Friday, August 01, 2025

The Politics of Auteur Theory: JMS and JLG (Pierre Eugène)

The Institute of Contemporary Art in London is hosting a programme about Serge Daney late August, early September in conjonction with film magazine Sabzian who just published an issue about Daney

The ICA includes the visit of Pierre Eugène in London as part of a roundtable on August 30th. Pierre published last year a book bringing together years of research on Serge Daney, "re-reading" methodically with a critical and historical lens Daney's texts from 1962 to 1982 (from his very first texts in high school to the publication of his first book, La Rampe). It's a formidable analysis of Daney, enriched with the fact that Pierre obtained access to Daney's private notebooks. Since the book is in French, we took this opportunity to translate an extract, with Pierre's permission and Srikanth Srivinasan's help. 

The extract is from the 8th chapter of the book "Aesthetic politics 1974-76", broadly covering the period when Daney took charge of editing Cahiers, alongside Serge Toubiana, after the intense political period of the magazine focused on a cultural revolutionary front. 


The Politics of Auteur Theory: JMS and JLG

Returning to cinema, to the "fold," this program that Daney sets for himself in his notebook (carnet 35) encourages him to approach filmmakers again. He reconnects with the practice of interviewing filmmakers, and writes more particularly about three of them: Jean-Marie Straub, Danièle Huillet and Jean-Luc Godard. It's Cahiers as a whole that reconnects with them, having neglected them for two years. De Baecque writes: "With Godard and Straub, there has never been a real 'interview' properly speaking, but a more intimate practice of the encounter. Where an interview is rather limited to discussions around a given film, a conversation opens onto a vision of the world [66]." The reunion is of significance: Straub and Huillet and their latest film Moses and Aaron (1975) feature prominently in three consecutive issues [67]; Godard and his film Numéro Deux (1976) are well covered in the January 1976 issue (262-63). In the following issue, in February 1976, an article by Pascal Bonitzer titled "J.M.S. and J.L.G." consecrates the marriage of the magazine with strobgodard, as Daney will put it in Footlights, the two-headed cinephile monster (forgetting Danièle Huillet's head), the "duo-vidual that terrified more than one. [68]"

The three articles [69] that Daney devotes to Straub-Huillet and Godard form an essential pivot in his work. Putting a full stop to the all-political period of Cahiers and establishing a sort of final assessment, these texts will have a lasting influence on Daney's thinking. They propose a certain number of concepts related to ethics, politics, history and the auteur theory, while also opening new ways of researching films, especially in relation to sound.

These three texts establish a new auteur theory, quite different from the one Daney had inherited from the Young Turks during his early cinephile years. This new auteur theory of 1975 is no longer a critical theory, defending against all odds a certain number of auteurs associated with a style or an artistic or intellectual movement; it is the championing of the politics practiced by film auteurs. As seen previously, the "lifting of the blockade against the specificity of each film" had already allowed Daney to leave political interventions to films, those on their own audience – which deftly relieved him from attempts to be exclusively political about films and society. The film critic is no longer there to judge a film by the standards of an established political doxa, nor to intervene theoretically on the work of a filmmaker, but rather to grasp and explain the political relationship (also understood as "social organisation") between a film – its form, its subject(s), its modes of intervention – and its audience. Henceforth, Cahiers would hand back to filmmakers, putting them once again at the top of the hierarchy, the responsibility of their own films: we must talk of a Politics of auteur theory [Politique de la politique des auteurs]. Each auteur is no longer studied - as was formerly the case - through a set of distinctive signs or personal obsessions (which Daney ironically dubbed the "habit of the tropes" in 1969), but for their personal political engagement and that of their works which intervene no longer directly in society, but within the confines of the film medium. Bringing to light the auteur's politics now amounts to drawing up a handbook of their political convictions put into practice through a specifically cinematic modus operandi.

Godard and Straub-Huillet are both political and marginal. They have never been exploited by any official political party and have stayed out of step with militant cinema and commercial circuits. As part of the New Wave generation that created the auteur theory at Cahiers (Godard) or subscribed to it (Straub-Huillet), they are best positioned to embody the new Politics of auteur theory that Daney, and Cahiers, intend to elaborate. Any auteur theory requires a study of history, from film to film and from era to era. The author's point of view serves as both referent and memory of stylistic and historical evolutions. In surveying the paths pursued by Godard and Straub-Huillet, Daney's texts capture a shared history (from the classical cinephilia of Cahiers during the Young Turks period to May 1968, from theoretical leftism to the endorsement of the Proletarian Revolution). It allows Daney to re-read this common past with new eyes, those of Straub-Huillet and Godard, entrusting them with the task of his own self-criticism. Rather than liquidating the magazine's Maoist period after his "liberation" and his fresh realisations, Daney can undertake a criticism of its Marxist-Leninist strayings in light of Godardian or Straubian politics.

The Politics of auteur theory, in Daney's view, seeks neither to interrogate social reality (as under dogmatic Maoism) nor to establish aesthetic criteria satisfying Marxist requirements, but to simply reconstitute the singular world of a filmmaker within their films. A closed, monadic, cinematic world, governed by the filmmaker's own aesthetic and political laws, compossible with the real world (to use Leibniz's term), interacting with it in micropolitical forms. The undeniable aesthetic coherence that characterises the works of Godard and Straub-Huillet thus permits the liquidation of the old Maoist dogmatism… by using other dogmatisms, but of auteurs. They may be just as uncompromising, but they are specific to cinema [70]. The Politics of auteur theory, by restoring filmmakers' god-like status, confines them to themselves, free but solitary.

A strange cult of personality [71]: when Daney describes the aesthetic-political systems of Straub-Huillet and Godard, he insists on their unlikable, authoritarian, morbid facets, contrasting strongly with Maoist positivity. Speaking of Straub-Huillet, whose shots are deemed "tomb(s) for the eye [72]" Daney brings up, by turns, non-reconciliation, rejection (of homogenisation), championing of a discourse of victims, the realization that "seeing a film is coming into view of what has already been seen [73]", and ends the article with the study of two somber images: one of bombs and one of a lineup of the corpses of dead communards. As for Godard, he confines the audience to a "scenographic cube" akin to a "classroom [74]", "a place which calls for nominalism, dogmatism". Film after film, he continues to "lecture and to be lectured, even in an empty theatre." Beside the political ambiguity of the discourses flooding his films, Daney also brings up Godard's attempts to shame, bully and even torture, pinning down audiences and images "as one does cruelly to butterflies". In the conclusion of the article, Here and Elsewhere (1976) is described as a "painful meditation on the theme of restitution". Godard and Straub-Huillet "are filmmakers for whom an image is closer to an inscription on a tombstone than to an advertising poster", Daney will later tell Bill Krohn [75]. And it is not by chance that this return of the magazine to two flagship auteurs is once again linked to themes of mourning, melancholia and "arriving after", not without masochism. The shunning of the old Marxist-Leninist dogmatism in favour of the dogmatisms of auteurs is not a return to pleasure. One must first go through mourning: that of leftism and militant ideals. One must recompose oneself in a now molecular world, riddled with voids like the fabric of Milestones, where each person reconnects with their own solitude.

The Politics of auteur theory allows Daney to re-engage with ideas developed previously. The work of Straub-Huillet is an anti-retro way of studying history ("In Straub's system, a retro trend is simply impossible. Everything is in the present [76]."), and the article about them offers another response, two months after "The Order of the Gaze", to historian Marc Ferro's discourse, described here as "knowledge of the aftermath, protected knowledge". Daney explains that when working on archival pictures, it is less useful to explain their ambiguity or to assign meaning to the multitude of signs that they contain than to "help to grasp (…) what gives us the image [77]". The power to "film-destroy [78]" of B-52 bombers in Vietnam that Daney exposed in "The Order of the Gaze" is precisely that which digs the images as well as the tombs, in this case that of the Vietnamese killed at the same time as they are filmed by the camera embedded alongside the bombs. This is a first explanation of the title of the article on Straub-Huillet [79]: "A Tomb for the Eye": tombs of Vietnamese killed for the sake of the audience's eyes that, whether in support of American policy or not, cannot see the dead, buried under the bombing-recording, under the point of view of the US army. A serious historian's work (Daney initially refers to archival images but this remark applies in reality to the production of all filmic images) is less about exploring the subject of the image (the topic) or its contents (the recorded signs) than the very formation of the image. It's in this way that Straub-Huillet's films are a response to Ferro:

"The cinema image is not only beholden to the competence of those who know how to keep it at a distance [this is possibly a direct attack on Ferro]. It's as if it were dug out by the power that allowed it, that wanted it. It's also that thing that people took pleasure in making and that others took pleasure in watching. And this pleasure remains: the image is a tomb for the eye. To see a film is to come before something that is already-seen. Something already seen by others: the camera, the auteur, the technicians, the first audience, the people in charge, sometimes even political figures, tyrants. What is already seen, is already enjoyed [déjà-joui] [80]."

We have again in this paragraph a conception of the image as "already-seen" very close to what Daney developed in "On Salador" (where, by the way, Godard appeared as the ultimate critical filmmaker, conscious of "arriving after", in a world already filmed). In a striking statement about the two images shown in Straub-Huillet's film (of bombs and corpses), Daney explains that "the non-neutrality of these images is not only that they put us in presence of something horrible, it is that they show a thing for which there is no reverse angle, no counterproof, no positive image [81]". In "The Order of the Gaze", playing on the different meanings of the world "field" (filmic and rural), Daney noted that "From the cruising altitude of a B-52, the Vietnamese field that is both filmed and bombed is unique in the sense that there isn't, from this point of view, a reverse angle [82]". To remedy the absence of positive images (in the positivist sense, not the Maoist one), Daney explains that Straub and Huillet are setting up two processes: they "cleanse" archival images from any notion of "already-seen [83]", revealing like a negative the hidden power behind the gaze that was used to create it, its surreptitious signature; they create "their own images" of an historical event they want to talk about (Nazism) rather than comment on existing images: notably by showing Günther Peter Straschek and Peter Nestler reading texts by Schoenberg and Brecht into the microphones of a recording studio.

The chilling phrase "the image is a tomb for the eye", repeated a second time at the end of the article, can also be explained using Jacques Lacan's notion of gaze in The Four Fundamental Concepts of Psychoanalysis [84]. Drawing on Merleau Ponty's The Visible and the Invisible, Lacan distinguishes in the crucible of the subject's experience a division (called a "split") between two entities: the eye and the gaze. The eye, object of the drive, wants to see, to fix the view, and takes pleasure from the full and complete vision. The gaze "slides" between the figures of representation and interacts with the subject's consciousness to see and to be seen in return by an "all-seeing world". In other words, the eye gets fixated on details to enjoy them through the scopic drive, the gaze does not cease to work, compose and recompose the scene in order to understand it. But the gaze also implies being conscious of a return gaze: there is vacillation between the act of looking and the feeling of being looked at. Lacan also defines the gaze as the instrument of that which "photo-graphs" the subject, meaning that which imprints or writes the subject in its own representation. In his article, Daney quotes Lacan's famous phrase, from the same study of the gaze: "You want to watch? Well, see this!". Lacan also evokes these representations where the painter "serves up something to the eye but invites the viewer of the painting to lay down his gaze, as one lays down arms". The gaze lays down arms for the scopic drive that stops it and creates an "evil eye": the gaze is then abandoned for the eye, caught in a deathly fascination ("The evil eye is the fascinum, it ends up killing movement, literally killing life").

Thus, when Daney writes that Straub-Huillet's shots are "tombs for the eye", we can also understand that they break the spell of the viewer's scopic drive and liberate the gaze. Released from its fascination, from its evil eye, the viewer recovers the critical consciousness of his place before the images of the film – he feels gazed at by the images of the film. He detects the presence of a latent reverse angle: the hidden photographer or filmmaker (man or institution) who captured the images and attempted to serve them only to a fascinated eye, rotting in its stupor. The liberated gaze makes it possible to contemplate the to and fro through images.

The expression "tomb for the eye" is rich with a few other references. It resonates with the final verse of a poem by Victor Hugo in La Légende des Siècles, "The Conscience", which tells of the frenzied flight of Cain and his family, chased incessantly by God's eye after Abel's murder:

"Is the Eye gone?" asked Zillah tremblingly.
And Cain replied: "Nay, it is still there."
Then added: "I will live beneath the earth,
As a lone man within his sepulchre.
I will see nothing; will be seen of none."
They digged a trench, and Cain said: "'Tis enow,"
As he went down alone into the vault;
But when he sat on his chair in the shadows,
And they had closed the dungeon o'er his head,
The Eye was in the tomb and fixed on Cain [85]".

Power digs the image, and the fascinated viewer resembles Cain who buries himself in order to no longer see or be seen. But even in this tomb dug by power, faced with this viewer blinded by the trap, Straub and Huillet manage to crystallize a gaze, one that returns. This gaze, which won't let the viewer rest, forces him to maintain consciousness, observed by these images that act as a screen, as stains [86] preventing the pleasant enjoyment of the representation [87]. One can imagine that when mentioning the tomb, Daney is thinking of The Indian Tomb (1959) by Fritz Lang [88], greatly admired by Straub as well, especially for the famous scene of the lepers, cloistered underground, threatening the heroes during an accidental "evil encounter" where a whole "people" (the Vietnamese?) emerge from the depths like a return of the repressed. Another possible cinema reference: the tomb of Pharaoh in Howard Hawks' Land of the Pharaohs (1955) [89], about which Daney noted in 1962 in an article titled "An Adult Art" (a text about confinement) that "the Pharaoh is thwarted every time he leaves his palace [90]" and that the Hawksian hero "must defy the immobility that will lead to his downfall (the Pharaoh and his thirst for immortality) and take action." Here again, it is by playing on the panic-inducing quality of immobilism that Straub-Huillet are able to set the viewer's conscience in motion faced with images – a paradoxical freedom granted to the viewer in a rather morbid aesthetical and political system [91].

Daney's article about Godard, "The Therrorised" begins by an overview of the filmmaker's career in parallel with that of writers at Cahiers: his politicisation goes against his old cinephile passion, the film theatre becoming a "bad place [92]". But instead of pleading for an exit from (cinephilic) confinement, Godard, as Daney frames it, redirects the viewer toward another place, just as closed: the classroom [93]. He tries to keep the viewer there, helping him memorise lessons, establishing a strange pedagogy of images and words. It doesn't engage with any ideological decryption nor encourage any "good" militant discourse: Godard merely confronts discourses with other discourses, playing dialectics: "to what one says (asserts, recites, advocates), [Godard] always answers with what another says (asserts, recites, advocates) [94]." Without personal involvement, without relegating films to a secondary place as was required by the Marxism-Leninism once heralded by Cahiers, Godard merely quotes discourses adopted by others and makes his films a place of confrontation and of comparison between discourses and images.

Irony, inversion, antithesis, paradox and chiasmus are Daney's preferred stylistic devices. And here again, it's via a strange double dogmatism that Straub-Huillet and Godard oppose all dogmatisms. The rigidity of their cinematographic practice rests on the maximum heterogeneity of the elements they put to use, but also on a singular exercise of re-reading. Godard as much as Straub-Huillet are critical filmmakers, conscious of "arriving after", after discourses, after images – whether from politics or power – and set out to work on these in return. But Godard and Straub-Huillet do not "re-read" in the same way, nor do they re-read the same things. Instead of locating themselves on the political spectrum, they change the stakes and defer (like the Derridian différance, but adding more interval [95]). Instead of endorsing a political superego, Godard and Straub-Huillet use it as another filmic material, playing with it or materialising it in their films. Instead of a discourse of clarity, of a convincing or seductive rhetoric, instead of a positive language, Godard and Straub-Huillet become the "stern fathers" [pères sévères] [96], the melancholic and bitter purveyors of a heterogeneous, ambiguous and not very reassuring cinema. Even their status as auteurs is uncertain, as Daney notes about Godard: "To the obscenity of coming across as an auteur (and the beneficiary of filmic surplus value) he has preferred to stage himself in the very act of retention [97]." The filmmakers do not exempt themselves from the rules they impose on their filmic universe (as classic filmmakers used to do, whose hypocrisy was criticised by Daney in 1968), they subject themselves to them [98].

Daney notices in Godard and Straub-Huillet all kinds of relations to power: political power over populations and the small power of individuals, the power of discourses and economic powers, power struggles, and of course the power of filmmakers themselves over their viewers. Against a knowledge that wields power, Godard and Straub-Huillet put in place a filmic power which deconstructs established knowledge. Their approach is anti-archeological [99] (it's in this sense that Daney opposes it to Marc Ferro), anti-scientific (Godard the supervisor's school discourse is opposed to academic discourse) and anti-libertarian (institutions, Althusser's famous ideological state apparatuses, are ironically taken over when Godard manufactures a classroom or when Straub "fantasises (…) about a state radio that would speak Brecht [100]"). Their political pedagogy is above all opposed to the masteries of historical and scientific knowledge. All these "protected" knowledges, that of the viewer-referee of retro films (overseeing conflicts between characters), that of fiction filmmakers confining their characters to types, that of documentary makers orienting their images with a voiceover that imposes an interpretation, all these knowledges are challenged according to Daney by Godard's and Straub-Huillet's modus operandi – one that produces no knowledge. We could compare these "stern fathers" to the "ignorant masters", an expression formalised a few years later by Jacques Rancière from Joseph Jacotot's pedagogy [101]. In their films, knowledge is not formalised; the filmmakers formalise pedagogy itself, in the form of a strange address to the viewer as pupil in Godard's films and as witness in Straub-Huillet's. This Godardian and Straubian pedagogy rests on a strange alliance between theory and terror as made explicit by the portmanteau word invented by Daney for Godard: the "therrorised". It places power, including the power to create, in a position of strength, against all established powers, treated as suspicious, like any established orthodoxy.

What brings together Godard and Straub-Huillet in Daney's analysis, besides this paradoxical pedagogy that doesn't provide any knowledge, is their common concern for filmic heterogeneity. "Godard's edge over other manipulators of images and sounds stems from his total contempt for any discourse that aims to define or preserve a certain 'specificity' of cinema [102].", writes Daney, adding that with Straub-Huillet "non-reconciliation is also a way of making films, of manufacturing them. It's the obstinate refusal of all forces of homogenisation [103]". Daney notes in "The Therrorised" that this concern for heterogeneity, for Godard as "image manipulator" and for Straub-Huillet in their anchoring of "films, images, voices" and bodies [104], is still Bazinian: "Some will say that this is a moral, Bazinian problem, and also that this type of debt can never be paid back. Quite so. [105]" Daney's endorsement of heterogeneity is a return to Bazinian "impurity", but in a wider sense, one that Daney will never cease to defend in his writings. "Impure" will always be used in the sense of an image revealing its own materiality and that of the represented elements (the definition of anchoring in Straub-Huillet's work). But "impure" also relates to the "non-specificity" of a cinema "aiming for something that is not itself [106]" as Daney will write later. In his article "In Defense of Mixed Cinema" dedicated to the way cinema appropriates literature and theatre, Bazin predicted that "the multiplication of adaptations of literary works far removed from cinema shouldn't worry the film critic concerned about the purity of the seventh art, they are rather the guarantee of its progress [107]." For Godard, the non-specificity of cinema resides in the integration in his films of all kinds of discourse and images (in the form of collages, diagrams, sound mixes etc.), alien bodies or inserts feeding a secondary work of recycling, re-reading and editing. Bazin writes at the end of "In Defense of Mixed Cinema":

"While we wait for colour and relief to temporarily give primacy to the form and create a new cycle of aesthetical erosion, cinema can no longer conquer anything on the surface. It must irrigate its banks, creep into the arts in which it has so quickly dug its gorges, to invade them insidiously."

The appropriation of other arts by cinema only interested Bazin out of a wider interest in the possible evolutions of the filmic medium. Yet, Godard and Straub-Huillet have this other point in common: the use in their films of three other image mediums: photography, cinema and television. In "The Therrorised", Daney writes:

"For the place from which Godard speaks to us, from which he calls out to us, is certainly not the secure place of a profession or even of a personal project. It's an in-between place; an in-between-three-places, in fact. An unfeasible place that embraces still photography (nineteenth century), cinema (twentieth century), and television (twenty-first century). Photography: that which retains once and for all (the corpse to be worked on). Cinema: that which retains only for a moment (death at work). TV: that which no longer retains anything (the lethal scrolling, the hemorrhaging of images). [108]"

These deathly attributions to the three mediums are also present in "A Tomb for the Eye": Introduction to Arnold Schoenberg's Accompaniment to a Cinematic Scene shows a recording studio, several photos (Schoenberg and the Communards in their coffins), a painting by Kandinsky, archival footage of the Vietnam war, newspaper cuttings about the acquittal of Auschwitz's architects and of course the recording of Schoenberg's music. In his article, Daney also mentions radio and television, considered as both technical and political apparatuses. These mediums are not "artistic"; this is the main departure from Bazin who was interested in the dialogue between art forms (cinema and painting, literature, theatre). They bring another element of impurity allowing the filmic art form to renew itself. The discovery by Godard - listening again to and translating, several years later, the conversation with Palestinian fedayeen that he had filmed for the first version of his propaganda film for Fatah (titled Until Victory, but abandoned) and who will be assassinated during the Black September massacre - re-orients and closes Here and Elsewhere [109]; as David Faroult analyses it:

"In this scene, the filmmakers finally listen to what the Palestinian fighters were saying as captured by the camera and the tape recorder a few weeks before their death. As filmmakers of this moment, their duty toward the persons filmed is then revealed. To serve them ("to serve the people") means to abandon the project (Until Victory) agreed with the military organization (Fatah) for which the fighters have given their lives, to finally question this material involuntarily produced, like a Freudian slip, and what it prescribes to the conscious activity of the filmmakers: criticise the legend created before the shooting by the script, and finally look at the images and listen to the sounds."

Godardian pedagogy can therefore be understood as the realisation of the "resistance of the material" (the expression is from Jean-Pierre Gorin, quoted by Faroult).

In regard to impurity, Daney discreetly takes up another Bazinian idea related to the concept of recording. In the 1960s, Daney was on the side of the "recording force", exemplified by Rossellini and his "effects in waiting". "When we watch a Rossellini film, we know (or rather we feel) that if the screen were suddenly enlarged, we would see things that only its smallness had kept us from seeing until then [110]", wrote Daney. Impurity must be understood as the capture of the here and now, of the present recorded by the camera. Daney notes that Godard jeopardises "the filmic contract between the one who films and the one who is filmed [111]", that he questions what it is to film the other and how what has been filmed always has some form of resistance. Like the words of the Fedayeen in Here and Elsewhere, reproduced "too late" and mournfully: "what was retained is now freed, what was kept is not restituted, but it's too late. One pays tribute to the images and sounds like one pays tribute to those they belong to: the dead [112]."

An essential aspect of the films by Godard and Straub-Huillet is the importance of bodies: the bodies of the singers and of the choir in Moses and Aaron, of the speakers in Introduction to Arnold Schoenberg's Accompaniment to a Cinematic Scene, of Godard's actors caught between the banality of daily life, the crudity of pornography and the power of enunciation of the speech in Numéro Deux. Daney details the importance of the anchoring of bodies in Straub-Huillet's work and, in another article about Godard, "Sound (She), Image (He) / Voice (She), Eye (He)", precisely traces the gender separation in his films between the (feminine) voice and the (masculine) gaze [113]. "The man's body is a protruding eye, the woman's body a voice that incessantly intervenes, questions." This materiality brought about by the presence of the bodies doubles up with the impurity of images and speeches marshalled by Godard and Straub-Huillet in their films. Following Daney's frame of reference, rather than discuss (as Ferro would do) the various meanings recorded in an archival image, Straub and Huillet add impurity in two ways: either by creating their "own image", in response to a historical event (Nazism, for example), by anchoring a discourse in reality (giving it impurity, a supplementary reserve of signs); or by "cleansing the images of any already-seen", meaning making them matt again so that they "jump out" from the invisible continuity of editing and hence enabling the emergence of a gaze, the missing reverse angle of the authority that created the image. As for Godard, he maximises the number of enunciations in a single film, without hierarchy, through a never-ending game of new responses coming one after the other: "To what the one says (asserts, recites, advocates), [Godard] always answers with what another says (asserts, recites, advocates)." Godard and Straub-Huillet create their films like impure spaces, collecting the highest number of concrete (and anchored) signs and the highest number of materials from outside cinema.

This determined return to a Politics of auteur theory, more attentive to form and to the contact between the film and its audience, therefore no longer needs to link back to social and militant reality. Instead, it requires the films to act as a sounding board by following the path of impurity. Daney's concern for this impurity, exceeding in many ways the primordial Bazinian framework, points to a new direction for his writings: it allows him to take an interest in mediums other than cinema (photography, radio, television), but also in specific filmic elements (speech, voice and bodies) that will become the main centres of interest of his future articles. Bazin isn't very far from view, but it will take a long time before a complete reconciliation with the much contested author is achieved.

 

Notes (keeping the original numbering for convenience):

66. De Baecque, Histoires d'une revue, volume 2, 1991. See also the section on Godard and Straub. De Baecque also mentions a first interview, not published in Cahiers, between Daney, Toubiana and Godard in Grenoble, the first since the distancing from 1968-69.  
67. Cahiers issue 258-259 (July-August 1975) contains a "Conversation with Jean-Marie Straub and Danièle Huillet" by Bontemps, Bonizer and Daney, as well as Daney's article "A Tomb for the Eye" about the short feature Introduction to Arnold Schoenberg's Accompaniment to a Cinematic Scene. Issue 258-259 (October-November 1975) is almost entirely dedicated to Moses and Aaron with a "Filmmaking report" by Gregory Woods annotated by Danièle Huillet, an interview by Enzo Ungari (for an Italian film magazine, Gong), an interview with conductor Michael Gielen who had directed the orchestra and the choir in the film, a long article by Louis Seguin ("The Family, the Story, the Novel") and the script of the first act of the film. The scripts of the two following acts will be published in the January 1976 issue.  
68. Footlights. The coinage "Duovidu" refers to a double individual but is also an homophonic anagram in French for "life of the duo [vie du duo]" as spotted by Hervé Joubert-Laurencin.  
69. "A tomb for the eye" Cahiers, issue 258-259, July-August 1975 (also in Footlights). "The Therrorised (Godardian pedagogy)" followed by an article that seems to function as an appendix: "Sound (She), Image (He) / Voice (She), Eye (He)", Cahiers, issue 262-263, January 1976 (also in Footlights).  
70. David Faroult (in Godard, 2018) observes in Here and Elsewhere an important inflection in Godard's work, moving closer to "thinking cinematographically about politics" than "making films politically", even if Tout va bien (1972) had already initiated this new dynamic. The Politics of auteur theory of Daney is thus articulated around a Godard somewhat out of Maoism, or at least significantly changed - even if the article about him builds an identity of his cinema more than it retraces its evolutions.  
71. The two major articles by Daney on Straub-Huillet and Godard are illustrated with pictures of the filmmakers (with particularly inventive page layouts). "A Tomb for the eye" comes with two stills of Straub and Huillet from Introduction to Arnold Schoenberg's Accompaniment to a Cinematic Scene along with a picture of Peter Nestler. "The Therrorised" comes with a picture of the shooting of A Married Woman with Godard, Macha Méril and Bernard Noël in a film theatre, and a picture of Godard with a keffiyeh around his neck, holding a camera in a field full of tents and shacks with the legend: "Elsewhere: J.-L. G. and a refugee camp".  
72. "And this pleasure remains: the image is a tomb for the eye" (same article) and also "Each shot is a tomb for the eye" (removed in Footlights).  
73. "A Tomb for the Eye".  
74. "The Therrorised". It's the only place in the article where Daney mentions Jean-Pierre Gorin, Godard's partner in the Dziga Vertov group.  
75. "The Cahiers du cinéma 1968-1977" interview with Bill Krohn in Letters from Hollywood, 1977-2017, 2020.  
76. "A Tomb for the Eye".  
77. "A Tomb for the Eye" (removed in Footlights).  
78. "L'ordre du regard", Le Monde Diplomatique, May 1975.  
78. "L'ordre du regard", Le Monde Diplomatique, May 1975.  
79. Daney was pleased enough with the title of the article to consider using it as the title for a book of collection of texts that he was planning for the publisher 10/18 (mentioned in Daney's notebooks in August 1975). This book would have followed Pascal Bonitzer's The Gaze and the Voice, 10/18, 1976.  
80. "A Tomb for the Eye".  
81. Footlights has a different version: "no other image, a positive one". This idea of a missing reverse angle, which Daney perhaps draws from Oudart's theory of the Suture (on this, see Daniel Fairfax, Red Cahiers, chapter 22) is also present in Letter to Jane (1972) by Godard and Gorin who suggests to redo the Kuleshov effect by adding as a reverse angle to images of president Pompidou or Kirk Douglas, images of Vietcong dead bodies (see the text of the film in Godard, 1991, and David Faroult's analysis in Faroult, 2018). The idea comes back in Daney's work in several articles. Firstly in "A Tomb for the Eye". Then in the analysis of Genet's A Song of Love (February 1976 and April 1978); in "The World Seen from Above" (Libération, 1983): "two world wars (and many others, less global) allowed them to expand their field manoeuvres and destructive off-field. Synchronicity."; in "Spotlight on the Image" that analyses a TV debate about the ethics of the image: "The show of human powerlessness (…) is the only one which could bring us back to a minimal feeling of humanity (…) This is why our ears are full of (…) useless images of children who died uselessly (…) The Jewish child of the Warsaw ghetto, arms raised. The naked little girl on the Vietnamese road. (…) These images, because they are without any possible reverse angle, function perhaps as the only pious image that we have left, and we shamelessly keep them in mind." (Libération, 1987). In L'exercice at été profitable Monsieur: "It's the European 'privilege' to have to confront in the middle of the 20th century something like Evil, meaning the forbidden reverse angle, where Americans have never shied away from realistic representations of the Devil". And finally in the conference "The War, the Visual, the Image": "One should always wonder about the possible reverse angles of an image one sees, and which reverse angle would be the best." (Femis, 1991).  
82. "L'ordre du regard", Le Monde Diplomatique, May 1975.  
83. Although Daney doesn't mention it, this expression can be related to Mizoguchi's famous expression: "With each new gaze, one must wash one's eye." Daney will use it later in "Far from Laws", Cahiers, 276, May 1977.  
84. "Of the Gaze as Object Petit a", Jacques Lacan (1964 seminary, published in 1973).  
85. Victor Hugo, La légende de Siècles. Claude Millet's footnote adds that the last verse (and the most famous) of the poem is identical to the 134th psalm in the Bible (Sacy translation).  
86. Lacan defines the stain as the blind spot that the subject prefers to study because it brings to light his own place in the representation ("And me, if I am to be something in the picture, it's also in the form of the screen, that I named the stain recently". Lacan, 1973)  
87. In the introduction to Footlights, Daney precises that "strobgodard's cinema doesn't (only) aim for the viewer's pleasure but his or her capacity for jouissance."  
88. Mentioned in Daney's notebooks and also a reference in Footlights.  
89. In Hawks' film, Pharaoh uses an enslaved architect to build an impenetrable tomb. Straub will state several years later that his film Fortini/Cani (1976) resembled Hawks' work. Daney takes this statement very seriously in his article "A Moral of Perception" highlighting that "this comparison didn't convince anyone and even confused some." Cahiers, 305, November 1979.  
90. "An Adult Art". An image of the film also illustrates Daney's article "The One Grow Old".  
91. In 1997, Straub will declare in an interview: "Our films leave people free, so also free to leave the theatre. They don't tie audiences to their seats, they don't act like respectful whores, they don't try to seduce and they don't treat people like peasant pigs but rather like citizens. (Les inrockuptibles, February 1997)  
92. "The Therrorised (Godardian Pedagogy)"  
93. The Dziga Vertov group stated in 1972 that in their films "lessons are short, cutting, conveyed by light and shapeless relays (quasi linguistic shifters) and move fast." (Group Dziga Vertov, Cahiers, 240, July-August 1972), but it seems that Daney founds his article on one of his frequently used stylistic inversions (we remember the anagrammatic play on word between "porcs" (pigs) and "corps" (bodies) in the article about Pasolini's Pigstile): the class struggle becomes a classification of struggles. We also think of the title of Groupe Medvekine's film Classe de lutte (1968) which Godard may have contributed to, along with 45 other persons. Faroult 2018 mentions Daney's article and the "black board" films by the Dziga Vertov Group.  
94. "The Therrorised"  
95. "School as the good place but only because it made it possible to retain the maximum number of things and people, the very place of the différance" ("The Therrorised"). Also, the instance of the gaze (in the article about the film by Straub and Huillet) as conceived by Lacan can also be seen as an instance of the différance, since it assumes a continuous back and forth inside the perception of the subject, between his perception and its representation.  
96. With Lacan, fathers can't endorse the law but only serve it. The "stern father" (père sévère) represents precisely this way of featuring the actualization of the law, as embodied in the subject.  
97. "The Therrorised"  
98. "Strange feminism by Godard: he sets women (the voice, the sound) at the place of the arbitrage of the law and of what gives life. He isn't sure that feminist demands will be satisfied with the "place" vacated by men, with this "power" that men have abandoned. They may not necessarily gain from it (even if men gain from the benefit of masochism: to be the filmmaker that states how he wants to be punished, what type of cruel mothering he enjoys)" ("The Sound (She), the Image (He) / the Voice (She), the Eye (He)").  
99. "The Therrorised"  
100. "A Tomb for the Eye". Note that before 1981, there's only state radio in France.  
101. Rancière 1987 which Daney couldn't possibly know. However Daney knew of Jacques Rancière La leçon d'Althusser published in 1975 and quoted by Daney several times.  
102. "The Therrorised"  
103. "A Tomb for the Eye"  
104. "I'm thinking here of the undershirt marks on the torsos of the (real) farmers who come to lay down offerings before the golden calf in Moses and Aaron." ("A Tomb for the Eye").   
105. "The Therrorised"  
106. L'exercice a été profitable, Monsieur.  
107. Bazin, Complete writings, 2018, vol 1.  
108. "The Therrorised". In Footlights, "The cinema ('the art of the twentieth century')". In the original article (not reprinted in Footlights), Daney expands on this in a note: "Let's sum up: still photography retains once and for all (but what does it retain if not the Real as an impossibility?). Cinema is subject to the syncopation of images and sounds understood as here and elsewhere (…). As for television, it doesn't retain anything, ever. It is the conduit used by anonymous power to parade (military parade, defilade) images and sounds. A place of transit for a diarrhea of images and sounds, television is the other horizon of Godard's "cinema" (…). Transit area, care centre, hotchpotch: horrible."  
109. Faroult 2018 describes the scene: "Shortly before the conclusion of the film, a long shot shows Palestinian fighters gathered for a discussion. They talk about the risks taken by crossing the river always at the same place (…). Meaning that all along this conversation, filmed three months before the death of each one of them in September 1970 (Black September massacre), they talk of a concrete problem creating the possibility of their own death."  
110. "Power in tatters" ("Le pouvoir en miettes") in The Cinema House & the World, vol 1.  
111. "The Therrorised"  
112. "The Therrorised". In Footlights, "What has been retained, held back, can then be freed, restituted, even if it'' too late. The Supreme ruse: images and sounds are rendered the way honours are rendered – to the dead."  
113. A dichotomy also found in Daney's text about The Man Who Sleeps by Perec and Queysanne where a feminine voice took charge of solemn objectivity whereas the main character was described by Daney as an "anonymous master of the world", a world that he makes or unmakes depending on his gaze (the only drive: to see). "A Sleeping Man: How to Wake Him?", May 1979, found in The Cinema House and the World, volume 1.

Extract from Exercices de relecture, Serge Daney, 1962-1982, Pierre Eugène, Éditions du Linteau, 2023.  

Translation notes: 

  1. Pierre Eugène's book makes extensive use of notes, tactically located alongside the text (see picture below). I've replaced them with links to the footnotes (and links back).
  2. I've kept the present tense as is normally used in French, apologies if it comes across a little strange in English. 
  3. There are some minor alterations to the original text, either for ease of reading or understanding, or at at Pierre's suggestion when reviewing the translation. 
  4. We couldn't find an easy way to translate the verb creuser used several times in the text (for example, "le pouvoir creuse l'image"), and we used the verb "to dig" (also used by Nicholas Elliot in his translation of Footlights). 
  5. I did use AI to generate the HTML code for the links to the quotes. I couldn't spot any hallucinations in the transcription of the text but I know from experience that it can happen. Apologies for any error. I'll happily correct them if found. 

Saturday, June 28, 2025

Cinema, Life and Solitude

Film journal Sabzian has just published an issue about Serge Daney which includes a translation (see below). There are contributions by ultimate Daney's specialist Pierre Eugène and the excellent Daniel Fairfax on the notion of filmed cinema. For the anecdote, the translation of Daney's text about Amos Gitai was intended for this project but somewhat didn't make the cut. 

Cinema, Life and Solitude

Extract from Daney's preface to the 3rd edition of Trafic (the film magazine he founded): “Journal de l’an présent,” Trafic, P.O.L., 1991. Reprinted in Serge Daney, La Maison cinéma et le monde, tome 4: Le moment Trafic, 1991–1992, P.O.L., 2015. Translated by Sam Warren Miell. Reprinted 

Monday, May 12, 2025

Microfilms: Jean-Marie Straub

In quick succession, Ted Fendt has sent us another translation of one of Serge Daney's radio broadcasts (Microfilms). After Jacques Rivette, here is Jean-Marie Straub. He joined Daney on 19 July 1987, for the release of The Death of Empedocles and an upcoming presentation of films at the Avignon Festival. Technically, Dominique Païni is also a guest to the show but he stays mostly silent. You can enjoy Straub's combativeness and listen to the broadcast here

 

Microfilms: Jean-Marie Straub

 

Serge Daney in conversation with Jean-Marie Straub and Dominique Païni

July 19, 1987

 

Serge Daney: Microfilms. Good evening. A little impromptu event: someone who has often been brought up on Microfilms, who has returned again and again in our conversations, whose name has often been evoked. And now, today, completely unexpectedly in our studio: Jean-Marie Straub. There are circumstantial reasons for this. We’ll say which ones. And then there is very simply the importance for a long time, at least for me, of his films. And then the habit of talking quite a bit from time to time when he comes to Paris – because he lives in Rome – which means that over time we’ve lost the desire to do so in front of a microphone. Therefore when I say it is unexpected, it is both a rather old, rather consistent dialogue and one of those dialogues that, in general, the media does without. So we will attempt to mediaterather than mediatize something that is, first, concrete. We are joined by Dominique Painï, who is going to quickly say why there is a mini Straub news item this summer in Avignon, which is also a Stroheim news item. 

 

Dominique Painï: Yes, this year, Avignon’s project, as in past years, is focused, of course, on cinema. The Festival d’Avignon has opened up to Jean-Marie Straub’s films for their latest film, The Death of Empedocles, based on Hölderlin’s text, which will be released in September. And for the occasion, the Festival d’Avignon asked Jean-Marie Straub and Danièle Huillet to program a certain number of movies which say something, on the one hand, about their own films, and which could also be commentaries on or pretexts for them to talk about their own films. And we also asked them to choose a major filmmaker from film history and they chose Erich von Stroheim in order to talk, again through the detour of Stroheim, about their own films. To wrap up this announcement, there will be Othon, Not ReconciledToo Early, Too LateThe Bridegroom, the Actress, and the Pimp, which accompany a film by Straub, his latest film, The Death of Empedocles.

 

S.D.: So this takes place in Avignon. What are the dates?

 

D.P.: It starts on July 24 with the opening of the “cinematic encounters.” July 24 at 10 p.m. in the usual gardens where the film screenings are held. And it ends on the 28th, if I recall correctly.

 

Jean-Marie Straub: To start off, I’ll already protest, if you’ll allow me, because, firstly, our film doesn’t need an entourage and, secondly, Stroheim doesn’t need our films. And you said you asked us to choose films. That’s right. But then you said you asked us to choose a filmmaker. That’s not true! It’s precisely because you asked us to choose films that we refused to choose films, because we suggested a filmmaker, who was Stroheim. That’s not exactly the same.

 

S.D.: The major subject in The Death of Empedocles – I saw it in German, so I didn’t understand everything, far from it – is coquetry. We’ll talk about that when the film is released in Paris. What this means is that it is very important to know who is asking what, who is proposing what, the meaning of words, what is the most rigorous expression. Therefore, we are already in Straubian territory and we have barely opened our mouths. But for me, there’s one thing that interests me far more than all this...

 

J.M.S.: I protest again! With regard to coquetry: the major subject in Empedocles is not coquetry. Your story about coquetry is very interesting. It must be said because you’re speaking for yourself. He means that Empedocles is being a coquet with his suicide. That’s what he is calling coquetry.

 

S.D.: And with the audience. 

 

J.M.S.: But that’s not the film’s subject. That’s a quaternary theme. Empedocles is about how we need to finish with all this. For once we made a film that has a... Horrible word: a message. And the message is very simple. It comes at the end of the film’s second third or even the third quarter. Suddenly, we see Etna or we sense it is there. And we see in front of Etna a wide meadow with trees. And to the left, a somewhat red, extinguished crater and above, a small strip of sky. And there is a message there. That’s the subject of Empedocles. It’s not that a man of a certain age is going to commit suicide and would still like to live and the earth and breathing and the nice smells of the flowers, etc., and who doesn’t go gladly. That’s what you’re calling coquetry. But the subject is this sort of message. We’ve never had a message. 

We had a small message at the end of a previous film called Moses and Aaron. At the end, when Aaron is condemned, when only Moses is left and Moses has made the Golden Calf disappear, only the people are left, when Moses will be vampirized himself, he says to him: immer wenn eure Gaben euch zur höchsten Höhe geführt haben, whensoever your gifts had led you to the highest summit, immer wieder heruntergesturzt werden, you were ever hurled back, vom Erfolg des Missbrauchs, as a result of that misuse, zurück in die Wüste, into the wasteland. That was a little message that sharpened people’s ears. That’s why Moses and Aaron was what Truffaut called a failure. Because people didn’t want to hear that, it was too early. Now, with this film, we’re taking a big step forward thanks to Hölderlin who, 200 years ago, had a nose for what Wilhelminian society would bring us: progress and the whole bazar, science. We’ll come back to that later. That’s the message. It’s Etna and it’s what we see at that moment. And the text is: Ihr dürstet längst nach ungewöhnlichem, you have thirsted very long for the unusual, Und wie aus krankem Körper sehnt der Geist von Agrigent sich aus dem alten Gleis, and as from a sick body the spirit of Agrigent longs to leave the old track. It’s a track, like a train track from which one cannot escape. So wagts!, so venture it!, was ihr geerbtwas ihr erworben, what you have inherited, what you have acquired, was euch der Väter Mund erzählt, gelehrt, what your father’s mouth has told you, taught you, Gesetz und Brauch, law and custom, der alten Götternamen, the names of the ancient gods, vergisst es kühn, forget it boldly, und hebt, wie Neugeborne, die Augen auf zur göttlichen Natur, and raise, as newborn, your eyes to godly Nature. That’s it. Then it continues. 

The shot is long, the longest shot in the film until then, in which something is explained which is the only way left to escape from where we are. We’ll talk more about that later. I’ll stop myself right now. That’s already too long. Because then it gets a bit more complex. What I said is the beginning. Then it is complicated, contradicted, completed, and it becomes a slightly complicated fabric, but it is something that is very easy to do. It’s what they call communism. And that’s it. It’s not at all coquetry. Now you can say what you want. Your idea about coquetry is fascinating, it’s very interesting, but don’t let people think it’s the film’s subject.

 

S.D.: In any case, in general, the most mysterious thing in a film is its subject. Besides, I wouldn’t even say that it’s a subject. For me, it’s a theme, it’s a motif. It’s a motif which is in quite a few of your films. I think that in Empedocles it is rather central, but as a motif, nothing more, not even the subject or the content. That the content is communism, that’s your business. That the subject is what you said, that’s up to you to say. That I think there’s a motif which is related plastically, aesthetically, musically to seduction and coquetry – I find that amusing at the same time, in the sense that seduction is something that has become very important in the general consciousness over the past ten years. There are books about it whereas ten or fifteen years ago the word seduction could not be found in anyone’s discourse. Today, we find it a bit everywhere, a bit too much. Besides, in my opinion, we’re more in the post-seduction. And in Straub’s cinema, we come to a film which has to do with seduction, too. So simply put, it is a way of saying that you have a manner that may seem out of place when considered superficially. You are absolutely in sync with what is happening in your European environment. End of parenthetical. But what I’m more interested in...  

J.M.S.: Explain that to me. I find this all interesting. Firstly, you say “everywhere,” which means in Paris. I don’t live here, so I have no idea. I don’t know this city.

S.D.: No, no, no, no, Jean-Marie, because the major theorists of seduction are Italian. They are where you live.

J.M.S.: I live in the Roman suburbs.

S.D.: I know, but still, the Roman suburbs aren’t far from Rome.

J.M.S.: I don’t go to the center anymore. I don’t spend much time anymore at the...

S.D.: What I mean is that even living in the Roman suburbs, you are part of the same, very general, very global movement.

J.M.S.: Okay, explain to me what it is. Namely, concretely with regard to this film, beyond Empedocles’ coquetry and his suicide.

S.D.: I’m annoyed about talking so quickly about Empedocles because I was thinking we could pass by Stroheim to talk about seduction. Because he is someone who talked about it in a very sharp and hard manner in the silent era. Now that things are launched, I’d like us to take a detour via Stroheim. First, because I know from a reliable source that it was only a few years ago that Danièle and you suddenly had a kind of Road to Damascus with regard to Stroheim, right? There was suddenly something very, very strong. Where, when, how, and why? Voilà: Stroheim. When did he become so important to you? To the point that when someone says to you, come with old films, you say immediately: Stroheim.

J.M.S.: Road to Damascus? No idea. No, well, it’s the luck of viewing and the luck of possibilities too. In Rome, not only in our suburb, but also in the center, you can’t see any films. There was a Stroheim retrospective, I don’t know, ten years ago. There were four people in the theater. Everything was on Super 8. We re-watched everything. We were among the three or four people. From time to time, Moravia was around. That’s all. But in fact, it was in Super 8 and Stroheim in Super 8... No, I think it was luck. At the Centre Pompidou, we saw a film which it seems is not by Stroheim, which is called Hello, Sister!... Go Down Broadway.*

S.D.: Yes, Going Down...

J.M.S.: Go Down Broadway. That’s all, it was luck. We knew Stroheim a little, but you need to have made a few films to discover Stroheim. I think you need to be old to discover Stroheim.

S.D.: What happens when you’re old and discover Stroheim? Are there things you couldn’t see before? What can you say?

J.M.S.: What characterizes Stroheim is that he has imagination. Nowadays, 99% of filmmakers have no imagination.

S.D.: That is very interesting.

J.M.S.: That is, they make images with nothing in them because they show things they have never seen. Whereas Stroheim is... For me, the definition of imagination in cinema is a shot in... Well, to change subjects, we’ll go from Stroheim to Ford. It’s a shot in The Wings of Eagles. What’s it called in French?

S.D.: L’aigle vol au soleil.

J.M.S.: It’s Steward who falls down the stairs.

S.D.: It’s Wayne.

J.M.S.: John Wayne who falls down!

S.D.: Who falls in his home.

J.M.S.: It’s terrifying because you know that John Ford knows what it means when a man falls down the stairs, he breaks his bones, etc. It exists. For thirty years, I’ve had an imaginary bruise when I see people running down the stairs to the metro. And one time, I saw an old woman, twenty years later... I thought about this all the time because I know very well that’s how filmmakers should be. They should be people who only show things that frighten them or that they love, that they know about so that it exists. That’s all. And that’s Stroheim. If Stroheim shows... Now we come back to Go Down Broadway. The most beautiful shot in Go Down Broadway is a little dog, a little poodle... I don’t even remember what kind of dog it is. It’s very serious to have forgotten. The poodle gets hit by a car into the gutter next to the sidewalk. We don’t know if he is dead or not. I think he isn’t dead because Stroheim had no desire to kill a creature. Coppola would have done that. That’s also why Stroheim is important. Here, we feel the terror of a little creature in the traffic on Broadway, in a city. That’s Stroheim. It’s not big stuff.

S.D.: But what you’re describing is not really what one calls imagination. It’s more bits of experiences.

J.M.S.: Absolutely. But the experience needs to be pass into the image. That’s what you call imagination.

S.D.: The dog’s experience, for instance, is a limit case.

J.M.S.: Why?

S.D.: Because nobody was ever a dog.

J.M.S.: Here we’re back at the subject of Empedocles. Nobody was a dog, nobody was an ant. That’s why we’ve made a world in which dogs are hit on the highway – cats, deer, toads... That’s it, let’s continue that way. If that’s cinema, then Stroheim is the opposite and that’s what interests us.

S.D.: What I meant was: you say “imagination” means the passage of an experience into an image, therefore turning experience into an image. In general, when people say “imagination," they mean instead somebody who dreams, somebody who invents, who has visions, etc. When they say “imagination,” they’re thinking of Fellini, they’re not thinking of the dog in the traffic. And that’s important because I think a lot of filmmakers...

J.M.S.: But why not Fellini? He would have imagination if his dreams passed into the material. It often does not go that far.

S.D.: It happens more and more, I think.

J.M.S.: Good, let’s hope. I don’t think it’s Fellini...

S.D.: He’s a handsome old man, I think.

J.M.S.: Allowing that I don’t know Fellini...

S.D.: Yes, because he talks about Cinecittà in the last one. And I’ve come to like Fellini more than before...

J.M.S.: For me, the definition of imagination... The man with the most imagination among people making images is Cézanne. I’m sorry for repeating myself, but that’s how it is. That’s the definition of imagination. But of course, Cézanne... The imagination you just defined, which would be, supposedly, my sense of imagination, presumes the common meaning. One cannot arrive at the imagination you’re talking about without having first had dreams and dreams come from experiences and vice versa. There’s the shuttle, as they say.

S.D.: I completely agree. And I’m not at all – you know as well as I do – the apostle of the major dream-visionaries. That all ends up in Ken Russell and others, Beinex... That’s not it. The thing is, I asked myself about imagination in a way because recently I realized that many filmmakers who counted the most for me – and many of them are the same ones who have counted for you – were people who were rather lacking in imagination, unless they gave imagination the exact meaning you’ve just given it. In which case, there is another problem that soon arises, which is that of transcribing an experience, making it pass into an image, something that has to do with common experience in the sense of communism. In that sense, if you will.

J.M.S.: Oh dear!

S.D.: I prefer that. To make it pass into a scene or an image or a moment in a film is already extraordinary in itself. It can even be enough to justify making films and loving to love them.

J.M.S.: That’s the only justification.

S.D.: It doesn’t account for something else, which is that it is very hard to find more than three or four of those in a film. That is, it raises the problem of the story and fiction. And I think that all the filmmakers who counted for the people at Cahiers, for you, for me, they share a major difficulty in telling stories. And this does not at all need to be considered a horrible inevitability. Maybe it is the point beyond which there is a piece of raw experience which is absolutely conveyed and which is not transitive, which is not naturally linked to another. 

Recently I saw a film that totally overwhelmed me: Night of the Hunter. I think it is one of the rare films where there is, maybe in a single film, in a single story which is itself very complicated, five or six bits of universal experience which are conveyed. I think it’s great if there are five or six. When there is one, I think that’s great. In general, there are zero. But the question of how to articulate this... You say Ford. Sure. But in Ford there is a whole system with him, he had mythologies, he had a position in a certain system. It was the cinema, moreover, of the beginning of the end of Hollywood, because the film you’re talking about is almost a minor film. It’s from ’55 or so. 

Today, the question of telling a story is more important than ever. I think that with the people who took this cinema of experience very far – I’m thinking rather of Rossellini – it isn’t by chance if at some point they said: I’m stopping with stories. I’m moving on to education. You know this is one of our old debates. Because when you say, I’m fed up with it all, in the past you said, I’m going to Algeria to teach grammar, to teach the basics. At one point, it was teaching grammar because people need the basic elements of their experience, or one tells stories. But when one tells stories, if one doesn’t feel much pleasure telling them and if one doesn’t have the mythological material of a culture to provide them, one ends up pretending to tell them. That’s what happens on TV and in the media. That’s why I come back to the charge saying: how do you think Stroheim would handle this? He’s someone who simply rebuilt in Hollywood, stone by stone, the world of the Habsburg court, knowing full well how it functioned so that it works even if it is a recreation. Is that, for example, what fascinates you about Stroheim? Something that no other filmmaker today could redo, especially not Coppola, even when he remakes Las Vegas outside Las Vegas.

J.M.S.: Stroheim is the only naturalistic filmmaker. That’s all. And naturalism, to go back to the word you don’t want to hear, is like communism, it’s the easiest thing which is the most difficult to do. That’s all. Consequently, nobody has ever made naturalistic films since Stroheim.

S.D.: And Buñuel, right?

J.M.S.: Huh? Buñuel? Naturalistic? 

S.D.: Yes, quite.

J.M.S.: No. Naturalistic how? In the sense that the first part of Pasolini’s Salò is naturalistic about the Roman bourgeoisie and the salons? That’s not naturalism. Naturalism is something that develops, something that grows like a tree. Naturalism is the whole scene in front of the cathedral in Vienna up until the horse on which Stroheim bolts in and the girl is touched by the hooves and the ambulance arrives. That’s naturalism. And that lasts I don’t know how many shots. No, naturalism is something else. Naturalism is something despised today. You need a lot of humility for it. People today are swimming in abstractions. That’s why they can’t tell stories anymore, because they make bad experimental films. 

S.D.: Yes, it’s true. If we are truly in a period marked by mannerism, it’s clear that the enemy is naturalism. The forgotten enemy, let’s say. But there is a commonality among the major filmmakers who touched on naturalism. Part of Buñuel touched it, part of Renoir...

J.M.S.: But Renoir, he says in Le point... There’s an issue of Le point that disappeared featuring interviews with Renoir. There’s one where he says he saw...

S.D.: He saw Stroheim.

J.M.S.: He saw Foolish Wives several times. And after watching and re-watching it, he said: I decided to found French realism. Renoir is no longer naturalism, it’s realism. In France, naturalism was no longer possible. Renoir is the height of abstraction, which is realism, but it’s no longer naturalism. That’s something else.

S.D.: Don’t you think there is something psychologically and thematically in common among all the films we can call naturalist?

J.M.S.: When you say Buñuel, I don’t at all agree about naturalism.

S.D.: For me, the point in common that I see in all the characters in these films is that they are great predators, people whose desire has no limits. That’s the mark of naturalism, whether it’s Stroheim or certain Buñuels like El, for instance, even if that’s a Mexican melodrama, or in Renoir. It’s much more than “everyone has their reasons.” It’s that everyone will go to the end of their desires and then there will be damage and there is someone who observes it all. It’s true this has completely disappeared.

J.M.S.: But that’s not aesthetic naturalism!

S.D.: No. That’s a philosophical term.

J.M.S.: I’m talking about aesthetic naturalism. In effect, El Bruto can pass for a naturalist film, but naturalism, in Zola’s sense, is something else. I’m talking about aesthetic naturalism, which is something else. It has nothing to do with unlimited desire.

S.D.: And yet, Stroheim deals with that.

J.M.S.: Yes, but that’s just a side effect. And in his films, it comes out of material. It doesn’t come before the material. Naturalism is a labor. And if what you’re saying comes out afterward – unlimited desire which joins naturalism à la Buñuel or à la Zola – that’s something else. The other ones don’t have any material. In this case, if we want to be a bit mean, we can say Buñuel is like Fellini. I don’t mean it’s uninteresting, but I mean he comes to a stop... His naturalism doesn’t become the material. In Stroheim, and this is important, this all becomes material.

S.D.: And it’s not because Buñuel said, “man is not free, but his imagination is unlimited”? It is free. Buñuel said that. Doesn’t that sum up what you’re saying? On the one hand, there are material contingencies and, on the other, there is the unlimited side of the imagination?   

J.M.S.: That question is too hard. I refuse to answer.

S.D.: It’s not a trap. I’m trying to be clear.

J.M.S.: It’s not that I think you’re trying to trick me. You and I aren’t like that. It’s just too hard. That business, when it’s Buñuel, I’m... I almost want to contradict a statement like that, it’s idealistic. I have nothing against idealism. I’m interested in the idealism of Schoenberg, and Hölderlin, too, if we can talk about that form of idealism. And the absolute liberty of the spirit, etc. But in short, I’ve personally come into the world too late to proclaim things like that.

S.D.: It’s certainly something one could have said in the 1920s, at the beginning of psychoanalysis...

J.M.S.: Even then it was too late because those were already people who were repressed, who didn’t know what was going on elsewhere.

S.D.: When you show Stroheim’s films, I suppose you’ll talk about them in Avignon, at the Verger cinema?

J.M.S.: I’d like to talk as little as possible. First, because Avignon...

S.D.: You’re going to talk a lot, I know you!

J.M.S.: But first, the plan is that we will talk everyday at the end of the morning in the Verger cinema, but they’ve reduced the program. They cut two days out of our program. And instead of three films a day, one by us and two by Stroheim, there are four films a day, the last one at midnight. The consequence is that we are not going to talk about Stroheim’s films that we have not seen immediately before. We’re not imposters. We’re trying not to be. And consequently, if we see a film at midnight and we go to bed at 2 a.m. – moreover, I don’t know, they’re putting us up a bit outside the city – we would have to talk the next morning about... That’s not possible. So there will be as little discussion as possible. Maybe a talk at the Verger cinema on the last day. And besides, that will be very good. That way we will have some time to digest Stroheim. And then a discussion in the evening. We’ll talk a bit more concretely then. There will be a discussion after Empedocles. We need to let Stroheim speak. That’s better than saying stupid things about Stroheim.

S.D.: There is another thing I find really striking. You must be aware of it, even in your Roman suburb. There was an era – I belong to the end of this era – when we began to have cinephile filmmakers, but in the good sense of the term, that is, deeply in love with cinema and knowing what they loved in older films, let’s say. So in short, the New Wave. And then cinephilia became a kind of cultural or commercial triumph. A kind of general label. And almost another generation of filmmakers, post-New Wave, and often even a bit reactionary when a new wave arrives. And what all these filmmakers share is: “We are image people, we make images, we have nothing to say, we have no more discourse. Cinema is a great, wonderful thing. Cinema of the past? Fine. Don’t ask me for any names, don’t ask me...” You can’t imagine Beneix or Besson saying, “No, ultimately, I prefer Sjöström over Stiller.” Whereas after all, if cinema was artisanal or the art in which one is totally in love and impassioned, as one says it is, then it would be entirely logical that, like painters for very a long time, filmmakers would say: “As a filmmaker, I have a score to settle with this or that filmmaker from the past, who I understand better than before, etc.” But that never happens. And when I saw Dominique Painï’s program for Avignon, I said, “Well, that’s good. Straub is bringing out Stroheim. That’s an action.” Because nobody does it anymore, or only rarely. 

J.M.S.: We’re doing what they asked us to do. Everyone does it. The carte blanche, it’s awful! It’s awful. “Carte blanche.” That kind of thing even leads to Umberto Eco showing American films dubbed under fascism and saying, “It absolutely must be the Italian dubbed version because that’s my childhood memory.” What does any of that have to do with cinema? Nothing. It’s all just fantasy. Everything you’re telling me about this generation... I don’t know their films, but I’m telling you, it’s the end of the world. It means they are no longer making films. Those are films without any imagination. It has to be that way, it can only be like that, even if by chance there are a few interesting things in them or a few films. I have no idea. It’s really the snake biting its own tail. It’s screwed. 

We can come back to Stroheim here, too. He’s the opposite. Stroheim has a subject. He tells the story of a subject, of relations, of situations, a story. That’s it. Today, people no longer exist. They no longer exist! Therefore, they no longer have experiences. They no longer exist and therefore their film no longer exists. That’s all, it’s not complicated. If you don’t exist, the film cannot exist because, moreover, you don’t have the energy to be artisanal. You have nothing to put in your material and, as a result, you make empty material because the material only exists in function of images which made it so man no longer exists. Man no longer exists because he is eaten up by science, images, political science, sociology, machines.

S.D.: I am, alas, rather in agreement with you on this tired Cassandra’s discourse.

J.M.S.: There’s a book that should be read in France nowadays. Instead of reading Lévy and I don’t know who...Finkielkraut. It’s a somewhat serious book called La barbarie.** You just need to read it and then you’ll know all there is to know about the cinema you’re talking about, because it is a just a small particle of the contemporary world, of the civilization in which you live, which is that of progress, the industrial revolution, competition, freedom through competition, monopoly through competition, the free market.

S.D.: In this thing we did at Libération called Why Do You Film?, you were nice enough to say a few words. Out of 722 responses, there was only one – I know it is someone you don’t like, but too bad – there was one single filmmaker who talked about other important filmmakers working at the same time as him. That is, who says: Fellini is here, Godard is there, Bergman is there, with rather...

J.M.S.: Ultimately, to say: And I’m here. Right?

S.D.: Yes. It’s someone very narcissistic. It’s someone who thinks he is the center of the world. It’s someone who you think is a Nazi. It’s Syberberg, but okay...

J.M.S.: No, I’ve never... Don’t exaggerate!

S.D.: I’m provoking you to cut the rug out from under your feet because I want to finish my sentence....

J.M.S.: He saw a lot of intellectual confusion which... 

S.D.: Yes, but I found it very symptomatic that out of 722 filmmakers, there was one who considered... He is not totally immodest. He’s an interesting filmmaker, at least, who is in an art that has a history, which is mixed in with the history of the century and he has the good sense...

J.M.S.: What we have in common is that he really likes... He is interested in Stroheim.

S.D.: A lot, yes. And he too dreams of primitive communism.

J.M.S.: Primitive? Oh dear! I don’t know a thing about that.

S.D.: Oh, that’s something!

J.M.S.: We’ll have to see. I don’t know a thing about that.

S.D.: Yes, yes, there’s something about the countryside and simple things which is very German in Syberberg.

J.M.S.: Very German?

S.D.: Late Middle Ages.

J.M.S.: Wait and see where you’ll be when...

S.D.: Pre-Renaissance.

J.M.S.: ...they’ve gone beyond Social Democracy in France, which is at the gates. And then you’ll see if you get to something very German. No, that’s not it. That’s not what I mean to say.

S.D.: Well no, what I wanted to say with the example of Syberberg is that out of 722 filmmakers, there was only one who talked about people who are, let’s say, his associates, his colleagues, his witnesses, his contemporaries, whatever, and who talked about them like... Maybe during the Renaissance, Uccello was able to talk about a painter who was at the neighboring court and say, “I want to do better than him.” Where there was emulation, where he had the feeling of belonging to the same world. What I find regrettable is that...

J.M.S.: Yes, naturally. Racine tried to outdo Corneille and Corneille reused things at the end and said...

S.D.: Yes, but it was good, wasn’t it?

J.M.S.: Fritz Lang and Hitchcock always enjoyed saying, “Did you see that? Did you see that? What I did after, etc.” It’s interesting. That’s true ambition in filmmaking. 

S.D.: I found that in the responses...

J.M.S.: Young people have no more ambition!

S.D.: There was only narcissism, stated more or less elegantly by... especially European filmmakers. There was a deep disarray among, for example, the Japanese, who are rather interesting. A kind of silly indifference of a professionalism that has become stupid, which is the Americans’ case, without exception. And then a kind of big cry, more or less fake, more or less sincere from the Third World, saying: “We exist too” and somewhat still believing in the cinema. And then one single filmmaker says: “I think Fellini exaggerates, I think Godard is less good than before.” But in a rather brilliant manner. I mean, one out of 722. The film world is truly completely gutted. It’s been replaced by the statue of God Cinema, a Golden Calf Cinema, if you will, like in Moses and Aaron. And it is a Pyrrhic victory from which we won’t return, because it is not normal that filmmakers have such a degree of memory of their art. God knows if the cinema... You can still see a lot of it, you just need to make a little effort. There are still many places where you can see old and new films, at least in Europe. It’s incredible the point to which it is: “No, I make images.” To the point that it’s old Rohmer who is forced to say: “No, pay attention, cinema is shots, it is not images.” Yes, good God, we forgot! Cinema is shots! It’s a little different than making an image or making looks or selling a rhetoric of seduction that is, beyond 20 seconds, absolutely terrifying. That’s why I’ll loop back...

J.M.S.: That’s why these people... And it started with Fassbinder, all this, to take someone who was a little famous. Fassbinder’s films are made by someone who no longer knew what it meant to hit his head against the wall, because there is not even space in his films. Filmmakers work with space. They make condensed time by using spatial material. You have to know what space is. If you don’t know what it means to fall down the stairs and break your bones or plow into a wall at 120 km an hour or simply hit your head against the wall or slip on a banana peel, then you can’t make films, it’s no longer possible. Those are all films by drug users. I have nothing against drug users, they’re very nice people, but they can’t make films, I’m sorry.

S.D.: Not always. Drug users aren’t always nice.

J.M.S.: They aren’t all nice.

S.D.: But I don’t entirely agree with you about Fassbinder.

J.M.S.: Yes, of course. 

S.D.: No, because for example... It’s strange that you say he’s someone who doesn’t know what it means to get hit because I had written in... I think that it was Veronika Voss. It’s one of the last films he made, which I thought was pretty good. I said, here is someone who managed... It took him 20 years and 37 films. He didn’t stop working. He managed to recreate his own furniture store, really his own, in relation to which you no longer bump into things because you know where each object is. There is a bit of an antique dealer, a cleaning lady, a second-hand dealer, something very... And in the history of contemporary mannerism, I think that Fassbinder is rather, in hindsight – maybe like Truffaut in France, we’d need to compare – someone rather honest who handled the passage of: The exterior world exists, it is terrible... The Brechtian side of the first stories...

J.M.S.: There is nothing Brechtian about Fassbinder.

S.D.: The “let’s look at it all with a cold eye from afar” side. I think it’s not the worst out there today, even if we can say it started with him. I think it even started with the people from the New Wave.

J.M.S.: But what you’re saying implies that we go back again on stuff like old moaners…

S.D.: You’re the one who spoke of the end of the world.

J.M.S.: Naturally, since Fassbinder we have done better, that’s all. If that’s what you meant, then I agree.

S.D.: No, we’ve done less well.

J.M.S.: Well, where will we go? We did better means we’ve jumped out of the frying pan and into the fire.

S.D.: Listen, there are two solutions. Either we arrive at a kind of impossibility of mannerism itself, in which case art history offers two solutions, or there is a baroque era.

J.M.S.: What is mannerism? Is it decorativism?

S.D.: Mannerism, in my opinion, is redoing...

J.M.S.: It is when you make films that seem to come out from the shop of a second-hand dealer, as you said.

S.D.: Mannerism is exactly what you were saying when you say, “People have no material.” What saves mannerism is having the material that, perhaps, can carry a subject and, perhaps, who knows, content. That’s even more. But when there is no more material, and it’s certain that we are in a world which is dematerializing – the evolution of the image, simulacra medias, accelerations, etc. – the material has ditched the camp. It only remains in a few completely marginal Soviet filmmakers. You need to go look at Paradjanov to see a bit of cinematic material or even Tarkovsky.

J.M.S.: Paradjanov films are like Italian cinema.

S.D.: Yes, in the best sense. Or in the work of some crazy Portuguese like Oliveira. It’s more in the dead-end streets of the modern world that there is material that has remained obstructed and filmmakers sufficiently obstinate to make films that, ultimately, resemble something and that, often, really have a subject because the Portuguese have a subject. They have a really big subject which relates to their history. But mannerism is when there is no more material, but you know how to reproduce from outside effects that were already produced at an earlier time. So you can reproduce a Lang effect, a Hitchcock effect...

J.M.S.: Okay...

S.D.: You simply reproduce it...

J.M.S.: I call that rhetoric.

S.D.: It’s very much connected. There is no rhetoric without mannerism. Simply, you add or remove a small detail that makes this whole no longer the complete whole it was, it is no longer articulated to the world that produced it, but it is articulated to the viewer’s complicity. That is, what defines mannerism is that the viewer, after having truly been a viewer at the start of cinema, then a witness when cinema entered adulthood, has become an accomplice. And it is terrible to manage complicity.

J.M.S.: Because viewers are like the Magic Skin, they no longer exist. And the fewer there are, the more they are what you describe, that’s clear.

S.D.: And the more you need to get them on your side.

J.M.S.: Because viewers are people who make big headlines in the newspapers. These viewers have nothing more than film titles and those are the ones who react the way you say. And that’s 3,000 people in Paris. It’s for them that people make films nowadays. That’s totally uninteresting. Those aren’t viewers anymore.

S.D.: No, they are no longer viewers. They are accomplices.

J.M.S.: Yes, agreed.

S.D.: It’s a complicit audience.

J.M.S.: Complicit, but there are 3,000 complicit people. In that case, we should stop.

S.D.: Which is what the average audience today wants.

J.M.S.: That is also the lack of ambition. If you only make films for those 3,000 accomplices, then why make films?

S.D.: Because it is largely sufficient.

J.M.S.: In that case, long live utopia! We are utopic fools because we dream of an audience that no longer exists.

S.D.: You’re 20 years too early?

J.M.S.: Yes, or 40 years too late because we dream of the audience that went to see Chaplin’s films.

S.D.: Of course. Like him, it’s been dead a long time...

J.M.S.: It died and then the working class stopped going to the movies, the peasants stopped going. The bourgeoisie started to go but stopped. There are only pimps and parasites left. Those are the 3,000 accomplices. That’s not an audience.

S.D.: That’s what we’ve come to. At the same time, it is the only audience left for the cinema. 

J.M.S.: No, because what you’re saying applies to art house cinemas. But we would not make one more film if it were not for the release that Dominque is offering us and that we accept, because in spite of it all, we are a little vain. But really, in France, in Germany, with the concerns of French people... But good luck to Dominque. I mean, our only justification is the moment when a film like Empedocles arrives, next fall, it’s programmed, the first German TV station, it will be a bit late, 11 p.m., but people will be surprised. And there are 2,500,000 or 2 million Germans who will see the film. And those are naturally a bit more than the accomplices you’re talking about. When Too Early, Too Late was broadcast by the same German stations, there were people who... We received postcards from people we knew, our friends in Boston who know people in East Germany, who had seen the film without knowing who Straub is, etc. and who said, “What interested us here is that we saw places, villages, the countryside, hills, and there was a relationship between what we saw and what we heard.” The guy who received the postcard, by chance, is a friend. He knows us. The person who sent it – this is just one example – absolutely did not know who Straub or Too Early, Too Late was. She started watching after 10 minutes, she saw a film. That’s what we’re interested in.

S.D.: Yes, I understand that. Besides, in my opinion, for a long time you’ve been more advanced in that area than others since filmmakers who are constrained to grieve a large popular and nice, cultivated, educated, noble audience are constrained to grieve that and they are going to suffer a humiliating defeat with television. Three-fourths of French filmmakers labelled rightly or wrongly “auteurs” know this will happen, hence their current bad mood and bad manners, because the ship is sinking. You have at least one advantage. You took your historical position very, very early and the only way for you to encounter an audience that is still an audience is in the most opaque place in society, meaning television.

J.M.S.: Exactly.

S.D.: So, nobody knows what to do with television. Nobody knows how it affects the body, how it affects the neurons, how it affects the digestive tract. Everyone uses TV as they want, where they want. And besides, television can have astonishing, stunning, or terrifying effects which are not seductive effects because it suffices for television to speak differently and impose a sound volume or manner of speaking different from the usual screams so that, immediately, people decide...

J.M.S.: They simply have a tone, that’s enough.

S.D.: So that people decide that they are going to resist the shock of a difference within the television and see what it is and to the contrary...

J.M.S.: I have to say modestly, we were in fact in advance, as you say, that’s very flattering, but we didn’t have a choice. Because in any case, we were never part of the family, because all our films from the start had to be financed outside the system. So the only escape we had was this one. And consequently, we have... It’s necessity that put us ahead, that’s all.

S.D.: Your drama was to have been partly financed very, very quickly by television. At least, there was always a German or Austrian station.

J.M.S.: Yes, it took ten years to find a station to finance our first project, which was a project from ’54 called Chronicle of Anna Magdalena Bach. And when I say ten, it is not being generous because we shot it in ’67. So let’s not exaggerate. And besides, no television station ever financed one of our films, despite it all. It is always a third of the financing when all goes well, or a fourth, etc. 

And in the case of Hölderlin, just as an aside, it is not necessary to do what the program from Avignon did, it is not necessary to write “d’Höderlin.” First, they forgot an L. That’s the French and their arrogance in German and foreign language matters. And then it isn’t necessary to write D apostrophe. No. In German, an H is generally inhaled. So you write “de” Hölderlin and not “d’Hölderlin.”

Hölderlin is already a bit less money than the Kafka because Amerika was a best-seller, etc. And another small example. They showed for the third time, but it was only the third station in Frankfurt, the first film we made really thinking directly about TV, because it was History Lessons based on Brecht’s novel called The Business Affairs of Mr. Julius Caesar, and that film is from ’72. When they show it again now at 8 p.m. on the third station in Frankfurt, there are people who send us letters saying, “Who wrote this text?” They have no idea about Brecht, etc. That’s what is important. “What is it? Where can we buy this text if we want to read it after having seen the film,” etc.

S.D.: Well, I think you were very, very radical in the good sense of the term and not it the overly facile sense people credited to you at the time. That means, having a chance over time to be perceived as a different, a rather educational content within the opacity of more or less marginal, uncontrollable, and bizarre audiences of evening TV broadcasts. Thank you Jean-Marie Straub. Everyone go to Avignon, everyone go to Stroheim.

 

*Walking Down Broadway (1933) was the original version of Stroheim’s film, re-edited and released as Hello, Sister!

** La barbarie, Michel Henry, 1987.

  

Serge Daney, Microfilms, France Culture on 19 July 1987. Translation and notes by Ted Fendt.