The King Was Naked

 Another text from Recrudescence.

The King Was Naked

— Let me ask you a poser, said the film. Do you know the title of the film that in 1936 was number one at the French box office?

— César, obviously. Why this question?

— And the sixth?

— Modern Times, I think.

— And the third?

— I'm stumped. Some forgotten dud no doubt.

— No, me. Me, The King. I was a smash hit and, in your place, I'd take look at what resembled a hit film fifty years ago. It'll make a change from masterpieces. It's interesting for a critic to also see films that were successful in their time, no? Besides, Pierre Colombier, who signed me, was one of the great prolific craftsmen of the era (eight films in five years), the man behind Ignace (which was close on the heels of La Grande Illusion) and Ces messieurs de la Santé. My screenwriter, who was no other than Louis Verneuil, drew from a play by de Flers and Caillavet that my success brought back to the stage.

— You only talk about "success", I grumbled ill-tempered. If only you knew how ugly old hit films can be. In fact, I suspect you are some loud theater turned into film, worth nothing except for a few rare numbers by actors.

— Yes, but what actors! went on the film, clearly seizing any excuse. In 1936, Gaby Morlay was the number one favourite actress with the public, and Popeye the sixth. Francen was sixth, Raimu tenth, and André Lefaur twenty-sixth. It's in Cinématographie française, I can provide you with the lists. 

— King, you know that a film is more than a poster!

— It's precisely because I know it that I'm telling you the plot. It's the story of the king of a fantasy country, Jean IV de Cerdagne, who makes an official visit to Paris. It's also the story of a rich "democrat" member of parliament (in the play, they even used the word "socialist") who ends up Trade Minister. Francen is the frivolous king, Raimu the rich member of parliament. Francen, for once, is not sinister and Raimu is Raimu. How does the MP become minister, you ask?

— I'm not asking anything.

— By getting cuckolded twice by the king. Once with his wife (Morlay, giddy) and once with his mistress (Popesco, exotic). Cynical and funny. With, I'd even say, something of a pre-Bébête Show.

— In 1936, in the middle of the Popular Front, you weren't more politically engaged than that?

— I'm a satire, admittedly anti-parliamentarian (the era wanted that). No one finds favour in my eyes, but I am not at all ideological. I'm sometimes fierce, and my dialogue sparkles with auteurs' quips. For example, when the king serves champagne, he says: "It's the first time that I serve... that I serve a purpose." Hilarious, no?

— No.

— I admit that I've aged, continued the film. But there must be a documentary aspect in the way that, at the time, class differences were marked quite strikingly by differences in voice, accent, and tone. Can you imagine the jibes that Raimu and Lefaur hurl at each other (in the role of the Marquis de Chamarande)? You picture Raimu saying: "You consider yourself, Sir, as the owner of your property, while I consider myself, myself and my descendants, as the custodian of mine. This is why your fortune is a capitalist one while my fortune is a democratic one." Grand, no?

— Not bad, given the era.

— I see, said the film, that your ill-will is real and that I'll have trouble convincing you. I could tell you that — was it the effect of the Popular Front? — Colombier changed his aristocratic first name Pière to Pierre and that after 1940, he stopped directing.

— That's not enough, I said.

— I could even tell you — but let this stay between us — as an aside, that Hitler liked me.

— I feel you're ready to say just about anything, I protested.

— No, no. You just have to read page 136 of Geneviève Guillaume-Grimault's book (Le Cinéma du Front Populaire, published by Lherminier). Do you have the book? Yes, read the bottom of the left column.

— "Francen tells that, according to Goering, Hitler would often have a copy of the film screened." Normal for an anti-parliamentarian satire, no?

— You're harsh, said the film. You're harsh for a film that's showing tonight on Channel 2's Ciné-Club, a sign that Claude-Jean Philippe* found me very good.

— Don't make things worse, please.

* Star usherette of Channel 2's Ciné-Club who did well from Cinema, of which she unfortunately has given a laughing and breathless image. Always made us ashamed. 

First published in Libération on December 12th, 1988. Reprinted in Recrudescence, Aléas Editeur, 1991.