of good will, to measure not only the vitality
of these movies but also their astounding modernity. Like everyone else, I
de)nitely place Stroheim among the three or four greatest names in the
history of cinema, yet, up to now, my admiration in light of the usual
retrospectives was still historical and critical. Testing my assessment before
62
a “real” audience completely revitalized my appreciation for this artist’s
body of work.
For me, at least some of Stroheim’s )lms “hold up” as )rmly as
Charlie Chaplin’s The Gold Rush [1925] or City Lights [1931], and they will
remain in that position forever, for their power to fascinate is almost
una,ected by any dating of subject matter or technique. They are, in the
full sense of the word, classics. And only the conditions under which
these works were viewed in São Paulo could completely assure us of such a
judgment. One could criticize the inadequacy of access to the Festival hall
itself, which, in this city of 3,000,000 inhabitants, was somewhat limited
and consequently onerous; yet, clearly, its 2,000-seat house constituted an
exceptionally large and welcoming arena for movies as old as these.
I think that The Wedding March, for example, was seen by nearly
4,000 people during two late-night/early morning screenings. It should
also be noted that we watched a print, provided by the Cinémathèque
Française, which used records from the late 1920s to create an
accompanying, period musical score—because The Wedding March is a
silent picture, something some people had forgotten. Now this
reconstruction not only renders the )lm in its true aesthetic duration, its
own dramatic time [screened, that is, at its original length and projection
speed], but it also demonstrates once again how pointless is the traditional
opposition to silent cinema on the part of advocates of sound. At the
same time, the new reconstruction happily hypothesizes a radical
continuity between two distinct eras of cinema.
To be sure, São Paulo is not the )rst festival where retrospectives have
been shown alongside present-day competition. To Venice’s credit, it has
been concerned with retrospectives for quite some time now, and one
cannot say that Cannes itself resolutely despises them. In the end, though,
it is rather astonishing, if not sad, to have to go to Venice or São Paulo to
see a projection of Abel Gance’s Napoleon [1927] with its triptych
sequence included. (In reality, São Paolo’s scheduled showing of this )lm
failed to take place, for the screening room—belonging to an American
company—had last-minute technical problems. But a copy of Napoleon
remains there, and it will be exhibited after the Festival as part of the
retrospective series, which will extend for four months.)
63
At Venice—a terribly isolated, even insular festival, I have to say—the
audience for the retrospectives is composed merely of a few dozen of the
faithful, culled from the city’s cinematheques or, better still, its )lm clubs,
while in São Paulo the movies of Stroheim were projected before the
equivalent of Paris’s Palace de Chaillot, )lled to capacity. This is certainly
not to diminish or criticize the activities of the )lm clubs and
cinematheques (without which, )nally, the São Paulo Festival would not
exist); it is simply to wish, henceforth, for a change of scale for certain
creations of cinematographic culture. To the test of time faced by any
motion picture, one must add the trial of secular as well as spiritual space,
which alone can encompass normal or inclusive audiences. After all, the
chapels that radiate around cathedrals must not make us forget to say
Mass upon the greater altar of God. (Cahiers du cinéma, April 1954)
64
The Cinema of Exploration
In Rendezvous in July [1949], Jacques Becker was right on more than one
point, and if his )lm was not exactly a portrait of postwar French youth,
at least it was representative of a particular segment of the generation that
was about to turn twenty. One recalls that by the end of the picture
Becker’s characters had resolved their -irtation with the existentialist soul,
as well as their sentimental and material troubles, by deciding to go on an
expedition on behalf of Paris’s Museum of Man.
Indeed, the postwar period saw the birth of a new style of human
exploration. It is a commonplace to note that nothing remains to be
discovered on our little planet—that is, in the sense of “discovery” during
the time of Jules Verne [1828-1905]. It is true that a certain romantic type
of solitary explorer, followed by his bearers and advancing on lands
virginal to the white man, not without danger but with a greater capacity
to aid civilization than Marco Polo—it is true, I say, that this type belongs
to the past. The days of David Livingstone [1813-73], Pierre de Brazza
[1852-1905], and Roald Amundsen [1872-1928], however accomplished
these men, are over.
The postwar period of 1918 and beyond saw the birth of another kind
of romanticism dialectically opposed to that of the distant adventure,
which Verne himself had brilliantly introduced in his novel Around the
World in Eighty Days [1873]. “Nothing but the earth,” said Paul Morand
in his own 1926 novel of the same name. The consciousness of the relative
exiguousness of the planet—its reduction by means of information and
transport to a place no longer of adventure but simply of travel—coupled
with a certain petulant quality in Western culture, engendered what I
shall call “travel exoticism.” And whatever “adventure” quality there was
in an “exotic” book by Mac Orlan [a.k.a. Pierre Dumarchey, 1882-1970],
Louis-Pasteur Vallery-Radot [1886-1970], Blaise Cendrars [1887-1961], or
even Ernest Hemingway [1899-1961], was unfortunately reduced to
65
shoddy goods in most popular translations. The cinema contributed
greatly to this downgrading of the need for geographical excursion to a
lust for adventure with limited risks. Tarzan came at the end of the
process and incarnated myth in the second degree of civilization, which,
no longer believing in the existence of the good savage, reinvented the
concept for the white man. For every Tabu [1931, F. W. Murnau] or
Moana [1926, Robert J. Flaherty], how many foreign Hollywood Edens
were inhabited by the actress Dorothy Lamour? Thanks to its hunting
preserves, Africa itself would provide a spectacular setting for the death of
documentary, in such )lms as Africa Speaks! [1930, Walter Futter] and
Trader Horn [1931, W. S. Van Dyke].
Of course, not all of these “exotic” movies were bad, and some of the
travel )lms of the years 1928 to 1940 (apart from those of Flaherty, which
remain outside time) would still be interesting from a documentary and
sometimes poetic point of view. But a general tendency, even among the
best of these pictures, to dramatize according to Western aesthetic
categories so as to increase the e,ect of spectacle—such a tendency dates
and ages most of them. When it is sincere and naïve, this Westernization is
bearable; when it is calculated and conscious, it becomes intolerable.
From this point of view, the lapse of American cinema itself is incredible.
In addition to some great )ction )lms based on the African safari, like
John Ford’s Mogambo [1953] or King Solomon’s Mines [1950, Compton
Bennett & Andrew Marton], we continue to see copious o,erings of so-
called reportage from perilous journeys among )erce animals and
ferocious tribes. Thus, in the documentary Tembo [1952, Howard Hill],
we get a super)cially stunning color movie realized by a “champion
archer” who hunted his way across equatorial Africa. I saw this picture in
Normandy two or three years ago on a double bill with the )ction feature
Son of d’Artagnan [1950, Riccardo Freda], and the publicity insisted that
the )rst o,ering was the greater one; Tembo, however, has more in
common with the lesser At Sword’s Point [a.k.a. Sons of the Musketeers:
1952, Lewis Allen].
Now, not only was the corporate stamp on Tembo as visible as the
nose in the middle of my face, but the )lming methods employed
illustrated the decadence of the genre. They deserve to be described and
66
analyzed. Our archery champion was supposed to advance at the head of a
caravan of porters in search of big game. Here is a typical sequence: in the
foreground, a huge python with its little, triangular head is coiled on a
branch above a small body of water; a hundred yards away, standing in a
canoe, the hunter, unconscious of the danger, advances right in the
direction of the snake. Fortunately, a black man warns him and points out
the hideous beast. In an instant, the head of the monster is pierced by an
arrow. Another, more signi)cant sequence: we arrive in a village of
Pygmies, deep in the forest. The little men, frightened, at )rst -ee at the
approach of the whites. The camera shows us this -ight, or, better, it gives
us two or three shots of frightened Pygmies hiding in the underbrush. I
pass over the ignoble murder here, by arrow, of a panther, a lion, and an
elephant. The poor animals, trapped beforehand, visibly struggled to the
end to free themselves of their bonds, each one a Saint Sebastian of the
animal kingdom.
I am still astonished at the absence of protest from critics at the time
against a )lm that presupposed a contempt for beasts and the honor of
hunting—a protest that was equaled only by the absence of such from the
public; yet, after all, this was a public that accepted and deserved what it
got. In any case, it is clear how such a presentation implicitly destroyed its
own purpose. Each of these scenes claiming the value of a raw document
was in reality elaborated in advance and prepared for staging, and this set-
up could be deduced from an examination of what in the mise-en-scène
was aimed precisely at proving the spontaneous character of the event.
One can see, for example, that in order to place the camera a few meters
behind the python, so that the latter appears enormous and menacing to
the viewer at the same time as it is supposed to be invisible to the hunter,
it is necessary not only to be fully aware of the snake’s existence but
probably also to bring the poor, condemned animal beforehand to a point
suitable for framing in depth of )eld.
Let us admit that the evidence of deceit here partly justi)es it, and
that this is somehow a documentary reconstruction. The same cannot be
said, however, of the scene with the Pygmies, for if, as the voice-over
commentary says, they are frightened by the whites, they must )rst be
frightened by the camera; and the camera cannot therefore be there to
67
)lm their -ight, let alone get close enough to record them in the
underbrush (and with what light?), the fear on their faces. More: these
images prove not only that the Pygmies in question did not -ee, but also
that they were so little afraid of the whites and the camera that they let
themselves be directed for this particular scene so as to be able to simulate
fear.
Do not believe for a moment that the facts I analyze here are
exceptional. The audience members did not throw their chairs and
seemed satis)ed, which proves that their consciousness of documentary
cinema is still only imperfectly evolved. Similarly, at the very beginning of
)lm exhibitions in the early twentieth century, it was not easy to
distinguish reconstituted news from a real report. The photographic
process of cinema, in general, was confusedly assimilated to the
ontological authenticity of the represented event. Today, the distinction
between the pure document and the documentary reconstituted on the
spot, with authentic but fully controlled elements, presupposes a clear
awareness of the technical relationship between the camera and the
object, or, more simply, of the consciousness of the camera.
In the documentary genre, therefore, it can be posited in principle
that the desert, say, cannot appear of itself on the screen, since the
existence of the image presupposes a camera operator and consequently
all the psychological and moral relationships that -ow from his presence.
Hence some speculation on these relations is possible. In Land without
Bread [1933], for example, Luis Buñuel’s systematic objectivity in the face
of the spectacle of the most moving poverty is felt as a rejection not only
of compassion but also of intervention. One bewilderedly feels that to
persist in operating a camera instead of “doing something” is an unnatural
attitude, a refusal to bring relief to someone in distress. Yet this refusal is
undoubtedly a supreme form of pity that, in Buñuel, joins cruelty at a
sublime point of convergence.
This long preamble has the mission of introducing to criticism two
recent documentary )lms whose interest and originality will perhaps now
appear clearer. I refer to the report by Alain Bombard on his odyssey
titled Voluntary Castaway [non-)ction )lm & book by Bombard, 1953],
and to Pierre-Dominique Gaisseau’s Sacred Forest: Magic and Secret Rites
68
in French Guinea [non-)ction )lm & book by Gaisseau, 1954]. These two
works are, )rst of all, perfectly representative of the evolution of
exploration reportage in the cinema since the war. The examples I
mentioned above, by contrast—of the archery champion, the slaughtered
wild animals, and the deceptive ethnologist—illustrate the survival in the
American production zone of pseudo-documentary conceptions from
the 1930s and 1940s. Such conceptions appear to have been almost
eliminated from European production, especially in France, where, on
the contrary, what I shall call an aesthetics of the Salle Pleyel [famous
concert hall in the 8th arrondissement of Paris] is applied to the handling
of these movies in their pre-commercial form. Not only does the explorer,
who himself presents the )lm to the audience, not seek to conceal the
subjective character of any one shot, but the )lm is for him only a way of
objectively remembering, a proof and complementary illustration of his
personal witnessing.
The introduction of these motion pictures to the distribution circuit
is almost always accompanied by the publication of a book. Doubtless this
conjunction also has some commercial motive, yet it is founded in theory
upon a valid reason. It is that the sincerity of )lmed testimony—its
documentary value in relation to the object, together with its
psychological authenticity in relation to the subject—limits by de)nition
the spectacular and dramatic scope of the picture. Before Bombard’s
work, the most characteristic example of this type of report was Kon-Tiki
[The Kon-Tiki Expedition: By Raft Across the South Seas (1948, non-)ction
book by Thor Heyerdahl); and Kon-Tiki (1950, documentary )lm by
Heyerdahl)], of which it can almost be said that the )lm in itself does not
exist. I mean that the shots (at sixteen frames per second) were very bad,
not only because of the inexperience of the sailing crew and the fact that
there was practically nothing to the )lm, but for two additional reasons,
as well: the )rst being that it was di.cult even to be on the raft, or to
show it properly in the absence of backward tracking movement by the
camera; the second reason, more decisive, derived from the near
impossibility of facing the most dramatic di.culties at sea and of )lming
them at the same time. So that the general rule of the enterprise can be
69
formulated as follows: shots become all the more rare and uncertain as the
dramatic interest of events grows.
In the same way, we see the images become as scarce as the air in
Marcel Ichac’s Annapurna [1953], until they faint, as it were, at the
moment of )nal ascent on the highest peak of Annapurna Massif [in the
Himalayas of north-central Nepal]. A modern Orpheus, whose camera
was torn from his )ngers frozen by an avalanche, the climber Maurice
Herzog was unable to bring back his cinematographic Eurydice from this
hell of ice and snow. Fortunately, the rule of least spectacularity is not
absolute. It su,ers from exceptions. Chance or, sometimes, the very
nature of the event then allows for some extraordinary shots, as in the case
of the whale shark in Kon-Tiki or the white whale of Voluntary Castaway.
In the case of Kon-Tiki, the shooting conditions had a reverse e,ect,
because the animals came within camera range only due to the exceptional
nature of the seagoing craft. A real )lmmaker on a real boat would have
had no chance of seeing them. But the seductive shots of a whale shark, in
the middle of a movie consisting of an almost uninteresting -ow of
images, are like inestimable and overwhelming shipwrecks on the
monotonous swell of a vast ocean. They have the beauty of ruins, eroded
by time, wind, and sun. It is because the dearth of such images is not felt
as a de)ciency that the immense gaps in a )lm of this kind are in reality
full—full of the human adventure that they reveal so completely only by
the very barrenness of some of their frames.
Alain Bombard pushed even further than Kon-Tiki the paradox of
)lmed testimony. As long as he was with his comrade James Palmer, there
was the )lmer as well as the )lmed. So that the solitude of Bombard is
recorded in the picture only when, precisely, he is not alone. Once Palmer
abandons the project, Bombard has practically nothing more to )lm,
since the least of his actions at sea obviously deprives him of the use of his
hands for the camera. Yet one day, when he was )lming his sail in a storm,
it tore apart—an example of the chance occurrence that sometimes allows
for a dramatic image simply because the drama was not foreseen. But
Bombard had another idea, of genius-like simplicity: he became the )lm,
with the camera at arm’s length turned towards him. Did he suspect that
the uncertain, pu,y, almost grotesque face that would one day appear on
70
the screen would be the very image of the sublime limits of the
cinematographic document?
With Sacred Forest, we return to Rendezvous in July and the Museum
of Man. Exoticism, I said earlier, has given way to ethnography: after the
perilous exploration of white-settled areas, the romanticism of the last
terrestrial paradises, and the long-distance tourism came the time of deep
exploration. Except in very few parts of the world, such expeditions are no
longer a danger for young and well-trained men. It is now a question less
of discovering unknown landscapes and “savage” peoples than of
knowing and understanding what has not yet been degraded by contact
with advanced civilization. Exploration thus becomes almost exclusively
human, but doubly so.
As an ethnographer, the white man seeks to penetrate the last
primitive civilizations; as an adventurer, he seeks through such contact to
experience and know himself better. Hence the anthropologist Marcel
Griaule [1898-1956] with his “friends” the Dogon people of West Africa.
But, to date, the )lms stemming from this period of scienti)c
exploration—the admirable reports of Jean Rouch [among others,
Initiation into Possession Dance (1949) and The Mad Masters (1955)], for
example—all have a common character: in reaction to the romantic
prejudice against the savage, they proceed to what I would call a
sympathetic description of native behavior. Such observant description,
with favorable bias, probably makes use of a good sociological method,
and its moral advantages are obvious, yet we can understandably ask to
what extent it does not eliminate what is still a relational truth of our
consciousness: that is to say, the apprehension of mystery and anguish
upon the approach of a spiritual universe radically di,erent from ours.
For our young scientists, after all, the profession of magic has become as
interesting and meritorious an occupation as our Western activities. To
them, being a sorcerer on the banks of the Niger is, mutatis mutandis, as
honorable as being an ethnologist in Paris. Everything happens as if,
having discovered the richness and value of so-called primitive
civilizations, we had exorcised fear by projecting their inhabitants, on the
one hand, onto an aesthetic plane and, on the other, onto that of science:
Negro art and sociology, as it were.
71
For its part, the originality of the work of Pierre-Dominique Gaisseau
and his colleagues resides in an attempt to create a synthesis that indirectly
links their e,orts to the adventure of Alain Bombard in Voluntary
Castaway. Since the latter did not wish to be satis)ed with experimenting
in the laboratory, not even with reconstructing the physical and
physiological conditions of the shipwrecked man under surveillance
(using, say, some volunteer sailor in Brest), but wanted to truly live the
situation of the man alone at sea so as not to evade the psychological
factors so important to such a demonstration, Gaisseau himself
attempted to penetrate further into the civilization of a tribe from French
Guinea by undergoing with his comrades the ritual initiation that was to
transform them into Toma people. Only thus would they be allowed to
attend sacred ceremonies otherwise forbidden to whites, women, and
children. In order to achieve their goal, they had to gain the con)dence of
a sorcerer who, apparently in order to provoke his fellow tribesmen,
assumed the sacrilegious responsibility for the initiation. This consisted,
among other things, of getting an incised tattoo around the shoulder
blades: one hundred and )fty small notches comprising a magic circle.
The ordeal, “already painful for a Negro,” was certainly not at all easy.
Thanks to this little torture, the explorers were allowed to enter the
“sacred forest” and to )lm what was going on there.
But just as Bombard’s enterprise provoked criticism and skepticism,
that of Gaisseau opens itself up to the charge of equivocation. To take his
adventure to a perfectly logical extreme, Bombard should have made his
own shipwrecked condition disappear in a storm. One day his wreck
would have been found with his logbook bearing all the scienti)c
observations useful to posterity. Only then would no one have contested
the sincerity and heroism that the collapse of three vertebrae and chronic
-atulence were not su.cient to guarantee. To push experimental
ethnology to the limit, Gaisseau and his comrades, on their side, should
have become Tomas to such an extent that the very concept of ethnology
had become completely foreign to them. Yet, even as they remained
perfectly aware of it, they chose to maintain themselves at the frontier of
two universes. Experience, yes, but only to better observe, possibly
including the failure of one’s experience.
72
Hence, throughout Sacred Forest there is a painful feeling of ethical
ambiguity, whose multiple causes can be reduced to two principal ones.
First, techniques. Just as raft mariners cannot, at the outer limit, )lm a
storm, our boys could not )lm secret, nocturnal ceremonies: so they felt
forced, for example, to cast them into the light of magnesium torches. It is
permissible to ask whether the ceremonies preserved their full
authenticity under these conditions. Human causes are next. On the
black side, because the sorcerer who was the accomplice of the whole
operation committed a sacrilege—we learn that that it elicited the hatred
of the other sorcerers and tacit exclusion from their community—his
action would likely have resulted in a sociological, if not moral, death and
then a physical one. On the white side, the ambiguity derives from the
fact that Gaisseau wanted to know the secrets of the Toma people
without sharing their spiritual reality and without really living as a Toma.
The merit of Gaisseau, which does more than save his )lm, is that he
does not conceal the relative failure of the entire enterprise, its )nal
decomposition in reciprocal bad conscience. Better to transform
(sometimes, not always, and this is what can create a little awkwardness)
such ineluctable failure into a piece reporting. He did not hesitate,
therefore, to show himself )lming, with his camera “taking” the other. In
this way, both the ambiguity of the event and of its observation is present
on the screen.
Finally, it would be absurd to reproach Gaisseau with the relative
insincerity of an experience that could only have been observed by
remaining partially insincere. First, because the un)nished quality
contributes to an awareness of the far side of mystery; such a quality, by its
very nature, makes us experiment palpably to comprehend the nature of
the sociologically sacred. Next, and above all, because in spite of
everything, the sincere adventure of Gaisseau reveals the black world in all
its mystery. It no longer consists only of the naïve fear of the cannibal or
the exoticism of savagery, but it also no longer amounts just to the
attentive and sympathetic curiosity of the sociologist, either. The black
world becomes, in a sense, the anguish of the Western spirit nourished by
primitive art and ethnology, but an art and ethnology that regain their
concrete meaning only on the level of human consciousness. Sympathy
73
and curiosity )nally give way sometimes to vertigo and inquietude. Yet
also to admiration!
Gaisseau knew how to draw from this approach to mystery a new
feeling for its beauty. By enticing us to take on the perspective of blacks,
or their supposed categories of response, sociological reporters, by
contrast, had )nally made us forget the aesthetics of magic. Whoever has
seen the Sacred Forest will not be able to forget the wonderful abstract
drawings that women compose on the whiteness of their huts “in order to
make the walls stronger.” Nor will the viewer be able to forget the
fantastic appearance of some dancers emerging from the forest; the shaved
and bleached skull, a kind of stupefying John the Baptist, placed on an
immense )ber tray; or the malevolent Pierrots of some tropical Watteau
[Jean-Antoine, 1684-1721]. The almost immaterial intrusion of the latter
into the village extraordinarily evokes the threat of black mystery in this
limbo world, this intermediary realm between the sacred and the profane,
where Pierre-Dominique Gaisseau knew how to school us. (Monde
Nouveau, May 1955)
74
Filmmakers Who Think
Is the phenomenon so rare that one has to imagine the co-existence in the
same individual of the artist and the theorist? Perhaps not. With regard to
the cinema in particular, it has been observed not only that few worthy
theorists have refused to “put their )nger in the pie,” but also that few
talented )lmmakers have been able to resist the desire to explain their own
work.
It is especially in France that directors of quality have manifested this
tendency. Georges Méliès and Louis Feuillade, Max Linder and Abel
Gance, Marcel L’Herbier and Jacques Feyder, Louis Delluc and Germaine
Dulac—all have spoken at length about their art. As for the theoretical
work of Jean Epstein (a posthumous collection of which has just been
published: Spirit of the Cinema [1955]), it constitutes an important
contribution to international cinematographic thought. (In October
1949, the journal L’Âge nouveau itself published an essential text by Jean
Epstein titled “The Delirium of a Machine.”) The re-ections of Abel
Gance relating to the great dream of his life, “Polyvision,” have also been
published. [Polyvision was the name given by the French critic Émile
Vuillermoz to a specialized widescreen format devised exclusively for the
shooting and projection of Gance’s 1927 )lm Napoleon; it involved the
simultaneous projection of three reels of silent )lm arrayed in a horizontal
row.]
Like Delluc and Ricciotto Canudo, Jean Vigo, the director of Zero
for Conduct [1933], who wanted to keep in touch with cinema lovers,
founded a ciné-club for the purpose, and expressed certain of his ideas
there at the same time as he presented exceptional motion pictures. Today,
the lack of a rigorous program in the French ciné-clubs, as well as the
apathy of many )lmmakers toward the spirit of inquiry—let alone the
very idea of creation—restricts the development of a genuine avant-garde.
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Marcel L’Herbier, commenting in “The Film Technician” [from his
book Cinematic Intelligence, 1946] on what he calls the avatars of
cinematic projection, writes that “the form of the screen inevitably
determines the form of the dramaturgy that is projected.” He adds:
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The new techniques awaken the viewer’s interest even as he begins to
tire of the monotony of the stories the screen tells him. And it is again
René Clair who says, “I must confess that these days I rarely go to the
cinema. Most movies bore me, and I have the hardest time understanding
what is going on. The plot must always be explained to me afterwards.” It
is curious to )nd, under the byline of Jean Renoir (in an article written
for the release of his )lm The River [1951]), a re-ection quite similar: “I
often admire recent )lms; but it is a reasoned admiration. I rarely doze o,,
it’s true, and as I remain conscious I think, ‘My God! What a beautiful
photographic e,ect. —Oh, this actor performs well! —Perfect, that
dialogue. —Such admirable staging!’ etc. And yet I’m bored to death.”
Renoir sees the future of cinema in three forms:
On the other hand, I think that the era of the directors is over,
and now comes the era of authors, or writer-directors. One will
write one’s own story, then one will go and )lm it oneself in
order to fully realize it.
Yet Renoir joined René Clair when the former de)ned cinema as “an
art of the moment, a new way of printing”; and also when Renoir asserted
that the role of cinema is to testify, “to re-ect the problems, the
misfortunes, the joys of an era.” (Clair went so far as to compare cinema
to journalism: “We make a movie to tell the public a story that interests
them at the moment when it interests them.”) Renoir is suspicious,
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though, of fussy technique and “good photography” that lose touch with
reality. (Clair, too, would like the cinematographic machine, too well
regulated, to deregulate itself a little, in order to perform better.)
For Renoir, Cinerama [a widescreen process that originally projected
images simultaneously from three synchronized 35-millimeter projectors
onto a huge, deeply curved screen] itself is a “prodigious means of
expressing the future”:
Who can do the most, at least frees others to do the least. Thanks, for
example, to Gance’s own “triple screen”—or to a variable aspect-ratio
screen system (“variform”)—the cinema can play out in several registers,
depending on whether the action is epic or psychological. Yet this is
probably why Henri-Georges Clouzot (or Jacques Becker—or both men,
who knows?) quipped, “Long live the panoramic screen. Now we will
)nally be able to make movies of intimacy.”
Whatever the technique, the basis of all artistic production is
personal creativity. As Jean Cocteau maintains, “Poetry has innumerable
vehicles. Cinematography is one of them. The key is to understand that a
vehicle should never be considered as an end in itself.” Such an attitude is
close to that of Robert Bresson:
Years ago, when I was silent, I was writing with the camera; I
never prepared anything in advance. I started very early, in the
cold morning. All these ugly electricians looked at me and said,
“What are you going to next?” I rarely knew. And then we started
and I became very excited. And from this excitement came the
invention…. I think all such creative work consists of excitement
and enthusiasm, and we thus make our way ourselves.
I do not try to portray a “slice of life” because people can get all
the slices of life they want on the street, outside the cinema, and
they do not need to pay for them. On the other hand, I reject
total fantasy because audience members want to recognize
themselves in the actors they see on the screen. A story must
therefore be plausible but never trivial. It must be dramatic and
yet still resemble life. What is drama, after all, except life with the
dull bits cut out?
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Other American )lmmakers have come down to earth, or reality, as well:
John Huston and Jules Dassin, Elia Kazan and Edward Dmytryk, Fred
Zinnemann and Laszlo Benedek.
A Hollywood defector like Chaplin, like Dassin and even Sturges,
Orson Welles himself stated the following in 1953: “Cinema is not an art….
I believe in the death of cinema.” This brutal disavowal on the part of a
)lmmaker who succeeded, at the age of twenty-)ve, in the creation of
Citizen Kane [1941], could rattle the cinephiles if they did not retain in
their memory the works now eternally linked to the twentieth century
and to man. Besides, art or not, the cinema is; and if it dies, it will have a
successor that will only multiply its powers.
In Various Countries
English )lmmakers, for their part, are rather reserved about theoretical
matters. Hitchcock (who works in the United States) and Alberto
Cavalcanti (who is not British and who is no longer in London) aside, the
English speak little of their work. Yet the ideas of Michael Powell and
Robert Hamer, David Lean and Anthony Asquith, Carol Reed and
Alexander Mackendrick—these ideas would interest us. As for Laurence
Olivier, he speaks more easily about the theater than about the cinema.
From the new German cinema, we have had few theoretical echoes.
At the time of expressionism, by contrast, the declarations succeeded one
another in rapid order. Today, thanks to )lm clubs in particular,
“cinematological” discussions have freely resumed. We must wait,
however, to hear about their exact nature. The directors Wolfgang
Staudte, Helmut Kautner, and a few others are working on the revival of
the German school from this angle.
In Scandinavia, there are interesting artistic e,orts taking place: in
Sweden (from Alf Sjöberg), for example, or the experimental work of
Denmark. The great Danish auteur Carl-Theodor Dreyer has been
turning out )lms for many years. When Day of Wrath [1943] was released,
he posited that “the value of a motion picture depends above all on the
value of its script, its human truth, its dramatic appeal…. The picture is at
the service of the script. The director himself is a conductor. I am against
naturalism, against the servile coping of reality; all art is choice: everything
in a )lm must be chosen; a )lm is, in this way, a complex of intentions.”
We do not know what Japanese, Chinese, or Indian )lmmakers think
of their art. Undoubtedly, the director of Rashomon [1950], Akira
Kurosawa, must have valid ideas on cinematic expression, but we have yet
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to hear them. Luis Buñuel, by contrast, has commented extensively on his
)lms, be it L’Âge d’or [Golden Age, 1930] or Los Olvidados [The Young and
the Damned, 1950]. “As a man of Mexican cinema,” he asserts, “I want to
repeat that if our cinema is not yet accomplished, it is much better than it
once was: it is a tree that traces its roots to the deepest feeling of Mexicans
for death, hence their love of life, which will produce artistic results
enriched by the savage spirit of independence contained in the Mexican
people.”
The screen unites men. Yet it can also disunite them. It unites
them when it tells men the truth about their lives, when it calls
them to a better life …, when it instills con)dence in them about
their own power. The screen disunites men when it calls them to
violence and hatred.
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No )lmmaker can remain true to this oversimpli)cation if he wants to do
useful and beautiful work. For examples, the artist can look to the time of
Battleship Potemkin [1925, Sergei Eisenstein], when “explosive” )lms
succeeded enthusiastic manifestos, themselves the result of a constructive
criticism of earlier works.
The Stalinist reaction to the arts provoked very severe censure, of
which Eisenstein was the most famous victim. Aesthetic inquiry became
restricted by the specter of formalism. “Formalism,” Pudovkin
proclaimed, “is a general notion that encompasses everything that draws
the artist away from the life of the people and their aspirations…. The
formalist artist does not want to know anything or anyone except his own
individual world.” For Pudovkin, Eisenstein’s admirable )lm The General
Line [a.k.a. Old and New, 1929]—which was described by the Soviets as a
“pathetic skimmer” of human life—is a “formalized” work. Yet it is the
same Pudovkin who, in a major book on editing [Film Technique, 1929],
correctly took aim at a )lmed theater that exhibited an unbearable creative
de)ciency, and demanded “daring and fruitful” solutions to this problem
on an artistic level.
Restoring freedom to directors, it must be said, is the sine qua non for
a revival of Soviet cinema. “If I want to make a movie now,” Eisenstein
once confessed (in a statement quoted by André Malraux),
85
Cannes, 1958
The last week of the Eleventh Cannes Festival has de)nitely not brought
the contingent of good )lms that would have redeemed the
disappointments of the )rst ten days. I write this sentence before the
awarding of the prizes but after having seen all the entries in competition.
Whatever the decisions of the jury, nothing can change the fact that this
has been the most lukewarm, least exciting Festival in the last three or four
years.
Of the dozen or so pictures of which I must give an account, I will
)rst eliminate those it is not worth talking about, except for the purpose
of sheer information. One of them is Journey beyond Three Seas [1957,
Khwaja Ahmad Abbas & Vasili Pronin], an Indo-Soviet co-production in
CinemaScope that features an actor from the Russian )lm The Forty-First
[1956, Grigori Chukhrai]: Oleg Strizhenov. This spectacular illustration
of Khrushchev’s theses on peaceful coexistence is quite didactically
transposed to )fteenth-century India. And it is boring to no end. The
Forgotten Creek [1958, Bruno Gebel], for its part, was the calling card of a
young Chilean cinema, sympathetic but nothing more. As for the English
cinema, with Orders to Kill [1958, Anthony Asquith] it has once again
proved its limits. From an admirable subject, Anthony Asquith has
created only a war movie that is technically skilled but rigged to the core.
The action takes place during the Second World War. First in
England and then in Paris, the British secret service is informed of a very
probable betrayal on the part of a Resistance agent in France. He must be
executed to save the members of this particular network. A former aviator
passed on to the secret service is assigned to the job and parachuted into
the designated area. It does not seem to him more di.cult to stab a traitor
than to release a bomb—until personal knowledge of his future victim,
trust in him, and even friendship make the aviator doubt the Resistance
agent’s guilt, while at the same time discovering the man’s unique
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humanity. Should we still kill a “target” on orders even if we believe him
to be innocent? In this case, it is his own conscience with which the
protagonist will have to struggle—an unlikely case, to be sure, in the
context of the Resistance. In such a scenario there was the possibility of a
great )lm provided that it did not cheat with the historical and
psychological truth, which Asquith does: for example, by having his
Parisians speak good English. One cannot preserve the credibility of such
a story with linguistic improbability of this scope, even if it is by now a
simple narrative convention. Here, the documentary rigor must be total,
for it is part of the moral rigor.
Rigor is also not a criterion of the American movie by Martin Ritt
titled The Long, Hot Summer [1958], of which one expected more even as
one dared not to hope for perfect )delity to William Faulkner. [Ritt’s
adaptation is based in part on three works by Faulkner: the 1931 novella
Spotted Horses, the 1939 short story “Barn Burning,” and the 1940 novel
The Hamlet.] From the material out of which this )lm is drawn, only a
sca,olding and a false Faulknerian intrigue remain. Seemingly audacious
themes are carefully twisted and made to conform to the dramatic and
psychological conventions of traditional American cinema. The
denouement itself is a monument of moral and sentimental concession.
About the directing of Martin Ritt nothing need be said except that in
the United States there surely exist dozens of directors who can do the
same. Orson Welles is monstrously thunderous and even hammy here
without ever getting a handle on his part. Whatever one thinks of The
Brothers Karamazov [1958], directed by Richard Brooks, it is nevertheless
in another class.
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The Rebirth of Soviet Cinema
Certainly, from the point of view of its subject, Grigori Chukhrai’s The
Forty-First, mentioned above in my introduction, was an irreproachable
work: the dialectic between personal feelings and ideological obligations
was posed in terms both admirably realistic and perfectly “apologetic.”
Yet the )lm was set during the 1920s, not in the present day, and treated a
known, consecrated subject; furthermore, its otherwise beautiful mise-en-
scène smacked of a rather spectacular academicism in the tradition of
Soviet color cinema over the last few years.
In any event, for three years now the best Communist )lms have been
coming, not from the U.S.S.R., but from Hungary, Poland, or even
Czechoslovakia and East Germany. It is necessary to say, though, that with
Mikhail Kalatozov’s The Cranes Are Flying [1957]—if these cranes herald
any kind of spring—not only will the Soviet cinema resume at one stroke
a position of leadership among the socialist states of the Eastern Bloc, but
it will also again ascend to the top tier of global )lm production, where it
was during the 1920s, the great age of its glory. Let us recognize, however,
a few weaknesses in the scenario: the remnants of political Manichaeism
in the opposition between the heroic )ancé, a war enlistee, and cowardly
the draft dodger, who takes advantage of the absent man’s silence to
overcome the self-restraint of his intended, seduce her, and make her
consent to marriage. There is some edifying didacticism, as well, in the
remorse of the girl, who is made to pay for her moral lapse for the rest of
the picture.
Let us just say that this story may illustrate fairly well both the
openness and the insularity of the Khrushchev era. Its analysis probably
shows how current Soviet developments are liberal and how they are not.
But what is more important, from a strictly cinematic point of view, is to
discern, beyond the actual plot, the total thaw in the treatment, if not of
the theses, then at least of the themes that constitute the very subject
matter of the )lm. There is, )rst of all, a portrait of love that is so fresh,
spontaneous, and intense that it certainly can compete with the best such
portraits in Western cinema. Better, there is a special tone, an expression
of modern-day wonder, in the depiction of all these amorous feelings.
Here we must speak of the directing of the actors, which reminds one of
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the kinetic, dancing, almost epidermal style of the Actors’ Studio, yet
without the somewhat a,ected mannerisms to be found in an Elia Kazan
movie. Curiously, this Russian )lm by a seasoned director is thus in
complete harmony with what can be considered the avant-garde in acting
theory in the contemporary cinema.
As for the mise-en-scène, it is stunning in its technical brilliance:
maybe it can even can be criticized for bravura set pieces so numerous that
they harm one another and thus the overall e,ect of the picture. But this
is a reproach I would like to be able to make more often. In any case, I
remain puzzled at the idea that Soviet technicians have been able to work
now for some two decades—during which time the West took the lead in
the cinema—without our knowing that they were capable of using a
camera with such invention and dexterity. This is a mystery of artistic
psychology that deserves to be elucidated. However nuanced my
admiration of it may be, then, The Cranes Are Flying is surely worthy of a
place in the history of Soviet cinema, to be included in the repertoire of
cinematheques worldwide on a double bill with Battleship Potemkin
[1925, Sergei Eisenstein], The General Line [a.k.a. Old and New: 1929,
Sergei Eisenstein], or Chapaev [1934, Georgi Vasilyev & Sergei Vasilyev].
Iron Flower
The one disappointment of this Cannes Festival, in the absence of a
Polish entry, was the production of such countries as Hungary and
Czechoslovakia. But if the thesis )lm as systematically demarcated from
neorealist technique is no longer a possibility, the Hungarian Iron Flower
[1958, János Herskó] is not without qualities, indisputably con)rming the
virtues of its own cinematic realization. I would like, though—in the
place of other critics—to identify an element common to both Iron
Flower and the Czech picture A Local Romance [1958, Zbyněk Brynych],
even to The Cranes Are Flying. To wit: I was struck by the fact that in this
Festival the best scenes appeared in works from behind the “Iron
Curtain.” The sentimental intrigue of Iron Flower, in particular, is of a
curious subtlety, often transcending the usual categories of )lmic
dramaturgy. Even in the fairly conventional A Local Romance, what is
better about it derives from the sentimental element. In the Russian )lm,
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)nally, everyone was struck and even shaken by the power of youth and
the conviction of feeling. I am not talking here about social or political
freedom. On the contrary, it became clear, in light of these three
scenarios—in each of which love constitutes in the end the real spring of
action—that the civic morality of the countries in question was incredibly
“petty bourgeois.” A Local Romance, for instance, shows us a young and
sympathetic workman who is appalled by the discovery that his )ancée
has a child by another man. He accepts this abominable reality only at the
end of a laborious debate with his own conscience. Even the Russian
picture rests on a rather unexpected premise: the heroine cannot escape
marrying the seducer who took advantage of her during a bombardment.
Civic morality is one thing, however, and private truth is another.
Everything in this trio of )lms takes place as if, frustrated by the depiction
of love for the past twenty years or so, the cinema of Communist
obedience—now free to approach the subject of romance squarely and
frankly—depicts it now not only with sincerity, but also with
independence from the conventions of performance and scenario that
constitute the so-called freedom of Western cinema. The gestures, words,
and behavior of Czech, Hungarian, and Soviet )lm lovers may be less
audacious than those of the lovers in Roger Vadim’s movies, but they are
surely more unforeseen. Paradoxically, the novelty of the romantic themes
in these pictures could even be said to stem from the freshness and truth
of their mise-en-scène.
A Mediocre Festival
This Eleventh Cannes Festival has been very mediocre from the point of
view of the overall quality of its )lms, which still remains the essential
element in any judgment. The fault no doubt belongs to no one in
particular, but we can begin with the multiplicity of festivals that have to
share an annual production insu.cient in quality pictures for so many
di,erent venues. To Berlin, Locarno, and Venice this year was added
Brussels, which immediately after Cannes appropriated some of its )lms
and probably some of its audience. Moreover, for the )rst time in years,
the halls of the Palais [Cannes’s main movie-going hub] have not been
full. But the relative weakness of the o.cial program would probably not
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have been as noticeable or so serious if the uno.cial festival on the Rue
d’Antibes had brought us its usual contingent of international )lms as of
yet unreleased in France. Instead, this year, these private screenings have
been reserved for the sale of movies to distribution companies, and
therefore they have an exclusively commercial character that adds nothing
to the informative appeal of the Festival.
Nevertheless, nothing should be exaggerated. While its )lms may not
have been interesting to some, the record of the Eleventh Festival is not
negligible. Even better than the selections at Cannes last year, this year’s
entries generally con)rm the existence of a certain level of achievement.
Further, the intellectual thaw in the socialist states of the Eastern Bloc is
becoming more and more noticeable; the Soviet )lm The Cranes Are
Flying itself was a revelation of the )rst magnitude. In short, it is more
accurate in this instance to speak of disappointment rather than failure. I
can also say that the knowledge gathered about world cinema at Cannes
remains, in 1958 as ever, irreplaceable. (France-Observateur, May 22, 1958,
and Cahiers du cinéma, June 1958)
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Brussels, 1958
I would like to say something here as much about what I screened out-of-
competition at the Brussels Festival as about the competing )lms
themselves: Paths of Glory [1957], by Stanley Kubrick, and Ingmar
Bergman’s Thirst [a.k.a. Three Strange Loves, 1949], for example, but
especially The Blackbird [1959], by Norman McLaren. The last picture is a
short based on a popular French-Canadian song [“M’en revenant de la
jolie Rochelle,” or “Returning from Pretty La Rochelle”]; its hero is a
blackbird, represented on screen by a few sticks and a circle variously
arranged. Certainly McLaren could be trusted to animate these quasi-
ideograms with the invention that characterizes his oeuvre. Yet, although I
will not say that The Blackbird disappointed me, it is, in principle, a
minor work in comparison to this artist’s Rythmetic [1956] or Blinkity
Blank [1955]. McLaren’s A Chairy Tale [1957], which I re-screened
recently, appeared to me, upon second viewing, even more admirable than
the )rst time I saw it.
Let’s go to the Festival itself. I request permission to eliminate from
my commentary the following: (1) )lms that I did not see (having spent
only eight days in Brussels), among them, unfortunately, perhaps some of
the best, to judge either by the )nal prize list or by word of mouth: these
include The Goddess [1958], by the Americans John Cromwell and Paddy
Chayefsky, The House I Live In [1957], by the Russians Lev Kulidzhanov
and Yakov Segel, Before Midnight [1957], by the Hungarian György
Révész, and Saturday Evening [1957], by the Yugoslav Vladimir Pogačić;
(2) movies without any interest, which would have garnered a wave of
exclusively negative criticism had they somehow managed to appear on
the prize list: alas, these make up the majority; (3) )lms already known,
such as Modigliani of Montparnasse [1958, Jacques Becker], This Angry
Age [1957, René Clément], and Touch of Evil [1958, Orson Welles],
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prosaically baptized in Belgium as A Cop’s Revenge, which, after all, could
not be a more unfaithful translation.
Thus the scope of this account will be limited only to a half dozen
)lms or so, selected either for their intrinsic value or for the reader’s
information, when the work in question has been anticipated with some
curiosity.
Japan
Japan had two titles on the Brussels program, The Adulteress [a.k.a. Night
Drum, 1958, Tadashi Imaï], and The Lower Depths [1957, Akira
Kurosawa]. The )rst is the work of Tadashi Imaï, who, because of his
Darkness at Noon [1956], has been described, somewhat cursorily, as a
Japanese André Cayatte. The Adulteress, however, is by no means didactic
neorealism of the kind championed by Cayatte; it is a “touching story” of
a samurai’s cuckolding. As I have a great weakness for Japanese cinema, I
took some pleasure in The Adulteress, where bits of genius can be found
here and there, though Imai lacks the grace of Kenji Mizoguchi or the
force of Akira Kurosawa.
It is precisely Kurosawa who directed The Lower Depths. And in this
case the Mizoguchians have triumphed, for obviously The Lower Depths is
more even indefensible than last year’s Throne of Blood [1957]. But, since I
don’t subscribe to the politics of auteurism—the idea that all of a
director’s )lms consistently possess the same artistic value and display the
same stylistic signature—I feel quite capable of continuing to admire
Kurosawa’s To Live [1952] and The Idiot [1951] while hating The Lower
Depths. Nonetheless, being against this new picture does not prevent me
from discerning in it the talent of Kurosawa. His error here, I believe, lies
not only in a strange overestimation of the project’s general worth, but
also in the speed with which it was )lmed.
Because the source is a play (and not a novel, as is often believed),
Kurosawa chose to fully respect its theatrical structure. As a result, the
action takes place almost in a single setting and, in any event, never leaves
the small complex consisting of a common dormitory, a courtyard, and
the house of the landlord. Moreover, on the same set, the actors
frequently turn their backs to the “fourth wall.” This is obviously a
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detriment and disappoints the French viewer, especially if he has in mind
less Maxim Gorky’s 1902 drama than Jean Renoir’s 1936 )lm, whose
characters have little in common with their Japanese counterparts. Vaska
Pepel [Toshiro Mifune], in particular, is not very sympathetic in
Kurosawa’s version, and The Actor stupe)ed by alcohol [Kamatari
Fujiwara] is a pitiful waste, far removed from the skilled dementia
displayed by Robert Le Vigan in Renoir’s movie. Yet so what? Unlike
Fritz Lang in Human Desire [1954, from The Human Beast, the 1938 )lm
by Jean Renoir based on the 1890 novel by Émile Zola], Kurosawa
adapted, not Renoir’s picture, but Gorky’s play, and any honest
assessment of the Japanese Lower Depths should return to the Russian
original—all the more so because the English subtitling was rather
summary—which I confess I was unable to do.
Still, one can at least sense the subtlety and )nesse of Kurosawa’s
intentions in The Lower Depths. As a matter of fact, this is arguably an
intelligent adaptation and, in any case, a thoughtful one. If there is any
doubt, however, that the director’s monotonous and simplistic mise-en-
scène is the result of mistaken judgment rather than de)ciency or
incapability, the short sequences abruptly enlivened by stunning mastery
would remove such doubt: the scene in which Pepel accidentally kills the
landlord, for example, where suddenly the cramped space of the setting
seems to open up from within. Without ever extricating us from those
few square meters, Kurosawa introduces an incredibly intense action that
any other director would undoubtedly have unfolded in an actual or
virtual space ten times the size. These fascinating few minutes, and a few
others, do not make up for the boredom of two hours of tedious
discussion, but they unquestionably relieve the critic of the naïve
assumption that this )lm artist lacks imagination.
Italy
Italy had three )lms in Brussels: the documentary Behind the Great Wall
[1958, Carlo Lizzani], which I did not see; Piece of the Sky [1958, Aglauco
Casadio]; and Fortunella [1958, Eduardo De Filippo]. Piece of the Sky is a
detestable thing, one more example of the kind of pseudo-neorealism,
sweetened and too clever by half, which now infests the Italian cinema.
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Fortunella, though, is a nice surprise, especially since we had to beware of
the credits. If Federico Fellini entrusted his wife [Giulietta Masina] and
screenplay to another man in this instance, was it not to avoid making
himself look ridiculous? And, indeed, there is every reason to believe that
Fortunella’s script, composed of ideas unused in Fellini’s own La strada
[The Road, 1954] and The Nights of Cabiria [1957], would have made,
under his direction, a rather irritating picture in the style of a pastiche.
But the direction of Eduardo De Filippo happily changes the style of the
work. If the situations and the characters are Fellini’s, here they play only
the role they would in a commedia dell’arte scenario, where the actors
constantly amuse themselves—and us—on the way to an eternally happy
ending. Alberto Sordi, especially, is sublime as Peppino.
America
So I apparently missed, in The Goddess, the only interesting American
movie at the festival, with the exception, of course, of Touch of Evil. As for
Orson Welles’s picture, I shall only point out the vengeance of Hollywood
against its enfant terrible. The production company [Universal Pictures]
)rst did everything it could to get the )lm to Brussels, where Touch of Evil
was placed in competition. But then it was simultaneously moved to Paris
under less-than-ideal distribution conditions, in the hope that such a
move would disqualify the )lm from competition, according to the rules.
It was necessary for the festival committee to make an exception to keep
this motion picture on the program. The presence of the director himself
in Brussels, where he gave a long, brilliant press conference attended by
Jean Renoir, topped o, the well-deserved success of Touch of Evil despite
the dilatory, destructive maneuvers of Universal Pictures.
If I say a word about The Old Man and the Sea [1958, John Sturges],
it is not because of the inherent merit of the movie, but merely to satisfy
the reader’s legitimate curiosity given the source of the screenplay. After
all, what could be expected from John Sturges, who replaced Fred
Zinnemann as the )lm’s director? The result is neither worse nor better
than the original prognosis. Spencer Tracy plays old age and dejection
with the complicity of James Wong Howe’s scenic illusions, yet the
technical problems have been solved only with highly uneven quality. The
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transparencies are so bad that it was necessary to make the foregrounds
grainy so they would not appear to take up too much space at the bottom
of the frame. Under these conditions, the color, of course, is hideous. On
the other hand, the whole sequence of the )ght with the sharks, taken
over—and under—“from the point of view of the sharks,” is quite
sensational, the sole moments in The Old Man and the Sea when one is
not bored. As for the screenplay, the )lm mainly reveals the arti)ces of the
1952 novel of the same name, which showcases a Hemingway too
conscious of his “message” and his means.
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Locarno, 1958
The Locarno Film Festival is the oldest and most serious of the small
festivals. This was its thirteenth year. It is frequented by relatively few
journalists, “regulars” who like to spend half a holiday in Switzerland at
the end of July and the beginning of August, at least as much for the
charms of Lake Maggiore as for the quality of the Festival’s )lms. Yet
Locarno holds a very honorable place in the history of )lm festivals. Its
purely commercial character does not consist only of disadvantages:
intelligently deployed, an identity of this kind can constitute a pledge of
freedom and independence, of which the o.cial and recognized festivals
themselves cannot always boast. Many of the most exciting movies of the
postwar period have )rst been presented at Locarno, among them
Germany, Year Zero [1948, Roberto Rossellini].
But I have to admit that this year Locarno has scarcely justi)ed its
existence. The great majority of the )lms placed in competition would
not have deserved a )fty-meter walk down the Champs-Élysées to go see
them, and we were bored enough even to notice the uncomfortableness of
the seats at the outdoor cinema near the gardens of the Grand Hotel.
Nonetheless, Locarno this time had two triumphs: Handsome Serge [1958,
Claude Chabrol] and The Eighth Day of the Week [1958, Aleksander
Ford]. About the )rst picture, I'll have something to say below. About the
second, alas, I will say nothing because it has not yet been released. The
reader will recall that this German-Polish )lm, shot in West Germany by
Aleksander Ford and based on a script by Marek Hlasko, was removed
from the Cannes Festival by order of the Polish head of state, Władysław
Gomulka. Yet the dual nationality of the production obviously permits its
distribution under a German label. Locarno had wisely been warned of
this situation, but so too was the Venice Festival, which, as a result, passed
The Eighth Day of the Week along to the Swiss. Thank God that
Handsome Serge remained on the program, as well. Without these two
104
pictures, what would there have been to get excited about at this year’s
Festival? Very little. All the same, I will at least mention two or three other
movies.
107
I cannot, in the space remaining to me, detail the major qualities—
and the minor faults—of Handsome Serge. I will try to circumscribe its
aesthetic conjuncture only by saying that Claude Chabrol has
undoubtedly been in-uenced by Alfred Hitchcock, Roberto Rossellini,
and Jean Renoir. This in-uence may be found at the heart of the )lm, but
not in its particulars, for Handsome Serge does not refer back to anything
we have already seen. It responds to cinematic culture, in the best sense of
the word “culture,” yet it also creates an absolutely modern, new look of
its own. Neorealism, for example, which could be invoked because of
Chabrol’s systematic use of a natural setting and the sociological role
played here by the backdrop of village life, is constantly overtaken in the
)lm by the moral signi)cance of the metaphysical drama enacted by the
main characters. I shall talk further about Handsome Serge when it comes
out, but I’d better say right now that this is not simply one of the most
important French pictures of the year, if not absolutely the most
important; it is also signi)cant in relation to the evolution our national
cinema is currently undergoing. My compliments to Jacques Flaud [at the
time, director general of France’s National Center of Cinematography
and the Moving Image] for understanding this as well—and saying it.
(France-Observateur, August 14, 1958)
108
Film Credits & Directors’ Filmographies
(in order of discussion)
Awards
Grand Prize: Brief Encounter, David Lean; Iris and the Lieutenant, Alf
Sjöberg; The Last Chance, Leopold Lindtberg; The Lost Weekend, Billy
Wilder; María Candelaria, Emilio Fernández; Men without Wings,
František Čáp; Neecha Nagar, Chetan Anand; Red Meadows, Bodil Ipsen
and Lau Lauritzen, Jr.; Rome, Open City, Roberto Rossellini; The Pastoral
Symphony, Jean Delannoy; The Turning Point, Fridrikh Ermler
111
International Jury Prize: La Bataille du rail, René Clément
Best Actor: Ray Milland, for The Lost Weekend
Best Actress: Michèle Morgan, for The Pastoral Symphony
Best Director: René Clément, for La Bataille du rail
Best Cinematography: Gabriel Figueroa, for María Candelaria & Los tres
mosqueteros
Best Animation Design: Make Mine Music, Joshua Meador, Clyde
Geronimi, Jack Kinney, Bob Cormack, & Hamilton Luske
FIPRESCI Prize: Farrebique, Georges Rouquier
Awards
Best Musical Comedy: Ziegfeld Follies, Vincente Minnelli
Best Animation Design: Dumbo, Walt Disney & Ben Sharpsteen
Best Psychological and Love Film: Antoine et Antoinette, Jacques Becker
Best Social Film: Crossfire, Edward Dmytryk
Best Adventure and Crime Film: Les Maudits, René Clément
Awards
Grand Prize: The Third Man, Carol Reed
Best Actor: Edward G. Robinson, for House of Strangers
Best Actress: Isa Miranda, for The Walls of Malapaga
Best Director: René Clément, for The Walls of Malapaga
Best Screenplay: Eugene Ling & Virginia Shaler, for Lost Boundaries
Best Cinematography: Milton R. Krasner, for The Set-Up
FIPRESCI Prize: The Set-Up, Robert Wise
Awards
Grand Prize: Miss Julie, Alf Sjöberg; Miracle in Milan, Vittorio De Sica;
Spiegel van Holland, Bert Haanstra
Special Jury Prize: All About Eve, Joseph L. Mankiewicz
Best Actor: Michael Redgrave, for The Browning Version
Best Actress: Bette Davis, for All About Eve
Best Director: Luis Buñuel, for Los Olvidados
115
Best Screenplay: Terence Rattigan, for The Browning Version
Best Cinematography: José María Beltrán, for La Balandra Isabel llegó
esta tarde
Best Music: Joseph Kosma, for Juliet, or the Key to Dreams
Awards
Grand Prize: Two Cents’ Worth of Hope, Renato Castellani; Othello,
Orson Welles
Special Jury Prize: We Are All Murderers, André Cayatte
Best Actor: Marlon Brando, for Viva Zapata!
Best Actress: Lee Grant, for Detective Story
Best Director: Christian-Jaque (a.k.a. Christian Maudet), for Fanfan la
Tulipe
Best Screenplay: Piero Tellini, for Cops and Robbers
118
Best Music: Sven Sköld, for One Summer of Happiness
OCIC Award: Two Cents’ Worth of Hope, Renato Castellani
Awards
Grand Prize: The Wages of Fear, Henri-Georges Clouzot
International Prize: Bienvenido, Mr. Marshall!, Luis García Berlanga
Best Cinematography: Emilio Fernández, for La Red
Best Dramatic Film: Come Back, Little Sheba, Daniel Mann
Special Jury Prize: Walt Disney
Best Actor: Charles Vanel, for The Wages of Fear
Best Actress: Shirley Booth, for Come Back, Little Sheba
OCIC Award: Horizons sans fin, Jean Dréville
Mandy, 1952
Director: Alexander Mackendrick
121
Screenplay: Nigel Balchin & Leslie Norman, based on the 1946 novel The
Day Is Ours, by Hilda Lewis
Cinematographer: Douglas Slocombe
Editor: Seth Holt
Music: William Alwyn
Art Director: Jim Morahan
Costume Designer: Anthony Mendleson
Running time: 93 minutes
Format: 35mm, in black and white
Cast: Phyllis Calvert (Christine Garland), Jack Hawkins (Dick Searle),
Terence Morgan (Harry Garland), Godfrey Tearle (Mr. Garland), Mandy
Miller (Mandy Garland), Marjorie Fielding (Mrs. Garland), Nancy Price
(Jane Ellis), Edward Chapman (Ackland), Patricia Plunkett (Miss
Crocker), Eleanor Summer)eld (Lily Tabor), Colin Gordon (Woollard,
Jr.), Dorothy Alison (Miss Stockton), Julian Amyes (Jimmy Tabor),
Gabrielle Brune (Secretary), John Cazabon (Davey), Gwen Bacon (Mrs.
Paul), W. E. Holloway (Woollard, Sr.), Phyllis Morris (Miss Tucker),
Gabrielle Blunt (Miss Larner), Jean Shepherd (Mrs. Jackson), Jane Asher
(Nina), Marlene Maddox (Leonie)
Awards
Best Film (Golden Lion): Forbidden Games, René Clément
Special Jury Prize: Mandy, Alexander Mackendrick
Best Actor (Volpi Cup): Fredric March, for Death of a Salesman
Best Original Screenplay (Golden Osella): Nunnally Johnson, for Phone
Call from a Stranger
Best Original Music (Golden Osella): Georges Auric, for The Respectful
Prostitute
Best Production Design (Golden Osella): Carmen Dillon, for The
Importance of Being Earnest
International Award: Europe ’51, Roberto Rossellini; The Quiet Man,
John Ford; The Life of Oharu, Kenji Mizoguchi
FIPRESCI Prize: Beauties of the Night, René Clair
OCIC Award: The Quiet Man, John Ford
Pasinetti Award: The Quiet Man, John Ford
123
VENICE FILM FESTIVAL, 1953
124
Ugetsu, 1953
Director: Kenji Mizoguchi
Screenplay: Matsutarô Kawaguchi, Hisakazu Tsuji, & Yoshikata Yoda,
based on the 1776 collection of nine supernatural tales titled Ugetsu
Monogatari, by Akinari Ueda
Cinematographer: Kazuo Miyagawa
Editor: Mitsuzo Miyata
Music: Fumio Hayasaka, Tamekichi Mochizuki, Ichiro Saito
Production Designer: Masatsugu Hashimoto
Costume Designers: Tadaoto Kainosho, Shima Yoshizane
Running time: 96 minutes
Format: 35mm, in black and white
Cast: Machiko Kyo (Lady Wakasa), Mitsuko Mito (Ohama), Kinuyo
Tanaka (Miyagi), Masayuki Mori (Genjuro), Eitaro Ozawa (Tobei),
Ichisaburo Sawamura (Genichi), Fumihiko Yokoyama (Meshiro), Kikue
Mori (Ukon, Lady Wakasa’s nurse), Ryosuke Kagawa (Village master),
Eigoro Onoe (Knight), Saburo Date (Vassal), Sugisaku Aoyama (Old
priest), Reiko Kongo (Old woman in brothel), Shozo Nanbu (Shinto
priest), Ichiro Amano (Boatsman), Kichijiro Ueda (Shop owner), Teruko
Omi (Prostitute), Keiko Koyanagi (Prostitute), Masako Tomura
(Prostitute), Mitsusaburo Ramon (Captain of Tamba soldiers), Jun
Fujikawa (Defeated soldier), Takaji Fukui (Defeated soldier), Eiji Ishikura
(Defeated soldier), Tokurin Takeda (Defeated soldier), Koji Kanda
(Defeated soldier), Ryuzaburo Mitsuoka (Soldier)
Awards
Golden Lion: not awarded in 1953.
Silver Lion: Thérèse Raquin, Marcel Carné; Ugetsu, Kenji Mizoguchi;
Moulin Rouge, John Huston; I vitelloni, Federico Fellini; Sadko,
Aleksandr Ptushko; Little Fugitive, Ray Ashley, Morris Engel, & Ruth
Orkin
125
Volpi Cup: Best Actor, Henri Vilbert for Le bon Dieu sans confession; Best
Actress, Lilli Palmer for The Four Poster
Bronze Lion: Pickup on South Street, Samuel Fuller; La Guerra de Dios,
Rafael Gil; Les Orgueilleux, Yves Allégret; Sinhá Moça, Tom Payne
OCIC Award: La guerra de Dios, Rafael Gil
Pasinetti Award: Ugetsu, Kenji Mizoguchi
Retrospectives
The Gold Rush, Charles Chaplin, 1925
City Lights, Charles Chaplin, 1931
Napoleon, Abel Gance, 1927
Greed, Erich von Stroheim, 1925 (1923)
The Wedding March, Erich von Stroheim, 1927
126
The Flute and the Arrow, 1957
Director: Arne Sucksdor,
Screenplay: Arne Sucksdor,
Cinematographer: Arne Sucksdor,
Editor: Arne Sucksdor,
Music: Ravi Shankar
Running time: 75 minutes
Format: 35mm, in color
Cast: Chendru Mandavi (The boy), Ginjo (The hunter), Riga (The
hunter’s wife), Tengru-Shikari (The boy’s grandfather), William Sansom
(Narrator)
Vengeance, 1958
Director: Juan Antonio Bardem
Screenplay: Juan Antonio Bardem
Cinematographer: Mario Pacheco
Editor: Margarita de Ochoa
Music: Isidro B. Maiztegui
128
Art Director: Enrique Alarcón
Costume Designer: Humberto Cornejo
Running time: 122 minutes
Format: 35mm, in color
Cast: Carmen Sevilla (Andrea Díaz), Raf Vallone (Luis “El Torcido”),
Jorge Mistral (Juan Díaz), José Prada (Santiago “El Viejo”), Manuel
Alexandre (Pablo “El Tinorio”), Manuel Peiró (Maxi “El Chico”),
Conchita Bautista (Singer), Maria Zanoli (Mother), Louis Seigner
(Merlín), Fernando Rey (Writer), Francisco Rabal (Narrator)
Awards
Grand Prize: The Cranes Are Flying, Mikhail Kalatozov
Jury Prize: Goha, Jacques Baratier; Bronze Faces, Bernard Taisant
Jury Special Prize: My Uncle, Jacques Tati
Best Actor: Paul Newman, for The Long, Hot Summer
Best Actress: Bibi Andersson, Eva Dahlbeck, Barbro Hiort af Ornäs, &
Ingrid Thulin, for Brink of Life
Best Director: Ingmar Bergman, for Brink of Life
Best Screenplay: Massimo Franciosa, Pasquale Festa Campanile, & Pier
Paolo Pasolini, for Young Husbands
Special Mention: Tatiana Samoylova, for The Cranes Are Flying
129
FIPRESCI Prize: La Venganza, Juan Antonio Bardem
Awards
Grand Prize: The Fabulous World of Jules Verne, a.k.a. The Deadly
Invention, 1958
Director: Karel Zeman
Screenplay: Karel Zeman, František Hrubín, Jiří Brdečka, & Milan Vácha,
based on the 1896 novel by Jules Verne
Cinematographers: Jiří Tarantík, Bohuslav Pikhart, Antonín Horák
Editor: Zdeněk Stehlik
Music: Zdeněk Liška
Production Designer: Karel Zeman
Costume Designer: Karel Postrehovsky
Running time: 83 minutes
Format: 35mm, in black and white
Cast: Lubor Tokoš (Simon Hart), Arnošt Navrátil (Professor Roch),
Miloslav Holub (Count Artigas), František Šlégr (Pirate captain), Václav
Kyzlink (Engineer Serke), Jana Zatloukalová (Jana), Otto Šimánek (Man
in train), Václav Trégl, František Černý (Captain Spade)
Awards
Best Feature Film: Ten North Frederick, Philip Dunne
Best Actor: Shan Kwan, for The True Story of Ah Q
Best Actress: Carla Gravina, for Love and Chatter
Best Director: Claude Chabrol, for Handsome Serge, 1958
Screenplay: Claude Chabrol
Cinematographer: Henri Decaë
Editor: Jacques Gaillard
Music: Émile Delpierre
Running time: 98 minutes
Format: 35mm, in black and white
Cast: Gérard Blain (Serge), Jean-Claude Brialy (François Baillou), Michèle
Méritz (Yvonne), Bernadette Lafont (Marie), Claude Cerval (The priest),
Jeanne Pérez (Madame Chaunier), Edmond Beauchamp (Glomaud),
André Dino (Michel, the doctor), Michel Creuze (Michel, the baker),
Claude Chabrol (La Tru,e), Philippe de Broca (Jacques Rivette de la
Chasuble)
131
Illustrations
132
Umberto D. (1952), Vittorio De Sica
133
Cops and Robbers (1951), Steno & Mario Monicelli
134
Children of Hiroshima (1952), Kaneto Shindo
136
The Proud and the Beautiful (1953), Yves Allégret
137
Voluntary Castaway (1953), Alain Bombard
138
Above: Sacred Forest (1954), Pierre-Dominique Gaisseau
Below: Vengeance (1958), Juan Antonio Bardem
139
Snow Country (1957), Shiro Toyoda
140
Bronze Faces (1958), Bernard Taisant
141
Above: The Flute and the Arrow (1957), Arne Sucksdor,
Below: The Cranes Are Flying (1957), Mikhail Kalatozov
142
Iron Flower (1958), János Herskó
143
The Lower Depths (1957), Akira Kurosawa
144
Fortunella (1958), Eduardo De Filippo
145
Above: The Fabulous World of Jules Verne (1958), Karel Zeman
Below: The True Story of Ah Q (1958), Yuan Yang-an
146
Handsome Serge (1958), Claude Chabrol
147
Comprehensive Bibliography of Articles by
Bazin on Euro-Japanese Cinema
AS WELL AS ASIAN CINEMA IN GENERAL
(arranged alphabetically by title)
“À Cannes: Faute de se battre pour les )lms, on s’est mitraillé avec des
-eurs [Bienvenue Monsieur Marshall (Bienvenido Mr. Marshall)].” Le
Parisien libéré, 2679 (April 24, 1953), 3,500 characters.
)lm analyzed: Bienvenue Monsieur Marshall/Bienvenido Mr. Marshall,
Berlanga, Luis García, 1952.
148
“À Cannes, l’Italie marque un nouveau point et les jeux seront bientôt faits
[Le Manteau (Il cappotto)].” Le Parisien libéré, 2380 (May 9, 1952), 3,100
characters.
)lm analyzed: Manteau (Le)/Il cappotto, Lattuada, Alberto, 1952.
“À cor et à cri [Hue and Cry].” Le Parisien libéré, 1185 (July 7, 1948), 700
characters.
)lm analyzed: À cor et à cri/Hue and Cry, Crichton, Charles, 1946.
149
“À mi-course du Festival de Berlin: Le cinéma français entre en lice [Les
Aventures de Monsieur Pickwick (The Pickwick Papers); Capitaine Paradis
(The Captain’s Paradise); Là où se dressent les cheminées; Magie verte
(Magia verde); Les Vacances de Monsieur Hulot; Les enfants d’Hiroshima
(Gembaku no ko); Les Procès à la ville-Coupables (Processo alla città); Sans
peur, sans pitié (O Cangugaceiro)].” Le Parisien libéré, 2731 (June 25, 1953),
3,300 characters.
)lms analyzed: Aventures de Monsieur Pickwick (Les)/The Pickwick Papers,
Langley, Noel, 1952; Capitaine Paradis/The Captain’s Paradise, Kimmins,
Anthony, 1953; Magie verte/Magia verde, Napolitano, Gian Gaspare, 1953;
Vacances de Monsieur Hulot (Les), Tati, Jacques, 1953; Enfants d’Hiroshima
(Les)/Gembaku no ko, Shindo, Kaneto, 1952; Procès à la ville-Coupables
(Les)/Processo alla città, Zampa, Luigi, 1952; Sans peur, sans pitié/O
Cangugaceiro, Barreto, Victor Lima, 1953.
“À tout péché miséricorde [For Them That Trespass]: Un )lm trop noir.” Le
Parisien libéré, 1606 (November 11, 1949), 1,000 characters.
151
)lm analyzed: À tout péché miséricorde/For Them That Trespass,
Cavalcanti, Alberto, 1949.
“À Venise, Chiens perdus sans collier bien accueilli par le public réussira-t-il
à remonter le handicap de la France?” Le Parisien libéré, 3420 (September
9, 1955), 2,000 characters.
)lm analyzed: Chiens perdus sans collier, Delannoy, Jean, 1955.
“À Venise, deux journées françaises avec Les héros sont fatigués et une
brillante réception au Palais des Doges.” Le Parisien libéré, 3418
(September 7, 1955), 2,100 characters.
)lm analyzed: Héros sont fatigués (Les), Ciampi, Yves, 1955.
“À Venise Jour de fête donne le fou rire aux Italiens et a.rme la supériorité
de la sélection française.” Le Parisien libéré, 1541 (August 27, 1949), 2,000
characters.
)lm analyzed: Jour de fête, Tati, Jacques, 1949.
152
“Adieu Torero [La hora de la verdad].” Le Parisien libéré, 1126 (April 28,
1948), 500 characters.
)lm analyzed: Adieu Torero/La hora de la verdad, Foster, Norman, 1945.
153
“L’Aigle à deux têtes.” Le Parisien libéré, 1257 (September 29, 1948), 800
characters.
)lm analyzed: Aigle à deux têtes (L’), Cocteau, Jean, 1948.
“L’aimant [The Magnet]: Attire quelque fois l’or.” Le Parisien libéré, 2398
(May 30, 1952), 2,700 characters.
)lm analyzed: Aimant (L’)/The Magnet, Frend, Charles, 1950.
“Ali Baba et les quarante voleurs.” Le Parisien libéré, 1191 (July 14, 1948),
800 characters.
)lm analyzed: Ali Baba et les quarante voleurs, Becker, Jacques, 1954.
“Ali Baba: Mille et une couleurs.” Le Parisien libéré, 3203 (December 29,
1954), 2,000 characters, in Le cinéma français de la Libération à la
Nouvelle Vague, 1945-1958 (Paris: Éditions de l’Étoile [1983], 1998), pp. 69-
70.
)lm analyzed: Ali Baba et les quarante voleurs, Becker, Jacques, 1954.
154
“Allemagne année zéro [Germania anno zero].” L’Esprit, 155 (May 1949),
7,500 characters, in Qu’est-ce que le cinéma?, volume III, “Cinéma et
sociologie; Première Partie: L’enfance sans mythes” (Éditions du Cerf,
1961), pp. 29-32; in Qu’est-ce que le cinéma? (Cerf, 1975, rpt. 2000; single-
volume version), pp. 203-206.
)lm analyzed: Allemagne année zéro/Germania anno zero, Rossellini,
Roberto, 1947.
“Les Amants du Tage.” Le Parisien libéré, 3274 (March 22, 1955), 1,300
characters.
)lm analyzed: Amants du Tage (Les), Verneuil, Henri, 1955.
“Un ami viendra ce soir.” Le Parisien libéré, 521 (April 20, 1946), 600
characters.
)lm analyzed: Ami viendra ce soir (Un), Bernard, Raymond, 1945.
156
)lm analyzed: Amiral Nakhimov/Admiral Nahimov, Pudovkin, Vsevolod,
1946.
“L’amour d’une femme: Un )lm pur!” Le Parisien libéré, 2996 (April 30,
1954), 2,900 characters.
)lm analyzed: Amour d’une femme (L’), Grémillon, Jean, 1953.
157
)lm analyzed: Amour mène la danse (L’)/Happy Go Lovely, Humberstone,
H. Bruce, 1951.
“L’amour outre-rideau de fer [La fleur de fer (Vasvirág); Quand passent les
cigognes (Letyat zhuravli); Romance du faubourg (Zizkovská romance)].”
Cahiers du cinéma, n. 84 (June 1958), p. 34/2,200 characters.
)lms analyzed: Fleur de fer (La)/Vasvirág, Herskó, János, 1958; Quand
passent les cigognes/Letyat zhuravli, Kalatozov, Mikhail, 1957; Romance du
faubourg, a.k.a. Les amants du faubourg/Zizkovská romance, Brynych,
Zbynek, 1958.
“Les amours finissent à l’aube.” Le Parisien libéré, 2681 (April 27, 1953),
2,800 characters.
)lm analyzed: Amours finissent à l’aube (Les), Calef, Henri, 1953.
“André Bazin et Pierre Kast répondent à Louis Daquin: Entretien sur une
tour d’ivoire.” Écran français, 196 (March 29, 1949), 6,000 characters.
158
)lms cited: Frères Bouquinquant (Les), Daquin, Louis, 1947; Règle du jeu
(La), Renoir, Jean, 1939; Lumière d’été, Grémillon, Jean, 1942; Diable au
corps (Le), Autant-Lara, Claude, 1947; Chapeau de paille d’Italie (Un),
Clair, René, 1927; Fin de Saint Petersbourg (La)/Konets Sankt-Peterburga,
Pudovkin, Vsevolod, 1927; Cuirassé Potemkine (Le)/Bronenosets
Potyomkin, Eisenstein, Sergei, 1925; Ivan le terrible/Ivan Groznyi,
Eisenstein, Sergei, Part I: 1942-44; Part II: 1945-46 (1958); Crime de
Monsieur Lange (Le), Renoir, Jean, 1936; Jo la Romance, Grangier, Gilles,
1949; Voile bleu (Le), Stelli, Jean, 1942.
“André Bazin juge le )lm de Clouzot: Les Espions.” Le Parisien libéré, 4070
(October 12, 1957), 2,500 characters.
)lm analyzed: Espions (Les), Clouzot, Henri-Georges, 1957.
159
)lms analyzed: Annapurna, a.k.a. Victoire sur l’Annapurna, Ichac, Marcel,
1953; Grand Méliès (Le), Franju, Georges, 1953.
160
“Après le Rose et le Noir [Deux sous de violettes].” Cahiers du cinéma, II, n.
7 (December 1951), pp. 49-51/8,100 characters.
)lm analyzed: Deux sous de violettes, Anouilh, Jean, 1951.
“Les assassins sont parmi nous [Die Mörder sind unter uns].” Le Parisien
libéré, 1173 (June 23, 1948), 1,000 characters.
)lm analyzed: Assassins sont parmi nous (Les), a.k.a. Les meurtriers sont
parmi nous/Die Mörder sind unter uns, Staudte, Wolfgang, 1946.
162
“Au diable la vertu.” Le Parisien libéré, 2756 (July 24, 1953), 2,000
characters.
)lm analyzed: Au diable la vertu, Laviron, Jean, 1953.
“Au Festival de Bruxelles: Un bon )lm anglais, Hue and Cry [À cor et à
cri].” Le Parisien libéré, 850 (June 11, 1947), 800 characters.
)lm analyzed: À cor et à cri/Hue and Cry, Crichton, Charles, 1947.
“Au Festival de Cannes: French Cancan a été, hors festival, le vrai )lm de la
journée.” Le Parisien libéré, 3314 (May 7, 1955), 2,100 characters.
)lm analyzed: French Cancan, Renoir, Jean, 1955.
“Au Festival de Cannes: Celui qui doit mourir [Le Christ recrucifié].” Le
Parisien libéré, 3933 (May 4, 1957), 2,400 characters.
)lm analyzed: Celui qui doit mourir, a.k.a. Le Christ recrucifié, Dassin,
Jules, 1956.
164
“Au Festival de Cannes: En attendant les grosses productions américaines;
L’enfant et la licorne [A Kid for Two Farthings] marque un point pour le
cinéma anglais.” Le Parisien libéré, 3313 (May 6, 1955), 1,100 characters.
)lm analyzed: Enfant et la licorne (L’)/A Kid for Two Farthings, Reed,
Carol, 1955.
“Au Festival de Cannes: La Norvège est entrée en lice avec des allumettes
suédoises et l’Allemagne avec un )lm paci)ste mais à la mi-temps les
pronostics demeurent très incertains [La Flamme (Det brenner i natt!) et
Louis II de Bavière (Ludwig II: Glanz und Ende eines Königs)].” Le
Parisien libéré, 3310 (May 3, 1955), 2,600 characters.
)lms analyzed: Flamme (La)/Det brenner i natt!, Skouen, Arne, 1955;
Louis II de Bavière/Ludwig II: Glanz und Ende eines Königs, Käutner,
Helmut, 1955.
165
)lms analyzed: Amants (Les), Malle, Louis, 1958; En cas de malheur,
Autant-Lara, Claude, 1958.
“Au festival du cinéma [Les Chaussons rouges (The Red Shoes); La voix
humaine (L’Amore); L’Aigle à deux têtes].” Le Parisien libéré, 1228 (August
26, 1948), 1,200 characters.
)lms analyzed: Chaussons rouges (Les)/The Red Shoes, Powell, Michael, and
Pressburger, Emeric, 1948; Voix humaine (La)/L’Amore, Rossellini,
Roberto, 1948; Aigle à deux têtes (L’), Cocteau, Jean, 1948.
166
“Au fil des ondes: Laissons-nous porter.” Le Parisien libéré, 2077 (May 18,
1951), 1,200 characters.
)lm analyzed: Au fil des ondes, Gautherin, Pierre, 1951.
“Au loin une voile [Beleet parus odinokiy].” Le Parisien libéré, 1179 (June 30,
1948), 300 characters.
)lm analyzed: Au loin une voile/Beleet parus odinokiy, Legoshin, Vladimir,
1937.
“Au petit bonheur.” Le Parisien libéré, 563 (June 7, 1946), 800 characters.
)lm analyzed: Au petit bonheur, L’Herbier, Marcel, 1946.
167
“Une auberge espagnole [L’Auberge rouge].” Le Parisien libéré, 2216
(October 29, 1951), 4,700 characters, in Le cinéma français de la Libération
à la Nouvelle Vague, 1945-1958 (Paris: Éditions de l’Étoile [1983], 1998), pp.
42-45.
)lm analyzed: Auberge rouge (L’), Autant-Lara, Claude, 1951.
“Avant de partir les Indes tourner son prochain )lm, le metteur en scène de
La Grande illusion a retrouvé pour quelques heures son Paris: Une
interview exclusive de Jean Renoir.” Le Parisien libéré, 1616 (November 23,
1949), 2,800 characters.
)lms cited: Bête humaine (La), Renoir, Jean, 1938; Chienne (La), Renoir,
Jean, 1931; Grande illusion (La), Renoir, Jean, 1937; Grande illusion (La),
Renoir, Jean, 1937; Crime de Monsieur Lange (Le), Renoir, Jean, 1936;
Partie de campagne (Une), Renoir, Jean, 1946 (1936); Règle du jeu (La),
Renoir, Jean, 1939; Journal d’une femme de chambre (Le)/The Diary of a
Chambermaid, Renoir, Jean, 1946; Homme du Sud (L’)/The Southerner,
Renoir, Jean, 1945; Fleuve (Le)/The River, Renoir, Jean, 1951.
“Avec le )lm italien de Castellani Les Rêves dans le tiroir [I sogni nel
cassetto], un jeune ménage d’étudiants passe sans brio son examen de ‘néo-
réalisme’.” Le Parisien libéré, 4035 (September 2, 1957), 3,000 characters.
)lm analyzed: Rêves dans le tiroir (Les)/I sogni nel cassetto, Castellani,
Renato, 1957.
“Le Ballon rouge et Une fée pas comme les autres.” France-Observateur, 337
(October 25, 1956), 8,100 characters.
)lms analyzed: Ballon rouge (Le), Lamorisse, Albert, 1956; Fée pas comme
les autres (Une), Tourane, Jean, 1957.
“Le banni des îles Iles et illusions [An Outcast of the Islands].” Le Parisien
libéré, 2322 (March 1, 1952), 2,800 characters.
169
)lm analyzed: Banni des îles (Le)/An Outcast of the Islands, Reed, Carol,
1951.
“Le banquet des fraudeurs: Menu inégal.” Le Parisien libéré, 2436 (July 7,
1952), 3,200 characters.
)lm analyzed: Banquet des fraudeurs (Le), Storck, Henri, 1952.
“Barbe bleue: Bon teint.” Le Parisien libéré, 2192 (October 1, 1951), 2,700
characters.
)lm analyzed: Barbe bleue, Christian-Jaque (a.k.a. Christian Maudet), 1951.
“La Bataille de l’eau lourde.” Le Parisien libéré, 1060 (February 11, 1948),
1,900 characters.
)lm analyzed: Bataille de l’eau lourde (La), Dréville, Jean, and Vibé-
Muller, Titus, 1948.
170
“La Bataille du rail.” Gavroche, 75 (January 31, 1946), 4,500 characters.
Reprinted in Le Cinéma de l’Occupation et de la Résistance. Paris: Union
Générale d’éditions, 1975.
)lm analyzed: Bataille du rail (La), Clément, René, 1946.
“La Bataille du rail.” Le Parisien libéré, 476 (February 27, 1946), 1,000
characters.
)lm analyzed: Bataille du rail (La), Clément, René, 1946.
“La Belle aventure.” Le Parisien libéré, 117 (December 31, 1944), 1,000
characters.
)lm analyzed: Belle aventure (La), Allégret, Marc, 1942.
“La Belle de Cadix.” Le Parisien libéré, 2893 (December 31, 1953), 2,600
characters.
)lm analyzed: Belle de Cadix (La), Bernard, Raymond, 1953.
172
“Belle mentalité: Jean Richard; un point c’est tout!” Le Parisien libéré, 2813
(September 30, 1953), 1,900 characters.
)lm analyzed: Belle mentalité, Berthomieu, André, 1953.
“La Belle meunière.” Le Parisien libéré, 1304 (November 24, 1948), 1,100
characters.
)lm analyzed: Belle meunière (La), Pagnol, Marcel, 1948.
“Les belles de nuit: Une nuit très Clair!” Le Parisien libéré, 2541 (November
14, 1952), 3,500 characters.
)lm analyzed: Belles de nuit (Les), Clair, René, 1952.
“La bergère et le ramoneur et Crin blanc: Les bons contes font les bons
amis!” Le Parisien libéré, 2711 (June 1, 1953), 3,100 characters.
173
)lms analyzed: Bergère et le ramoneur (La), Grimault, Paul, 1953; Crin
blanc: Le cheval sauvage, Lamorisse, Albert, 1953.
“Il bidone: Après La strada.” Le Parisien libéré, 3572 (March 5, 1956), 2,500
characters.
)lm analyzed: Il bidone, Fellini, Federico, 1955.
“Blanc comme neige.” Le Parisien libéré, 1149 (May 26, 1948), 850
characters.
)lm analyzed: Blanc comme neige, Berthomieu, André, 1948.
“Le blé en herbe: A poussé dru!” Le Parisien libéré, 2915 (January 25, 1954),
4,400 characters.
)lm analyzed: Blé en herbe (Le), Autant-Lara, Claude, 1954.
“La Maison de l’ange [La Casa del angel].” Le Parisien libéré, 4066
(October 8, 1957), 2,000 characters.
)lms analyzed: Maison de l’ange (La)/La Casa del angel, Nilsson,
Leopoldo Torre, 1957.
“Boîte de nuit: Cabaret pour tous.” Le Parisien libéré, 2135 (July 25, 1951),
1,100 characters.
)lm analyzed: Boîte de nuit, Rode, Alfred, 1951.
175
“Le Bon Dieu sans confession: Pas de conscience.” Le Parisien libéré, 2828
(October 17, 1953), 3,400 characters.
)lm analyzed: Bon Dieu sans confession (Le), Autant-Lara, Claude, 1953.
176
“La Bonne combine [Mister 880]: Passez la (fausse) monnaie.” Le Parisien
libéré, 2071 (October 5, 1951), 1,700 characters.
)lm analyzed: Bonne combine (La)/Mister 880, Goulding, Edmund, 1950.
“Les bons meurent jeunes [The Good Die Young].” Le Parisien libéré, 3223
(January 21, 1955), 2,100 characters.
)lm analyzed: Bons meurent jeunes (Les)/The Good Die Young, Gilbert,
Lewis, 1954.
“Le Bossu.” Le Parisien libéré, 105 (December 18, 1944), 1,000 characters.
)lm analyzed: Bossu (Le), Delannoy, Jean, 1944.
177
“Branquignol.” Le Parisien libéré, 1637 (December 19, 1949), 1,000
characters.
)lm analyzed: Branquignol, Dhéry, Robert, 1949.
“Brelan d’as: Partie perdue malgré les ‘dix des der’.” Le Parisien libéré, 2523
(October 24, 1952), 2,600 characters.
)lm analyzed: Brelan d’as, Verneuil, Henri, 1952.
“Ça va barder: Hors série noire!” Le Parisien libéré, 3286 (April 5, 1955),
1,300 characters.
)lm analyzed: Ça va barder, Berry, John, 1955.
178
)lm analyzed: Nuits de Cabiria (Les)/Le notti di Cabiria, Fellini, Federico,
1957.
“Le Café du Cadran.” Le Parisien libéré, 927 (September 10, 1947), 2,200
characters.
)lm analyzed: Café du Cadran (Le), Gehret, Jean, 1947.
“La cage aux filles: L’honnêteté paye parfois.” Le Parisien libéré, 1661
(January 16, 1950), 2,500 characters.
)lm analyzed: Cage aux filles (La), a.k.a. Le minorenni, Cloche, Maurice,
1949.
“La Cage d’or [Cage of Gold].” Le Parisien libéré, 2255 (December 14, 1951),
2,700 characters.
)lm analyzed: Cage d’or (La)/Cage of Gold, Dearden, Basil, 1950.
“Calcutta, ville cruelle [Deux hectares de terre (Do Bigha Zamin)]: Néo-
réalisme hindou.” Radio-Cinéma-Télévision, 277 (May 8, 1955), 2,100
characters.
)lm analyzed: Deux hectares de terre/Do Bigha Zamin, Roy, Bimal, 1953.
179
Élève André Bazin, répondez.” Radio-Cinéma-Télévision, 338 (July 8,
1956), 4,700 characters.
)lms analyzed: Symphonie pastorale (La), Delannoy, Jean, 1946; Fleuve
(Le)/The River, Renoir, Jean, 1951; Journal d’un curé de campagne (Le),
Bresson, Robert, 1951.
“Cannes: Gaby Morlay a pleuré sur Les Amants du pont Saint-Jean, mais le
public n’a pas marché … par contre Le diable au corps fait courir Paris.” Le
Parisien libéré, 939 (September 24, 1947), 2,800 characters.
)lms analyzed: Amants du pont Saint-Jean (Les), Decoin, Henri, 1947;
Diable au corps (Le), Autant-Lara, Claude, 1947.
“Carrefour des passions [Gli uomini sono nemici].” Le Parisien libéré, 1215
(August 11, 1948), 1,300 characters.
)lm analyzed: Carrefour des passions/Gli uomini sono nemici, Ettore,
Giannini, and Calef, Henri, 1948.
181
Qu’est-ce que le cinéma? (Cerf, 1975, rpt. 2000; single-volume version), pp.
179-185.
)lm analyzed: Manon des Sources, Pagnol, Marcel, 1953.
“Casque d’or: 1900 contre la Belle Époque.” Le Parisien libéré, 2368 (April
24, 1952), 4,400 characters.
)lm analyzed: Casque d’or, Becker, Jacques, 1952.
“Ce droit qu’à la porte on achète en entrant … Peut-on si9er Les Portes de
la nuit?” Le Parisien libéré, 735 (December 20, 1946), 1,200 characters.
)lm analyzed: Portes de la nuit (Les), Carné, Marcel, 1946.
“Ce pain était-il si dur? [Le Pain vivant].” France-Observateur, 311 (April
26, 1956), 1,700 characters.
)lm analyzed: Pain vivant (Le), Mousselle, Jacques, 1955.
“Ce soir les Jupons volent: Mannequins … mais pas en cire.” Le Parisien
libéré, 3661 (June 18, 1956), 1,200 characters.
)lm analyzed: Ce soir les Jupons volent, Kirsano,, Dmitri, 1956.
182
“Certains )lms sont meilleurs au télécinéma qu’au cinéma [La Petite
marchande d’allumettes et Les Parents terribles].” Radio-Cinéma-
Télévision, 218 (March 21, 1954), 3,000 characters.
)lms analyzed: Petite marchande d’allumettes (La), Renoir, Jean, 1928;
Parents terribles (Les), Cocteau, Jean, 1948.
183
“Cette nuit-là.” Le Parisien libéré, 4361 (September 19, 1958), 1,600
characters.
)lm analyzed: Cette nuit-là, Cazeneuve, Maurice, 1958.
“Les Chaussons rouges [The Red Shoes]: La caméra entre dans la danse.” Le
Parisien libéré, 1478 (June 15, 1949), 1,800 characters.
)lm analyzed: Chaussons rouges (Les)/The Red Shoes, Powell, Michael,
1948.
“Le Chemin des étoiles [The Way to the Stars].” Le Parisien libéré, 557 (June
1, 1946), 1,000 characters.
)lm analyzed: Chemin des étoiles (Le)/The Way to the Stars, Asquith,
Anthony, 1945.
185
)lm analyzed: Cheval et l’enfant (Le)/Maboroshi Nouma, Shima, Koji,
1955.
“Le Christ interdit [Il Cristo proibito]: Un )lm d’une beauté insolite.” Le
Parisien libéré, 2095 (July 6, 1951), 3,200 characters.
)lm analyzed: Christ interdit (Le)/Il Cristo proibito, Malaparte, Curzio,
1950.
“La Chronique des pauvres amants [Cronaca dei poveri amanti].” France-
Observateur, 398 (December 26, 1957), 2,100 characters.
186
)lm analyzed: Chronique des pauvres amants (La)/Cronaca dei poveri
amanti, Lizzani, Carlo, 1954.
187
“Les cinéastes qui pensent.” L’Âge nouveau, 93 (July 1955), 21,000
characters.
“Il cinema dello spazio.” Cinema nuovo (Italy), 5, n. 81 (April 25, 1956),
3,600 characters.
)lm cited: Napoléon, Gance, Abel, 1927.
188
les autres arts” (Éditions du Cerf, 1959), pp. 127-132; in Qu’est-ce que le
cinéma? (Cerf, 1975, rpt. 2000; single-volume version), pp. 187-192.
)lm analyzed: Van Gogh, Resnais, Alain, 1948.
“Le Cinéma pur [La Bataille du rail et Ivan le terrible (Ivan Groznyi)].”
L’Esprit, XIV, n. 121 (April 1946), pp. 667-672/8,000 characters.
)lms analyzed: Bataille du rail (La), Clément, René, 1946; Ivan le
terrible/Ivan Groznyi,
“Le Cinéma soviétique marque un point avec Quand passent les cigognes
[Letyat zhuravli].” Le Parisien libéré, 4244 (May 5, 1958), 2,000 characters.
)lm analyzed: Quand passent les cigognes/Letyat zhuravli, Kalatozov,
Mikhail, 1957.
190
“Ciné-Panorama: ‘Public’ et intelligent.” Radio-Cinéma-Télévision, 338
(July 8, 1956), 1,000 characters.
)lms cited: Gervaise, Clément, René, 1956; Traversée de Paris (La),
Autant-Lara, Claude, 1957.
“Les Clandestines: Série rose et noire.” Le Parisien libéré, 3264 (March 10,
1955), 1,600 characters.
)lm analyzed: Clandestines (Les), André, Raoul, 1954.
“Claude Vermorel fait vivre à l’instituteur: La plus belle des vies.” Radio-
Cinéma-Télévision, 273 (April 10, 1955), 2,700 characters.
)lm analyzed: Plus belle des vies (La), Vermorel, Claude, 1954.
“Le Colonel Blimp [The Life and Death of Colonel Blimp]: De l’humour
avant toute chose.” Le Parisien libéré, 2669 (April 13, 1953), 2,800
characters.
)lm analyzed: Colonel Blimp (Le)/The Life and Death of Colonel Blimp,
Powell, Michael, and Pressburger, Emeric, 1943.
191
“Comiques [Cómicos].” France-Observateur, 285 (October 27, 1955), 4,800
characters.
)lm analyzed: Comiques, a.k.a. Comédiens (Les)/Cómicos, Bardem, Juan
Antonio, 1954.
“Courrier du coeur [Lo sceicco bianco].” Le Parisien libéré, 3452 (October 17,
1955), 2,000 characters.
)lm analyzed: Courrier du coeur, a.k.a. Le sheik blanc/Lo sceicco bianco,
Fellini, Federico, 1952.
194
Robert, 1956; Disque rouge (Le), a.k.a. Le cheminot/Il Ferroviere, Germi,
Pietro, 1956.
“Le cuirassé Potemkine [Bronenosets Potyomkin], une reprise qui est une
grande première.” Radio-Cinéma-Télévision, 167 (March 29, 1953), 3,400
characters.
)lm analyzed: Cuirassé Potemkine (Le)/Bronenosets Potyomkin, Eisenstein,
Sergei, 1925.
“La Cybernétique d’André Cayatte [Avant le déluge, Nous sommes tous des
assassins, et Justice est faîte].” Cahiers du cinéma, n. 36 (June 1954), pp. 22-
27/16,400 characters, in Qu’est-ce que le cinéma?, volume III, “Cinéma et
sociologie; Cinquième Partie: Un Univers d’Automates” (Éditions du
Cerf, 1961), pp. 169-176; in Le cinéma français de la Libération à la
Nouvelle Vague, 1945-1958 (Paris: Éditions de l’Étoile [1983], 1998), pp. 117-
125.
)lms analyzed: Avant le déluge, Cayatte, André, 1954; Nous sommes tous des
assassins, Cayatte, André, 1952; Justice est faite, Cayatte, André, 1950.
196
“La Dame aux Camélias.” Cahiers du cinéma, n. 29 (December 1953), p.
60/1,200 characters.
)lm analyzed: Dame aux Camélias (La), Bernard, Raymond, 1953.
“La Dame aux Camélias: Une tragédie bourgeoise tirée vers la comédie.”
Radio-Cinéma-Télévision, 201 (November 22, 1953), 1,300 characters.
)lm analyzed: Dame aux Camélias (La), Bernard, Raymond, 1953.
197
“La Danse de mort.” Le Parisien libéré, 1316 (December 8, 1948), 1,200
characters.
)lm analyzed: Danse de mort (La), Cravenne, Marcel, 1948.
“De la di.culté d’être Coco: Histoire vécue par André Bazin.” Carrefour
(March 17, 1954), 16,000 characters; reprinted in Cahiers du cinéma, 16, n.
91 (January 1959), pp. 52-57.
“De l’or en barres [The Lavender Hill Mob]: Une autre bonne comédie
britannique.” Radio-Cinéma-Télévision, 103 (January 6, 1952), 1,000
characters.
)lm analyzed: De l’or en barres/The Lavender Hill Mob, Crichton,
Charles, 1951.
198
“De l’or en barres [The Lavender Hill Mob]: La comédie anglaise.” France-
Observateur, 86 (January 3, 1952), 4,000 characters.
)lm analyzed: De l’or en barres/The Lavender Hill Mob, Crichton,
Charles, 1951.
“De Paris plein ciel à Pacific 231.” L’Écran français, 209 (June 27, 1949),
2,100 characters.
)lms analyzed: Paris plein ciel, Alphen, Jean-Paul, 1951; Pacific 231, Mitry,
Jean, 1949.
199
)lms analyzed: Miracle à Milan/Miracolo a Milano, De Sica, Vittorio,
1951; Voleur de bicyclette (Le)/Ladri di biciclette, De Sica, Vittorio, 1948;
Umberto D., De Sica, Vittorio, 1952.
200
)lms analyzed: Marie Antoinette, Delannoy, Jean, 1956; Christ en bronze
(Le)/Seido no Kirisuto, Shibuya, Minoru, 1956.
“Les Demi-sel: Après le déluge.” Le Parisien libéré, 3843 (January 18, 1957),
2,000 characters.
)lm analyzed: Demi-sel (Les)/Die Halbstarken, Tressler, Georg, 1956.
“Les démons de l’aube.” Le Parisien libéré, 539 (May 12, 1946), 900
characters. Reprinted in Le Cinéma de l’Occupation et de la Résistance.
Paris: Union Générale d’éditions, 1975.
)lm analyzed: Démons de l’aube (Les), Allégret, Marc, 1946.
“Les dents longues: Autocritique.” Le Parisien libéré, 2647 (March 18, 1953),
2,500 characters.
)lm analyzed: Dents longues (Les), Gélin, Daniel, 1952.
“Le dernier pont [Die letzte Brücke]: Une oeuvre forte et humaine.” Le
Parisien libéré, 3211 (January 7, 1955), 2,000 characters.
)lm analyzed: Dernier pont (Le)/Die letzte Brücke, Käutner, Helmut, 1954.
“Le dernier Clair, René, Porte des Lilas: André Bazin juge le )lm.” Le
Parisien libéré, 4056 (September 26, 1957), 4,900 characters.
)lm analyzed: Porte des Lilas, Clair, René, 1957.
“La Dernière chance.” Le Parisien libéré, 428 (December 27, 1945), 700
characters.
201
)lm analyzed: Dernière chance (La)/Die letzte Chance, Lindtberg,
Leopold, 1944.
“La Dernière étape [Ostatni etap].” Le Parisien libéré, 1257 (September 29,
1948), 1,500 characters.
)lm analyzed: Dernière étape (La)/Ostatni etap, Jakubowska, Wanda, 1948.
“Les Dernières vacances.” Le Parisien libéré, 1096 (March 24, 1948), 1,700
characters.
)lm analyzed: Dernières vacances (Les), Leenhardt, Roger, 1948.
“Les Dernières vacances”; original title, “Le style, c’est l’homme même.”
Revue du cinéma, 14 (June 1948), pp. 62-68/16,000 characters; and
L’Esprit, 146 (July 1948), pp. 115-121, in Qu’est-ce que le cinéma?, volume III,
“Cinéma et sociologie; Première Partie” (Éditions du Cerf, 1961), pp. 33-41;
in Le cinéma français de la Libération à la Nouvelle Vague, 1945-1958 (Paris:
Éditions de l’Étoile [1983], 1998), pp. 215-224.
)lm analyzed: Dernières vacances (Les), Leenhardt, Roger, 1948.
202
“Des gens sans importance: Mais non sans soucis!” Le Parisien libéré, 3560
(February 20, 1956), 2,000 characters.
)lms analyzed: Des gens sans importance, Verneuil, Henri, 1956.
“Les deux époques de Jean Renoir [Le Fleuve (The River) et La Règle du
jeu].” L’Esprit, XX, n. 188 (March 1952), pp. 500-512/33,600 characters.
)lms analyzed: Fleuve (Le)/The River, Renoir, Jean, 1951; Règle du jeu (La),
Renoir, Jean, 1939.
“Deux )lms de marine: Ceux qui servent sur mer, Plongée à l’aube [In
Which We Serve; We Dive at Dawn].” Le Parisien libéré, 53 (October 19,
1944), 1,000 characters.
)lms analyzed: Ceux qui servent en mer/In Which We Serve, Coward,
Noël, and Lean, David, 1942; Plongée à l’aube/We Dive at Dawn, Asquith,
Anthony, 1943.
“Deux )lms pour enfants [Une Fée pas comme les autres et Le Ballon
rouge].” L’Éducation nationale, 29 (November 1, 1956), 4,400 characters.
)lms analyzed: Ballon rouge (Le), Lamorisse, Albert, 1956; Fée pas comme
les autres (Une), Tourane, Jean, 1957.
“Deux grands )lms français [Les Sorcières de Salem et Celui qui doit
mourir].” L’Éducation nationale, 19 (May 23, 1957), 4,400 characters.
)lms analyzed: Sorcières de Salem (Les), Rouleau, Raymond, 1957; Celui
qui doit mourir, a.k.a. Le Christ recrucifié, Dassin, Jules, 1956.
205
“Deux Renoir: La Grande illusion et Le crime de Monsieur Lange.” Radio-
Cinéma-Télévision, 458 (October 26, 1958), 1,600 characters.
)lms analyzed: Grande illusion (La), Renoir, Jean, 1937; Crime de
Monsieur Lange (Le), Renoir, Jean, 1936.
“Les deux vérités [Le due verità].” Le Parisien libéré, 2425 (July 1, 1952),
2,900 characters.
)lm analyzed: Deux vérités (Les)/Le due verità, Leonviola, Antonio, 1952.
“Le Disque rouge [Il Ferroviere].” Le Parisien libéré, 4192 (March 4, 1958),
1,000 characters.
)lm analyzed: Disque rouge (Le), a.k.a. Le cheminot/Il Ferroviere, Germi,
Pietro, 1956.
“Dommage que tu sois une canaille [Peccato che sia una canaglia]:
Dommage que tu sois une vedette!” Radio-Cinéma-Télévision, 286 (July
10, 1955), 2,600 characters.
)lm analyzed: Dommage que tu sois une canaille/Peccato che sia una
canaglia, a.k.a. Too Bad She’s Bad, Blasetti, Alessandro, 1955.
207
“Dommage que tu sois une canaille [Peccato che sia una canaglia]: Vol,
amour et fantaisie.” Le Parisien libéré, 3360 (July 1, 1955), 2,000 characters.
)lm analyzed: Dommage que tu sois une canaille/Peccato che sia una
canaglia, a.k.a. Too Bad She’s Bad, Blasetti, Alessandro, 1955.
“Don Juan: La réputation fait l’homme.” Le Parisien libéré, 3633 (May 16,
1956), 1,900 characters.
)lm analyzed: Don Juan, Berry, John, 1956.
“Le dos au mur.” Le Parisien libéré, 4202 (March 15, 1958), 1,600
characters.
)lm analyzed: Dos au mur (Le), Molinaro, Édouard, 1958.
208
“Drôles de bobines [Cinema d’altri tempi] … De pellicules et autres.” Le
Parisien libéré, 3214 (January 11, 1955), 2,000 characters.
)lm analyzed: Drôles de bobines/Cinema d’altri tempi, Steno (a.k.a.
Stefano Vanzina), 1953.
“Du Guesclin: Le héros breton n’est pas trahi par le cinéma.” Le Parisien
libéré, 1473 (June 9, 1949), 1,000 characters.
)lm analyzed: Du Guesclin, De Latour, Bernard, 1948.
“Du théâtre transformé par la magie blanche et noire en pur cinéma [Les
Parents terribles].” L’Écran français, n. 180 (June 12, 1948), 2,600
characters, in Le cinéma français de la Libération à la Nouvelle Vague,
1945-1958 (Paris: Éditions de l’Étoile [1983], 1998), pp. 188-193. Reprinted in
Cinévoz (Mexico), in Spanish, on December 7, 1949 (vol. 2, n. 45), 2,600
characters.
)lm analyzed: Parents terribles (Les), Cocteau, Jean, 1948.
“Émile l’Africain.” Le Parisien libéré, 1148 (May 25, 1948), 1,000 characters.
)lm analyzed: Émile l’Africain, Pernay, Robert, 1948.
210
“L’empire du soleil [L’Impero del sole].” France-Observateur, 361 (April 11,
1957), 2,600 characters.
)lm analyzed: Empire du soleil (L’)/L’Impero del sole, Gras, Enrico, 1956.
“En cas de malheur.” Le Parisien libéré, 4363 (September 22, 1958), 2,200
characters.
)lm analyzed: En cas de malheur, Autant-Lara, Claude, 1958.
211
Vanzina), 1952; Dimanche d’août/Domenica d’agosto, Emmer, Luciano,
1950.
“Encore la censure les )lms meurent aussi [Les Statues meurent aussi].”
France-Observateur, 349 (January 17, 1957), pp. 19-20/9,900 characters.
)lm analyzed: Statues meurent aussi (Les), Resnais, Alain, and Marker,
Chris, 1954.
“Encore: Pourquoi pas?” Le Parisien libéré, 2396 (May 28, 1952), 3,200
characters.
212
)lm analyzed: Encore, French, Harold, Pelissier, Anthony, and Jackson Pat,
1951.
213
“L’Ennemi public n° 1.” France-Observateur, 193 (January 21, 1954), 3,500
characters.
)lm analyzed: Ennemi public n° 1 (L’), Verneuil, Henri, 1953.
“L’Espoir [Sierra de Teruel].” Le Parisien libéré, 260 (June 16, 1945), 800
characters.
)lm analyzed: Espoir (L’)/Sierra de Teruel, Malraux, André, 1945 (1939).
216
“Et voici le cinérama! Le monde sort de l’écran.” Le Parisien libéré, 3322
(May 17, 1955), 2,300 characters.
)lm analyzed: Napoléon, Gance, Abel, 1927.
“Un été prodigieux [Shchedroe leto]: Beau )xe.” Le Parisien libéré, 2583
(January 2, 1953), 3,000 characters.
)lm analyzed: Été prodigieux (Un)/Shchedroe leto, Barnet, Boris, 1951.
“Étrange destin.” Le Parisien libéré, 566 (June 11, 1946), 800 characters.
)lm analyzed: Étrange destin, Cuny, Louis, 1946.
217
“Europe ’51 [Europa ’51].” Radio-Cinéma-Télévision, 141 (September 28,
1952), 1,000 characters, in Qu’est-ce que le cinéma? (Éditions du Cerf, 1975,
rpt. 2000; single-volume version), pp. 359-361.
)lm analyzed: Europe ’51/Europa ’51, Rossellini, Roberto, 1952.
“Europe ’51 [Europa ’51]: Un chef d’oeuvre maudit!” Le Parisien libéré, 2734
(June 29, 1953), 5,350 characters.
)lm analyzed: Europe ’51/Europa ’51, Rossellini, Roberto, 1952.
“Les évadés: Liberté chérie.” Le Parisien libéré, 3353 (June 23, 1955), 1,600
characters.
)lm analyzed: Évadés (Les), Le Chanois, Jean-Paul, 1955.
“Évasion [The Young Lovers].” Le Parisien libéré, 3302 (April 23, 1955),
1,000 characters.
)lm analyzed: Évasion/The Young Lovers, Asquith, Anthony, 1954.
“Un fait divers qui a la grandeur d’une tragédie antique Voleur de bicyclette
[Ladri di biciclette].” Le Parisien libéré, 1540 (August 26, 1949), 2,500
characters.
)lm analyzed: Voleur de bicyclette (Le)/Ladri di biciclette, De Sica, Vittorio,
1948.
219
“Les Fanatiques.” Le Parisien libéré, 4095 (November 11, 1957), 2,000
characters.
)lm analyzed: Fanatiques (Les), Jo,é, Alex, 1957.
“Une femme par jour.” Le Parisien libéré, 1382 (February 23, 1949), 1,200
characters.
)lm analyzed: Femme par jour (Une), Boyer, Jean, 1949.
221
Jacques, 1953; Rideau cramoisi (Le), Astruc, Alexandre, 1953; Ballade
berlinoise/Berliner Ballade, Stemmle, Robert A., 1948.
“Le Festival de Cannes a ouvert hier soir Le dossier noir d’André Cayatte.”
Le Parisien libéré, 3316 (May 10, 1955), 2,800 characters.
)lm analyzed: Dossier noir (Le), Cayatte, André, 1955.
“Le Festival de Punta del Este aura bien servi le cinéma français.” Le
Parisien libéré, 3589 (March 24, 1956), 1,800 characters.
)lm cited: Grandes manoeuvres (Les), Clair, René, 1955.
“Le Festival de São Paulo a cédé la place au carnaval Bilan d’une belle
manifestation où les )lms français furent les meilleurs [Le Blé en herbe].”
Le Parisien libéré, 2948 (March 5, 1954), 1,800 characters.
)lm analyzed: Blé en herbe (Le), Autant-Lara, Claude, 1954.
“Le Feu aux poudres: Et que ça saute!” Le Parisien libéré, 3884 (March 7,
1957), 1,200 characters.
)lm analyzed: Feu aux poudres (Le), Decoin, Henri, 1957.
“Le feu dans la peau: À trop juste titre!” Le Parisien libéré, 3187 (December
10, 1954), 1,600 characters.
)lm analyzed: Feu dans la peau (Le), Blistène, Marcel, 1954.
“La Figure de proue.” Le Parisien libéré, 1171 (June 20, 1948), 800
characters.
)lm analyzed: Figure de proue (La), Stengel, Christian, 1948.
“Le fil à la patte: Aimable lien!” Le Parisien libéré, 3218 (January 15, 1955),
1,600 characters.
)lm analyzed: Fil à la patte (Le), Lefranc, Guy, 1954.
“Le filet [La Red]: Quelle Sirène!” Le Parisien libéré, 2846 (November 7,
1953), 2,700 characters.
)lm analyzed: Filet (Le)/La Red, a.k.a. Rossana, Fernández, Emilio, 1953.
“Fille dangereuse [Bufere]: Tel père, tel )lm.” Le Parisien libéré, 2719 (June
11, 1953), 3,400 characters.
)lm analyzed: Fille dangereuse/Bufere, Brignone, Guido, 1953.
“Une fille dans le soleil: Rendez vous avec la lune.” Le Parisien libéré, 2598
(January 20, 1953), 1,000 characters.
)lm analyzed: Fille dans le soleil (Une), Cam, Maurice, 1953.
“La fille de Hambourg.” Le Parisien libéré, 4336 (August 21, 1958), 2,100
characters.
)lm analyzed: Fille de Hambourg (La), Allégret, Yves, 1958.
226
“La fille de Hambourg: Noirceur de pacotille.” Radio-Cinéma-Télévision,
450 (August 31, 1958), 1,000 characters.
)lm analyzed: Fille de Hambourg (La), Allégret, Yves, 1958.
“La fille des marais [Cielo sulla Palude]: Un fait divers de la sainteté.”
Radio-Cinéma-Télévision, 68 (May 5, 1951), 4,200 characters.
)lm analyzed: Fille des marais (La), a.k.a. Ciel des marécages/Cielo sulla
Palude, Genina, Augusto, 1949.
“La fille des marais … ou la sainteté [Cielo sulla Palude].” Le Parisien
libéré, 2062 (April 30, 1951), 1,700 characters.
)lm analyzed: Fille des marais (La), a.k.a. Ciel des marécages/Cielo sulla
Palude, Genina, Augusto, 1949.
“La Fille du capitaine [La Figlia del capitano].” Le Parisien libéré, 1126
(April 28, 1948), 700 characters.
)lm analyzed: Fille du capitaine (La)/La Figlia del capitano, Camerini,
Mario, 1947.
“La Fille du diable.” Le Parisien libéré, 523 (April 23, 1946), 900 characters.
)lm analyzed: Fille du diable (La), Decoin, Henri, 1946.
“Une fille du tonnerre [Die Dritte von rechts]: Beaucoup de bruit pour
rien.” Le Parisien libéré, 2332 (March 13, 1952), 1,400 characters.
)lm analyzed: Fille du tonnerre (Une)/Die Dritte von rechts, Czi,ra, Géza
von, 1950.
227
“La Fille en noir [To koritsi me ta mavra].” France-Observateur, 346
(December 27, 1956), 8,800 characters.
)lm analyzed: Fille en noir (La)/To koritsi me ta mavra, Cacoyannis,
Michael, 1956.
“La Fille en noir [To koritsi me ta mavra]: Très noir et très blanc.” Le
Parisien libéré, 3819 (December 21, 1956), 2,500 characters.
)lm analyzed: Fille en noir (La)/To koritsi me ta mavra, Cacoyannis,
Michael, 1956.
“Le )lm en )ligrane: Le Jour se lève.” L’Écran français, 132 (January 06,
1948), 3,000 characters.
)lm analyzed: Jour se lève (Le), Carné, Marcel, 1939.
“Un )lm hors série: La nuit porte conseil [Roma, città libera].” Le Parisien
libéré, 1567 (September 27, 1949), 1,200 characters.
)lm analyzed: Nuit porte conseil (La)/Roma, città libera, Pagliero,
Marcello, 1948 (1946).
“Un )lm vrai: Leclerc.” Le Parisien libéré, 1484 (June 22, 1949), 1,200
characters.
)lm analyzed: Leclerc, Regnier, Jean, 1949.
“Le fils de d’Artagnan [Il Figlio di d’Artagnan]: Bon sang ne peut mentir.”
Le Parisien libéré, 2105 (June 20, 1951), 1,100 characters.
)lm analyzed: Fils de d’Artagnan (Le)/Il Figlio di d’Artagnan, Freda,
Riccardo, 1950.
“Le fils de Caroline chérie.” Le Parisien libéré, 3272 (March 19, 1955), 1,200
characters.
)lm analyzed: Fils de Caroline chérie (Le), Devaivre, Jean, 1955.
“Flamenco: Rien que la danse.” Le Parisien libéré, 2693 (May 12, 1953),
2,800 characters.
)lm analyzed: Flamenco, Neville, Edgar, 1952.
“La foi qui sauve [Cannes 1952].” Cahiers du cinéma, n. 13 (June 1952), pp.
4-11, 13-19/21,200 characters.
)lms analyzed: Umberto D., De Sica, Vittorio, 1952; Manteau (Le)/Il
cappotto, Lattuada, Alberto, 1952; Gendarmes at voleurs/Guardie e ladri,
Monicelli, Mario, 1951; Trois femmes, trois âmes, a.k.a. Trois femmes,
Michel, André, 1952.
“Le fond du problème [The Heart of the Matter]: La )délité trahit parfois.”
Le Parisien libéré, 2919 (January 30, 1954), 1,600 characters.
232
)lm analyzed: Fond du problème (Le)/The Heart of the Matter, O’Ferrall,
George More, 1953.
“Forêt sacrée: Un vrai )lm ‘noir’.” Le Parisien libéré, 3288 (April 7, 1955),
1,200 characters.
)lm analyzed: Forêt sacrée, Gaisseau, Philippe D., 1955.
“Fortune carrée: Mais écran large.” Le Parisien libéré, 3275 (March 23, 1955),
1,300 characters.
)lm analyzed: Fortune carrée, Borderie, Bernard, 1955.
“Les Fruits de l’été.” Le Parisien libéré, 3245 (February 16, 1955), 1,300
characters.
)lm analyzed: Fruits de l’été (Les), Bernard, Raymond, 1955.
“Le gala de Senso à la salle Pleyel.” Le Parisien libéré, 3541 (January 28,
1956), 1,300 characters.
)lm analyzed: Senso, Visconti, Luchino, 1954.
234
“Un gala Louis Jouvet: Copie conforme.” Le Parisien libéré, 797 (April 9,
1947), 1,700 characters.
)lm analyzed: Copie conforme, Gréville, Jean, 1947.
“Le Gang des tueurs [Brighton Rock].” Le Parisien libéré, 1382 (February 23,
1949), 1,700 characters.
)lm analyzed: Gang des tueurs (Le)/Brighton Rock, Boulting, John, 1947.
“Gas-oil: Bonne route!” Le Parisien libéré, 3479 (November 17, 1955), 2,000
characters.
)lm analyzed: Gas-oil, Grangier, Gilles, 1955.
“Le Gorille vous salue bien: Au plaisir de vous revoir!” Le Parisien libéré,
4353 (September 10, 1958), 1,300 characters.
)lm analyzed: Gorille vous salue bien (Le), Borderie, Bernard, 1958.
“Un grand )lm de René Clément, Au-delà des grilles; Jean Gabin et Isa
Miranda: Le couple idéal du malheur.” Le Parisien libéré, 1610 (November
16, 1949), p. 2/1,800 characters.
236
)lm analyzed: Au-delà des grilles, Clément, René, 1949.
“Un grand )lm français, Le Point du jour: Jamais encore, le cinéma n’avait
si bien compris la mine et ses hommes.” Le Parisien libéré, 1458 (May 23,
1949), 3,000 characters.
)lm analyzed: Point du jour (Le), Daquin, Louis, 1949.
“La grande aventure [Det Stora äventyret]: L’aventure est au coin du bois!”
Le Parisien libéré, 3357 (June 28, 1955), 2,100 characters.
)lm analyzed: Grande aventure (La)/Det Stora äventyret, Sucksdor,,
Arne, 1953.
237
“La Grande illusion.” France-Observateur, 440 (October 9, 1958), 8,800
characters.
)lm analyzed: Grande illusion (La), Renoir, Jean, 1937.
“La Grande meute et La Boîte aux rêves.” Le Parisien libéré, 298 (July 31,
1945), 2,000 characters.
)lms analyzed: Grande meute (La), Limur, Jean de, 1945; Boîte aux rêves
(La), Allégret, Yves, 1945.
238
“Le guérisseur: Guérit-il?” Le Parisien libéré, 2953 (March 11, 1954), 1,600
characters.
)lm analyzed: Guérisseur (Le), Ciampi, Yves, 1954.
“La guerre des trois dimensions aura-t-elle lieu? Partie I.” France-
Observateur, 151 (April 2, 1953), 6,100 characters.
)lms cited: Napoléon, Gance, Abel, 1927; Construire un feu, Autant-Lara,
Claude, 1925.
“La guerre des trois dimensions aura-t-elle lieu? Partie II.” France-
Observateur, 152 (April 9, 1953), 6,600 characters.
“La guerre des trois dimensions aura-t-elle lieu? Partie III.” France-
Observateur, 153 (April 16, 1953), 5,300 characters.
)lm cited: Règle du jeu (La), Renoir, Jean, 1939.
“Hans le Marin, le roman d’Édouard Peisson, n’a pas gagné à être porté à
l’écran.” Le Parisien libéré, 1612 (November 18, 1949), 1,000 characters.
)lm analyzed: Hans le Marin, Villiers, François, 1949.
239
“Hélas, Notre-Dame de Paris.” Cahiers du cinéma, n. 67 (January 1957), p.
55/3,000 characters.
)lm analyzed: Notre-Dame de Paris, Delannoy, Jean, 1956.
“Les Héros sont fatigues: Un sujet bien noir; un cadre qui ne l’est pas assez.”
Radio-Cinéma-Télévision, 303 (November 6, 1955), 1,300 characters.
)lm analyzed: Héros sont fatigués (Les), Ciampi, Yves, 1955.
“Heureuse époque [Altri tempi]: Varié, agréable mais très ‘galant’.” Radio-
Cinéma-Télévision, 176 (May 31, 1953), 3,600 characters.
)lm analyzed: Heureuse époque/Altri tempi, Blasetti, Alessandro, 1952.
240
“Histoires interdites [Ne storie proibite]: La mort est dans l’escalier.” Le
Parisien libéré, 2622 (February 17, 1953), 2,300 characters.
)lm analyzed: Histoires interdites/Ne storie proibite, Genina, Augusto,
1952.
“L’homme au complet blanc [The Man in the White Suit]: Humour noir.”
Le Parisien libéré, 2350 (April 3, 1952), 3,100 characters.
)lm analyzed: Homme au complet blanc (L’)/The Man in the White Suit,
Mackendrick, Alexander, 1951.
“L’Homme qui n’a jamais existé [The Man Who Never Was]: ‘Histoire’
policière.” Le Parisien libéré, 3868 (February 16, 1957), 1,800 characters.
)lm analyzed: Homme qui n’a jamais existé (L’)/The Man Who Never
Was, Neame, Ronald, 1956.
“Les hommes sans ailes [Muzi bez krídel].” L’Écran français, 67 (August
10, 1946), 1,000 characters.
)lm analyzed: Hommes sans ailes (Les)/Muzi bez krídel, Cáp, Frantisek,
1946.
“Horizons sans fin: Les bons sentiments font les bons )lms.” Le Parisien
libéré, 2746 (July 13, 1953), 2,400 characters.
)lm analyzed: Horizons sans fin, Dréville, Jean, 1953.
“Huit heures de sursis [Odd Man Out].” Le Parisien libéré, 1215 (August 11,
1948), 1,000 characters.
)lm analyzed: Huit heures de sursis/Odd Man Out, Reed, Carol, 1947.
“Les Hussards: Une tragédie drôle.” Le Parisien libéré, 3507 (December 20,
1955), 2,200 characters.
)lm analyzed: Hussards (Les), Jo,é, Alex, 1955.
“Iawa: Les hommes, ces inconnus.” Le Parisien libéré, 2902 (January 11,
1954), 1,600 characters.
)lm analyzed: Iawa, Flornoy, Bertrand, 1953.
“Il était une petite fille [Zhila-byla devochka].” L’Écran français, 56 (July
24, 1946), 2,400 characters.
)lm analyzed: Il était une petite fille/Zhila-byla devochka, Eysimont,
Victor, 1945.
“Il était une petite fille [Zhila-byla devochka].” Le Parisien libéré, 606 (July
26, 1946), 900 characters.
)lm analyzed: Il était une petite fille/Zhila-byla devochka, Eysimont,
Victor, 1945.
“Il faut sauver le cinéma français: Avant deux ans notre production
pourrait redevenir prospère.”
Le Parisien libéré, 1043 (January 23, 1948), 3,000 characters.
“Il faut sauver le cinéma français: Notre production nationale ne doit pas
être écrasée par l’État; la crise du cinéma français et responsabilités
françaises.” Le Parisien libéré, 1039 (January 18, 1948), pp. 1-2/2,700
characters.
“Il pleut toujours le dimanche [Once Upon a Dream]: Le cinéma anglais est
au beau )xe.” Le Parisien libéré, 1499 (July 9, 1949), 1,700 characters.
)lm analyzed: Il pleut toujours le dimanche/Once upon a Dream, Thomas,
Ralph, 1949.
“L’île sans nom: La sévère beauté du Nord.” Le Parisien libéré, 2084 (May
26, 1951), 1,700 characters.
)lm analyzed: Île sans nom (L’), Plaissetty, René, 1922.
“Ils aimaient la vie [Kanal].” Le Parisien libéré, 4206 (March 20, 1958),
1,100 characters.
)lm analyzed: Ils aimaient la vie/Kanal, Wajda, Andrzej, 1957.
“Ils étaient cinq: Ils sont beaucoup.” Le Parisien libéré, 2293 (January 28,
1952), 2,800 characters.
)lm analyzed: Ils étaient cinq, Pinoteau, Jacques, 1951.
245
“Il importe d’être constant [The Importance of Being Earnest]: L’Esprit en
rose.” Le Parisien libéré, 2584 (January 3, 1953), 2,800 characters.
)lm analyzed: Il importe d’être constant/The Importance of Being Earnest,
Asquith, Anthony, 1952.
“Une interview exclusive de Jean Renoir avant de partir pour les Indes
tourner son prochain )lm.” Le Parisien libéré, 1616 (November 23, 1949),
2,800 characters.
)lms cited: Bête humaine (La), Renoir, Jean, 1938; Chienne (La), Renoir,
Jean, 1931; Grande illusion (La), Renoir, Jean, 1937; Crime de Monsieur
Lange (Le), Renoir, Jean, 1936; Partie de campagne (Une), Renoir, Jean,
1946 (1936); Règle du jeu (La), Renoir, Jean, 1939; Journal d’une femme de
chambre (Le)/The Diary of a Chambermaid, Renoir, Jean, 1946; Homme
du Sud (L’)/The Southerner, Renoir, Jean, 1945; Fleuve (Le)/The River,
Renoir, Jean, 1951.
“Intimate Relations, )lm anglais, n’a pas fait sensation.” Le Parisien libéré,
2673 (April 17, 1953), 1,200 characters.
)lm analyzed: Parents terribles (Les)/Intimate Relations, a.k.a. Disobedient,
Frank, Charles, 1954.
247
français de la Libération à la Nouvelle Vague, 1945-1958 (Paris: Éditions de
l’Étoile [1983], 1998), pp. 313-316.
)lms cited: Mensonge de Nina Petrovna (Le)/Der wunderbare Lüge der
Nina Petrovna, Schwarz, Hanns, 1929; Quatorze juillet, Clair, René, 1933;
Dernier milliardaire (Le), Clair, René, 1934; Drôle de drame, Carné,
Marcel, 1937; Vie d’un fleuve (La), Lods, Jean, 1932; Carnet de bal,
Duvivier, Julien, 1937; Quai des brumes, Carné, Marcel, 1938; Jour se lève
(Le), Carné, Marcel, 1939.
“Je l’ai été trois fois: Appellation contrôlée.” Le Parisien libéré, 2531
(November 3, 1952), 1,400 characters. in Le cinéma français de la
Libération à la Nouvelle Vague, 1945-1958 (Paris: Éditions de l’Étoile [1983],
1998), pp. 200-201.
)lm analyzed: Je l’ai été trois fois, Guitry, Sacha, 1953.
“Je sais où je vais [I Know Where I’m Going!].” Le Parisien libéré, 2323
(March 3, 1952), 2,100 characters.
)lm analyzed: Je sais où je vais/I Know Where I’m Going!, Powell, Michael,
and Pressburger, Emeric, 1945.
248
“Je suis un sentimental: Mais encore bagarreur!” Le Parisien libéré, 3458
(October 24, 1955), 1,700 characters.
)lm analyzed: Je suis un sentimental, Berry, John, 1955.
249
(Le), Carné, Marcel, 1939; Pépé le Moko, Duvivier, Julien, 1937; Marie du
port (La), Carné, Marcel, 1950.
“Jean Renoir prépare un Van Gogh et déclare: J’ai senti monter en moi le
désir de toucher du doigt mon prochain.” Radio-Cinéma-Télévision, 202
(November 29, 1953), pp. 4-5, 39/6,000 characters.
250
)lms cited: Fleuve (Le)/The River, Renoir, Jean, 1951; Crime de Monsieur
Lange (Le), Renoir, Jean, 1936; Règle du jeu (La), Renoir, Jean, 1939;
Carrosse d’or (Le)/The Golden Coach, Renoir, Jean, 1952.
“Le jeu des pronostics a commence.” Le Parisien libéré, 3944 (May 17,
1957), 1,800 characters.
)lms cited: Avec les Lapons nomades/Same Jakki, Høst, Per, and Pentha,
Anders, 1957; Qivitoq, Balling, Erik, 1956; Carrefour des enfants perdus
(Le), Joannon, Léo, 1944; Septième sceau (La)/Det sjunde inseglet,
Bergman, Ingmar, 1957; Faustina, Heredia, José Luis Sáenz de, 1957; Celui
qui doit mourir, a.k.a. Le Christ recrucifié, Dassin, Jules, 1956; Princesse
Sissi, a.k.a. Sissi impératrice/Sissi die junge Kaiserin, Marischka, Ernst,
1956; Nuits de Cabiria (Les)/Le notti di Cabiria, Fellini, Federico, 1957;
Condamné à mort s’est échappé (Un), ou Le vent souffle où il veut, Bresson,
Robert, 1956; Ils aimaient la vie/Kanal, Wajda, Andrzej, 1957; Sourires
d’une nuit d’été/Sommarnattens leende, Bergman, Ingmar, 1955.
“Jeu des pronostics à Knokke Prix du meilleur acteur; Jean Marais Prix du
meilleur spectateur: Gérard Philipe [La course aux illusions (Molti sogni
251
per le strade); Le Voleur de bicyclette (Ladri di biciclette)].” Le Parisien
libéré, 1498 (July 8, 1949), 1,400 characters.
)lms analyzed: Course aux illusions (La)/Molti sogni per le strade,
Camerini, Mario, 1948; Voleur de bicyclette (Le)/Ladri di biciclette, De Sica,
Vittorio, 1948.
“La jeune folle révèle: Une tragédienne.” Le Parisien libéré, 2508 (October
7, 1952), 3,600 characters.
)lm analyzed: Jeune folle (La), Allégret, Yves, 1952.
252
“La jeunesse de Gorki [Moi universitety].” Le Parisien libéré, 2188
(September 26, 1951), 800 characters.
)lm analyzed: Mes universités/Moi universitety, Donskoï, Mark, 1940.
“Les jeux étaient faits [Le Grand jeu].” France-Observateur, 209 (May 13,
1954), 9,000 characters.
)lm analyzed: Grand jeu (Le), Siodmak, Robert, 1954.
“La Joyeuse Prison: Sans barreaux!” Le Parisien libéré, 3676 (July 5, 1956),
2,000 characters.
254
)lm analyzed: Joyeuse Prison (La), Berthomieu, André, 1955.
255
)lm analyzed: Jupiter, a.k.a. Douze heures de bonheur, Grangier, Gilles,
1952.
“La leçon de style du cinéma japonais.” Arts, 504 (March 9, 1955), 5,500
characters. Reprinted in Le Cinéma de la cruauté. Paris: Flammarion, 1975.
)lms cited: Symphonie pastorale (La)/Den’en kôkyôgaku, Yamamoto,
Satsuo, 1937; Rashomon, Kurosawa, Akira, 1950; Porte de l’enfer
(La)/Jigokumon, Kinugasa, Teinosuke, 1953; Porteuse de pain (La), Cloche,
Maurice, 1949; Fille du puisatier (La), Pagnol, Marcel, 1940; Démon doré
(Le)/Konjiki yasha, Shima, Koji, 1954; Princesse de Clèves (La), Delannoy,
256
Jean, 1961; Rouge et le noir (Le), Autant-Lara, Claude, 1954; Journal d’un
curé de campagne (Le), Bresson, Robert, 1951; Belle et le voleur (La)/Mesu
inu, Kimura, Keigo, 1951; Marius, Korda, Alexander, 1931; Femme du
Boulanger (La), Pagnol, Marcel, 1938; Sous le ciel de Paris, Duvivier, Julien,
1951; Okasan-Mère (La)/Okasan, Naruse, Mikio, 1952.
“La liberté surveillée … le scénario aussi.” Le Parisien libéré, 4267 (May 31,
1958), 2,000 characters.
257
)lm analyzed: Liberté surveillée (La), Aisner, Henri, and Vlcek, Vladimír,
1958.
“Un Lion d’Or aux enchères [Deux sous d’espoir (Due soldi di speranza) et
Oeil pour oeil].” France-Observateur, 382 (September 5, 1957), 4,200
characters.
)lms analyzed: Deux sous d’espoir/Due soldi di speranza, Castellani,
Renato, 1951; Oeil pour oeil, Cayatte, André, 1957.
258
“Livres de cinéma.” Le Parisien libéré, 4012 (August 5, 1957), 1,800
characters.
)lms cited: Cuirassé Potemkine (Le)/Bronenosets Potyomkin, Eisenstein,
Sergei, 1925; Alexandre Nevski/Aleksandr Nevskiy, Eisenstein, Sergei, 1938;
Ivan le terrible/Ivan Groznyi, Eisenstein, Sergei, Part I: 1942-44; Part II:
1945-46 (1958).
“Le long des trottoirs.” Le Parisien libéré, 3645 (May 30, 1956), 2,500
characters.
)lm analyzed: Long des trottoirs (Le), Moguy, Léonide, 1956.
259
“La longue misère du court-métrage.” Arts, 500 (January 26, 1955), 14,000
characters.
)lm cited: Crin blanc: Le cheval sauvage, Lamorisse, Albert, 1953.
“La Maison du silence [La voce del silenzio]: Du bruit pour rien.” Le
Parisien libéré, 2696 (May 15, 1953), 3,700 characters.
261
)lm analyzed: Maison du silence (La)/La voce del silenzio, Pabst, G. W.,
1953.
“Les Maîtres fous: Les dieux que nous donnons aux Noirs.” Radio-
Cinéma-Télévision, 407 (November 1, 1957), 2,200 characters.
)lm analyzed: Maîtres fous (Les), Rouch, Jean, 1955.
“La Mandragore [Alraune]: Une )lle sans joie.” Le Parisien libéré, 2905
(January 14, 1954), 2,000 characters.
)lm analyzed: Mandragore (La): Fille sans âme/Alraune, Rabenalt,
Arthur Maria, 1952.
“Manon des sources: Roman -euve.” Le Parisien libéré, 2599 (January 21,
1953), 2,800 characters.
)lm analyzed: Manon des sources, Pagnol, Marcel, 1953.
“Le manteau … En)n! [Il cappotto].” Le Parisien libéré, 2961 (March 20,
1954), 1,600 characters.
)lm analyzed: Manteau (Le)/Il cappotto, Lattuada, Alberto, 1952.
263
)lm analyzed: Marcellin, pain et vin/Marcellino, pan y vino, Vajda,
Ladislao, 1955.
“La Marie du port.” L’Écran français, 211 (July 11, 1949), 5,000 characters.
)lm analyzed: Marie du port (La), Carné, Marcel, 1949.
“La mariée est-elle trop belle? [Les Belles de nuit]: Un grand )lm de René
Clair.” Radio-Cinéma-Télévision, 149 (November 23, 1952), 6,500
characters, in Le cinéma français de la Libération à la Nouvelle Vague,
1945-1958 (Paris: Éditions de l’Étoile [1983], 1998), pp. 130-133.
)lm analyzed: Belles de nuit (Les), Clair, René, 1952.
264
“Mauvaise Ann [La Cage aux souris].” Radio-Cinéma-Télévision, 289 (July
31, 1955), 7,400 characters.
)lm analyzed: Cage aux souris (La), Gourguet, Jean, 1954.
265
Kurosawa, Akira, 1950; Napoléon, Gance, Abel, 1927; Guerre de Dieu
(La)/La guerra de Dios, Gil, Rafael, 1953.
“Le meilleur )lm: Italien Chronique des pauvres amants [Cronaca dei
poveri amanti].” Radio-Cinéma-Télévision, 222 (April 18, 1954), 1,600
characters.
)lm analyzed: Chronique des pauvres amants (La)/Cronaca dei poveri
amanti, Lizzani, Carlo, 1954.
“La Meilleure part: Des fourmis et des hommes.” Le Parisien libéré, 3597
(April 3, 1956), 2,000 characters.
)lm analyzed: Meilleure part (La), Allégret, Yves, 1955.
“Le metteur en scène Max Ophüls est mort: Une perte cruelle pour le
cinéma.” Le Parisien libéré, 3901 (March 27, 1957), 1,000 characters.
)lms cited: Plaisir (Le), Ophüls, Max, 1952; Ronde (La), Ophüls, Max,
1950; Lola Montès, Ophüls, Max, 1955.
“Les meurtriers sont parmi nous [Die Mörder sind unter uns].” Le Parisien
libéré, 1163 (June 11, 1948), 600 characters.
)lm analyzed: Meurtriers sont parmi nous (Les), a.k.a. Les assassins sont
parmi nous/Die Mörder sind unter uns, Staudte, Wolfgang, 1946.
267
“Minuit … quai de Bercy: L’heure du crime.” Le Parisien libéré, 2705 (May
26, 1953), 2,400 characters.
)lm analyzed: Minuit … quai de Bercy, Stengel, Christian, 1953.
“Mission à Tanger: Don Juan s’est fait espion.” Le Parisien libéré, 1506
(July 18, 1949), 1,200 characters.
)lm analyzed: Mission à Tanger, Hunnebelle, André, 1949.
268
“Une moderne épopée: La Route est ouverte [The Overlanders].” Le
Parisien libéré, 969 (October 29, 1947), 1,500 characters.
)lm analyzed: Route est ouverte (La)/The Overlanders, Watt, Harry, 1946.
“Le Monde du silence: À quoi rêvent les poissons?” Le Parisien libéré, 3558
(February 17, 1956), 2,000 characters.
)lm analyzed: Monde du silence (Le), Malle, Louis, and Cousteau, Jacques-
Yves, 1956.
269
“Le monde est comme ça, De Sica [Il Mondo vuole così]: Un Chaplin
italien.” Le Parisien libéré, 1527 (August 11, 1949), 1,600 characters.
)lm analyzed: Monde est comme ça (Le)/Il Mondo vuole così, Bianchi,
Giorgio, 1945.
“Le monde est comme ça [Il Mondo vuole così]: un excellent scénario gâché
par le metteur en scène et sauvé par l’acteur.” L’Écran français, 216 (August
22, 1949), 1,200 characters.
)lm analyzed: Monde est comme ça (Le)/Il Mondo vuole così, Bianchi,
Giorgio, 1945.
“Monsieur Puntila et son valet Matti [Herr Puntila und sein Knecht
Matti].” France-Observateur, 390 (October 31, 1957), 3,300 characters.
)lm analyzed: Monsieur Puntila et son valet Matti/Herr Puntila und sein
Knecht Matti, Cavalcanti, Alberto, 1956.
“Monsieur Puntila et son valet Matti [Herr Puntila und sein Knecht
Matti].” Le Parisien libéré, 4087 (November 1, 1957), 2,200 characters.
)lm analyzed: Monsieur Puntila et son valet Matti/Herr Puntila und sein
Knecht Matti, Cavalcanti, Alberto, 1956.
“La montée au ciel [Subida al cielo]: Quelques pas dans les nuages.” Le
Parisien libéré, 2470 (August 23, 1952), 3,900 characters.
)lm analyzed: Montée au ciel (La)/Subida al cielo, Buñuel, Luis, 1952.
271
“Montparnasse 19.” France-Observateur, 413 (April 10, 1958), 6,300
characters.
)lm analyzed: Montparnasse 19, Becker, Jacques, 1958.
“La Mort à l’écran.” L’Esprit, XVII, n. 159 (September 1949), pp. 441-
443/4,200 characters.
“Mort ou vif.” Le Parisien libéré, 1072 (February 25, 1948), 600 characters.
)lm analyzed: Mort ou vif, Tedesco, Jean, 1948.
“Mort tous les après-midi [La course de taureaux].” Cahiers du cinéma, II,
n. 7 (December 1951), pp. 63-65/10,000 characters, in Qu’est-ce que le
cinéma?, volume I: “Ontologie et langage” (Éditions du Cerf, 1958), pp. 65-
272
70; in Le cinéma français de la Libération à la Nouvelle Vague, 1945-1958
(Paris: Éditions de l’Étoile [1983], 1998), pp. 367-373.
)lm analyzed: Course de taureaux (La), Braunberger, Pierre, 1951.
“Le Moulin du Po [Il Mulino del Po].” Le Parisien libéré, 2036 (March 30,
1951), 2,000 characters.
)lm analyzed: Moulin du Po (Le)/Il Mulino del Po, Lattuada, Alberto,
1949.
“Napoléon … vous est conté.” Le Parisien libéré, 3279 (March 27, 1955),
2,500 characters, in Le cinéma français de la Libération à la Nouvelle
Vague, 1945-1958 (Paris: Éditions de l’Étoile [1983], 1998), pp. 202-204.
)lm analyzed: Napoléon, Guitry, Sacha, 1955.
274
“Naufrage sans espoir.” L’Information universitaire, n. 1179 (February 5,
1944), 1,000 characters.
)lm analyzed: Voyage sans espoir, Christian-Jaque (a.k.a. Christian
Maudet), 1944.
“La neige était sale: Voyage au bout de la nuit.” Le Parisien libéré, 2950
(March 8, 1954), 2,000 characters.
)lms analyzed: Neige était sale (La), Saslavsky, Luis, 1954; Putain
respectueuse (La), Brabant, Charles, and Pagliero, Marcello, 1952.
275
“Le néo-réalisme se retourne [L’amour à la ville (L’amore in città)].”
L’Éducation nationale, 9 (February 28, 1957), 4,300 characters, and Cahiers
du cinéma, XII, n. 69 (March 1957), pp. 44-46/5,900 characters, combined
into one article in Qu’est-ce que le cinéma?, volume IV, “Une Esthétique de
la Réalité: le néo-réalisme” (Éditions du Cerf, 1962), pp. 146-149.
)lm analyzed: Amour à la ville (L’)/L’amore in città, Antonioni,
Michelangelo, Fellini, Federico, Lattuada, Alberto, Lizzani, Carlo, Maselli,
Francesco, Risi, Dino, and Zavattini, Cesare, 1953.
“Noblesse de Renoir [La Règle du jeu].” L’Esprit, 236 (March 1956), 2,400
characters.
)lm analyzed: Règle du jeu (La), Renoir, Jean, 1939.
“Les noces de sable.” Le Parisien libéré, 1448 (May 11, 1949), 850 characters.
)lm analyzed: Noces de sable (Les), Zwoboda, André, 1948.
“Noël au camp 119 [Natale al campe 119].” Le Parisien libéré, 1442 (May 4,
1949), 850 characters.
)lm analyzed: Noël au camp 119/Natale al campe 119, Francesci, Pietro,
1947.
“Nos metteurs en scène: Jean Renoir.” Le Parisien libéré, 759 (January 24,
1947), 2,000 characters.
)lms cited: Partie de campagne (Une), Renoir, Jean, 1946 (1936); Règle du
jeu (La), Renoir, Jean, 1939; Grande illusion (La), Renoir, Jean, 1937;
Journal d’une femme de chambre (Le)/The Diary of a Chambermaid,
Renoir, Jean, 1946; Homme du Sud (L’), The Southerner, Renoir, Jean,
1945.
“Nos metteurs en scène: René Clair.” Le Parisien libéré, 753 (January 17,
1947), 2,000 characters.
)lms cited: Paris qui dort, Clair, René, 1924; Deux timides (Les), Clair,
René, 1929; Chapeau de paille d’Italie (Un), Clair, René, 1928; Sous les toits
de Paris, Clair, René, 1930; Million (Le), Clair, René, 1931; Quatorze
juillet, Clair, René, 1933; Dernier milliardaire (Le), Clair, René, 1934;
Fantôme à vendre/The Ghost Goes West, Clair, René, 1935; Ma femme est
une sorcière/I Married a Witch, Clair, René, 1942; C’est arrivé demain/It
277
Happened Tomorrow, Clair, René, 1944; Belle ensorceleuse (La)/The Flame
of New Orleans, Clair, René, 1941; Silence est d’or (Le), Clair, René, 1947.
“Notes sur d’autres )lms: Les crabes de la colère [Les Bateaux de l’enfer
(Kanikosen)].” Cahiers du cinéma, n. 69 (March 1957), 3,600 characters.
)lm analyzed: Bateaux de l’enfer (Les)/Kanikosen, Yamamura, Satoru, 1953.
“Nous sommes tous des assassins: Où il est prouvé que la guillotine ne paie
pas.” Le Parisien libéré, 2392 (May 23, 1952), 5,300 characters.
)lm analyzed: Nous sommes tous des assassins, Cayatte, André, 1952.
“La nuit des forains [Gyclarnas afton]: Méditation cruelle sur l’amour.”
Radio-Cinéma-Télévision, 407 (November 1, 1957), 2,600 characters.
)lm analyzed: Nuit des forains (La)/Gyclarnas afton, Bergman, Ingmar,
1953.
“La nuit est mon royaume.” Le Parisien libéré, 2228 (November 12, 1951),
2,700 characters.
)lm analyzed: Nuit est mon royaume (La), Lacombe, Georges, 1951.
“La nuit est mon royaume: Gabin )dèle à lui-même et pourtant nouveau.”
Radio-Cinéma-Télévision, 96 (November 18, 1951), 2,600 characters.
279
)lm analyzed: Nuit est mon royaume (La), Lacombe, Georges, 1951.
“Oeil pour oeil: L’éternel mari.” Le Parisien libéré, 4047 (September 16,
1957), 2,200 characters.
)lm analyzed: Oeil pour oeil, Cayatte, André, 1957.
281
“O.K. Néron [O.K. Nerone].” Le Parisien libéré, 2379 (May 8, 1952), 1,700
characters.
)lm analyzed: O.K. Néron/O.K. Nerone, Soldati, Mario, 1951.
“L’ombre d’un homme [The Browning Version]: Cet âge est sans pitié.” Le
Parisien libéré, 2164 (August 29, 1951), 2,700 characters.
)lm analyzed: Ombre d’un homme (L’)/The Browning Version, Asquith,
Anthony, 1951.
282
“L’ombre d’un homme [The Browning Version]: L’irremplaçable cinéma
anglais.” Radio-Cinéma-Télévision, 85 (September 2, 1951), 2,800
characters.
)lm analyzed: Ombre d’un homme (L’)/The Browning Version, Asquith,
Anthony, 1951.
“Où en est le cinéma français? Ce sont les )lms de qualité qu’il convient
d’aider en priorité.” Le Parisien libéré, 3167 (November 17, 1954), 4,200
characters.
)lms cited: Napoléon, Gance, Abel, 1927; Journal d’un curé de campagne
(Le), Bresson, Robert, 1951; Vacances de Monsieur Hulot (Les), Tati,
Jacques, 1953; Jeux interdits, Clément, René, 1952.
“Le Pain vivant: Nous laisse sur notre faim.” Le Parisien libéré, 3236
(February 5, 1955), 1,800 characters.
)lm analyzed: Pain vivant (Le), Mousselle, Jean, 1955.
286
“Un Palmarès ridicule conclut un festival excellent.” Radio-Cinéma-
Télévision, 385 (June 2, 1957), 6,400 characters.
)lms cited: Condamné à mort s’est échappé (Un), ou Le vent souffle où il
veut, Bresson, Robert, 1956; Nuits de Cabiria (Les)/Le notti di Cabiria,
Fellini, Federico, 1957; Celui qui doit mourir, a.k.a. Le Christ recrucifié,
Dassin, Jules, 1956; Ils aimaient la vie/Kanal, Wajda, Andrzej, 1957;
Septième sceau (La)/Det sjunde inseglet, Bergman, Ingmar, 1957; Vallée de
la paix (La), Stiglic, France, 1956; Païsa/Paisà, Rossellini, Roberto, 1946;
Carrefour des enfants perdus (Le), Joannon, Léo, 1944; Maison de l’ange
(La)/La Casa del ángel, Nilsson, Leopoldo Torre, 1957; Commando sur le
Yang Tsé/The Yang Tsé Incident, a.k.a. Battle Hell, Anderson, Michael,
1957; Quivitoq, Balling, Erik, 1956; Deux Aveux/Két vallomás, Keleti,
Márton, 1957; Princesse Sissi, a.k.a. Sissi impératrice/Sissi die junge
Kaiserin, Marischka, Ernst, 1956; Terre (La)/Zemlya, Dovzhenko,
Aleksandr, 1930; Moulin de la chance (Le)/La ‘Moara cu noroc’, Iliu,
Victor, 1955; Ligne du destin (La)/Rekava, Peries, Lester James, 1956; 41ème
(Le)/Sorok pervyy, Chukhrai, Grigori, 1956.
288
“Panoramique sur le Festival: Après la victoire de Hamlet et de l’Angleterre
à Venise.” Le Parisien libéré, 1238 (September 7, 1948), 1,100 characters.
)lms cited: Parents terribles (Les), Cocteau, Jean, 1948; Dédée d’Anvers,
Allégret, Yves, 1948; Paysans noirs (Les), Régnier, Georges, 1948; Aigle à
deux têtes (L’), Cocteau, Jean, 1948; Hamlet, Olivier, Laurence, 1948;
Oliver Twist, Lean, David, 1948; Voix humaine (La)/L’Amore, Rossellini,
Roberto, 1948; Sous le soleil de Rome/Sotto il sole di Roma, Castellani,
Renato, 1948; Terre tremble (La)/La terra trema (Episodio del mare),
Visconti, Luchino, 1948.
“Pâques sanglantes [Non c’è pace tra gli ulivi]: Le berger et le loup.” Le
Parisien libéré, 2716 (June 8, 1953), 2,800 characters.
)lm analyzed: Pâques sanglantes, a.k.a. Pas de paix sous les oliviers/Non c’è
pace tra gli ulivi, De Santis, Giuseppe, 1950.
“La parade du rire: Que la sauce est mauvaise.” L’Écran français, 144
(March 30, 1948), 1,000 characters.
)lm analyzed: Parade du rire (La), Verdier, Roger, 1948.
289
“Le Paradis des hommes [L’Ultimo paradiso].” France-Observateur, 406
(February 20, 1958), 2,700 characters, in Qu’est-ce que le cinéma?, volume I:
“Ontologie et langage” (Éditions du Cerf, 1958), pp. 55-57.
)lm analyzed: Paradis des hommes/Ultimo paradiso (L’), Quilici, Folco,
1955.
“Paris est toujours Paris [Parigi è sempre Parigi]: Un italien à Paris.” Radio-
Cinéma-Télévision, 152 (December 14, 1952), 4,100 characters.
)lm analyzed: Paris est toujours Paris/Parigi è sempre Parigi, Emmer,
Luciano, 1951.
“Le Parisien libéré (Inchiesta a Parigi sul )lm italiano).” Cinema nuovo, 5,
n. 80 (April 10, 1956), 2,600 characters.
)lms cited: Fille du fleuve (La)/La donna del fiume, Soldati, Mario, 1955;
Voyage en Italie, a.k.a. L’amour est le plus fort/Viaggio in Italia, Rossellini,
Roberto, 1954; Il Bidone, Fellini, Federico, 1955; Umberto D., De Sica,
Vittorio, 1952; Retour de Don Camillo (Le)/Il ritorno di Don Camillo,
Duvivier, Julien, 1953; Bataille du rail (La), Clément, René, 1946; Rome,
290
ville ouverte/Roma, città aperta, Rossellini, Roberto, 1945; Païsa/Paisà,
Rossellini, Roberto, 1946.
“La part de l’ombre.” Le Parisien libéré, 418 (December 15, 1945), 600
characters.
)lm analyzed: Part de l’ombre (La), Delannoy, Jean, 1945.
“Pas d’orchidées pour Miss Blandish [No Orchids for Miss Blandish].” Le
Parisien libéré, 1358 (January 26, 1949), 1,200 characters.
)lm analyzed: Pas d’orchidées pour Miss Blandish/No Orchids for Miss
Blandish, Clowes, St. John Legh, 1948.
“Pattes blanches.” Le Parisien libéré, 1424 (April 13, 1949), 1,300 characters.
)lm analyzed: Pattes blanches, Grémillon, Jean, 1949.
“Le Pays d’où je viens: Carné … de notes!” Le Parisien libéré, 3772 (October
26, 1956), 2,200 characters.
)lm analyzed: Pays d’où je viens (Le), Carné, Marcel, 1956.
“Le pays sans étoiles.” Le Parisien libéré, 519 (April 18, 1946), 800 characters.
)lm analyzed: Pays sans étoiles (Le), Lacombe, Georges, 1946.
293
“Le Paysage au cinéma.” D.O.C. Éducation Populaire, 49, n. 36 (1949),
40,100 characters.
)lms cited: Mont Saint-Michel, Cloche, Maurice, 1936; À propos de Nice,
Vigo, Jean, 1930; Nogent, eldorado du dimanche, Carné, Marcel, and
Sanvoisin, Michel, 1929.
“Les Paysans noirs.” Le Parisien libéré, 1448 (May 11, 1949), 850 characters.
)lm analyzed: Paysans noirs (Les), Régnier, Georges, 1948.
“Le père Serge.” Le Parisien libéré, 482 (March 6, 1946), 900 characters.
)lm analyzed: Père Serge (Le), Ganier-Raymond, Lucien, 1946.
“Le père tranquille.” Le Parisien libéré, 677 (October 16, 1946), 1,900
characters.
)lm analyzed: Père tranquille (Le), Clément, René, 1946.
“La Perle [La Perla].” La Parisien libéré, 1430 (April 20, 1949), 1,100
characters.
)lm analyzed: Perle (La)/La Perla, Fernández, Emilio, 1946.
294
“Petit bilan optimiste à la mi-temps du festival.” Le Parisien libéré, 1555
(September 13, 1949), 2,500 characters.
)lms cited: Passeport pour Pimlico/Passport to Pimlico, Cornelius, Henry,
1949; Riz amer/Riso amaro, De Santis, Giuseppe, 1949; Amants passionnés
(Les)/The Passionate Friends, Lean, David, 1949; Villageoise
(La)/Pueblerina, Fernández, Emilio, 1949; Retour à la vie, Clouzot, Henri-
Georges, Cayatte, André, Lampin, Georges, and Dréville, Jean, 1949; Au
grand balcon, Decoin, Henri, 1949; Occupe-toi d’Amélie, Autant-Lara,
Claude, 1949; Troisième homme (Le)/The Third Man, Reed, Carol, 1949;
Au-delà des grilles, Clément, René, 1949; Rendez-vous de juillet, Becker,
Jacques, 1949; Grand amour (Un)/Die grosse Liebe, Hansen, Rolf, 1942.
“Un Petit carrousel de fête.” Le Parisien libéré, 3617 (April 26, 1956), 1,800
characters.
)lm analyzed: Petit carrousel de fête (Un)/Körhinta, Fábri, Zoltán, 1955.
“Le petit monde de Don Camillo: Il faut de tout pour faire un monde.” Le
Parisien libéré, 2406 (August 6, 1952), 4,500 characters.
)lm analyzed: Petit monde de Don Camillo (Le), a.k.a. Don Camillo,
Duvivier, Julien, 1952.
298
“La p’tite Lili.” Cahiers du cinéma, n. 78 (December 1957), 350 characters.
Reprinted in Jean Renoir. Paris: Éditions Champ Libre, 1971.
)lm analyzed: P’tite Lili (La), Renoir, Jean, 1929.
“Les Pieds Nickelés [Les Aventures des Pieds Nickelés].” Le Parisien libéré,
1179 (June 30, 1948), 1,000 characters
)lm analyzed: Aventures des Pieds Nickelés (Les), Aboulker, Marcel, 1948.
“Le Piège: Un mécanisme éprouvé.” Le Parisien libéré, 4301 (July 10, 1958),
1,200 characters.
)lm analyzed: Piège (Le), Brabant, Charles, 1958.
“Le pire n’est pas toujours sûr: L’amour mène la danse [Happy Go Lovely]
et Fanfan la Tulipe.” France-Observateur, 98 (March 27, 1952), 9,300
characters.
)lms analyzed: Amour mène la danse (L’)/Happy Go Lovely,
Humberstone, H. Bruce, 1951; Fanfan la Tulipe, Christian-Jaque (a.k.a.
Christian Maudet), 1952.
301
“Le Plaisir de Max Ophüls.” France-Observateur, 95 (March 6, 1952), 3,500
characters.
)lm analyzed: Plaisir (Le), Ophüls, Max, 1952.
“Le Plaisir … Pas trop n’en faut.” Le Parisien libéré, 2328 (March 8, 1952),
2,800 characters.
)lm analyzed: Plaisir (Le), Ophüls, Max, 1952.
“La plus belle des vies: L’Afrique nous parle!” Le Parisien libéré, 3794
(November 22, 1956), 2,200 characters.
)lm analyzed: Plus belle des vies (La), Vermorel, Claude, 1956.
“La pocharde: Arsenic et vieilles )celles.” Le Parisien libéré, 2704 (May 25,
1953), 2,000 characters.
)lm analyzed: Pocharde (La), Combret, Georges, 1953.
303
“Porte des Lilas.” France-Observateur, 386 (October 3, 1957), 7,300
characters, in Le cinéma français de la Libération à la Nouvelle Vague,
1945-1958 (Paris: Éditions de l’Étoile [1983], 1998), pp. 138-142.
)lm analyzed: Porte des Lilas, Clair, René, 1957.
“Les Possédées: La vérité est au fond du puits.” Le Parisien libéré, 3653 (June
8, 1956), 1,200 characters.
)lm analyzed: Possédées (Les), Brabant, Charles, 1956.
304
“Postface au Festival de Knokke.” L’Écran français, 212 (July 18, 1949), pp.
3, 12/4,500 characters.
)lms cited: Voleur de bicyclette (Le)/Ladri di biciclette, De Sica, Vittorio,
1948; Parents terribles (Les), Cocteau, Jean, 1948; Maison des braves (La),
a.k.a. Je suis un nègre/Home of the Brave, Robson, Mark, 1949;
Aubervilliers, Lotar, Eli, 1946.
“Pour les ardentes amours de ma jeunesse [För min heta ungdoms skull]: Eh
bien! Déchantez maintenant!” Radio-Cinéma-Télévision, 199 (November
8, 1953), 2,000 characters.
)lm analyzed: Pour les ardentes amours de ma jeunesse/För min heta
ungdoms skull, Mattsson, Arne, 1952.
“Pour les ardentes amours de ma jeunesse [För min heta ungdoms skull]:
Être et avoir …” Le Parisien libéré, 2837 (October 28, 1953), 2,400
characters.
)lm analyzed: Pour les ardentes amours de ma jeunesse/För min heta
ungdoms skull, Mattsson, Arne, 1952.
“Pour favoriser les )lms de qualité il faut modi)er la loi d’aide au cinéma.”
Radio-Cinéma-Télévision, 64 (July 4, 1951), 6,300 characters.
)lms cited: Atalante (L’), a.k.a. Le chaland qui passe, Vigo, Jean, 1934;
Crime de Monsieur Lange (Le), Renoir, Jean, 1936; Règle du jeu (La),
Renoir, Jean, 1939; Jour se lève (Le), Carné, Marcel, 1939; Ciel est à vous
(Le), Grémillon, Jean, 1944; Dames du bois de Boulogne (Les), Bresson,
Robert, 1945; Symphonie pastorale (La), Delannoy, Jean, 1946; Journal
d’un curé de campagne (Le), Bresson, Robert, 1951; Farrebique (ou Les
quatres saisons), Rouquier, Georges, 1946; Lumière d’été, Grémillon, Jean,
1943; Justice est faite, Cayatte, André, 1950; Tampon du capiston (Le),
Labro, Maurice, 1950; Épave (L’), Rozier, Willy, 1949; Maison du
printemps (La), Daroy, Jacques, 1950; Barnabé, Esway, Alexander, 1938;
Don d’Adèle (Le), Couzinet, Émile, 1950; Caroline chérie, Pottier, Richard,
1951.
“Premier )lm français présenté (applaudi par les uns, si9é par les autres):
L’Eau vive a partagé l’opinion.” Le Parisien libéré, 4245 (May 6, 1958),
1,500 characters.
)lm analyzed: Eau vive (L’), Villiers, François, 1958.
“Le premier grand succès à Venise est pour la France grâce à Jeux interdits
de René Clément.”
Le Parisien libéré, 2478 (September 2, 1952), 1,800 characters.
)lms cited: Jeux interdits, Clément, René, 1952; O.K. Néron/O.K. Nerone,
Soldati, Mario, 1951.
307
“Première désillusion [The Fallen Idol].” Le Parisien libéré, 1492 (July 1,
1949), 1,100 characters.
)lm analyzed: Première désillusion/The Fallen Idol, Reed, Carol, 1948.
“Les Premiers outrages mais pas les derniers …” Le Parisien libéré, 3471
(November 8, 1955), 1,200 characters.
)lm analyzed: Premiers outrages (Les), Gourguet, Jean, 1955.
308
)lms analyzed: Harpe Birmane (La)/Biruma no tategoto, Ichikawa, Kon,
1956; Traversée de Paris (La), Autant-Lara, Claude, 1956.
“Le Procès [Der Prozess].” Le Parisien libéré, 1311 (December 2, 1948), 700
characters.
309
)lm analyzed: Procès (Le)/Der Prozess, Pabst, G. W., 1948.
“Il profeta del neorealismo [Toni].” Cinema nuovo (Italy), 5, n. 87 (July 25,
1956), 3,300 characters.
)lm analyzed: Toni, Renoir, Jean, 1935.
“Quand les enfants font eux-mêmes leurs dessins animés [Le Voyage de
Badabou, Martin et Gaston, et Gitanos et papillons].” L’Éducation
nationale, 1 (January 5, 1956), 5,200 characters.
)lms analyzed: Voyage de Badabou (Le), Gruel, Henri, 1955; Martin et
Gaston, Gruel, Henri, 1953; Gitanos et papillons, Gruel, Henri, 1954.
“Quand tu liras cette lettre: Trop poli pour être Ohnet.” Le Parisien libéré,
2856 (November 19, 1953), 1,500 characters.
)lm analyzed: Quand tu liras cette lettre, Melville, Jean-Pierre, 1953.
“Le 49è parallèle [49th Parallel]: Mieux vaut tard que jamais.” Le Parisien
libéré, 2358 (April 12, 1952), 2,800 characters.
)lm analyzed: 49è parallèle (Le)/49th Parallel, Powell, Michael, 1941.
“Quatre pas dans les nuages [Quattro passi tra le nuvole]: Nouveau
triomphe de l’école italienne.” Le Parisien libéré, 791 (April 2, 1947), 1,500
characters.
311
)lm analyzed: Quatre pas dans les nuages/Quattro passi tra le nuvole,
Blasetti, Alessandro, 1942.
“Les quatre plumes blanches [The Four Feathers]: Il n’est jamais trop tard
pour bien faire.” Le Parisien libéré, 3693 (July 25, 1956), 1,300 characters.
)lm analyzed: Quatre plumes blanches (Les)/The Four Feathers, Korda,
Zoltan, 1939.
“Quelques pas dans la vie [Tempi nostri]: Six petits tours et puis …” Le
Parisien libéré, 3469 (November 5, 1955), 2,200 characters.
)lm analyzed: Quelques pas dans la vie/Tempi nostri, Blasetti, Alessandro,
1954.
“Qui est le véritable auteur du )lm?” Arts, 489 (November 10, 1954), 4,500
characters.
)lms cited: Pépé le Moko, Duvivier, Julien, 1937; Panique, Duvivier, Julien,
1947; Affaire Maurizius (L’), Duvivier, Julien, 1954; Jeux interdits,
Clément, René, 1952; Jour se lève (Le), Carné, Marcel, 1939; Enfants du
312
paradis (Les), Carné, Marcel, 1945; Dernières vacances (Les), Leenhardt,
Roger, 1948; Espoir (L’)/Sierra de Teruel, Malraux, André, 1945 (1939);
Madame Du Barry, Christian-Jaque (a.k.a. Christian Maudet), 1954.
314
“Rashomon: Une révélation!” Le Parisien libéré, 2366 (April 22, 1952),
2,800 characters.
)lm analyzed: Rashomon, Kurosawa, Akira, 1950.
“Razzia sur la chnouf: Stupé)ant!” Le Parisien libéré, 3293 (April 13, 1955),
1,200 characters.
)lm analyzed: Razzia sur la chnouf, Decoin, Henri, 1954.
“La Red [Le Filet].” France-Observateur, 184 (November 19, 1953), 4,100
characters, in Qu’est-ce que le cinéma?, volume III, “Cinéma et sociologie;
Deuxième Partie: Érotisme” (Éditions du Cerf, 1961), pp. 57-60.
)lm analyzed: Filet (Le)/La Red, Fernández, Emilio, 1953.
315
“Ré-exions sur la critique.” Cinéma 58, n. 32 (December 1958), 30,000
characters, in Le cinéma français de la Libération à la Nouvelle Vague,
1945-1958 (Paris: Éditions de l’Étoile [1983], 1998), pp. 297-309.
)lms cited: Boudu sauvé des eaux, Renoir, Jean, 1932; Règle du jeu (La),
Renoir, Jean, 1939.
“La Reine morte [Inês de Castro].” Le Parisien libéré, 1078 (March 3, 1948),
900 characters.
)lm analyzed: Reine morte (La)/Inês de Castro, a.k.a. Don Pedro il crudele,
García Viñolas, Manuel Augusto, and Leitão de Barros, José, 1944.
316
“Renaissance du rail.” Le Parisien libéré, 1048 (January 28, 1948), 1,400
characters.
)lm analyzed: Renaissance du rail, Périé, André, 1947.
“René Clair reçoit un accueil triomphal à Varsovie [Sous les toits de Paris].”
Le Parisien libéré, 3789 (November 16, 1956), 2,200 characters.
)lm analyzed: Sous les toits de Paris, Clair, René, 1930.
“Réponses: Cet âge est sans pitié.” Cahiers du cinéma, II, n. 7 (December
1951), 3,900 characters.
318
)lms cited: Journal d’un curé de campagne (Le), Bresson, Robert, 1951; Âge
d’or (L’), Buñuel, Luis, 1930.
319
)lm analyzed: Retour de Don Camillo (Le)/Il ritorno di Don Camillo,
Duvivier, Julien, 1953.
“La Revue des revues: Jean Vigo nombre spécial de Positif.” Cahiers du
cinéma, n. 26 (August 1953), pp. 63-64/4,500 characters.
)lms cited: Atalante (L’), a.k.a. Le chaland qui passe, Vigo, Jean, 1934; Zéro
de conduite, Vigo, Jean, 1933; À propos de Nice, Vigo, Jean, 1930.
“Rires et ovations ont salué Mon Oncle: Un grand )lm de Jacques Tati.”
Le Parisien libéré, 4249 (May 10, 1958), 2,100 characters.
)lm analyzed: Mon Oncle, Tati, Jacques, 1958.
“Roger Leenhardt à )lmé le roman qu’il n’a pas écrit [Les Dernières
vacances].” L’Écran français, 135 (January 27, 1948), p. 6/4,000 characters.
)lm analyzed: Dernières vacances (Les), Leenhardt, Roger, 1948.
320
“Le roi de la pagaille [Trouble in Store]: Rire ou ne pas rire?” Le Parisien
libéré, 2956 (March 15, 1954), 2,000 characters.
)lm analyzed: Roi de la pagaille (Un)/Trouble in Store, Carstairs, John
Paddy, 1953.
“Le roi des resquilleurs.” Le Parisien libéré, 438 (January 8, 1946), 1,000
characters.
)lm analyzed: Roi des resquilleurs (Le), Devaivre, Jean, 1945.
“Un roman russe donne à l’Italie des chances sérieuses pour le Lion d’Or
[Les Nuits blanches (Le Notti bianche)].” Le Parisien libéré, 4040
(September 7, 1957), 2,000 characters.
)lm analyzed: Nuits blanches (Les)/Le Notti bianche, Visconti, Luchino,
1957.
“La Rose et le réséda.” Le Parisien libéré, 1123 (April 24, 1948), 600
characters.
)lm analyzed: Rose et le réséda (La), Michel, André, 1947.
“Le rouge et le noir: Des goûts et des couleurs.” Le Parisien libéré, 3156
(November 4, 1954), 3,200 characters.
)lm analyzed: Rouge et le noir (Le), Autant-Lara, Claude, 1954.
321
“Rue de l’Estrapade de Jacques Becker.” France-Observateur, 157 (May 14,
1953), 7,400 characters, in Le cinéma français de la Libération à la Nouvelle
Vague, 1945-1958 (Paris: Éditions de l’Étoile [1983], 1998), pp. 64-68.
)lm analyzed: Rue de l’Estrapade, Becker, Jacques, 1953.
“Ruy Blas.” Le Parisien libéré, 1068 (February 20, 1948), 1,000 characters.
)lm analyzed: Ruy Blas, Billon, Pierre, 1948.
“Un saint ne l’est qu’après: La fille des marais [Cielo sulla Palude].”
Cahiers du cinéma, n. 2 (May 1951), pp. 46-48/8,700 characters, in Qu’est-ce
que le cinéma?, volume IV, “Une Esthétique de la Réalité: le néo-réalisme”
(Éditions du Cerf, 1962), pp. 60-64.
)lm analyzed: Fille des marais (La), a.k.a. Ciel des marécages/Cielo sulla
Palude, Genina, Augusto, 1949.
“Le Secret de Mayerling.” Le Parisien libéré, 1448 (May 11, 1949), 1,200
characters.
)lm analyzed: Secret de Mayerling (Le), Delannoy, Jean, 1948.
“Le secret professionnel: Théâtre )lmé.” Arts, 499 (January 19, 1955), 5,500
characters.
)lms cited: Henry V, Olivier, Laurence, 1944; Parents terribles (Les),
Cocteau, Jean, 1948
“La selezione francese vista da Bazin: Una scon)tta giusti)cata; sur festival
de Venise 1952.” Cinema nuovo (Italy), 4, n. 67 (September 25, 1955), 4,000
characters.
)lms cited: Jeux interdits, Clément, René, 1952; Conquérants solitaires
(Les), Vermorel, Claude, 1952 (1949); Putain respectueuse (La), Brabant,
Charles, and Pagliero, Marcello, 1952; Jeune folle (La), Allégret, Yves, 1952;
Adorables créatures, Christian-Jaque (a.k.a. Christian Maudet), 1952;
Journal d’un curé de campagne (Le), Bresson, Robert, 1951.
“La semaine du )lm français à Punta del Este a pris un bon départ avec La
Sorcière.” Le Parisien libéré, 3579 (March 13, 1956), 2,800 characters.
)lm analyzed: Sorcière (La), Michel, André, 1956.
“Sept jours de Venise.” L’Écran français, 217 (August 29, 1949), 1,700
characters.
)lms cited: Manon, Clouzot, Henri-Georges, 1949; Jour de fête, Tati,
Jacques, 1949; Aux yeux du souvenir, Delannoy, Jean, 1948; Moulin du Po
(Le)/Il Mulino del Po, Lattuada, Alberto, 1949; Mystères d’une âme
(Les)/Geheimnisse einer Seele, Pabst, G. W., 1926; Cuirassé Potemkine
(Le)/Bronenosets Potyomkin, Eisenstein, Sergei, 1925; Terre tremble (La)/La
325
terra trema (Episodio del mare), Visconti, Luchino, 1948; Au royaume des
cieux, Duvivier, Julien, 1949; Sorcier du ciel (Le), Blistène, Marcel, 1949.
“La Septième porte.” Le Parisien libéré, 1048 (January 28, 1948), 1,500
characters.
)lm analyzed: Septième porte (La), Zwoboda, André, 1948.
326
“Série noire.” Le Parisien libéré, 3265 (March 11, 1955), 1,200 characters.
)lm analyzed: Série noire, Foucaud, Pierre, 1955.
“Un si noble tueur [The Gentle Gunman]: Erreur n’est pas compte.” Le
Parisien libéré, 2912 (January 22, 1954), 3,000 characters.
)lm analyzed: Si noble tueur (Un)/The Gentle Gunman, Dearden, Basil,
1952.
“Si Paris l’avait su [So Long at the Fair]: Bon.” Le Parisien libéré, 2222
(November 5, 1951), 2,200 characters.
)lm analyzed: Si Paris l’avais su/So Long at the Fair, Fisher, Terence, and
Darnborough, Antony, 1950.
“Si Paris nous était conté.” Le Parisien libéré, 3543 (January 31, 1956), 1,800
characters.
)lm analyzed: Si Paris nous était conté, Guitry, Sacha, 1956.
“Si Paris nous était conté.” L’Éducation nationale, 9 (March 1, 1956), 6,500
characters, in Le cinéma français de la Libération à la Nouvelle Vague,
1945-1958 (Paris: Éditions de l’Étoile [1983], 1998), pp. 204-207.
327
)lm analyzed: Si Paris nous était conté, Guitry, Sacha, 1956.
“Si tous les gars du monde: Les bons iront au paradis.” Le Parisien libéré,
3569 (March 1, 1956), 1,400 characters.
)lm analyzed: Si tous les gars du monde, Christian-Jaque (a.k.a. Christian
Maudet), 1956.
“Le Silence de la mer.” Le Parisien libéré, 1436 (April 27, 1949), 1,400
characters.
)lm analyzed: Silence de la mer (Le), Melville, Jean-Pierre, 1949.
“Le Silence est d’or est-il le chef-d’…?” Le Parisien libéré, 830 (May 18,
1947), 1,300 characters.
)lm analyzed: Silence est d’or (Le), Clair, René, 1947.
“Le silence est d’or sera le premier des )lms français présentés au Festival de
Bruxelles.” Le Parisien libéré, 849 (June 10, 1947), 1,200 characters.
)lms cited: Silence est d’or (Le), Clair, René, 1947; Élixir d’amour
(L’)/L’elisir d’amore, Costa, Mario, 1947; Sonate du diable (La), Leprince,
René, 1912; Sonate inachevée, Monca, Georges, 1918.
“Sirène [Siréna].” Le Parisien libéré, 1424 (April 13, 1949), 850 characters.
)lm analyzed: Sirène/Siréna, Steklý, Karel, 1947.
328
“Six personnages en quête d’auteurs: Débat sur le cinéma français (avec
André Bazin, Jacques Doniol-Valcroze, Pierre Kast, Roger Leenhardt,
Jacques Rivette, et Éric Rohmer).” Cahiers du cinéma, XII, n. 71 (May
1957), pp. 16-29/70,000 characters.
)lms cited: Édouard et Caroline, Becker, Jacques, 1951; Casque d’or, Becker,
Jacques, 1952; Dernières vacances (Les), Leenhardt, Roger, 1948; Jeux
interdits, Clément, René, 1952; Journal d’un curé de campagne (Le),
Bresson, Robert, 1951.
“Le soleil est venu couronner l’Inde et le Japon.” Le Parisien libéré, 4039
(September 6, 1957), 2,800 characters.
)lms cited: L’Invaincu, a.k.a. L’Invincible/Aparajito, Ray, Satyajit, 1956;
Complainte du sentier (La)/Pather Panchali, Ray, Satyajit, 1955; Le trône de
sang, a.k.a. Le Château de l’araignée/Kumonosu-jô, Kurosawa, Akira, 1957;
Rashomon, Kurosawa, Akira, 1950; Sept samouraïs (Les)/Shichinin no
samurai, Kurosawa, Akira, 1954; Vivre/Ikiru, Kurosawa, Akira, 1952; Idiot
(L’)/Hakuchi, Kurosawa, Akira, 1951; Enfance de Maxime Gorki
(L’)/Detstvo Gorkogo, Donskoï, Mark, 1938; En gagnant mon pain/V
lyudyakh, Donskoï, Mark, 1939; Mes universités/Moi universitety,
Donskoï, Mark, 1940; Cri (Le)/Il Grido, Antonioni, Michelangelo, 1957;
Oeil pour oeil, Cayatte, André, 1957.
“Le soleil se lèvera encore [Il sole sorge ancora].” Le Parisien libéré, 1340
(January 5, 1949), 850 characters.
)lm analyzed: Soleil se lèvera encore (Le)/Il sole sorge ancora, Vergano, Aldo,
1946.
329
“La Sorcière.” France-Observateur, 310 (April 19, 1956), 4,000 characters.
)lm analyzed: Sorcière (La), Michel, André, 1956.
“La Sorcière … et celui qui n’y croyait pas.” Le Parisien libéré, 3608 (April
16, 1956), 2,200 characters.
)lm analyzed: Sorcière (La), Michel, André, 1956.
“Les sorcières de Salem [et Les Parents terribles et L’Aigle à deux têtes].”
France-Observateur, 365 (May 9, 1957), 7,000 characters.
)lms analyzed: Sorcières de Salem (Les), Rouleau, Raymond, 1957; Parents
terribles (Les), Cocteau, Jean, 1948; Aigle à deux têtes (L’), Cocteau, Jean,
1948.
“Sous le ciel de Provence [Era di venerdì 17]: Quatre pas dans le souvenir!”
Le Parisien libéré, 3876 (February 26, 1957), 2,200 characters.
)lm analyzed: Sous le ciel de Provence/Era di venerdì 17, Soldati, Mario,
1957.
330
“Les statues meurent aussi: Toujours deux fois Le prix Vigo.” France-
Observateur, 195 (February 4, 1954), 3,400 characters.
)lm analyzed: Statues meurent aussi (Les), Resnais, Alain, and Marker,
Chris, 1954.
“La strada.” L’Esprit, 23, n. 226 (May 1955), pp. 847-851/10,700 characters,
in Qu’est-ce que le cinéma?, volume IV, “Une Esthétique de la Réalité: le
néo-réalisme” (Éditions du Cerf, 1962), pp. 122-128.
)lm analyzed: La strada, Fellini, Federico, 1954.
331
“Subida al cielo [La montée au ciel], Buñuel: Un grand poète.” Radio-
Cinéma-Télévision, 137 (August 31, 1952), 3,800 characters.
)lm analyzed: Montée au ciel (La)/Subida al cielo, Buñuel, Luis.
“Sullo schermo del Palais.” Cinema nuovo (Italy), 7, n. 131 (May 15, 1958),
4,200 characters.
)lms cited: Arc et la flute (L’)/En djungelsaga, Sucksdor,, Arne, 1957;
Grande aventure (La)/Det Stora äventyret, Sucksdor,, Arne, 1953; 41ème
(Le)/Sorok pervyy, Chukhrai, Grigori, 1956; Quand passent les
cigognes/Letyat zhuravli, Kalatozov, Mikhail, 1958; Rescapé (Le)/Ni liv,
Skouen, Arne, 1957; Eau vive (L’), Villiers, François, 1958; L’Invaincu, a.k.a.
L’Invincible/Aparajito, Ray, Satyajit, 1956; Complainte du sentier
(La)/Pather Panchali, Ray, Satyajit, 1955; Pierre philosophale (La)/Parash
Pather, Ray, Satyajit, 1957; Rosaura à dix heures/Rosaura a las 10, So.ci,
Mario, 1958; Maison de l’ange (La)/La Casa del angel, Torre-Nilsson,
Leopold, 1957; Sissi face à son destin/Sissi, Schicksalsjahre einer Kaiserin,
Marischka, Ernst, 1957.
“Les surprises d’une nuit de noces: Triste réveil.” Le Parisien libéré, 2477
(September 1, 1952), 1,300 characters.
)lm analyzed: Surprises d’une nuit de noces (Les), Vallée, Jean, 1952.
334
“La Symphonie des brigands [The Robber Symphony]: La mayonnaise n’a
pas pris.” Radio-Cinéma-Télévision, 109 (February 17, 1952), 3,000
characters.
)lm analyzed: Symphonie des brigands (La)/The Robber Symphony, Feher,
Friedrich, 1936.
“La table aux crevés: Fernandel pas mort.” Le Parisien libéré, 2299
(February 4, 1952), 2,600 characters.
)lm analyzed: Table aux crevés (La), Verneuil, Henri, 1952.
“La ‘technique’ et le ‘sujet’ ne jouent pas au cinéma le même rôle que dans
les autres arts: La forme et le fond.” Radio-Cinéma-Télévision, 45
(November 28, 1950), 2,100 characters.
“Le temps des oeufs durs.” Le Parisien libéré, 4210 (March 25, 1958), 1,300
characters.
)lm analyzed: Temps des oeufs durs (Le), Carbonnaux, Norbert, 1958.
“Le temps des oeufs durs.” France-Observateur, 411 (March 27, 1958), 2,500
characters.
)lm analyzed: Temps des oeufs durs (Le), Carbonnaux, Norbert, 1958.
“La terre tremble [La terra trema].” From “Le Festival de Venise.”
L’Esprit, XVI, n. 151 (December 1948), pp. 901-910/27,000 characters, in
Qu’est-ce que le cinéma?, volume IV, “Une Esthétique de la Réalité: le néo-
réalisme” (Éditions du Cerf, 1962), pp. 38-44; in Qu’est-ce que le cinéma?
(Cerf, 1975, rpt. 2000; single-volume version), pp. 287-293.
)lm analyzed: Terre tremble (La)/La terra trema (Episodio del mare),
Visconti, Luchino, 1948.
“La terre tremble [La terra trema]: Une admirable fresque.” Le Parisien
libéré, 2286 (January 19, 1952), 3,600 characters.
)lm analyzed: Terre tremble (La)/La terra trema (Episodio del mare),
Visconti, Luchino, 1948.
“La terre tremble [La terra trema]: L’éminente dignité des pauvres.”
Radio-Cinéma-Télévision, 106 (January 27, 1952), 4,000 characters.
)lm analyzed: Terre tremble (La)/La terra trema (Episodio del mare),
Visconti, Luchino, 1948.
337
“Théâtre et cinéma.” L’Esprit, XIX, n. 176, 180-181 (June and July-August
1951), pp. 891-905/51,000 characters and 232-253/35,200 characters, in
Qu’est-ce que le cinéma?, volume II, “Le cinéma et les autres arts” (Éditions
du Cerf, 1959), pp. 69-118; in Qu’est-ce que le cinéma? (Cerf, 1975, rpt. 2000;
single-volume version), pp. 129-178.
)lms analyzed: Henry V, Olivier, Laurence, 1944; Hamlet, Olivier,
Laurence, 1948; Parents terribles (Les), Cocteau, Jean, 1948; Cabinet du
Docteur Caligari (Le)/Das Kabinett des Dr. Caligari, Wiene, Robert,
1920; Passion de Jeanne d’Arc (La), Dreyer, Carl-Theodor, 1928.
338
“Thérèse Raquin: Magistral!” Le Parisien libéré, 2848 (November 10, 1953),
3,900 characters.
)lm analyzed: Thérèse Raquin, Carné, Marcel, 1953.
“Le Toit [Il tetto]: Une chaumière et du coeur!” Le Parisien libéré, 3800
(November 29, 1956), 2,400 characters.
)lm analyzed: Toit (Le)/Il tetto, De Sica, Vittorio, 1955.
“Le tour de France du cinéma.” L’Écran français 209 (June 27, 1949),
6,000 characters, in Le cinéma français de la Libération à la Nouvelle
Vague, 1945-1958 (Paris: Éditions de l’Étoile [1983], 1998), pp. 330-336.
)lms cited: Bataille du rail (La), Clément, René, 1946; Pattes blanches,
Grémillon, Jean, 1949; Farrebique (ou Les quatres saisons), Rouquier,
339
Georges, 1946; Point du jour (Le), Daquin, Louis, 1948; Jour se lève (Le),
Carné, Marcel, 1939; Rome, ville ouverte/Roma, città aperta, Rossellini,
Roberto, 1945; Partie de campagne (Une), Renoir, Jean, 1946 (1936); Règle
du jeu (La), Renoir, Jean, 1939; Journal d’une femme de chambre (Le)/The
Diary of a Chambermaid, Renoir, Jean, 1946; Symphonie pastorale (La),
Delannoy, Jean, 1946; Frères Bouquinquant, Daquin, Louis, 1948;
Dernières vacances (Les), Leenhardt, Roger, 1948; Lumières d’été,
Grémillon, Jean, 1942; Marius, Korda, Alexander, 1931; Goupi mains
rouges, Becker, Jacques, 1943; Lumière bleue (La)/Das blaue Licht,
Riefenstahl, Leni, 1932.
341
)lms cited: Six juin à l’aube (Le), Grémillon, Jean, 1946; Silence est d’or
(Le), Clair, René, 1947; Assassins d’eau douce, Painlevé, Jean, 1947;
Naissance du cinéma, Leenhardt, Roger, 1946; Élixir d’amour (L’)/L’elisir
d’amore, Costa, Mario, 1947; Païsa/Paisà, Rossellini, Roberto, 1946; Huit
heures de sursis/Odd Man Out, Reed, Carol, 1947; Diable au corps (Le),
Autant-Lara, Claude, 1946; Rythme de la ville (Le)/Människor i stad,
Sucksdor,, Arne, 1947; Mouette grise (La)/Gryning, Sucksdor,, Arne,
1944; Ombre sur la neige/The Hunter and the Forest, Sucksdor,, Arne,
1947; Vivre en paix/Vivere in pace, Zampa, Luigi, 1947.
“Triomphe des Belles de nuit qui ont placé la France en tête de la sélection
international.” Le Parisien libéré, 2486 (October 9, 1952), 3,600 characters.
)lm analyzed: Belles de nuit (Les), Clair, René, 1952.
“Trois femmes, trois âmes.” France-Observateur, 119 (August 21, 1952), 6,500
characters.
)lm analyzed: Trois femmes, trois âmes, a.k.a. Trois femmes, Michel, André,
1952.
“Trois femmes, trois âmes: Un bon )lm.” Le Parisien libéré, 2465 (August
18, 1952), 4,800 characters.
342
)lm analyzed: Trois femmes, trois âmes, a.k.a. Trois femmes, Michel, André,
1952.
“Trois )lms: Les Visiteurs du soir, L’Éternel retour, et Les Anges du péché.”
Jeux et Poésie, 3 (February 1944), 11,000 characters. Partially reprinted in Le
Cinéma de l’Occupation et de la Résistance. Paris: Union Générale
d’éditions, 1975.
)lms analyzed: Visiteurs du soir (Les), Carné, Marcel, 1942; Éternel retour
(L’), Delannoy, Jean, 1943; Anges du péché (Les), Bresson, Robert, 1943.
“Les Trois font la paire si Sacha m’était conté.” Le Parisien libéré, 3958
(June 3, 1957), 1,800 characters.
)lm analyzed: Trois font la paire (Les), Guitry, Sacha, 1957.
“Le 3ème Festival du )lm de Berlin s’ouvre sous l’orage.” Le Parisien libéré,
2727 (June 20, 1953), 2,400 characters.
)lms cited: Salaire de la peur (Le), Clouzot, Henri-Georges, 1953; Vacances
de Monsieur Hulot (Les), Tati, Jacques, 1953; Manon des sources, Pagnol,
Marcel, 1953; Rideau cramoisi (Le), Astruc, Alexandre, 1952; Crin blanc: Le
cheval sauvage, Lamorisse, Albert, 1953.
344
)lms cited: Parole (La), a.k.a. La Sorcière/Ordet, Dreyer, Carl-Theodor,
1955; Boris Godunov, Stroyeva, Vera, 1954; Smetana/Z mého zivota, Krska,
Václav, 1955; Jan Hus, Vàvra, Otakar, 1954.
“Une si jolie petite plage.” Le Parisien libéré, 1352 (January 19, 1949), 2,000
characters.
)lm analyzed: Si jolie petite plage (Une), Allégret, Yves, 1949.
“Untel père et fils.” Le Parisien libéré, 371 (October 23, 1945), 1,000
characters. Reprinted in Le Cinéma de l’Occupation et de la Résistance.
Paris: Union Générale d’éditions, 1975.
)lm analyzed: Untel père et fils, Duvivier, Julien, 1945 (1940).
“Venise 1957: Moralité [Le trone de sang (Throne of Blood); Malva; Le Cri
(Il grido); L’invincible (Aparajito)].” Cahiers du cinéma, XIII, n. 75
(October 1957), pp. 35-44/7,500 characters.
)lms cited: Cri (Le)/Il Grido, Antonioni, Michelangelo, 1957; Lagune des
désirs (La)/I Limni ton Pothon, Zervos, Yorgos, 1958; Malva, Braun,
Vladimir, 1957; L’Invaincu, a.k.a. L’Invincible/Aparajito, Ray, Satyajit,
1956.
347
“Venise: Les Frères Bouquinquant; le meilleur )lm de Louis Daquin.” Le
Parisien libéré, 921 (September 3, 1947), 1,700 characters.
)lm analyzed: Frères Bouquinquant (Les), Daquin, Louis, 1947.
“La Vérité n’a pas de frontière [Ulica graniczna].” Le Parisien libéré, 1424
(April 13, 1949), 850 characters.
)lm analyzed: Vérité n’a pas de frontière (La)/Ulica graniczna, Ford,
Aleksander, 1947.
“La vérité sur Bébé Donge: A quoi rêvent les jeunes femmes.” Le Parisien
libéré, 2314 (February 21, 1952), 2,800 characters.
)lm analyzed: Vérité sur Bébé Donge (La), Decoin, Henri, 1952.
“Vers les prix.” France-Observateur, 313 (May 10, 1956), 1,200 characters.
)lms cited: Ombre (L’)/Cien, Kawalerowicz, Jerzy, 1956; Si les oiseaux
savaient ou Je vis dans la peur/Ikimono no kiroku, Kurosawa, Akira, 1955;
Après-midi de taureaux/Tarde de toros, Vajda, Ladislao, 1955; Complainte
du sentier (La)/Pather Panchali, Ray, Satyajit, 1955; Deux hectares de
terre/Do Bigha Zamin, Roy, Bimal, 1953; Okasan-Mère (La)/Okasan,
Naruse, Mikio, 1952; Enfance de Maxime Gorki (L’)/Detstvo Gorkogo,
348
Donskoï, Mark, 1938; Fleuve (Le)/The River, Renoir, Jean, 1951;
Rashomon, Kurosawa, Akira, 1950.
“La vie de bohème.” Le Parisien libéré, 136 (January 23, 1945), 600
characters.
)lm analyzed: Vie de bohème (La), L’Herbier, Marcel, 1942.
349
“La vie de Jésus: Et autres courts métrages.” Le Parisien libéré, 2363 (April
18, 1952), 2,000 characters.
)lm analyzed: Vie de Jésus (La), Gibaud, Marcel, 1952.
“La vie d’un honnête homme: Honnête mais pauvre!” Le Parisien libéré,
2634 (March 3, 1953), 3,300 characters.
)lm analyzed: Vie d’un honnête homme (La), Guitry, Sacha, 1953.
350
)lm analyzed: Vie passionnée de Moussorgsky (La)/Musorgskiy, Roshal,
Grigori, 1950.
“La vie recommence [La vita ricomincia]: Une bonne comédie de moeurs
qui )nit en mélo.” L’Écran français, 100 (May 27, 1947), 1,200 characters.
)lm analyzed: Vie recommence (La)/La vita ricomincia, Mattoli, Mario,
1947.
“Virgile: La foi qui sauve!” Le Parisien libéré, 2858 (November 21, 1953),
1,900 characters.
)lm analyzed: Virgile, Rim, Carlo, 1953.
351
“Visages de bronze.” Cahiers du cinéma, n. 84 (June 1958), p. 28/1,200
characters.
)lm analyzed: Visages de bronze, Taissant, Bernard, 1958.
“Voici la nouvelle B. B. telle que je l’ai vue à Madrid ou elle tourne sous la
direction de Vadim Les Bijoutiers du clair de lune.” Le Parisien libéré, 4042
(September 10, 1957), 1,400 characters.
)lm analyzed: Bijoutiers du clair de lune (Les), Vadim, Roger, 1958.
“Le voyage à Punta del Este.” Cahiers du cinéma, n. 58 (April 1956), pp. 25-
28/22,000 characters.
352
)lm analyzed: Voyage en Italie, a.k.a. L’amour est le plus fort/Viaggio in
Italia, Rossellini, Roberto, 1954.
“Vu pour vous … cette semaine Les grandes espérances [Great Expectations]
et Les jeux sont faits.” Le Parisien libéré, 1011 (December 17, 1947), 600
characters.
)lms analyzed: Grandes espérances (Les)/Great Expectations, Lean, David,
1946; Jeux sont faits (Les), Delannoy, Jean, 1947.
“Winslow contre le roi [The Winslow Boy].” Le Parisien libéré, 1436 (April
27, 1949), 500 characters.
)lm analyzed: Winslow contre le roi/The Winslow Boy, Asquith, Anthony,
1948.
“Zola et le cinéma: Pour une nuit d’amour.” Le Parisien libéré, 832 (May 21,
1947), 2,000 characters.
)lm analyzed: Pour une nuit d’amour, Gréville, Edmond T., 1947.
353
Index
Abbas, Khwaja Ahmad, 86 Antonioni, Michelangelo, 49,
Actors’ Studio (New York), 95 52-55
Adaptation, 23, 35, 50, 54, 87, Aparajito, 16
100, 102, 106 Around the World in Eighty
The Adulteress, 99 Days, 65, 76
Africa Speaks!, 66, 93 Ascent to Heaven, 27, 38
L’Âge d’or, 83 Ashley, Ray, 45, 58
L’Âge nouveau, 75, 85 The Asphalt Jungle, 51, 59
Alekan, Henri, 24 Asquith, Anthony, 82, 86-87
All About Eve, 30 Astruc, Alexandre, 13, 25, 56
Allégret, Yves, 5, 48, 51-52, 55-56, At Sword’s Point, 66
61, 137 Autant-Lara, Claude, 45, 61
Allen, Lewis, 66 Auteurism, 6-8, 10, 82, 99
Amateau, Rod, 49 Avant-gardism, 34, 75, 95
An American in Paris, 36, 42
Amundsen, Roald, 65 Back to the Wall, 107
Anatahan, 48 The Bad and the Beautiful, 46
An Andalusian Dog, 55 The Bandit, 5, 38, 135
And God Created Woman, 107 Baragan Thistles, 87-88
André Bazin and Italian Baratier, Jacques, 91, 105
Neorealism, 14 The Barbarian and the Geisha,
André Bazin, the Critic as 51
Thinker: American Cinema Bardem, Juan Antonio, 5, 87-88,
from Early Chaplin to the Late 139
1950s, 14-15 Bardot, Brigitte, 107
Andrew, Dudley, 8-9 Barnard, Timothy, 8-9
Animated Genesis, 26 “Barn Burning” (Faulkner), 87
Annapurna, 70 The baroque, 27, 37, 50
Anouilh, Jean, 22 Barreto, Lima, 5, 38-39, 135
Antibes Film Festival (France), The Battle of Stalingrad, 11, 83
31 Battleship Potemkin, 84, 95
Baudry, Jean-Louis, 9
354
Bazin, Janine, 3 Bonzi, Leonardo, 91
Bazin at Work: Major Essays Bosè, Lucia, 54
and Reviews from the Forties Boudu Saved from Drowning,
and Fifties, 6, 14 44
Bazinism, 8-9, 16 The Brave Don’t Cry, 40, 121
Bazin on Global Cinema, 1948- Brazza, Pierre de, 65
1958, 13-14 Bread, Love, and Dreams, 61
Beauties of the Night, 5, 43-44, Brecht, Bertolt, 105
120-121, 136 Bresson, Robert, 11, 25, 54, 62,
Beauty and the Devil, 44 78, 90
Becker, Jacques, 32, 65, 78, 98 Brief Encounter, 26
Before Midnight, 98 Brink of Life, 90
Behind the Great Wall, 100 Bronze Faces, 5, 90-92, 129, 141
La Belle Époque, 59 Bronze Lion (Venice Film
Benatti, Giuseppe, 61 Festival), 45-46
Benedek, Laszlo, 81 Brooks, Richard, 87
Benett, Léon, 102 The Brothers Karamazov, 87
Bennett, Compton, 66 Brunoy, Blanchette, 20, 24
Bergman, Ingmar, 5, 16, 90, 98, Brussels Film Festival (Belgium),
143 4, 46, 96, 98-103, 130-131
Bergman-Sucksdor,, Astrid, 92 Brynych, Zbyněk, 95
Bergson, Henri, 6, 12 Buñuel, Luis, 5-6, 27, 37-38, 49,
“A Bergsonian Film” (Bazin), 12 55, 68, 83, 134
Berlin Film Festival, 39, 96 Burstyn, Joseph, 58
The Best Years of Our Lives, 28, Byzantinism, 12
80
Biarritz Film Festival (France), Cahiers du cinéma, 3, 6-7, 12, 15,
30-31 31, 39, 45, 48, 51, 60, 64, 97, 103
Bicycle Thieves, 22, 33-34, 57 Cale, Guillaume, 105
The Blackbird, 98 Camera-Pen, 56
Blinkity Blank, 98 Cannes Film Festival (France),
Blow-Up, 54 4, 15-16, 25-39, 46-47, 49, 61-63,
Bolognini, Mauro, 90 83, 86-97, 102, 107, 110-120, 126-
Bombard, Alain, 5, 68, 70, 72, 130
138 Canudo, Ricciotto, 75
355
Capra, Frank, 79 Cinémathèque Française (Paris),
Carette, Julien, 24 15, 56, 62-63
Carné, Marcel, 4-5, 13, 20-24, 32, Cinematic Intelligence, 76
44, 52, 55, 59-60, 109-110, 132 Cinerama, 76, 78
Casadio, Aglauco, 100 Citizen Kane, 28, 81
Castellani, Renato, 32, 35, 81 City Lights, 63
Catholicism, 8, 16 Clair, René, 5, 43-45, 76-78, 136
Cavalcanti, Alberto, 82 Classicism, 13, 33, 50, 56, 62-63,
Cayatte, André, 99 76
Cendrars, Blaise, 65 Claudel, Paul, 76
Cervantes, Miguel de, 89 Clément, René, 27, 98
Chabrol, Claude, 5-6, 104, 106- Clouzot, Henri-Georges, 12, 78
108, 147 Cocteau, Jean, 11, 38, 78
A Chairy Tale, 98 Comedians, 89
Chanois, Jean-Paul Le, Comedy, 23, 26, 35
Chapaev, 95 Comencini, Luigi, 61
Chaplin, Charles, 8, 36, 42, 44, Commedia dell’arte, 101
63, 79, 81 Communism, 6, 94, 96
Château-d’Eau Theater (Paris), Comolli, Jean-Louis, 9
78 Condemned, 61
Chavance, Louis, 24 A Cop’s Revenge: see Touch of
Chayevsky, Paddy, 98 Evil
Chiaureli, Mikheil, 83 Cops and Robbers, 5, 33, 35-36,
Children of Hiroshima, 5, 37, 135 117, 134
Children’s and Household Tales, Corneille, Pierre, 26, 29
50 Cornelius, Henry, 26, 61
Chinese Revolution (1911), 106 Cortázar, Julio, 54
Chrétien, Henri, 76 Courrier de l’étudiant, 14
Christian Democrats, 41 The Cousins, 107
Christopher Columbus, 76 The Cranes Are Flying, 5, 94-95,
Chukhrai, Grigori, 86, 94 97, 106, 127, 142
Ciampi, Yves, 61 The Crimson Curtain, 25
Cinema dell’arte, 79 Cromwell, John, 98
CinemaScope, 13, 46, 76, 86, 90, Crossfire, 30
92
356
Daquin, Louis, 87 Douglas, Kirk, 51
Darkness at Noon, 99 Dréville, Jean, 38
Dassin, Jules, 81 Dreyer, Carl-Theodor, 82
Daybreak, 13, 21, 23 Dulac, Germaine, 75
Day of Wrath, 82 Dumas, Sr., Alexandre, 78
The Deadly Invention: see The Dustmen, 53
Fabulous World of Jules Verne
Death of a Cyclist, 89 École normale supérieure, 6
Delannoy, Jean, 25 L’Écran français, 24
“De la politique des auteurs” Éditions de l’Étoile, 3
(Bazin), 10 The Eighth Day of the Week, 104
Deleuze, Gilles, 16 Eisenstein, Sergei, 26, 84, 95
“The Delirium of a Machine” Él, 5, 37, 49, 134
(Epstein), 75 Elevator to the Gallows, 107
Delluc, Louis, 75 Elwin, Verrier, 92
DeMille, Cecil B., 79 Empire in the Sun, 91-93
De Santis, Giuseppe, 81-82 Empty Eyes, 61
De Sica, Vittorio, 5, 22, 33-34, 36, Engel, Morris, 45, 58
57, 81, 105, 133 Epstein, Jean, 38, 75
Désossé, Valentin le, 59 Ermler, Fridrikh, 25
The Devil and the Flesh: see The Escapees of the Year 4000, 22
Susana L’Esprit, 6
The Devil’s Envoys, 52 Europe ’51, 13, 49
Diary of a Country Priest, 11, 25, “The Evolution of the Language
54 of Cinema” (Bazin), 8-9
Diderot, Denis, 29 Existentialism, 8, 16, 65
Dietrich, Marlene, 54 Expressionism, 15, 82
The Divorcée of Naples: see
Voyage to Italy Fabrizi, Aldo, 36
Dmytryk, Edward, 30, 81 The Fabulous World of Jules
D.O.C. Éducation Populaire, 14 Verne, 5, 102-103, 130, 146
Documentary, 6, 40, 56, 58, 62, Facing the Flag, 102
66-69, 82, 87-93, 100 The Fall of Berlin, 83
“Donkeyskin” (Perrault), 50 Faulkner, William, 54, 87
Don Quixote, 89
357
Fellini, Federico, 11, 49, 57, 82, France-Observateur, 97, 108
101 Freda, Riccardo, 66
Fernández, Emilio, 26-27, 37 Freedom for Us, 43
Ferreri, Marco, 105 French Cinema from the
Il Ferroviere: see The Railroad Liberation to the New Wave,
Man 1945-1958, 12, 14
Feuillade, Louis, 75 Fujiwara, Kamatari, 100
Feyder, Jacques, 75 Fuller, Samuel, 45-46
Figueroa, Gabriel, 26-27 Futter, Walter, 66, 93
Filippo, Eduardo De, 5, 100-101, Futurism, 106
145
Film-à-clef, 90 Gabin, Jean, 20-24
Film noir, 23 Gaisseau, Pierre-Dominique, 5,
Film rose, 23 68, 72-74, 139
“The Film Technician” The Game of Love, 61
(L’Herbier), 76 Gance, Abel, 38, 44, 56, 63, 75,
Film Technique, 84 78
1. April 2000, 61 Gates of the Night, 21, 23
Flaherty, Robert J., 66, 79 Gavaldón, Roberto, 49
Flaud, Jacques, 108 Gebel, Bruno, 86
The Flower of the Age, 23-24 The General Line, 84, 95
The Flute and the Arrow, 5, 91- Genevieve, 61
93, 127, 142 Germany, Year Zero, 104
Foldes, Joan, 26 Germi, Pietro, 90
Foldes, Peter, 26 The Ghost Goes West, 44
Fontaine, Jean de La, 29 Gide, André, 60
Ford, Aleksander, 104 Gilda, 29
Ford, John, 39, 66, 79 Godard, Jean-Luc, 6, 16
The Forgotten Creek, 86 The Goddess, 98, 101
Formalism, 27, 35, 84 Gogol, Nikolai, 35
Fortunella, 5, 100-101, 145 Goha, 91, 105
The Forty-First, 86, 94 Golden Age: see L’Âge d’or
The 400 Blows, 6 The Golden Coach, 54
The Four Poster, 45 Golden Palm (Cannes Film
Fox Film Corporation, 46 Festival), 32, 35
358
The Gold of Naples, 81 Heyerdahl, Thor, 5, 69, 138
The Gold Rush, 44, 63 High Noon, 30
Gomulka, Władysław, 104 Hill, Howard, 66
Goodfellow, Jack: see “Cale, Hippopotamus Hunt, 56-57
Guillaume” Hirsch, Charles-Henry, 22
Good Lord without Confession, Histoires ou contes du temps
45 passé, 50
Gorky, Maxim, 100 Hitchcock, Alfred, 29, 80, 82,
La Goulue (Louise Weber), 59 108
Gozlan, Gérard, 8 Hlasko, Marek, 104
Gras, Enrico, 91-92 Hollywood, 28-30, 39, 42, 66,
Gray, Hugh, 6-8, 10 79, 101
The Great Adventure, 93 Homerism, 51
Greed, 62 The House I Live In, 98
Grémillon, Jean, 61 “The House in the Thicket”
Griaule, Marcel, 71 (Ueda), 49
Grierson, John, 40 Howe, James Wong, 101
Gri.th, D. W., 79 The Human Beast, 100
Grimm, Jacob, 50 Human Desire, 100
Grimm, Wilhelm, 50 Humanism, 7
Le Guérisseur, 61 Hundred Years’ War, 106
Huston, John, 45, 51, 59, 81
Hamer, Robert, 26, 82 Hypergonar, 76
The Hamlet, 87
Handsome Serge, 5, 104, 106-108, Ichac, Marcel, 70
131, 147 Idealism, 9
Harrington, Curtis, 41 The Idiot, 99
Hayworth, Rita, 29 Imaï, Tadashi, 16, 99
The Healer: see Le Guérisseur Imamura, Sadao, 16
Hediger, Vinzenz, 9 “In Defense of Mixed Cinema”
Hemingway, Ernest, 65, 102 (Bazin), 10
L’Herbier, Marcel, 75-76 Indiscretion of an American
The Heroes of Shipka, 83 Wife: see Terminal Station
Herskó, János, 5, 95, 143 Initiation into Possession Dance,
Herzog, Maurice, 70 71
359
International Federation of Film Kulidzhanov, Lev, 98
Archives (FIAF), 43 Kurosawa, Akira, 5, 15-16, 38, 50,
Iris and the Lieutenant, 27 82, 99, 144
Iron Flower, 5, 95, 128, 143
Istrati, Panait, 87 Lacan, Jacques, 16
Italian National Film Archive, Lacombe, Georges, 40
34 The Lady without Camelias, 53-
Ivan the Terrible, 26 54
Lafcadio’s Adventures, 60
Joubert-Laurencin, Hervé, 8-9 Lamour, Dorothy, 66
Journey beyond Three Seas, 86 La Mure, Pierre, 59
Julietta, 61 The Landowner’s Daughter, 48
Juliette, or the Key to Dreams, 22 Land without Bread, 68
Lang, Fritz, 100
Kafka, Franz, 35 Langlois, Henri, 38, 43, 62
Kalatozov, Mikhail, 5, 94, 106, The Last Chance, 5, 27, 132
142 Lattuada, Alberto, 5, 32, 34-36,
Kapoor, Raj, 16 81, 133
Karlovy-Vary Film Festival Leacock, Philip, 40
(Czechoslovakia), 106 Lean, David, 26, 82
Kautner, Helmut, 82 Les Lettres françaises, 14
Kazan, Elia, 36, 81, 95 Liberation (French), 28
Khrushchev, Nikita, 11, 86, 94 Liebeneiner, Wolfgang, 61
Kimura, Keigo, 16 Limelight, 79
Kind Hearts and Coronets, 26 Linder, Max, 75
King Solomon’s Mines, 66 Lindtberg, Leopold, 5, 27, 132
Kino Film Company (Brazil), 62 The Little Apartment, 105
Kinugasa, Teinosuke, 16 Little Fugitive, 45, 47-49, 57-58
Knokke-le-Zoute Film Festival Livingstone, David, 64
(Belgium), 30 Lizzani, Carlo, 100
Kon-Tiki, 5, 69-70, 138 A Local Romance, 95-96
The Kon-Tiki Expedition: By Locarno Film Festival
Raft Across the South Seas: see (Switzerland), 4, 15, 96, 104-108,
Kon-Tiki 131
Kubrick, Stanley, 98 Lollobrigida, Gina, 54
360
The Long, Hot Summer, 87 Marie of the Port, 5, 20, 22-23,
Lorca, Federico García, 26 109, 132
Lost Boundaries, 30 Marker, Chris, 13
Lost Continent, 91-93 Marton, Andrew, 66
The Lost Weekend, 28-29 Marx, Karl, 6
Love Is the Stronger: see Voyage Marxism, 6, 8
to Italy Masina, Giulietta, 101
The Love of a Woman, 61 Mattsson, Arne, 27
The Lovers of Montparnasse: see McLaren, Norman, 98
Modigliani of Montparnasse The Medium, 30
The Lower Depths, 5, 99, 144 Meerson, Lazare, 43
“The Lust of the White Méliès, Georges, 75
Serpent” (Ueda), 49 Melodrama, 26, 33, 58, 61
Luzuy, Philippe, 91 Menotti, Gian Carlo, 30
“M’en revenant de la jolie
Mackendrick, Alexander, 40, 82 Rochelle”: see “Returning from
The Mad Masters, 71 Pretty La Rochelle”
Magnani, Anna, 81 Metz, Christian, 9
The Magnificent Seven, 15 Meyers, Sidney, 58
Main Street, 88-89 Mifune, Toshiro, 100
Malle, Louis, 107 The Million, 43-44
Malraux, André, 6, 84 The Mill on the Po, 35
A Man Condemned to Death Minnelli, Vincente, 36, 42, 46
Has Escaped or: The Wind The Miracle, 81
Bloweth Where It Listeth: see A Miracle in Milan, 33
Man Escaped Miss Julie, 27
Mandy, 40, 121-122 Mizoguchi, Kenji, 15-16, 45, 49-
A Man Escaped, 90 50, 99
Manichaeism, 94 Moana, 66
Mankiewicz, Joseph L., 30 Modi, Sohrab, 57
A Man of Straw, 90 Modigliani of Montparnasse, 98
Marat, Jean-Paul, 43 Mogambo, 66
María Candelaria, 26 Molière (Jean-Baptiste
Mariánské Lázně Film Festival Poquelin), 29
(Czechoslovakia), 30 Molinaro, Édouard, 107
361
Monde Nouveau, 74 The Nights of Cabiria, 101
Monicelli, Mario, 5, 33, 35-36, 134 No Exit, 22
Monsieur Verdoux, 42, 44 Notorious, 29
Monsoon, 49
Morand, Paul, 65 Old and New: see The General
Morgan, Michèle, 52, 56 Line
Morris, Oswald, 59 The Old Man and the Sea, 101-
Moser, Giorgio, 91 102
Moulin Rouge, 45, 49, 51, 59 Olivier, Laurence, 82
Murnau, F. W., 66 Los Olvidados, 27, 30, 38, 83
Museum of Man (Paris), 65, 71 One Summer of Happiness, 27
Musoduro, 61 “The Ontology of the
My Darling Clementine, 79 Photographic Image” (Bazin), 6,
“The Myth of Stalin in the 8
Soviet Cinema” (Bazin), 6, 11 Opening Bazin, 9
“The Myth of Total Cinema” The Ordeal, 106
(Bazin), 8 Orders to Kill, 86-87
My Uncle, 91 Orkin, Ruth, 45, 58
Orlan, Mac (Pierre
Nádasdy, Kálmán, 46 Dumarchey), 65
Napoleon, 56, 63, 75, 78 Oti, Manuel Mur, 61
National Center of Oudart, Jean-Pierre, 9
Cinematography and the The Overcoat, 5, 32-36, 116, 133
Moving Image (Paris), 108 The Overgrown Calves: see I
Nativity, 20 vitelloni
Naturalism, 82
Neoclassicism, 26 Pagliero, Marcello, 5, 36, 40-43,
Neorealism, 6-7, 13, 23, 25, 32-35, 136
53, 57-58, 80, 82, 88-90, 95, 99- Palme d’Or: see “Golden Palm”
100, 105, 108 Palmer, James, 70
Neveux, Georges, 22 Palmer, Lilli, 45
New Wave (French), 6-7 Les Parents terribles, 11
Night Drum: see The Adulteress Pasinetti Award (Venice Film
The Night Heaven Fell, 90 Festival), 48
The Night Is My Kingdom, 40 Passport to Pimlico, 26
362
The Pastoral Symphony, 25 Racine, Jean, 29
Paths of Glory, 98 The Railroad Man, 90
Payne, Tom, 48 Raimu (Jules Auguste Muraire),
Perrault, Charles, 50 21
Peter the Great, 26 Rainmakers, 56
Petrov, Vladimir, 11, 26, 83 Rancière, Jacques, 16
Phenomenology, 8, 81 Ranódy, László, 46
Philipe, Gérard, 56 Rascel, Renato, 35
The Picasso Mystery, 12 Rashomon, 38, 50, 82
Pickup on South Street, 45-46 Ray, Satyajit, 16
Piece of the Sky, 100 Realism, 8-11, 16, 23, 25-26, 33,
Pietrangeli, Antonio, 61 40, 42-43, 50, 58, 79, 94
The Pilgrim, 44 The Red Badge of Courage, 51, 59
Pogačić, Vladimir, 98 Reed, Carol, 26, 82
Polo, Marco, 65 Reis, Irving, 45
Polyvision, 75 Rembrandt (Harmenszoon van
Port of Shadows, 21, 23 Rijn), 20
Powell, Michael, 82 Rendezvous in July, 65, 71
Prévert, Jacques, 23, 62 Renoir, Jean, 6, 8, 12-13, 44, 51,
Pronin, Vasili, 86 54, 77-78, 81, 100, 108
The Proud and the Beautiful, 5, Republic Pictures (Hollywood),
48, 51-52, 55-56, 137 39
Psychoanalysis, 8, 14 Resistance (French), 86-87
Ptushko, Aleksandr, 45 Resnais, Alain, 13
Pudovkin, Vsevolod, 45, 79, 83- The Respectful Prostitute, 5, 40-
84 42, 122-123, 136
Pylon, 54 “Returning from Pretty La
Rochelle,” 98
Qu’est-ce que le cinéma?: see Révész, György, 98
What Is Cinema? Revue des lettres modernes, 14
The Quiet One, 58 Reynolds, Peter, 54
Ribemon-Dessaignes, Georges,
24
Riou, Édouard, 102
363
“Riquet with the Tuft” “Salute to the French”
(Perrault), 50 (Yutkevich), 83
Ritt, Martin, 87 Sans amour: see The Vanquished
The River, 44, 54, 77 São Paulo Film Festival (Brazil),
Rivette, Jacques, 6 4, 15, 61-64, 126
The Road: see La strada Sartre, Jean-Paul, 6, 22, 41-42, 51-
Rococo, 37 52
Rohmer, Éric, 7, 12 Sartreanism, 10
Romain, Claude, 24 Saturday Evening, 98
Roman Holiday, 48, 61 The Sea Has Risen, 45
Romanticism, 26, 53, 65, 71, 82 Second World War: see “World
Rome: Free City, 36 War II”
Rome, Open City, 25, 36, 81 Segel, Yakov, 98
The Roof, 105 Sengoku period (Japan), 49
Rope, 80 Sentimentalism, 22, 33, 40, 44,
Roshal, Grigori, 106 58, 65, 87, 95
Rossana, 37 The Set-Up, 30
Rossellini, Roberto, 6, 13, 25, 36, The Seven Samurai, 16
49, 81, 104, 108 Shadow of a Doubt, 80
Rouch, Jean, 13, 56-57, 71 Shibuya, Minoru, 16
Rousseau, Jean-Jacques, 29 Shima, Koji, 16
Roy, Bimal, 16, 49, 57 Shindo, Kaneto, 5, 16, 37, 135
The Rules of the Game, 44 Shoeshine, 33, 81
Rythmetic, 98 Silence Is Golden, 44
Silver Lion (Venice Film
Sacred Forest, 5, 68-69, 71, 73-74, Festival), 45, 49
139 Simenon, Georges, 22-23
Sacred Forest: Magic and Secret The Sisters, 106
Rites in French Guinea: see Sjöberg, Alf, 27, 82
Sacred Forest “Sleeping Beauty”
Sade, Marquis de (Donatien (Perrault/Grimm), 50
Alphonse François), 29 Snow Country, 5, 91, 140
Sadko, 45, 49 Socialism, 94, 97
Saint-Simon, Comte de (Claude The Solitary Conquerors, 49
Henri de Rouvroy), 29
364
Sonika Bo Production Taisant, Bernard, 5, 91, 141
Company (France), 62 Tales of Moonlight and Rain:
Son of d’Artagnan, 66 see Ugetsu
Sons of the Musketeers: see At Tati, Jacques, 91
Sword’s Point Technicolor, 51, 56-57
Sordi, Alberto, 101 Tembo, 66-68
Spaak, Charles, 38 Les Temps modernes, 92
Spirit of the Cinema, 75 Tender Love, 22
Spitz, Jacques, 22 Terminal Station, 36-37
Spotted Horses, 87 Thérèse Raquin, 55-56, 59-60,
Stalinism, 83-84 124
Staudte, Wolfgang, 82 The Third Man, 26
Steno (Stefano Vanzina), 5, 33, Thirst, 5, 98, 143
35-36, 134 This Angry Age, 98
Sternberg, Josef von, 48, 54 This Strange Passion: see Él
Story of a Love Affair, 53-54 The Three Perfect Wives, 49
La strada, 82, 101 Three Strange Loves: see Thirst
Strizhenov, Oleg, 86 Throne of Blood, 99
Stroheim, Erich von, 12, 44, 62, The Tiger and the Flame, 57
64, 79 To Live, 99
Structuralism, 8 Tolstoy, Leo, 106
Sturges, John, 15, 101 Toni, 13
Sturges, Preston, 79-81 Totò (Antonio Clemente De
Sucksdor,, Arne, 5, 91-93, 142 Curtis), 36
Sullivan’s Travels, 80 Touch of Evil, 98, 101
“The Sum of André Bazin” Toulouse-Lautrec, Henri de, 59
(Rohmer), 12 Toyoda, Shiro, 5, 91, 140
Sunset Boulevard, 30 Tracy, Spencer, 101
The Sun Shines Bright, 39 Trader Horn, 66
Surrealism, 37 Tragedy, 22, 33, 59
Susana, 38 The Tragic Pursuit, 82
Szemes, Mihály, 46 The Treasure of the Sierra
Madre, 59
Tabu: A Story of the South Seas, The True Story of Ah Q, 5, 105,
66 146
365
Tru,aut, François, 6-7, 15 Vilbert, Henri, 45
The Turning Point, 25 The Virgin Spring, 16
Two Acres of Land, 49, 57-58 “The Virtues and Limitations of
Two Cents’ Worth of Hope, 32, 34 Montage” (Bazin), 8, 10
“Typhus” (Sartre), 51 Visconti, Luchino, 81
I vitelloni, 11, 49, 57
Ueda, Akinari, 49 Viva Zapata!, 36
Ugetsu, 45, 48-50, 125 Vlady, Marina, 61
Ugetsu Monogatari: see Ugetsu Voltaire (François-Marie
Umberto D., 5, 118, 32-34, 36, 133 Arouet), 29
Under the Roofs of Paris, 44 Voluntary Castaway, 5, 68, 70,
Ungaro, Jean, 9 72, 138
Universal Pictures (Hollywood), Voyage to Italy, 81
101 Vuillermoz, Émile, 75
The Unvanquished: see
Aparajito The Walls of Malapaga, 27
Watteau, Jean-Antoine, 74
Vadim, Roger, 13, 90, 96, 107 The Wedding March, 62-63
Vallery-Radot, Louis-Pasteur, 65 Welles, Orson, 6, 8, 28, 79, 81,
Van Dyke, W. S., 66 87, 98, 101
The Vanquished, 49, 52-54 Werker, Alfred L., 30
Varda, Agnès, 13 The western ()lm), 30
Vasili’s Return, 45, 48-49, 83 What Is Cinema?, 6-8, 10-11, 14-
Vasilyev, Georgi, 95 15
Vasilyev, Sergei, 83, 95 Wilder, Billy, 28-30
Vengeance, 5, 88-89, 128-129, 139 Wise, Robert, 30
Venice Film Festival (Italy), 4, 15- Without Love: see The
16, 28, 30, 38, 40-61, 63-64, 96, Vanquished
107, 120-126 Without Pity, 35
Vermorel, Claude, 49 World War II, 86
Verne, Jules, 65, 76, 102-103 Wyler, William, 28, 48, 61, 80
Vertès, Marcel, 59
Vidor, Charles, 29 Xun, Lu, 105
Vigan, Robert Le, 100
Vigo, Jean, 75 Yamamura, Satoru, 16
366
Yang-an, Yuan, 5, 105, 146
The Young and the Damned: see
Los Olvidados
Young Husbands, 90
Yutkevich, Sergei, 83
367