Everything Is Cinema: The Working Life of Jean-Luc Godard (122 page)

However, practical issues intervened, notably with the administration of the museum and the conventions of its installations. After conflict with curators, particularly with Dominique Païni, Godard refused to work with the museum’s officials and put the exhibit together on his own, with the help of staff. The exhibit, retitled
Voyage(s) en utopie
(Voyage(s) in Utopia),
Godard, 1946–2006
, was reconceived: no longer would it feature Godard’s frequent appearance, but rather three rooms filled with images and documents, as well as a new video,
Vrai Faux Passeport
(Real Fake Passport), that would play on a screen. Yet even in its truncated version, the exhibit provided proof, as if more were needed, of Godard’s claims for the cinema and its inseparability from his own identity. According to Godard, the cinema was, is, more than itself; it is both a supreme aspiration and an impossibility, a repository of history and intimate memory in an age of celebrity and forgetting, a lost golden age of self-transcendence, self-discovery, and a noble, doomed mission of folly for those who would attempt, as Godard himself continues to do, to recover it and restore it.

A complete retrospective of Godard’s work, shown at Beaubourg concurrently with the exhibit, was a great success, with a full house at most of its screenings. As had long seemed clear to those who followed Godard’s career, and to Godard himself, the oeuvre transcended the confines of the movie industry; now, it officially took its place in the house of art—precisely the claim with which the New Wave had demanded its place in the sun.

EPILOGUE

R
OLLE AND ITS SURROUNDINGS ARE A NATURAL PARA
dise. The fifteenth-century castle perches on the shore of the dark blue waters of Lake Geneva. A hundred yards out into the lake, a rounded islet with arcs of dense foliage pierced by a proud, solemn obelisk resembles a Fragonard come to life. The setting is so timeless, it is as if Godard has found shelter in a most un-Swiss form of paradise, one in which the clocks seem to have stopped.

Godard dines here often with Anne-Marie Miéville in the shadow of the medieval castle at the Hostellerie du château (where he filmed Michel Piccoli in
2 × 3 Years of French Cinema
), as he did during my visit to the town in June 2000. In the busy restaurant, even the nearest voices melt into the reverberant din of table talk and kitchen sounds, yet one could discern the high, flutelike voice of Anne-Marie Miéville: “Brigitte Bardot…Cannes…to drop off his screenplay…he’s waiting… budget… doing the color timing before the editing…” Occasionally, when Miéville paused, Godard murmured haltingly before she resumed the steady flow of energized observations. One of the restaurant’s waitresses described the evening as typical: “He hardly ever speaks. She speaks, not him.”
¹
Godard seemed to be enjoying a kind of cinematic serenade, an intimate update from the realm of movies, pronounced by the one trustworthy messenger who was not of that fallen world.

Earlier, Godard had spoken to me of filmmakers whose work he loves and who kept working at a high artistic level, late in life, even after the collapse of the studio system—Howard Hawks, John Ford—and he likened himself to them: “They were also producers. They had their own production houses, that’s how they managed—like me, I’ve got my production house too.”

The cinema has always been his “gauge,” his “means of measurement—even for politics… We were for Mao,” he said, “but when we saw the films he was making, they were bad. So we understood that of necessity there was something wrong with what he was saying… Even today, there are lots of people protesting globalization or things like that, but when I read their texts or their books, I find them bad, or when I see their films, I say to myself, ‘They’re no good either.’ It’s not good if what they do is bad. The cinema has always been a touchstone… a reference of moral and artistic measure.”
²

It follows, then, that Godard’s negative view of the current state of the cinema should lead him to dismay regarding contemporary life as a whole. Young filmmakers, he said, “don’t know the past,” and Godard finds this loss of connection to the past embodied—of course—in the cinema, notably in film technology: “With digital, there is no past, not even technically.” To see a previous shot, one strikes a key, he explains. “It doesn’t take any time to get there, the time to unspool in reverse, the time to go backward. You’re there at once. There’s an entire time that no longer exists, that has been suppressed.”

Godard’s self-imposed isolation in Rolle, his calculated distance from the ordinary modes of modern life, even his continued use of analog video equipment, are strenuous forms of resistance to the suppression of the past. Yet at our meeting in June 2000, he spoke of a change, in both his life and his films: “I’d like to come back to what I would call a classical film, even with fewer resources, but calmly.” He thought that a change of scenery might help, and talked about leaving Rolle: “We have had our fill… we have to find something else.”

But when he told me this, I knew that he would not be likely to leave Rolle, nor to make what he would call a “classical film”—a film reminiscent of the Hollywood movies of the 1940s and’ 50s, which were his first love when he was starting out in the cinema. It seems reasonable for Godard to dream, from the standpoint of his artistic solitude, of a return to classical film, yet inconceivable that he would actually do so. Indeed, if there is no longer a classical cinema for him to come back to, it’s largely as a result of his own efforts.

In the twilight of a summer evening, the lakefront at Rolle is redolent of many of the crucial elements of Godard’s later films: the lapping of water on rocks; the constant and startlingly various voices of birds; the rhapsodic blue of the sky; the vapor trail of a small, fast airplane; the rustle of leaves in the wind; the saturated purples, reds, yellows, pinks of the flowers; the agile starts and stops of solid little cars in small parking lots and narrow roads; the short, hollow peal of an ancient church bell; the presence of man in nature and of nature in man; and most of all, the sense of a last refuge, a place where the new melts imperceptibly into the old, where the press of commerce, the
noise of show business, the simulated miracles of technology recede quietly behind settled traditions and natural consolations. Where can Godard go, when even the radical timelessness of Rolle is not enough?

In that unlikely outpost, he still considers the burden of cinema, its future, to be his. “If nobody makes good films, if nobody can make good films, then it will disappear. But as long as I’m alive, it will last. I still have ten or twenty more years to make it last a little longer.”

The cinema will live on for as long as Godard’s films are seen, or Godard himself is remembered.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

This book developed from a profile of Jean-Luc Godard that was published in
The New Yorker
magazine. That profile grew from a twenty-five year fascination with Godard’s films, throughout which time I had been discussing them, often with David Remnick, who, as friend and editor, enlisted me to write what I had been talking about, gave me the confidence and taught me the skills with which to attempt to do so, and delivered me to the magazine’s magnificent mechanism for helping writers to surpass themselves. As the book progressed, his encouragement, advice, editorial insight, devotion, and practical efforts of many sorts were indispensable to its coming into being. Joining him at
The New Yorker
has been a privilege and a delight. The joyful exertions and the stimulating conversations have nourished me and the book apace. David is a great editor; he is a greater friend. My gratitude is boundless on both counts.

Riva Hocherman of Metropolitan Books asked me to expand the profile into a book. Her suggestions were unfailingly golden. She said all the right things to get it going and to keep it growing, and she also knew when, at a crucial moment, it needed to shrink. Her exacting and insightful editing has been essential to the project’s development. This book is unimaginable in its current form without her engaged, informed, and impassioned attentions. Her deep knowledge of the subject (and of so much more), as well as her un-failing approach to the author—her wise words and her equally wise silences—are essential to the work at hand. A surer hand at the tiller—and amore farsighted navigation—are hard to imagine. I am deeply grateful for her guidance, empathy, and friendship.

I’m also grateful to Sara Bershtel, the associate publisher of Metropolitan
Books, for her energetic and caring support for this project from beginning to end; to Grigory Tovbis for his cheerful attention to all the moving parts; to Meryl Levavi for her exquisite taste and vision; and to Rita Quintas for her extraordinary care and patience under the wire. Their concerted efforts, along with those of everyone at Metropolitan, have brought the elusive ideas into reality.

As agent and friend, Deborah Karl went far downfield for me like a wide receiver, protected me like an offensive lineman, threaded the needle like a quarterback, and guided me like a coach. I’m endlessly grateful for her friendship, advocacy, and authoritative experience.

At
The New Yorker
, Alice Truax devoted exceptional care and energy to this tyro writer’s first pieces; I am deeply indebted to her for her skill, knowledge, devotion, and enthusiasm.

My colleagues—my friends—at
The New Yorker
continue to sustain, inspire, and astonish me. The ongoing conversations with David Denby and Anthony Lane have enriched my work, and my life, as the book sped toward completion; their erudition, passion, encouragement, and probing question shave helped me to keep going. Ben Greenman’s editorial judgment and insights have been a key point of reference in the later stages of the work, his treasure trove of oblique angles a stimulating delight; Shauna Lyon, John Donohue, Russell Platt, and Andrea Scott have endured my labor pains with sympathy and good humor. Michael Specter brought care, energy, and practical support when they were needed most, as well as the joy of new friendship. Elisabeth Biondi and the entire photo department, former and latter—Paula Gillen, Melissa Goldstein, Asha Schechter, and Cassandra Jenkins—helped out and pitched in, wisely, generously, indispensably, and graciously.

Michael Witt was kind enough to invite me to submit a proposal for the For Ever Godard conference in London in June 2001; he, Michael Temple, and James Williams graciously accepted it and flew me over to participate in the program; Chris Darke generously put me up (and put up with me). Fourouzan Deravi offered sympathetic conversation and generous introductions. Thomas Elsaesser, in an evening’s riverside stroll, adjusted my philosophical compass more decisively than he may realize.

Gilberto Perez, my professor at Princeton and my friend, gave me a crucial vote of confidence when it was needed; talks with Jonathan Rosenbaum, to whom he introduced me, were a great impetus and inspiration in getting the project off the ground.

Much of my research was done in Paris, where Chloé Guerber-Cahuzac, Philippe Collin, Etienne Féau and Alexandra Quien, Laurence Crémière and
Gérard Gromer, and Patrice Martinet welcomed me and opened doors, personal and professional, without which the book couldn’t have become what it is. Sabine Trébinjac and Olivier Kyburz, Vesna Jovović, Voutch, and Michelle Seawell made me feel at home. I am especially grateful to Simone Nikolić for good lodgings, good food, and good company.

In addition to the many people who granted interviews, among those who generously made archival materials available were: Alain Bergala, Manette Bertin, Jacques Bonnaffé, Antoine Bourseiller, Bernard Cohn, Romain Goupil, Jean-Pierre Laubscher, Hugues Le Paige, Madeleine Morgen-stern, Bruno Putzulu, Philippe Rony, Barney Rosset, Michel Royer, and Rafael Vela. In inspired fashion, Jean-Pierre Beauviala brought a camera to lunch. Chris Babey volunteered to send a tape, and sent it.

Michael Chaiken, the cinephilic star of his generation, provided, provided, and provided.

Much of this book was written in the sanctuary of the New York Public Library’s Allen Room, a true New York treasure. I’m deeply grateful to Wayne Furman, its benevolent dictator and guardian angel, for letting me in just when I needed it most.

At the Bibliothèque du Film, Régis Robert made sure that I knew what to look for and that I found it. The Cinémathèque Suisse welcomed me like family. Oksana Dykyj at Concordia University made long-forgotten videos come to life again. Mary Lea Bandy led me to the library of the Museum of Modern Art, where Charles Silver spread the treasures out before me. Jackie McAllister, at the Swiss Institute in New York, and Gareth James, who curated a wonderful exhibit of Godard’s videos there in 2000, helped get the ball rolling. Jonas Mekas and Robert Haller opened the doors to the superb library at Anthology Film Archives. The CNC graciously invited me to consult the archives of the Commission de contrôle.

Junji Hori offered a copious bibliography and batch of Japanese texts; Maki Noda delivered heroic, expert, and generous translations and synopses.

Warren Niesluchowski talked with me about iconoclasm and then introduced me to an icon.

Tom Luddy has been a rock of encouragement and wisdom, as well as a font of good conversation and generous suggestions.

Conversation and correspondence with Isabelle Clavé, who lives the cinema with a rare passion, were a crucible for many of the book’s ideas.

It is a special pleasure to have made dear friends in the course of research. Véronique Godard, a true friend to the cinema, has been a true friend to me and to my family; she is deeply missed in New York since she brought her wondrous fervor back to Paris. Jean-Pierre Gorin is a philosopher of cinema
and a born teacher from whom I learn endlessly, about movies and far more. With Michel Vianey and his wife, Marie-Laurence, the empathetic understanding was immediate and joyous.

Jean-Luc Godard graciously received me at his office, showed me videos, and invited me to dinner. The day and evening I spent with him are unforgettable; this book would have been far poorer without the frank insights that he so generously and so unsparingly shared. Even if “at the cinema, we do not think, we are thought,” Jean-Luc Godard has done more for thinking at, about, and by means of the cinema than anyone, ever. This book can never repay what his films and videos have meant to me and to my way of thinking, about movies and about life.