Posts Tagged ‘conference’
The world in the 1960s was a world on fire with change and revolution. I have often thought it strange, then, that when it comes to the Nouvelle Vague, politics are not often discussed. Yes, there was the Left Bank Group, staunchly political in their alliances with the communist party. But what about Truffaut, or Chabrol, or Godard before 1968? Did they care about the student strikes, war, and civil rights? Were they really, as is generally murmured about academic circles, right-wing radicals and fascist sympathisers? How could they be fascists, when their films were so humane? What exactly was going on there?
Because he dared to go where few have dared before, Antoine de Baecque‘s lecture on the politics of the New Wave was not only illuminating, but exciting as well and, for me, the highlight of the conference.
Content versus style.
In order to understand de Baecque’s points, it’s probably helpful to get a rough idea of what it meant in 1950s France to be either “left-wing” or “right-wing”. Every country, every time period, and every group has its own slightly unique take on the political spectrum. In the contemporary US, for example – to be “right-wing” is to uphold traditional and often religious social values, and to emphasise as little government interference as possible with either fiscal activities or people’s every day lives (as long as traditional values are not challenged). “Left-wing” thinking, on the other hand, emphasises fairness and equality for both majority and minority groups, progressive social values, and a government that is designed to interfere in order to keep greed and human failings in check (even if this often means limiting fiscal freedom). In the UK, however, Conservatives are often focused on conservation of the environment (but still bent on fiscal freedom), while the left-wing Labour party believes in widescale privitisation (but is still bent on protecting the rights of minority groups). In Nazi Germany, “right-wing” meant traditional patriotic values and a dictatorship bent on enforcing those values on other parts of the world. In Stalinist Russia, “left-wing” meant a communist government organised to enforce absolute equality within its populace (whether people wanted it or not!). You get the picture. Left or Right, politics can be quite complex.
For our purposes, however, we can understand that in post-war France, intellectuals tended to fall on one of two specific sides: “Left-wing” humanists, who believed that all art should have a social purpose or message, and “right-wing” freedomists, who believed that art should be able to exist for its own sake, or in fact only to express the truth.
In film, this boiled down to the question: “Which is more important? A socially progressive film? Or an aesthetically progressive one?” Politics had drawn a line between the filmic camps of “content” and “style”.
Chabrol and the “little theme”.
While The 400 Blows breakout success at Cannes in 1959 is often cited as the official start of the French New Wave, most consider the first film of the Nouvelle Vague to be Claude Chabrol’s Le Beau Serge (1958), a film about a man, Francois, who returns home to his village after a long absence, only to find everyone still living in poverty and misery. Francois attempts to transform the lives of the villagers by organising them, and although he succeeds to some small degree, it is without much cooperation from the villagers themselves and most of the characters are left in the end to contend with their own stupidity. Leftists like Luis Bunuel and philosopher Roland Barthes immediately leapt on this film as right-wing propaganda – claiming that it imposed a static image of man and, specifically, a static and uncompassionate image of the poor. Roland Barthes wrote in his critique:
The peasants drink. Why? Because they’re very poor and have nothing to do. Why this misery, this abandon? Here the investigation stops or becomes sublimated: they are undoubtedly stupid in essence, it’s their nature One certainly isn’t asking for a course in political economy on the causes of rural poverty. But an artist should acknowledge his responsibility for the terms he assigns to his explanations. [The political Right have] this fascination with immobility, which makes one describe outcomes without ever asking about, I won’t say causes… but functions.
But more than opposing the content of New Wave films, the Left opposed the anarchic style of the films, and they hated the way the Cahiers directors often seemed to prioritise style over substance, or rather to derive their substance from style itself. The Cahiers group were not exploring grand moral themes, they were exploring “little themes” and “micro-realities” and they were drawing few conclusions about what they found there. This, to the 1950s french bourgeois Left, was irresponsible and a reprehensible occupation for art.
But not everyone believed that art was indentured to social purpose. Chabrol responded to Barthes in the Cahiers du Cinema, by then already gaining a reputation as a “right-wing” film journal, saying that “there is no such thing as a ‘big theme’ and a ‘little theme’, because the smaller the theme is, the more one can give it a big treatment. The truth is, truth is all that matters.” That, simply, was the crux of the argument between Left and Right. The Left wanted a utilitarian art of grand moral transformation, the Right just wanted to play with and examine reality and the truth.
While he didn’t explore the conflict between Barthes and Chabrol specifically, de Baecque did make a list of properties that the members Cahiers group informally associated with the kind of film they wanted to make, properties which directly opposed the manifestos and ideologies of their left-wing contemporaries. They are not, in themselves, a manifesto but they do shed some light on what might have been going on in the minds of the Cahiers directors in those early years:
- a film’s moral position should be in its form and style, not in an underlying social message in its narrative
- content is subject to style (aka dandyism)
- short sentences and “micro-realisms” are preferrable to long discourses or discussions in film
- asking questions is more important than finding answers
- emphasise complexity
- emphasise confusion
- present what is real without trying to orient the audience
This was the stuff to short-circuit the tempers of the bourgeois Left! Underlying all of these ideas, said de Baecque, was less an antithetical ideology than a spirit of youthful, anti-bourgeois rebellion, a desire to shake things up and kick down the old guard any way it could. It was not around Chabrol, however, that this spirit would eventually coalesce — it was Francois Truffaut.
Truffaut the fascist communist.
While Godard and many of the “Young Turks” were born into comfortable, middle class families, Truffaut’s childhood reads very much like the plot of the (mostly autobiographical) 400 Blows: he was born to an unwed and impoverished mother who mostly ignored him, he endured regular beatings and scorn from his stepfather, he was institutionalised in a home for “problem children” as an adolescent, joined the army, discharged dishonourably, and contracted venereal disease from a variety of prostitutes. His early life was about as far a cry from Louis Malle’s “silver spoon” upbringing as one could imagine.
He was also, while the youngest member of the Cahiers group of directors, the indisputable leader of the movement. In his early 20s, with almost no formal education, he was hailed as one of the greatest film critics of the twentieth century and his words were fuelled by a burning desire to shake up the status quo.
And shake it up he did. Over the course of his career as a critic, he wrote 528 articles for Arts-Lettres-Spectacles and 170 for Cahiers du Cinema, both considered bastions for the right-wing intelligentsia of the time. Many of these articles were brutal attacks on the French “cinema of quality”, the type of high-minded, literary period films supported by the Left and held in esteem at festivals, often regarded as “untouchable” to criticism. These included films by directors such as Claude Autant-Lara, Jean Delannoy and Yves Allégret and screenwriters such as Jean Aurenche and Pierre Bost, and Truffaut hated every one.
His famous 1954 article “Une Certaine tendance du cinéma française” (“A Certain Tendancy of the French Cinema”) in Cahiers lambasted the “cinema of quality” and electrified many of his colleagues into action. Truffaut’s restless and youthful spirit infected Godard and Rivette and others at Cahiers and, heeding his call, many were inspired to move beyond simply writing about film and to become directors. “The Nouvelle Vague was youth, it did not recreate it,” said de Baecque in his lecture. ” The New Wave were only able to capture the spirit of youth, of their time and of history, because they were against it.” One thing was clear. With “Une Certaine tendance”, the New Wave had formally declared war on what were currently perceived as France’s greatest “artistic” films, the Left’s “cinema of quality”. And, once the guantlet had been dropped, it was only a matter of time before the Left responded. Churning out pages of vitriolic criticism, they denounced the New Wave, and even accused Truffaut of being a fascist.
Truffaut, of course, adored it. Like Johnny Rotten or Lenny Bruce, Truffaut so loved stirring up the self-righteousness of the bourgeois Left that he even went out of his way to antagonise them. He defended censorship imposed on American films, praised a film text written by a Nazi collaborator and even paid tribute to the French monarchy. In short, he gave them every excuse to call him a fascist. But Truffaut’s true political inclinations were somewhat more complex.
Truffaut’s mentor and surrogate father figure after he left the army (and indeed the one who helped to get him out in the first place) was Andre Bazin. In the late 40s and 50s, Bazin was one of the most influential cinema critics in France and in 1951 went on to found the Cahiers du Cinema. Bazin was a leading intellectual and wrote a number of favorable essays about Stalinist works. He was also a Catholic, and refused to bend to the Leftist pressure which mounted after the war at many of the film magazines, a milieu which demanded that critics positively review Russian and European communist pictures for their moral messages, but negatively review American films for their capitalist bent, even if they were thought to have aesthetic value. Because Bazin praised films by Orson Welles and Howard Hawks for their form and stylistic innovation, both he and his theories were labelled “right-wing” by the Stalinist old guard. It was Bazin’s “right-wing anarchist” values — values of freedom and aesthetics in film — that inevitably permeated Cahiers du Cinema and all of its writers — especially its editor, Eric Rohmer and of course its most important critic and Bazin’s protege, Truffaut.
These “right-wing” values, however, did not stop Truffaut in 1960 from signing the Manifesto of the 121, a document written by and signed by the leading left-wing intellectuals of the day, in opposition to the Algerian War. It nearly ruined his career and cost him several friends, but as a previous army deserter himself, Truffaut felt he must defend a soldier’s right to object to fighting. In 1968, when the right-wing French culture minister André Malraux under Charles de Gaulle attempted to replace Henri Langlois as head of the Cinematheque Francais, Truffaut became involved in the Leftist student protests which eventually constituted les evenements Mai 1968.
In Truffaut’s biography, de Baeque writes:
As a public personality, Francois Truffaut was often asked to take a position regarding important issues in the political life of his country. But though he was passionately interested in politics and read the papers assiduously, he never ceased being wary of political commitment. In 1967, he turned down membership in the Legion of Honour from Minister of Cultural Affairs, Andre Malraux. “I gladly accept rewards for any of my films, but it is not the same where the duty of the citizen is concerned… it would be dishonest of me to solicit any national honour.” What most bothered him about any poltical commitment was the simplification of reality, the Manichaeism implied in any militant discourse, for, as he put it, “life is neither Nazi, Communist, nor Gaullist, it is anarchistic.”
In others words, if a left-wing cause moved him, Truffaut would take a stand. He refused, however, to let his art become shackled to any one ideology. This did not make him fascist or even apolitical. It made him… complex.
“It is a paradox of the New Wave,” said de Baecque, “that most modernity is born from the Left. The New Wave, however, because it was born of freedom, created modernity from the Right.”
The politics of the New Wave is, undeniably, marked by complexity — and this is not the only paradox. One of the most interesting things about the politics of the Cahiers group was that while through their antagonism of the Left they defined themselves as somewhat “right-wing”, their actual beliefs and the beliefs espoused in the content of their films were a lot muddier, and certainly not ideologically “Right”.
De Baecque gave a couple of examples, namely Godard’s Le Petit Soldat and Chabrol’s Les Cousins, though there are many other films from this early time period that could be analysed in a similar way.
Godard’s Le Petit Soldat, released in 1961 and banned in France for many years, is in some ways the epitome of right-wing anarchism. Created almost entirely on the fly, with Godard often coming up with action and dialogue the morning before shooting, there was little or no rehearsal for the actors. Le Petit Soldat is often called “chaotic” and “undisciplined” in style and some consider it an exercise in almost absolute freedom. And, confusingly, the story is at once both political and apolitical. The protagonist, a photojournalist and member of a pro-French anti-terrorist commando group, is ordered to kill a pacifist named Palivoda who is opposed to the Algerian War. Bruno has previously deserted the French army, professes to have no political ideals, and is suspected of being a double agent; thus, his colleagues assign him this particular task in order to test his loyalty. Palivoda encourages desertion from the Army and supports the Algerian Front de Liberation Nationale (FLN). Bruno, who would rather discuss art and the paintings of Paul Klee than fight or kill, meets and falls in love with a Leftist girl named Veronica (played by Anna Karina) who is also involved with the FLN. After Bruno is caught and tortured by the FLN (after failing to kill Palivoda), he escapes to Veronica’s apartment. Later, he tries to explain how difficult it is to live as a man with none of his own ideals. He wonders whether he is “happy because he is free, or free because he is happy?”. Planning to obtain escape visas from his commando group for himself and Veronica to escape to Brazil, Bruno decides at last to kill Palivoda. While he pursues and eventually kills Palivoda, however, his “friends” in the commando group discover Veronica’s ties to the FLN and kidnap, torture, and murder her. At the end, Bruno explains that he has learned not to be bitter about the horrible things that have befallen him, and that at least he is young and has more time to live and find happiness.
The Algerian war was ongoing when Le Petit Soldat was released, and the French government was not happy with the way its army was portrayed, especially the film’s exposure of both the army’s and the FLN’s use of torture on its captors. Censors who banned the film explained, “At a time when young Frenchman are being called upon to fight and serve in Algeria, it seems quite impossible to allow this oppositional conduct to be exposed, presented, and finally justified. The fact that [the protagonist] is paradoxically engaged in a counterterrorist action does not change the fundamental problem.”
“Paradoxical”, again, was exactly right: De Baecque described Bruno as a romantic character who “thinks on the left in a right-wing situation”. Bruno has no interest in killing anyone. He himself is a deserter more interested in art and love than fighting. He is, however, only “half on the Left” because he lacks any personal ideals, and because he seems more interested in his own freedom and happiness than any kind of greater social good. Veronica’s character is left-wing and sympathetic, and her death at the hands of Bruno’s fellow soldiers is portrayed as a great injustice. The ending, however, is unexpected and confusing. Instead of, as we might expect, Bruno vowing to seek revenge for Veronica’s death, or joining the FLN himself, or even vowing to eradicate the FLN on behalf of the French army — really, any action which might portray him to have taken on an ideology of his own — instead of this, Bruno escapes from the experience still free from ideals and happy, in fact, to be still young and free.
This may not have been an attempt on Godard’s part to justify Bruno’s behaviour. De Baecque points out that Godard has always been fascinated with the losers of history – or rather, those who have been made wrong by history. But instead of trying to explain or justify a particular political point of view, he was really just interested in exploring the complexity of human nature. People are sometimes static, sometimes indecisive, sometime inheroic, sometimes all of those things and also their opposites. Le Petit Soldat is confusing, because people are confusing. Sometimes, neither Left nor Right have got it completely correct, and sometimes destruction results from both ideologies and non-ideologies alike. The world is a complex place, and Godard was concerned with exploring that complexity, without trying to engineer a filmic reality to fit a particular conception of it.
Many of the other Cahiers directors were of a similar mind, whether or not they signed the Manifesto of the 121. “Left” and “Right”, to them, were “labels that politicians used to conveniently parse up reality,” explained de Baeque. These labels were used to simplify conflicts, to stir up support, and to divide people without enlightening them, so that they could be controlled. “What politicians say does not necessarily encompass what is true,” said de Baecque. Thus the New Wave viewed the ‘political spectrum’ as too simplistic to be an accurate reflection of the more multi-dimensional map of real orientations and beliefs. It would be wrong to call their films apolitical. It would probably be more correct to say that just as the New Wave were stylistically and narratively inventive, they were politically inventive as well.
But where did all of this inventiveness come from? And why did it happen when it did? What did the New Wave have to do with the 1960s?
The “Spirit of Youth”.
“The Nouvelle Vague was youth, it did not recreate it. The New Wave was able to capture the spirit of youth, of their time and of history, because they were against it.”
Youth was a recurring theme of the lecture, and De Baecque was particularly interested in what it was about the 1960s that had proved such fertile soil for the wild and flowering creativity of the young Cahiers directors. He talked a bit about the character of Alain Leroy in Louis Malle’s Le Feu Follet, who laments he has “had it with mediocrity!” Like the Cahiers directors, Leroy is trapped in a bourgeois existence and his despair, said de Baecque, stems from a vague feeling that there is nowhere left, in post-war France, to prove himself and what he is made of. De Baecque argued that Godard, Truffaut, and the other directors of the New Wave who grew up in the shadow of World War II, realized that when they came of age, there were no real revolutions left to fight. On the one hand, they were living in peaceable times: the war had been won and technology had made life easy and convenient. Peace meant that most of their heroes were fictional and detached from the real world, and they could live in fantasy. On the other hand, the idea of Hiroshima seemed at once to make the future uncertain and any old ideas about war obsolete; wars need no longer be fought, but total destruction was still possible and perhaps even imminent. De Baecque contended that the idea of a possible nuclear war, both as preventative to any personal involvement in a classical revolution and as a threat to the stability of a longterm future, created a kind of anarchic punk mentality in the minds of the Cahiers generation, facilitating the idea that there might be “nothing to be expected from the future.”
I missed who he attributed this to, but I think it was either Godard or Malle who he quoted as saying: “Hiroshima taught me that the world was neither serious nor lasting. I turned 20 at the end of civilisation.” That is to say, what is there to conquer in the wake of the possibility of nuclear holocaust? Where can we possibly go from here? Rather than driving the directors of the Nouvelle Vague to nihilism, however, de Baecque thought that it drove them to take on intellectual and artistic revolution as a way of embracing the freedom and life of the “now”.
In other words, the French New Wave was the seed from which the rebellious youth culture of the 1960s grew, not because it invented it, but because it articulated what was already there. De Baecque noted that because the New Wave were youth and spontaneity and rebellion, and because their style was, formally, a politics of revolution, one could say that while none of them filmed the event, they were, aesthetically, with the protests of May 1968 in spirit. The youth of the 1960s found themselves more or less “in synch” with what the Nouvelle Vague was creating, and because each identified with each other, the two were able to create a new form of French mythology.
“Chabrol’s decadence, Resnais’s guilt, Truffaut’s nostalgia, Godard’s rebelliousness – these were all things that appeared ‘out of synch’ with what was, at the time, considered modern,” said de Baecque. Namely, modern Leftist sentiment. “However,” he continued, “by daring to by ‘out of synch’, they in fact created a new way of being ‘right on time’.”
Godard, and shifting to the left.
One of the luxuries of being unfettered by a specific ideology is retaining the freedom to change one’s mind, or rather the freedom to let one’s mind to evolve over time.
By the mid 1960s, it became difficult for the writers of the Cahiers du Cinema to ignore that the world around them was radically changing. The still staunchly Bazinite Eric Rohmer was ousted as editor of the magazine in 1963 and Jacques Rivette took the helm. In order to broaden the scope of Cahiers, Rivette shifted its focus slightly and the writing began to take into account developments in European cinema, moving away from aesthetically based Bazinian criticism towards a more politically centered Brechtian model. After Rivette left in 1965, and after losing a large portion of its readership, Cahiers finally settled in the 1970s into what is still referred to as the magazine’s “Mao decade”, a decade marked by its commitment to liberal Leftist politics. The magazine’s previous, and rather precarious, commercial position as “aesthetically right-wing” or “right-wing anarchic”, which fit neither the attitude of de Gaulle’s Right or that of the bourgeois Left of the 1950s, had become impossible to reconcile in a changing world which was being increasingly defined as being at “social war”. Bazin’s attitudes suddenly seemed less revolutionary or important than Vietnam or May 1968, and so Cahiers was, at least for a time, absorbed into the Left.
Meanwhile, while many of the first Cahiers critics, now directors, remained politically ambiguous, Godard was undergoing a political change of heart. With his youth behind him and his career secure, Godard no longer needed to shock or provoke and it became increasingly hard for him to ignore that in contemporary France, to be right-wing meant more than just prioritising aesthetics over content. Why it became hard for him to ignore this was, largely, more a personal than intellectual revelation. After his split with Anna Karina, Godard — much like his hero in Le Petit Soldat – fell in love with a Leftist girl and, soon afterward, befriended a Leftist literary critic for Le Monde, Jean-Pierre Gorin. Anne Wiazemsky was a student and the star of one of Godard’s best-loved films, Bresson’s Au Hasard Balthazar. Like Karina, for a period Waizemsky was his muse, starring in La Chinoise and appearing in both Week End and Sympathy for the Devil. She was also a Maoist, and through his love for her, and the influence of Gorin and the political energies of the time, Godard became radicalised. In fact, many believe that La Chinoise, a 1967 film about a student Maoist cell whose members discuss and commit acts of terrorism, was one of the influencing factors on the 1968 riots. La Chinoise was the beginning of Godard’s Dziga Vertov period, so named after the Maoist Dziga Vertov Group he formed with Gorin and several others, and he has continued to make political films throughout his career — although they were significantly diminished after his split with Wiazemsky and by the beginning of his relationship with Anne-Marie Miéville, who took his creativity in other directions.
As the poster child for the Nouvelle Vague, however, Godard’s evolution through the so-called political spectrum is a perfect example of how the New Wave transcended political labels in exchange for a more realistic and human take on politics. Politics are, in essence, the processes by which human beings interact with one another and, like human beings, politics are rarely simple, definable, or consistent within context. If the cinema is “truth, 24 frames a second”,the New Wave’s complex political stance may have been a bit confusing when measured against the linear continuum of Left-Right politics, but it was always honest. “At the cinema, we do not think, we are thought,” Godard once said. For the New Wave the cinema was not a platform for ideology; it was the shifting and turbulent mind of mankind.
Antoine de Baecque’s lecture was fantastic — I have elaborated quite a bit here, but his thoughts served as a springboard for an entire personal exploration into the political context on the New Wave, and frankly, it changed the way I now think about politics, full stop. Plus, it was all the more exciting because de Baecque himself speaks so little English! Geoffrey Nowell-Smith translated his answers during the forum and read aloud from his text, typed on paper, and despite its length and method of delivery, everyone was rapt until lunch time. My only regret was that Nowell-Smith, in trying to keep to the time limit given, had to simplify and shorten many of de Baecque’s answers during the Q&A. Yet one more reason to learn French…
Next up: Have you ever wondered where and how the “British New Wave” and “French New Wave” may have overlapped? Well, Stephen Frears and Philip French were about to elucidate us…
Ah, to be French! Last weekend I was once again reminded of the boxes of French language tapes lying dusty and forgotten at the back of my closet. They would have come in handy last weekend at the Nouvelle Vague: 50 Years On conference, hosted by the Institut Français at the Ciné lumière in London. I’m certain I missed out on some of the best nuggets from the superb French lecturers at the conference who were only very loosely translated, if at all. I think I would have given my bras droit to have been able to talk to Antoine de Baecque afterwards, for example. Even so, the event was still a memorable experience, especially for those of us who no longer run in academic circles, not only because it gave us a chance to see that these films are still being studied and talked about at universities all over the world, but also because it gave us an insight into what, precisely, is being said.
The conference was organised by the University of London Screen Studies Group and the AHRC-supported French Cinema in Britain Research Project at the University of Southampton. It was two full days of lectures and panels, each day followed by a screening of shorts and one full length feature film — the stars of the conference were billed as director Stephen Frears, who was there to talk about the British Free Cinema movement and its connection to the Nouvelle Vague, and also, supposedly, Bernadette LaFonte, the hypnotically lovely star of Le Beau Serge, Les Mistons, and Les Bonnes Femmes. It was announced, however, before the last lecture that she was ill and would not be attending. Boo!
Now, I wish I could say that we arrived early to stake out the best seats and chat with the other participants of the conference, but sadly — London transport being what it is — we arrived 15 minutes late, missing the first part of Vanessa Schwartz‘s opening lecture, a populist/feminist critique entitled: “Who Killed Brigitte Bardot? Re-thinking the New Wave After 50 Years“.
In hindsight, part of me is glad that I missed those first 15 minutes as the latter 45 minutes of the lecture left me so aggravated that I was furiously scribbling exclamation points in my notebook and passing them over to Simon so that he too could register my discontent.
Before I launch into my first major beef, let me say firstly that I am a woman, and a feminist woman at that. So much so that, after reading my first feminist textbook as a teenager, I convinced my high school English teacher to help me conduct an experiment on my classmates so that I could see for myself if young women and young men view success differently as a function of gender. I had read in my textbook — stolen from a university library — that when given the sentence “At the end of her second semester of medical school, Ann learned that she was at the top of her class” as a story prompt, girls tended overwhelmingly to write stories of Ann dropping out or becoming a failure. Meanwhile boys, when given the same prompt with “John” instead of “Ann”, would write about space alien adventures, pirates, millionaires, etc. My teacher assured me that since our class was mostly upper middle class and an “honors” class that this effect would not apply when she issued these prompts for our next journal writing assignment. Guess what? The girls mostly wrote about their heroines dying in a ditch somewhere while the boys wrote about zombies and flying cars. Ever since then I have been particularly aware of my place as a woman in society. I have read Judith Butler, Irigaray, Kristeva, Cixous, etc.
That said, I think having Vanessa Schwartz open the conference with a feminist, populist critique of the Nouvelle Vague was a mistake. I will get into my particular problems with her assessments in a second, but more importantly: by opening the conference this way she set a tone under which (most) everyone who followed felt that they had to address misogyny and/or elitism as an identifying trait of the New Wave, whether they agreed with Schwartz or not. Instead of talking about the films, the concepts of their directors and their impact, too many of the lectures and discussions centered around a very strange and modern socio-political critique of their context. This might have been interesting had it been covered in one lecture but instead it seemed to permeate through the entire event (with a few very wonderful exceptions).
The crux of Schwartz’s lecture was this:
1) The narrative of the New Wave should not begin with Les Quatres Cents Coups or even Le Beau Serge, but with Brigitte Bardot’s earliest films in the 1950s. She asserted that the “New Wave was founded on Bardolitry” more than the intellectual theories of Godard or Truffaut, and that her influence was deliberately suppressed.
2) Furthermore, the intellectualism of the Cahiers group and others alienated the audience at the time. She reminded us that most of the New Wave films were not hits. Is it not a sign of history’s elitism and misogyny, she asked, that these films — and especially those of the white male Young Turks from the Cahiers group — are valued and revered as cornerstones of French cinema, while box office hits like La Grande Vadrouille are not given their proper place at the top of the pantheon of French cinema? After all, the audience, not the academics, chose them? Should we not have more respect for the audience?
Schwartz’s views about Godard’s and/or the Nouvelle Vague’s misogyny were at least in part echoed in Yosefa Loshitzky‘s lecture which followed and their vague imprint lingered like a stain on the rest of the conference, perhaps because the tone had been set or perhaps also because Schwartz herself sat in the front row of the cinema and insisted on self-aggrandisingly flinging her argument at every subsequent lecturer, whether it pertained to them or not.
There are several reasons why this kind of scholarship both bores and irritates me. For one, although I realise that women have only just recently escaped certain societal yokes and are, as yet, still under a few particularly insidious ones, it also makes me sad that whenever I attend a conference on a particular topic, a majority of the female lecturers inevitably gravitate towards talking about how women have been marginalised in past scholarship/historical narratives on that topic, how unfair it’s all been etc. Yes, the unfairness of it all should be discussed, but come on ladies — it can’t be all we talk about! How can we be respected and treated as equals if we can’t move the conversation out from under the weight of victimisation? For 99% of history women have been treated as incapable of higher thought. Now we are finally able — not to show that we are, not to prove that we are, but to just be — capable thinkers. Isn’t it more constructive as a female academic to meet male academics on universal terms and just talk about the darned topic? We’re smart enough. We don’t have to beg anymore to be taken seriously. Also, it seems to me that laying waste to the legitimate artistic accomplishments of our historical male counterparts only works to devalue our own achievements in the here and now. Although we should all be aware of how women are and have been misrepresented in the past, women don’t deserve equal respect because we have been victimised by history. We deserve it because we have the capability now to create on equal terms.
Secondly, populist arguments annoy me because I can’t help thinking that they are often the lazy academic’s way of trying to earn a reputation with their peers through those two despicable weapons of rhetoric: bullying and good old fashioned liberal guilt. Their arguments tend to go something like this: Popular things are inherently good, because the largest amount of people say they are good, and we must respect all people as having equally good judgment. To do otherwise would be condescending to those people and elitist. In fact, Schwartz went so far as to say that academics shouldn’t be passing value judgments on anything and she was, ironically, very judgmental in this assessment. “Look,” she told a detractor, “You can go along and make your judgments about what’s good and what’s bad in the film world, but let me tell you — in the art history world we’ve moved past that.” Of course, nobody wants to be an elitist. In fact, those of us on the left usually found our principles on tenets of fairness and justice and we hate the idea of looking down on our fellow man. So we apologise to the lazy academic for being so uppity and try to include her discourse in our own.
The problem with these arguments was neatly encapsulated by a participant of the conference who (thank God!) was the last to speak on the very last day. She said:
1) That to generalise audiences is to disrepect them. Audiences are complex and made up of many individuals with varying opinions. To devalue the choices of a minority audience as less important than that of a majority audience would be, there is little doubt, at the peril of culture itself. Is High School Musical more “worthy” than The Seventh Seal? Ordinary People a better film than Raging Bull? Was George Bush good because he was elected by a majority? After all, his audience chose him.
2) Secondly, even within the context of a strictly populist and/or quantitative review, Schwartz’ assessment seemed to ignore that the New Wave films have made more money over the years via DVD sales and re-releases than any of the blockbusters of the time. History’s audience has chosen them, and the fact that the remain popular even after 50 years is worth noting if you are going to take a populist view.
I wanted to hug that woman, let me tell you!
This is not to say that I thought Schwartz was completely off base. I do, in fact, think that she had a point when she said that the New Wave was (at least partially) springboarded off of Brigitte Bardot’s popularity. One need only to look at the record concerning the production of Les Mépris to know that it would never have received funding or distribution if not for the commercial sex appeal of the star. She was important and probably doesn’t deserve to be batted aside when she was undoubtably influential to the New Wave’s initial, and especially international, appeal. However, I don’t think these points need come at a cost of the artistic value of the New Wave, or indeed, its value at all.
But that’s all I’ll say about Vanessa Schwartz’s lecture for now. The next panel of the day was a bit more interesting and the third lecture was, for me, the highlight of the symposium. I’m going to have to write about it tomorrow, however, as this is getting quite long! I’ll try to be a bit more succinct next time!