Bazin on Global Cinema PDF

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Bazin on Global Cinema, !"#$– !"%$

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André Bazin at home with a beloved pet in the !"#&s.

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Bazin on Global Cinema!"#$– !"%$

André Bazin&' ()*+(&,- ()- ,-.&,- /0 /,'& 1('-2++3

University of Texas Press Austin

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Copyright © 4567 by the University of Texas PressAll rights reservedPrinted in the United States of AmericaFirst edition, 4567

Requests for permission to reproduce material from this work should be sent to: Permissions University of Texas Press P.O. Box 896: Austin, TX 8986;– 896: http://utpress.utexas.edu/index.php/rp-form

< e paper used in this book meets the minimum requirements of ()*./).*3 =;:.79– 6::4 ('6::8) (Permanence of Paper).

+./' ('0 3> 13)?',** 1(&(+3?.)? -.)-@2/+.1(&.3) -(&(Bazin, André, 6:69– 6:A9. [Essays. Selections. English] Bazin on global cinema, 6:79– 6:A9 / André Bazin ; translated and edited by Bert Cardullo. — First edition. pages cm Includes bibliographical references and index. Includes: Bazin bibliography; Books by André Bazin in French; Articles and reviews by Bazin in their original language; Books by Bazin translated into English; Book reviews of works by Bazin translated into English; Biocritical works on Bazin written in or translated into English; Dissertations and theses on Bazin written in English; Film credits. .*/) :89-5-4:4-8A:;B-8 (cloth : alk. paper) 6. Motion pictures. 4. Motion pictures—Reviews. I. Cardullo, Bert, 6:79– editor, translator. II. Title. @)6::7./;786; 4567 8:6.7;!8A—dc4; 45675564;A

doi:65.8AB5/8A:;B8

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Contents

List of Illustrations 555

Acknowledgments 555

Introduction 555/,'& 1('-2++3

. . ,**(0* ()- /33C ',D .,E*

!. Discovering Cinema: Defense of the (New) Avant-Garde (L’écran français, December 46, 6:79, and Cahiers du cinéma, March 6:A4) 555

F. Death on the Silver Screen (L’esprit, September 6:7:) 555

G. On Form and Matter, or the “Crisis” of Cinema (Almanach du théâtre et du cinéma, 6:A6) 555

#. On the Subject of Rereleases (Cahiers du cinéma, September 6:A6) 555

%. Imaginary Man and the Magical Function of Cinema (France-observateur, September 6;, 6:AB) 555

H. Cinema and Commitment (L’esprit, April 6:A8) 555

I. < e Question of James Dean (France-observateur, April 7, 6:A8) 555

$. < e Star System Lives On (France-observateur, August 6, 6:A8) 555

". Orson Welles Cannibalized (Cahiers du cinéma, October 6:A9) 555

!J. Refl ections on Criticism (Cinéma %$, December 6:A9) 555

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.)&,'+2-, . André Bazin: One Character in Search of an Auteur (Cahiers du cinéma, May 6:A8) 555

... >.+K ',D .,E* ()- 1' .&.1.*K

!!. Marcel Carné’s Le jour se lève (Daybreak) (D.O.C. éducation populaire, January 6:79) 555

!F. Laurence Olivier’s Hamlet (Le parisien libéré, October 6;, 6:79) 555

!G. Coquelin, We Made It! Michael Gordon’s Cyrano de Bergerac (Cahiers du cinéma, December 6:A6) 555

!#. < e Ghetto as Concentration Camp: Alfréd Radok’s ' e Long Journey (Cahiers du cinéma, February 6:A4) 555

!%. Joseph Losey’s M: Remade in the USA (Cahiers du cinéma, April 6:A4) 555

!H. Orson Welles’s Othello (Cahiers du cinéma, June 6:A4) 555

!I. A Meta-Western: Fred Zinnemann’s High Noon (France-observateur, October :, 6:A4) 555

!$. Notes on Two Films by John Cromwell. Women in Cages: Caged; and OL the Beaten Path: ' e Goddess (Cahiers du cinéma, July 6:A;; Cahiers du cinéma, October 6:A9) 555

!". On Ambiguity: John Huston’s ' e Red Badge of Courage (Cahiers du cinéma, October 6:A;) 555

FJ. < e Italian Scene (Cinéma %( à travers le monde, 6:A7) 555

F!. Film through a Telephoto Lens: Ray Ashley, Morris Engel, and Ruth Orkin’s ' e Little Fugitive (Cahiers du cinéma, January 6:A7) 555

FF. An Apocalyptic Pilgrimage: Kaneto Shindo’s Children of Hiroshima (Le parisien libéré, March 65, 6:A7) 555

FG. Brilliant Variations on Some Well-Known Notes: Nicholas Ray’s Johnny Guitar (Le parisien libéré, February 69, 6:AA) 555

F#. Akira Kurosawa’s Rashomon and ' e Seven Samurai (France-observateur, April 47, 6:A4; and Le parisien libéré, December 8, 6:AA) 555

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F%. Doll in the Flesh, Cotton on Fire: Elia Kazan’s Baby Doll (Le parisien libéré, January ;, 6:A8) 555

FH. Akira Kurosawa’s To Live (Cahiers du cinéma, March 6:A8) 555

FI. < e Crabs of Anger: Satoru Yamamura’s ' e Cannery Boat (Cahiers du cinéma, March 6:A8) 555

F$. Andrzej Wajda’s Kanal (Cahiers du cinéma, June 6:A8) 555

F". War Films: Richard Fleischer’s Between Heaven and Hell and Anthony Mann’s Men in War (France-observateur, June 45, 6:A8) 555

GJ. Vladimir Braun’s Malva (France-observateur, September 64, 6:A8) 555

G!. Akira Kurosawa’s ' rone of Blood (Cahiers du cinéma, October 6:A8) 555

GF. Satyajit Ray’s Aparajito (France-observateur, December 6:, 6:A8) 555

GG. Stanley Kramer’s ' e Pride and the Passion (France-observateur, December 6:, 6:A8) 555

G#. Japan: Tadashi Imai’s Night Drum and Akira Kurosawa’s Lower Depths (Cahiers du cinéma, July 6:A9) 555

G%. Sociological Routines: Philip Dunne’s Ten North Frederick (Cahiers du cinéma, October 6:A9) 555

Bazin Bibliography 555Books by André Bazin in French 555Articles and Reviews by Bazin in < eir Original Language 555Books by Bazin Translated into English 555Book Reviews of Works by Bazin Translated into English 555Biocritical Works on Bazin Written in or Translated into English 555Dissertations and < eses on Bazin Written in English 555

Film Credits 555

Index 555

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Illustrations

Un chien andalou (An Andalusian Dog, 6:4:); director: Luis Buñuel. 555

La roue (' e Wheel, 6:4;); director: Abel Gance. 555

Gigi (6:79); director: Jacqueline Audry. 555

Detstvo Gorkogo (' e Childhood of Maxim Gorky, 6:;9); director: Mark Donskoi. 555

À nous la liberté (Freedom for Us, 6:;6); director: René Clair. 555

Mad Wednesday (a.k.a. ' e Sin of Harold Diddlebock, 6:78); director: Preston Sturges. 555

Elena et les hommes (Paris Does Strange ' ings, 6:AB); director: Jean Renoir. 555

Giant (6:AB); director: George Stevens. 555

Macbeth (6:79); director: Orson Welles. 555

Le jour se lève (Daybreak, 6:;:); director: Marcel Carné. 555

Hamlet (6:79); director: Laurence Olivier. 555

Cyrano de Bergerac (6:A5); director: Michael Gordon. 555

Daleká cesta (' e Long Journey, a.k.a. Ghetto Terezín, 6:A5); director: Alfréd Radok. 555

M (6:A6); director: Joseph Losey. 555

' e Tragedy of Othello: ' e Moor of Venice (6:A4); director: Orson Welles. 555

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High Noon (6:A4); director: Fred Zinnemann. 555

Caged (6:A5); director: John Cromwell. 555

' e Goddess (6:A9); director: John Cromwell. 555

' e Red Badge of Courage (6:A6); director: John Huston. 555

Umberto D. (6:A4); director: Vittorio De Sica. 555

Europa ’%! (Europe ’%!, a.k.a. ' e Greatest Love, 6:A4); director: Roberto Rossellini. 555

I vinti (' e Vanquished, 6:A4); director: Michelangelo Antonioni. 555

La provinciale (' e Wayward Wife, 6:A;); director: Mario Soldati. 555

Stazione Termini (Terminal Station, a.k.a. Indiscretion of an American Wife, 6:A;); director: Vittorio De Sica. 555

Il cammino della speranza (' e Road to Hope, 6:A5); director: Pietro Germi. 555

Non c’ è pace tra gli ulivi (No Peace under the Olive Trees, a.k.a. Bloody Easter, 6:A5); director: Giuseppe De Santis. 555

Roma ore undici (Rome, Eleven O’Clock, 6:A4); director: Giuseppe De Santis. 555

Tre storie proibite (' ree Forbidden Tales, 6:A4); director: Augusto Genina. 555

Altri tempi (Times Gone By, 6:A4); director: Alessandro Blasetti. 555

Lo sceicco bianco (' e White Sheik, 6:A4); director: Federico Fellini. 555

' e Little Fugitive (6:A;); directors: Ray Ashley, Morris Engel, and Ruth Orkin. 555

Gembaku no ko (Children of Hiroshima, 6:A4); director: Kaneto Shindô. 555

Johnny Guitar (6:A7); director: Nicholas Ray. 555

Rashomon (Castle Gate, 6:A5); director: Akira Kurosawa. 555

Shichinin no samurai (' e Seven Samurai, 6:A7); director: Akira Kurosawa. 555

Baby Doll (6:AB); director: Elia Kazan. 555

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Ikiru (To Live, 6:A4); director: Akira Kurosawa. 555

Kanikôsen (' e Cannery Boat, 6:A;); director: Satoru Yamamura. 555

Kanal (Sewer, 6:A8); director: Andrzej Wajda. 555

Between Heaven and Hell (6:AB); director: Richard Fleischer. 555

Men in War (6:A8); director: Anthony Mann. 555

Malva (6:A8); director: Vladimir Braun. 555

Kumonosu-jô (' rone of Blood, 6:A8); director: Akira Kurosawa. 555

Aparajito (' e Unvanquished, 6:AB); director: Satyajit Ray. 555

' e Pride and the Passion (6:A8); director: Stanley Kramer. 555

Yoru no tsuzumi (Night Drum, a.k.a. ' e Adulteress, 6:A9); director: Tadashi Imai. 555

Donzoko (' e Lower Depths, 6:A8); director: Akira Kurosawa. 555

Ten North Frederick (6:A9); director: Philip Dunne. 555

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Acknowledgments

M0 &M()C* &3 &M, +(&, N().), /(=.) (6:4;– 455;) for granting me the right to publish these transla-

tions of her husband’s work, and for providing me with photographs of An-dré Bazin. < anks as well to Cahiers du cinéma and Éditions de l’Étoile for granting me rights in cases where they co-held them with Mme Bazin, in other instances as well, and, in general, for their cooperation in helping me to bring this project to fruition.

My deep gratitude also goes out to Canberk Ünsal for his assistance in gathering fi lm images to accompany the essays and reviews in On Global Cinema. Finally, I am grateful to my family—my wife, Kirsi, my daughter, Kia, and my son, Emil—for all their forbearance during the time it took me to complete this project.

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Introduction

A)-'O /(=.) (6:69– 6:A9) K(0 E,++ /, &M, K3*& infl uential critic ever to have written about cinema. He is

credited with almost single-handedly establishing the study of fi lm as an accepted intellectual pursuit, and he can also be considered the principal instigator of the equally infl uential auteur theory: the idea that, since fi lm is an art form, the director of a movie must be perceived as the chief cre-ator of its unique cinematic style. Bazin contributed daily reviews to Paris’s largest-circulation newspaper, Le parisien libéré, and wrote hundreds of es-says for weeklies (Le nouvel observateur, Télérama) as well as for such es-teemed monthly journals as L’esprit and Cahiers du cinéma (which he co-founded in 6:A6), the single most infl uential critical periodical in the history of the cinema. A social activist, he also directed ciné-clubs and, from 6:7A to 6:A5, worked for the Communist outreach organization Travail et Cul-ture. Moreover, Bazin befriended Jean Renoir, Roberto Rossellini, Orson Welles, and Luis Buñuel and was a father fi gure to the critics at Cahiers who would create the New Wave just after he died: François TruL aut, Jean-Luc Godard, Jacques Rivette, and Claude Chabrol. He even adopted the delinquent TruL aut, who dedicated Les quatre cents coups (' e #&& Blows, 6:A:) to him. Bazin’s infl uence spread to critics and fi lmmakers in Latin America, Eastern Europe, and Asia, where today, for instance, Jia Zhangke salutes Bazin as formative to his approach.

One of Bazin’s fi rst essays, “< e Ontology of the Photographic Image” (6:7A), anchors much of what he would produce. It legitimates his taste for documentaries, for neorealism, and for directors who don’t use images rhe-torically but instead to explore reality. Criticized by communists for writ-ing “< e Myth of Stalin in the Soviet Cinema” (6:A5), he would be post-humously attacked by Marxist academics for his presumed naïve faith in

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cinema’s ability to deliver true appearances transparently. Bazin was infl u-enced not by Karl Marx but by Henri-Louis Bergson, André Malraux, and Jean-Paul Sartre. He specialized in literature as a brilliant student at the École Normale Supérieure, where he also was passionate about geology, ge-ography, and psychology. Indeed, metaphors from the sciences frequently appear in his articles.

While many of Bazin’s acolytes are humanists or, in particular, devo-tees of the auteur theory, it is increasingly clear that Bazin attends equally in his published work to systems within which fi lms are made and viewed, including technology, economics, and censorship. Of this published work—between 6:7; and 6:A9, Bazin wrote around 4,B55 articles and re-views—only 6A5 pieces or so are easily accessible in anthologies or edited collections, be they in French, English, or another language. He person-ally collected B7 of his most signifi cant pieces in the four-volume French version of What Is Cinema? (Qu’est-ce que le cinéma?, 6:A9– 6:B4). Additional collections appeared later thanks to TruL aut, Éric Rohmer, and other dev-otees. Obviously, then, most of those who have written about Bazin have done so knowing only a fraction of his output. Still, that output is consid-ered consistent, rich, and consequential. And Bazin’s impact will undoubt-edly grow as more of his writing becomes available.

When the idea of “truth” encounters that of “cinema,” the fi rst name that naturally comes to mind is that of Bazin. But over the past few de-cades, as pointed out above, this French fi lm critic and theorist has gener-ally been viewed as a naïve realist, someone for whom the essence of cinema lay in its mechanical, photographic ability to bring the “truth” to the screen without the all-too-partial and nonobjective intervention of humans. As Noël Carroll wrote in 6::B in ' eorizing the Movie Image, “Bazin held that the image from a fi lm was an objective re-presentation of the past, a ver-itable slice of reality.” Carroll was by no means alone in identifying Ba-zin as someone who believed in the objectivity of the imprint that empiri-cal reality automatically leaves on fi lm. Jean Mitry, Christian Metz, 6:85s Screen-magazine theorists, and most scholars adhering to semiological or cognitivist approaches have all dismissed Bazin’s ontological belief in fi lm’s immediate access to, and correspondence with, empirical reality. Casting a retrospective glance at this almost unanimous rejection of Bazin, Philip Rosen has more recently argued, in “Change Mummifi ed”: Cinema, Histo-ricity, ' eory (4556), that such a repudiation was a veritable collective obses-sion that allowed the then-new subject of fi lm studies to be established as a consistent discipline in its own right. In other words, rejection of Bazin was itself a kind of founding act.

Nowadays, it is perhaps easier to look back and discover what the writ-

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ings by the cofounder of Cahiers du cinéma were really about. Yet, to repeat, these writings are still basically little known to date. In 4559, Dudley An-drew and Hervé Joubert-Laurencin revived scholarly interest in this huge amount of neglected work by organizing, on the occasion of the ninetieth anniversary of Bazin’s birth, two international conferences on the topic of “unknown Bazin.” One took place at Yale University (Opening Bazin), the other at the Université Paris VII– Diderot (Ouvrir Bazin), and an edited collection (Opening Bazin, 4566) was published that gathered most of the talks given at those venues.

Indeed, reading the large number of “unknown”—unanthologized or untranslated—articles by Bazin leaves no doubt: he was not a naïve the-orist. His was not a shallow and simplistic faith in some magical transub-stantiation of reality directly onto the screen. Indeed, much of his writ-ing prefi gures the very theoretical movements, from the 6:85s and after, which—importing concepts from disciplines like psychoanalysis, gender studies, anthropology, literary theory, semiotics, and linguistics to fash-ion structuralist, poststructuralist, Marxist, and feminist fi lm theories—opposed what they saw as Bazin’s exclusively realist bias. < us we can now dismiss the standard opinion according to which Bazin advocated cinema’s photographic ability to reproduce reality—a dismissal that has in fact al-ready been validly formulated in various places by several scholars. One of the most interesting attempts to do so is Daniel Morgan’s “Rethinking Ba-zin” (455B), a careful review of all the excerpts in Bazin’s written works that talk about cinema’s photographic, replicative dimension. Morgan no-ticed that, on this subject, Bazin says diL erent things in diL erent places. Whatever defi nition of cinema we can infer from Bazin’s writings, photo-graphic objectivity has no essential place in it.

Perhaps more important is that Bazin himself repeatedly stigmatized the so-called “photographic objectivity” of the cinema. His articles are replete with warnings like the following: “It is not enough to shoot in the streets to ‘make it real.’ All in all, the script is more important than the fetishism of natural décor” (Le parisien libéré, 69 May 6:7:); “Artifi ce and lie can walk down the streets as well as they can haunt the studios, because reality is not just in the appearance of things, but in man’s heart. Ultimately, it is also a matter of the screenplay” (Le parisien libéré, 6B November 6:7:); “< e realist destiny of cinema—innate in photographic objectivity—is fundamentally equivocal, because it allows the ‘realization’ of the marvelous. Precisely like a dream. < e oneiric character of cinema, linked to the illusory nature of its image as much as to its lightly hypnotic mode of operation, is no less cru-cial than its realism” (Les lettres françaises, 4A July 6:78).

In a word, cinema functions in such a way that we can believe (to some

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extent) that what we see on screen is true. But this does not mean that cin-ema can reproduce truth; on the contrary, its innate realism cannot be sep-arated from its potential to create believable illusions. Hence, cinematic re-alism is not a naïve acknowledgement of what reality actually is; rather, it is dialectically linked to illusion—i.e., to its own fundamental condition. Indeed, in his one and only essay explicitly revolving around the subject of photography, “< e Ontology of the Photographic Image,” Bazin defi nes it as intrinsically surrealist because it is a hallucination that is also a fact.

Only ostensibly the ultimate realist, the author of Qu’est-ce que le ci-néma? has in fact often been accused of being an idealist critic. < is is not incorrect: in many ways Bazin does share the philosophical perspective of idealism, according to which matter does not exist in its own right; it is in fact a product of mind, and therefore all objects are mental creations and the whole world itself—the sum of all objects—is a mental construction. But the view that Bazin is an idealist is not correct enough, either, since one should assume all due consequences from such a premise. < e most ob-vious (but also the least negligible) of these is that, precisely as an idealist, Bazin’s notion of reality is by no means simple. It is not limited simply to what can be found “out there,” either in the “real” world or the world as the mind projects it. Indeed, Bazin’s idealism quickly becomes a form of Cath-olic phenomenology, according to which any attempt at a faithful refl ec-tion of reality is really just a prerequisite—ultimately merely a pretext—for fi nding a transcendental or even theological truth that purportedly exists in reality and is “miraculously” revealed by the camera.

Despite common opinion from the 6:B5s through the 6:95s—opinion that the 4559 Yale/Paris conferences, followed by the 4566 publication of their proceedings, have played a strong role in countering—Bazin paid a lot of attention to social, cultural, political, and economic contexts in his consideration of individual fi lms, and the selections in On Global Cinema are meant to stress this component of his criticism. He frequently mentions in this volume, for example, the eL ect of the profi t motive on the artis-tic quality of Hollywood productions and how, “despite its initially private character, fi lmmaking behaves, by reason of the target audience at which it ultimately aims, nearly like state radio.” Bazin also describes how techno-logical developments change the expectations of audiences and how, as a result, one artistic form can become more convincing than another.

If cinema seems to be the quintessential realistic medium, according to Bazin, this is precisely because it can grasp economic, cultural, political, and psychological realities—every reality, in short, connected to the fact of human beings living together in one society. In other words, cinema’s on-

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tological realism is not a matter of reproducing empirical reality as such; “reality” is much more than the sum of its empirical parts. As Bazin him-self writes in “For a Realistic Aesthetic” (6:7;), posthumously collected in French Cinema of the Occupation and Resistance (Le cinéma de l’occupation et la résistance, 6:8A), “< e cinematic aesthetic will be social, or else will do without an aesthetic.” Hence in the essay “Death on the Silver Screen” (6:7:), translated in this collection, one can read of being forced “into a state of consciousness and then responsibility” in the face of impending death—the origin, according to Bazin, of both time and life—and clearly perceive the social underpinnings of postwar Sartrean existentialism. And the reader of On Global Cinema will fi nd new relevance in Bazin’s humor-ous defense of the 6:A5 American-made version of the French classic Cyrano de Bergerac, so common has it become in the twenty-fi rst century for the artists of one society or culture to recycle the artistic icons from another that is sometimes quite diL erent.

Related to this matter of cross-fertilization, and to return to a point I made earlier, Bazin loved to probe the system that brought fi lms into be-ing and sustained them in the cultural imagination, for as a daily critic he took in every sort of movie imaginable, if mainly mediocre features. Rather than try to fi lter from these a few crystals, he aimed to understand the en-tire process by which they got made, attained their shape, and achieved their value—whatever that might be. < is meant genre study in the broad-est sense. What psychological knot does each genre pick at? How have later variants grown out of earlier examples in the genre or drawn on contem-poraneous types? What precinematic avatars connect these fi lms to long-standing cultural concerns? When, for example, in a 6:A6 article in L’esprit titled “Marcel Carné and Disembodiment” (translated by me in French Cinema from the Liberation to the New Wave, !"#%– !"%$ [4564]), Bazin wrote about this auteur on the occasion of his forgettable fi lm Juliette ou la clef des songes (Juliet, or the Key to Dreams, 6:A6), it was not as a transcendent art-ist whose themes and sensibility deserved deep refl ection; instead he used Carné’s career to ponder how genres and styles move into and out of phase with history and with the public taste.

To Bazin the cinema was thus a vast ecological system that was end-lessly interesting in its interdependencies and fl uctuations. He was always ready to celebrate the creativity of the director, but “the genius of the sys-tem” he found even more fascinating. Only an interdisciplinary or compar-ative approach could begin to understand why even modest directors made such satisfying fi lms during the so-called classical period, a period that Ba-zin could sense was on its way out. His protégés might exercise an elitist

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xviiixviii ) Introduction

politique des auteurs, but he shamed them with their obligation to keep in mind technology, economics, sociology, and, yes, actual politics, alongside the usual approaches to fi lm criticism borrowed from literary studies and art history.

Bazin knew quite a lot about each of these subjects and methods, but his particular genius lay in identifying some revealing textual attributes of whatever fi lm was before him, then using these to leverage a weighty un-derstanding of the work as a whole, or the fi lmmaker, or the genre, or the general conditions of fi lmmaking and reception. In eL ect, he searched for the questions to which fi lms appear to stand as answers, letting stylistic de-tails in the pictures themselves call up his extraordinary range of knowl-edge. No one before him, and no one since, has ever written about fi lm in quite the same way, or on quite the same level.

In sum, Bazin, unlike nearly all the other authors of major fi lm theo-ries, was a working or practical critic who wrote regularly about individ-ual fi lms. He based his criticism on the fi lm actually made rather than on any preconceived aesthetic or sociological principles. < us for the fi rst time with him, fi lm theory became not a matter of pronouncement or prescrip-tion, but of description, analysis, and deduction. Indeed, Bazin can be re-garded as the aesthetic link between fi lm critics and fi lm theorists. During his relatively short writing career, his primary concern, again, was not to answer questions but to raise them, not to establish cinema as an art but to ask, “What is art?” and “What is cinema?”

In this Bazin was the quintessential teacher, ever paying attention to pedagogy, as his “lecture” or “presentation” on Carné’s Le jour se lève (Day-break, 6:;:)—included in On Global Cinema—shows. Himself having failed to pass the French state licensing exam, after which he would have become an actual classroom teacher, Bazin was nonetheless teacherly in his belief that fi lm criticism should help audience members to form their own critical conscience, rather than providing a ready-made one for them or merely judging fi lms in the audience’s place. < rough a kind of sociological psychoanalysis as much as through critical analysis, the fi lm critic should educate moviegoers to deal consciously and responsibly with the “dreams” on screen that are oL ered to them as their own. (As a rule, Bazin’s “social psychoanalyses” through fi lm were generated by a relevant and enlighten-ing but barely discernible detail detected in the fi lm’s texture, which then stimulated a more general “diagnosis” on his part.) And this is possible only if viewers get to know how those dreams, with their secret reality, work—that is, how they are expressed through every formal, technical, social, and aesthetic aspect of the cinema.

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xix ) Introduction

In other words, fi lm criticism should not simply unveil how a cinematic text and the grand cinematic machine work; it should investigate how so-cial myths and ideological formulations are foreign and intimate to the viewer at the same time. Such myths and formulations, albeit illusory, are “real” or “true” because they concretely aL ect the life and feelings of peo-ple, who respond accordingly. Hence the aim of postwar fi lm culture in general, according to Bazin, was “to defend the public against this form of abuse of consciousness, to wake the audience from its dream . . . to render the public sensible to the needs or illusions that were created in it as a mar-ket, for the sole purpose of providing the opium sellers with an outlet for their drug” (Les lettres françaises, 4A July 6:78).

André Bazin, critic and teacher, died tragically young (he was only forty) in 6:A9 of leukemia, an illness against which he fought bravely for years. Yet he left much material behind, in his seminal collection Qu’est-ce que le cinéma? as well as in such magazines as L’ écran français and Les temps modernes—some of the best of which I gathered in Bazin at Work: Major Essays and Reviews from the !"#&s and !"%&s (6::8), André Bazin and Italian Neorealism (4566), and French Cinema from the Liberation to the New Wave, !"#%– !"%$. To these earlier collections, Bazin on Global Cinema may be con-sidered a complement. Covering the years from 6:79 to 6:A9—the post-war period when today’s globalism, with its interdependent economic, in-dustrial, and entertainment networks, fi rst took root—On Global Cinema treats such prominent international moviemakers as Akira Kurosawa, Sa-tya jit Ray, Orson Welles, Roberto Rossellini, Andrzej Wajda, and Elia Ka-zan. < is book also examines well-known fi lms like High Noon (6:A4), Um-berto D. (6:A4), M (6:A6), Hamlet (6:79), ' e Red Badge of Courage (6:A6), and Le jour se lève. Together with these movies and their directors, Ba-zin investigates such important subjects here as the philosophy of fi lm, art and politics, the star system, theater and cinema, fi lm and the avant-garde, the emerging market of fi lm-book publishing, and the mission of criticism itself.

Bazin on Global Cinema features, in addition, a sizable scholarly appara-tus including an extensive index, illustrative movie stills, a comprehensive Bazin bibliography (for the fi rst time in print), and credits of all the fi lms discussed at length. (In the text itself, I have supplied all fi lm dates, trans-lations of fi lm titles, publication dates, and birth-and-death dates of the artists in question, as well as an occasional parenthetical note.) < is vol-ume thus represents a testament to the continuing infl uence of one of the world’s preeminent critical thinkers, as well as a major contribution to the still growing academic discipline of cinema studies. Yet On Global Cinema

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xx ) Introduction

is aimed, as Bazin would want, not only at scholars, teachers, and critics of fi lm, but also at educated or cultivated moviegoers and students of the cin-ema at all levels. In his modesty and simplicity André Bazin considered himself such a student, such an interested fi lmgoer, and it is to the spirit of his humility before the “saint” of cinema, as well as to the steadfastness of his courage in life, that this book is dedicated.

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Bazin on Global Cinema, !"#$– !"%$

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I

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!

-.*13D,' .)? 1.),K( : -,>,)*, 3> &M, (),E) (D()&-?('-,

(L’écran français, December 46, 6:79, and Cahiers du cinéma, March 6:A4)

W, M(D, -,-.1(&,- 32'*,+D,* +(&,+0 &3 *2@@3'&-ing the existence of a certain “avant-garde” and to found-

ing the fi lm society Objectif 7: according to said premise. From 6:47 to 6:;5, what we now know as the avant-garde took on a very precise and un-mistakable meaning. Removed from the demands of commercial cinema, this work attracted only a limited audience and tried to gain acceptance for cinematic experimentation comparable to that found in the painting or literature of the time. < e fi lms of Fernand Léger [6996– 6:AA], Hans Rich-ter [6999– 6:8B], Man Ray [69:5– 6:8B], Luis Buñuel [6:55– 6:9;], and later those of Jean Cocteau [699:– 6:B;] did indeed garner recognition for their exceptional character. For the rest, the public couldn’t fi nd these fi lms any-where, as they were shown only in specialized theaters that constituted a sort of generalized movie club during this period.

Now it would be childish to retrospectively condemn the avant-garde of 6:47– 6:;5, whose role, however indirect, has been considerable. If people do not condemn this movement, they do confuse it on a larger scale with the appearance of the fi rst critical school of cinema, and thus they make it part of the collective consciousness that wished to see the creation of cin-ema as an art form. Today we could certainly criticize such an avant-garde in the name of the mass appeal of the fi lm medium. It is a heavy burden, but also a unique opportunity for the cinema, to be in a position to please a very, very large public. Whereas all the traditional arts have, since the Re-naissance, evolved into forms reserved for a highly reduced, elite audience blessed with fortune or culture, the cinema is innately destined for throngs

< is article constitutes the most important manifesto of the movement of cine-philes, critics, and directors known as Objectif 7:.

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7 ) Bazin on Global Cinema

of people of all classes throughout the world. Every aesthetic experiment premised on limiting its own audience is therefore a historical mistake, pre-destined to failure: a detour into a dead end.

It is also quite true that, even though a number of indisputably talented artists collaborated on it, Buñuel’s An Andalusian Dog [Un chien andalou, 6:4:] has aged far worse than D. W. GriP th’s Broken Blossoms [6:6:]. We would be mistaken, as well, to believe that reaching the masses is a require-ment extraneous to the art of cinema art itself—a simple servitude to the fi lm industry—and that hence a more restricted cinema reserved for a small number of people could in fact exist, like a book of poems next to a best-selling novel. < is is an intellectualist, idealist conception of fi lm art rather than an a priori discerning of its technical means and its dependence on certain economic and social conditions.

Yet “avant-garde” is by defi nition a timeless term for which we can only create a new, virginal meaning. If we desire not to confuse it at all with this or that historical content, the avant-garde is defi ned not by its own mani-fest expression but by what follows it; the avant-garde is thus by defi nition in the vanguard of something. < e relative failure of the pioneers of 6:47– 6:;5 came from their not being concerned with being followed, with what

Un chien andalou (An Andalusian Dog, !")"); director: Luis Buñuel.

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A ) Discovering Cinema

was to follow them. < ey beat around the bush when the whole of cin-ema advanced at a leisurely pace down completely diL erent paths. If in-stead we call the avant-garde not just a small and distinct artistic move-ment but rather everything that, in the cinema, fi nds itself at the forefront of this art, really pushing it forward, then the fi rst avant-garde fi lmmakers would be Georges Méliès [69B6– 6:;9], GriP th [698A– 6:79], Louis Feuillade [698;– 6:4A], Abel Gance [699:– 6:96], and Erich von Stroheim [699A– 6:A8]—who himself never thought of making anything but commercial pictures. Is today’s cinematic art less indebted to them than to Buñuel, Germaine Du-lac [6994– 6:74], or Richter?

It’s this fi rst avant-garde that remains ever possible today, and it’s this one that should be rediscovered and supported. It does have its promoters, whether conscious or not, in directors such as William Wyler [6:54– 6:96], Orson Welles [6:6A– 6:9A], and Preston Sturges [69:9– 6:A:] in the United States; Jean Renoir (the inexhaustible, the magnifi cent [69:7– 6:8:]), Robert Bresson [6:56– 6:::], and Roger Leenhardt [6:5;– 6:9A] in France; and, in It-aly, Roberto Rossellini [6:5B– 6:88] with Paisan [Paisà, 6:7B] and Luchino Visconti [6:5B– 6:8B] with ' e Earth Trembles [La terra trema, 6:79]. I cer-tainly don’t pretend to be making an exclusive and complete list here. Moreover, the issue is not that these directors are necessarily the greatest (although this has sometimes been the case). To wit: Charlie Chaplin [699:– 6:88] is greater than von Stroheim, John Ford [69:7– 6:8;] greater than Wy-ler, and Frank Capra [69:8– 6::6] more important than Sturges. But in an art in constant evolution, such as the cinema, novelty is a value. Given oth-erwise equal conditions, a director who innovates and enriches the lan-guage or content of fi lmmaking—broadens its domain, so to speak—is su-perior to one who, however magnifi cently, dedicates himself to exploiting already conquered territory, even if he did the conquering himself.

So, then, it’s up to artistic genius and critical enterprise to separate the good new fi lms from the bad, the advances to which the audience will later get accustomed from those advances incompatible with the mass appeal of cinema. Such a statement on my part entails developments that I can’t even begin to outline in the space of this article. But we can well see that, for example, the avant-garde of the years 6:47– 6:;5 was marred by an aes-theticism whose retrospective devaluation proves that it could never have had much in common with public taste, and thus not with the cinema ei-ther. Naturally, I can’t stress enough that things are never so simple and that such aesthetic errors can even have been indispensable and produc-tive, if only to help the cinema take stock of itself. As such, these heresies are, from a historical point of view, acceptable and even worthy of high es-teem, yet I refuse to identify them with the commercial failures of Renoir’s

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B ) Bazin on Global Cinema

' e Rules of the Game [La règle du jeu, 6:;:], Welles’s ' e Magnifi cent Am-bersons [6:74], and Bresson’s Ladies of the Park [Les dames du Bois de Bou-logne, 6:7A] or with the boredom some critics say they have experienced while watching Leenhardt’s ' e Last Vacation [Les dernières vacances, 6:79]. For if the general public is to be the supreme judge whose initial verdict we should accept, even a seasoned critic like me could be deluded in the imme-diate present.

We should know how to distinguish between the innovative work whose commercial failure is only accidental and anecdotal and the kind of fi lm that radically betrays the mass appeal of cinema. < ose fi lms that one critic calls “precious celluloid” are more valuable than he pretends to believe, and the joke is not on them. Jean Giraudoux [6994– 6:77] made a valuable con-tribution on this subject when he said, “If preciosity allows cinema to move forward, long live preciosity.” If ' e Last Vacation brings to the silver screen a subtlety of psychological analysis and a manner of storytelling that rival those of the novel, I regret that Leenhardt didn’t have, in addition, Balzac’s temperament and that an excess of critical aptitude may indeed impair his creative capacity. But surely I do not regret that his fi lm bores those who prefer Henri Decoin’s Monelle [Les amoureux sont seuls au monde, 6:79].

Regarding Bresson’s Ladies of the Park, it itself constitutes a botched job. It is true that, for all intents and purposes, this fi lm isn’t solid enough to support the two equally implausible outcomes at which it hints; it is also true that the rarefi ed aestheticism and psychological aL ectation of its sub-ject didn’t please me at all, and, justly, they may have displeased the pub-lic as well. At the very least, however, Bresson has proven that tone and style can exist in cinema as in literature and that serving up some realism in a story that otherwise does not call for it is not necessarily a calamity. I may even hope that, by 6:B5 or so, there will be highly commercial script-writers who can convert to accepted form staging or shooting practices that may have become clichéd by then. < ere isn’t currently, for example, an American fi lm comedy that doesn’t use a mise-en-scène of some depth, and doesn’t make the characters enter from the background, with the direc-tor well aware—but without the public’s paying attention to it—that in Renoir’s or Welles’s fi lms such an entrance, for its own sake, would seem to be a ridiculous and gratuitous experiment.< e avant-garde of 6:A5, then, has as much chance of being misunder-

stood by the larger public as that of 6:4A. < e perfect example, again, is the timeless ' e Rules of the Game; not even three successive releases and the nearly uniform praise of this critic suP ced to make the public swallow it. (< e fourth release, in 6:A6, found a much more understanding public.) However, if we relegate Renoir’s ' e Little Match Girl [La petite marchande

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8 ) Discovering Cinema

d’allumettes, 6:49] to the dustbin of fi lm history in order to make a sacred object of Renoir’s latest fi lm, it is because ' e River (Le fl euve, 6:A6) seems to me to be prophetic. So let the lovers of esotericism be reassured: today’s avant-garde is no less accursed than the earlier one. In fact, quite the con-trary, since to the extent that it makes an eL ort to obey the popular dic-tates of cinema and doesn’t risk, on principle, being misunderstood, it runs an even worse risk: a total misunderstanding on the part of the public and the immediate withdrawal of any producer’s trust. Erich von Stroheim re-mains, and will remain, the patron saint of this particular avant-garde.

It’s surely worth knowing, fi nally, by which criteria we deem a fi lm “avant-garde.” < is was certainly easier to ascertain in the days when fi lms billed themselves as such. However, given the relative defi nition I have given here, discerning the “avant-garde” condition requires a preconceived idea of cinema. To this I won’t shy from objecting, with good reason, that there’s more juvenile presumptuousness in pretending to defi ne cinema and foreseeing its evolution than in dubbing this or that fi lm “avant-garde.” It’s a given that I don’t aspire to humility, understood at the very least as some-thing that would require the renunciation of the critic’s most readily appar-ent role, which is to understand the aesthetic object. I do think, though, that a certain lucid modesty regarding cinema itself is the fi rst condition of critical comprehension. For it can’t be that in order to better guarantee a certain analytical boldness and range of extrapolation, one should have to discern whether a fi lm, misunderstood or triumphant (a recently trium-phant avant-garde fi lm, as the concept of the avant-garde is understood in this article, is Bresson’s Diary of a Country Priest [Journal d’un curé de cam-pagne, 6:A6]), successful or failed, marks the virtual route along which all cinema should pass. Without concealing the dangers of such an endeavor, I shall nevertheless continue to think that, during the Middle Ages, a good critique would have been one that taught the knights how to be men of their time.

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9 )

)

-,(&M 3) &M, * .+D,' *1' ,,)(L’esprit, September 6:7:)

A )2K/,' 3> ),E*@(@,'* M(D, ',1,)&+0 *M3E) us scenes of life in besieged Shanghai. < e “high point” was

the execution by revolver shot to the back of the head, right in the middle of the street, of some young Chinese men (looters? spies? communists?). I don’t believe that the news has ever shown us such a horrifying image, so atrociously, even during the war or after the liberation.

Let’s move quickly to the indecency of most of the journalistic com-ments underlining the sensational nature of these images. I’ll except Éclair journal, whose succinct and sober text, by contrast, transparently shows the horror and the pity of the whole situation. < is commentary also has the additional merit of being reasonably objective.

In the face of such documentation, we can’t ignore the issue of expos-ing pictures like this to the public at large. For my part, I’m strongly for it. Along with contributing, in this particular case, to making unlikeable whichever of the two sides deserves it most, it has the advantage, in my view, of reminding us that the war in China isn’t simply a case of oper-atic exoticism. Anything that could shake us out of our apathy or the phar-isaic curiosity that allows us to read the news from Shanghai in the eve-ning paper as if it were just the “crime of the day”; anything that could make us grasp the reality of the horrors of war in spite of our geographic insulation in this case; anything that forces us into a state of conscious-ness and then responsibility—any such thing is good. Even if, from the start, the purveyors of this news didn’t expect anything but profi t from the sensational imagery of blood and gore, they have, despite their inten-tions and by the very force of the matter at hand, fulfi lled their duty for once.

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: ) Death on the Silver Screen

Nonetheless, I don’t think that this spectacle could raise from the public any feeling other than a sort of sacramental horror, something like spiritual nausea. < e exploiters of these images may have intended to create an out-let for someone’s sadistic impulses, but I don’t think they have succeeded. While we can’t ascertain positively whether such sadism may in fact have been awakened, it seems to me that such an eL ect cannot measure up to the kind of existential current that only the cinema (and, to a lesser extent, ra-dio) can stir up in the abysses of our collective consciousness.< is is because the miracle of cinema is its ability to dissolve time.

Whereas a photograph sticks to an event like plaster to a death mask and doesn’t take from it more than an instant’s imprint of light, the cinema ex-trapolates the duration and the space of the event at the same time. It is able to re-present the event in the time allocated to it. < is paradox, which is essentially that of the mechanical arts, seems to me to have but one lim-itation or, more precisely, an ontologically intolerable point of contradic-tion: death. If life is calculated by society from the moment of birth, its denial by means of death is life’s true existential origin. In eL ect, our expe-rience of time is defi ned by, and derived from, this privileged instant that transforms life into destiny, in André Malraux’s words. Death doesn’t be-long to time: it is its moment of origin, the absolute zero point. To change the metaphor, death is to duration as sexual climax is to love in general: the supreme experience of a sort of intercourse with time.

Hence the veritable ontological pornography of the re-presentation of a real death. From one point of view, death, as exquisite pleasure, is pure sub-jectivity. We wouldn’t know how to contemplate such extreme pleasure on the part of another being; no one can vicariously die or make love. < ese are, if I dare say so, situations that are lived through but which, by defi ni-tion, can’t be treated as objects independent of us. At the same time, they are indescribable, since each one is accomplished through the negation of consciousness. < at is to say, they escape time since they can’t be framed except before and after the event.< e scandalousness of cinema is that it is able to make us see death as an

instant perfectly identical with others, whereas it is the only one of our ac-tions that by its very essence can’t ever be reenacted. < e screen can make us witness this monstrous phenomenon: to re-die. Each Chinese man in the photograph is, on demand, alive again for every show: and the impact of the same bullet lightly shakes the back of his head. Not missed, either, is the gesture of the policeman who twice has to contend with his jammed revolver.

Before the cinema we knew only the profanation of corpses and grave-

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robbing. < anks to fi lm, the only one of our temporally inalienable appara-tuses, the instant of one’s death can be stolen and exposed at will. I imagine the supreme cinematic perversion to be the backward projection of an exe-cution, as in the gimmicky newsreels where we see the diver jump from the water back onto the diving board.

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66 )

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3) >3'K ()- K(&&,' , 3' &M, “1' .* .*” 3> 1.),K(

(Almanach du théâtre et du cinéma, 6:A6)

F3'K(+.*K .) &M, 1.),K( M(* /,,) &(+C,- (/32& a lot in the last year or two. < ere even seem to be “formal-

ist” critics, to whom one would naturally oppose those who side with Di-ogenes the Cynic on subjects such as this. Formalism, I think, is a very new idea in fi lm criticism, at least in the vaguely pejorative meaning that the word takes on nowadays. < e fi nal years of silent cinema were much more formalistic in this regard than the current cinema of 6:A5. It should suP ce here to recall German expressionism, the French school from back then, and certainly, in large measure, Soviet fi lmmaking, which had crafted its own strenuously intellectual aesthetic. Without question, only a select seg-ment of Swedish cinema and most American fi lms can escape the charge of formalism.

In fact, it was the introduction of the spoken word, of sound, that moved cinema in the direction of realism and established the preeminence of content over form, of subject matter over its expression. Most of the sce-narios of silent cinema, by contrast, are but puerile melodramas or even (perhaps especially) soap operas in antithesis to the aestheticism of their

Beginning in 6:7:, a confl ict, fi rst muQ ed and later more and more overt, broke out between members of the Objectif 7: cinema club and the Communist or pro-Communist wing of the magazine L’ écran français. < e latter group lauded “real-ism” while accusing others of “formalism.” In an article titled “Cinema, an Under-ground Art,” Claude Vermorel [6:5B– 4556] fi rst attacked Jean-Charles Tacchella [born 6:4A] and Roger < érond [6:47– 4556] for an interview they had conducted with Alfred Hitchcock [69::– 6:95]. < en Louis Daquin [6:59– 6:95], in “Dis-placed Remarks,” struck out at Alexandre Astruc [born 6:4;], André Bazin [6:69– 6:A9], and in a more general sense the entire Objectif 7: movement. < e article be-low by Bazin focuses on the debate between the two groups.

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form. Consider, for example, the work of Abel Gance [699:– 6:96] or Mar-cel L’Herbier [6999– 6:8:]. It would have been quite unusual at the time to chastise these directors for being more concerned with the originality of their mise-en-scène than with the verisimilitude and depth of the subjects they were treating. If told in words, ' e Wheel [La roue, 6:4;], for example, wouldn’t sell even in the train-station bookshops, but everyone still remem-bers Gance’s accelerated montage. What would the pompous and infantile ideology of D. W. GriP th’s Intolerance [6:6B] be worth today, if this work did not contain at the same time the sum of cinematographic language from which almost all contemporary fi lms continue to take their cue? In-deed, until around the 6:;5s, cinematic excellence was completely indistin-guishable from the mise-en-scène.

It is true that, in eL ect, each new expressive instrument is almost invari-ably matched by a novelty in the thing expressed: to invent a technique has always meant to create an idea or a meaning. Superimposition, now a hack-neyed device, was responsible for every fantastic illusion conjured up by the Scandinavian cinema, and accelerated montage could impart an epic gran-deur to even the sentimental romance between a locomotive driver and a shopgirl. It was with the primitive Westerns, where there was a meeting of the great epic themes of American history and fi lmic montage, that we

La roue (< e Wheel, !")(); director: Abel Gance.

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6; ) On Form and Matter

saw for the fi rst time in the cinema the creation of genuine dramatic sus-pense—together with something as “simple” as the traveling shot, which allows us to follow a galloping horse. < e conception of ancient Christi-anity found in Ben Hur [6:4A, dir. Fred Niblo], moreover, can’t hide its im-becility today; but in this fi lm there still remain four white horses “fi lmed right in the middle of their gallop,” writes Jean Cocteau, “from a vehicle that followed them at the same speed, as they raced past a line of disheveled profi les, sculpted in a wind of marble.”< ese days, when we see such fi lms again, it’s most often the scenario

that is the dregs. < e only thing of value that remains has been created by the fi lm’s form. It’s not that we can’t be moved—quite the contrary—but it is as if our emotions are being fi ltered through the sieve of the mise-en-scène. We reconstruct the fi lm from there; we read a new work in the wa-termark, as it were. What we don’t do is cry any longer over the jealousy of the locomotive driver; instead we exult over a symphony of speed and jux-taposition, if not collision.< e realism of sound, having rendered the symbolism of the silent im-

age less potent and having limited the eL ects of montage, has also clearly modifi ed the relationship between form and content, if it has not radically changed their nature or evolution. In an ever more discreet fashion, sound cinema has had to invent its own mise-en-scène, which was already rich during the silent period; having been left with little new ground to con-quer, sound fi lms have taken instead to refurbishing and refi ning the fi lmic landscape. < e age of great technical discoveries, after all, has come to a close.

Yet now, after the war, we hear for the fi rst time insistent talk about the crisis of cinema, and formal perfection is newly reproached as a blemish on the medium, especially in American fi lm. Any enthusiasm for novelty, for originality in the mise-en-scène, is approached with suspicion, and the “formalist” epithet comes very close to belittling anyone to whom it is ap-plied. Maybe, then, it wouldn’t be so futile to attempt to try to understand this new paradox known as the “crisis” of cinema.

Let us fi rst try to separate the facts of the issue from a few polemical in-cidents that have only helped to confuse matters. True enough, mention of the “crisis” refers not so much to any absence or shortage as to its nature, and to the kind of critic who not only rallies against the inanity of the sub-jects of Western fi lmmaking, but who also reproaches the political agendas that he attributes to this cinema, be they right or wrong. < e crisis, then, is less about attacking movies for having nothing to say than for saying what we don’t want to hear. If we are to postulate that the only permissible sub-jects for the cinema must have predetermined social or political elements,

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it shouldn’t be necessary to repeat that such a directive would considerably enlarge the manifestations of formalism on fi lm. But the question here isn’t really one of defi ning aims and means. It may, however, be one of uncover-ing objective truth in a situation ripe for the exploitation of misunderstand-ing. For it is true that current social and political issues are seldom present in West European or American cinema, or they are there only at the cost of a near total aesthetic emasculation, such as we see in movies about ra-cial issues.< e causes of this phenomenon are rather simple and of a directly com-

mercial origin. < ere isn’t any producer reckless, or crazy, enough to risk thoroughly alienating himself from an important segment of his prospec-tive clientele. For the same reason, for example, anticlericalism in the cin-ema hasn’t been able to go beyond certain limits that are not at all forbid-den to the novelist. < ere exists in the movie industry the phenomenon of self-censorship, which is a lot more eL ective than oP cial censorship, and it serves as a safeguard against oP cious local censorship once a fi lm has been made. To sum up, despite its initially private character, fi lmmaking behaves, by reason of the target audience at which it ultimately aims, nearly like state radio. To a certain extent, it is then true that the cinema eschews subjects that have no artistic reason to be ignored, and that it voluntarily sterilizes those subjects that it dares to make an exception of and proceeds to fi lm. < is sort of vague terror has never reigned so much in the cinema as it does now, probably on account of the international political scene, in which the political currency of the West has been somewhat downgraded. Naturally, such an observation on my part would have to be tempered with details, but it remains valid for the big picture, and consequently I am on the verge of seeing politics as one of the important causes of the cinematic quagmire of the 6:7:– 6:A5 season.

But short of openly confessing no interest in the cinema except in pro-portion to its social and political militancy, I couldn’t pretend to shy away totally from the problem of subject matter in this art form. If we don’t talk in the same way about a crisis in the novel or the theater, it’s surely be-cause nothing prevents Louis Aragon [69:8– 6:94] from writing ' e Com-munists [six volumes, 6:7:– 6:A6, 6:BB– 6:B8] after ' e Voyagers of the Impe-rial [6:74], or Clément Harari [6:6:– 4559] from directing CliL ord Odets’s Waiting for Lefty [6:;A] during the 6:7: season in Paris. More than political censorship, which is a complicated issue in and of itself, there is an intel-lectual censorship that limits the artistic development of cinema. < e cri-sis of subject matter isn’t anything but a question of timidity, or a fear of in-telligence. < e cinema, having by now mastered most subjects—that is to say, all those that come to light by the sheer progress of technique—hesi-

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6A ) On Form and Matter

tates before annexing some of the territory associated with the novel and the drama. And it is surely not by refi ning to a Byzantine level the gang-ster theme, or by substituting Ava Gardner [6:44– 6::5] for Rita Hayworth [6:69– 6:98], that Hollywood is going to weather this particular storm. By contrast, it is through the psychological subtlety of its best scenarios that French cinema has kept its place after the war; and Italian cinema, through the profound humanism of its themes during the same period, has man-aged to introduce itself to the entire world. My esteem for British fi lm-makers soars, as well, because they have incorporated in their fi lms the tra-ditional humor of their literature.

However much in the background the above considerations seem to leave the matter of artistic technique, its goal in fact is to advance such technique. How could anyone imagine that the cinema could escape from such a law of art, which is as old as it is universal? One would have to be utterly blinded by the passion of this debate in order to dispute the evi-dence—that is, that there isn’t any novelty in artistic subject matter that doesn’t simultaneously require an invention of, or an adaptation in, the cor-responding technique. Let us understand, of course, that by technique I don’t necessarily mean just an improved formal device. If such a device does come into being, it may be necessary, as in the case of the much- discussed issue of depth of fi eld; but it is only as a function of its expressive

Gigi (!"#$); director: Jacqueline Audry.

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6B ) Bazin on Global Cinema

value that this device gains its meaning and importance. Finally, and above all, technique shouldn’t be limited to plasticity. < ere exist many invisible aspects of the mise-en-scène that are usually more important than what we think we see on screen. < at is what allows us to say that a fi lm is good in spite of its technical shortcomings.

Such shortcomings concern a secondary, but very visible, aspect of the mise-en-scène. For example, as a period piece, Gigi [6:79, dir. Jacqueline Audry], from Colette’s novella in an adaptation by Pierre Laroche [6:54– 6:B4], represents in eL ect a failure of material means. It was a challenge to try to reconstruct the era of the 6:55s with such skimpy décor, but the fi lm held up because the subject in fact was Colette [698;– 6:A7] herself and the very particular psychology of the book’s characters. What’s important comes to us from the script and the actors. < e physical interpretation by Danièle Delorme of the role of Gigi—well, it’s a veritable mise-en-scène unto itself. Maybe the most touching of Soviet sound fi lms, ' e Childhood of Maxim Gorky [Detstvo Gorkogo, 6:;9, dir. Mark Donskoi], itself exhib-its great technical poverty, with montage that comes across as very confus-ing indeed. But what’s essential—the marvelously equivocal spontaneity of all the characters—is captured perfectly by the actors, and the discursively rhapsodic, subjective, and sincere aspect of childhood memory is never be-trayed by the mise-en-scène, which is less dramatic than spontaneously novelesque.

It is not important that the urgency and necessity of a rapport between form and content be self-consciously visible and calculated; they need only

Detstvo Gorkogo (< e Childhood of Maxim Gorky, !"($); director: Mark Donskoi.

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68 ) On Form and Matter

arise from an intuitive yet balanced response on the part of the artist. It doesn’t even matter to what extent, and in what way, technique gives birth to subject matter; up to a point they are indissociable, anyway, as is the story of Phaedra from the harmonious verse in which Jean Racine cast it in his tragic drama. If Yves Allégret’s ' e Cheat [Manèges, 6:A5] is a remark-able success, as much as his Woman of Antwerp [Dédée d’Anvers, 6:79] and Such a Pretty Little Beach [Une si jolie petite plage, 6:7:] were unremark-able failures, it is not because the scenario was better, but because it fi nally found, through its editing, the right form. Abandoning every formal re-minder of the prewar noir fi lms, Allégret has imprisoned his characters in a hopeless dialectic. < is story could be seen as the product of a conven-tional style that uses its characters as mathematical symbols of a cruel alge-bra. It is one of those fi lms where the style seems to have preceded the elab-oration of the subject; where the artist’s primal intuition has doubtless not been directed at creating a dramatic situation, or even a particular char-acter, but at establishing a certain tone, a rhythm of storytelling—a for-mal harmony, if you will—but one that nonetheless meshes entirely with the picture’s theme. < e relationship between form and matter is not that of container to contents, of bottle to liquid, but more that of shell to clam. < is is by no means a superfl uous and interchangeable form, but a specifi c architecture secreted by an amorphous piece of fl esh whose disappearance would therefore not leave a single trace.

If nature must proceed from the inside to the outside, from cause to ef-fect, it is the privilege of art, as of science, to induce matter or to deduce form. Paul Valéry [6986– 6:7A] built ' e Seaside Cemetery [6:78] upon the ca-dence of a single line of verse. Having said that, I still have to acknowledge that an expressive style can veer from the subject that authenticates it; we see this quite easily in the most mediocre Italian or especially American ne-orealist fi lms, where the shooting in natural locations with nonprofessional actors exposes even more the artifi ciality of these pictures’ subjects. But the vanity and even superstition of such a dubious practice do not apply to gen-uine works of art, in which style is always a function of the matter to be expressed.

It is not true at all, by the way, that every technical breakthrough super-imposed on an important subject is forcefully justifi ed by what it’s charged with expressing. An old Renault taxi can take you to the train station as well as the newest American automobile. < at could very well be the case for today’s Soviet cinema, inasmuch as we can generalize from just one tech-nical breakthrough, or the theory concerning it, about a sparse yet at the same time diverse amount of fi lmic production. Eisenstein once labored to aesthetically undergird the needs of revolutionary propaganda through his

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theory of montage, but I can’t see any way in which the patriotic themes of Alexander Nevsky [Aleksandr Nevskiy, 6:;9, dir. Sergei Eisenstein] demanded the noteworthy formal expressiveness of this fi lm’s mise-en-scène. < e abundant formal means of ' e Battle of Stalingrad [Stalingradskaya bitva, 6:7:, dir. Vladimir Petrov] and ' e ' ird Blow [Tretiy udar, 6:79, dir. Igor Savchenko], for their part, neither add to nor subtract from the historical thesis each one develops. In a sort of paradoxical revolution, socialist real-ism will thus take on, after a few years, the allure of a kind of neoformalism.

It is necessary, in any case, to conclude this discussion of the false issue of formalism in the cinema. If it is true that technique poses the critics par-ticularly interesting problems, this is certainly not with regard to fi lm crit-icism itself, but rather with regard to the extent to which technique is an enduring and readable sign of the achievement of depth. It has been a long time, for example, since the cinema sought to emulate the theater. Was it only the novelty of their subjects, then, that made ' e Little Foxes [6:76, dir. William Wyler], Hamlet (6:79, dir. Laurence Olivier), or ' e Storm Within [Les parents terribles, 6:79, dir. Jean Cocteau] such screen masterpieces? Was it only after forty years of trial and error and bad “fi lmed theater” that the cinema fi nally found the narrative techniques with which to successfully adapt plays to fi lm? Indeed, it would be quite astonishing if, in a real com-petition with the theater, the novel, and journalism over new subjects to treat, the cinema didn’t feel the need to enrich its means of expression.

Only a shallow observer could deduce, at this point in the cinema’s evo-lution, that it falls on the director to renounce fi lm’s technical resources in-stead of creating new ones, in the belief that creative invention will best be served through the use of classic procedures. Sound cinema, having reached the end of, or at least a plateau in, its formal evolution, is refl ecting—per-haps for the fi rst time—on its true formal problems. Such a cinema can-not evade any longer the decisive importance of style: that is, the funda-mental state of the art where every technique is completely responsible for what it expresses, or every form is a sign, and where nothing is really said without its being couched in the necessary form. Criticism could then be practiced, at least on the best fi lms, as it has been practiced now for a cen-tury on the best literature, by means of the otherwise artifi cial categories of form and content. To speak of “form” in this new sense is the very opposite of an analysis of subject matter, and we wouldn’t be able any longer to con-fi ne ourselves to noting that this or that particular stylistic aspect has now been introduced. We’d have to make sure that it has been conquered, for the fi lmmakers as well as for ourselves: that it has become “of the cinema” even as Stendhal’s characters, André Gide’s moral views, or Victor Hugo’s political convictions have become “of literature.”

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6: )

#

3) &M, *2/N,1& 3> ' ,' ,+, (*,*(Cahiers du cinéma, September 6:A6)

TM, &'2, )3D,+&0 3> &M, *2KK,' *,(*3) 3) &M, exclusive screens of Paris is the multiple number of rere-

leases—a phenomenon that no doubt doesn’t date only from this year. We have been noticing it for two or three years now, at the Cinéma d’Essai in particular, yet it seems to be limited to small, semispecialized movie the-aters whose clientele could almost be mistaken for that of the cinema clubs or fi lm societies. And yet it is not completely fair to identify this new com-mercial phenomenon with the mission of the ciné-clubs. Without question, rereleases are not completely anomalous, but one should acknowledge that the eL ort of the clubs has in eL ect paved the way for them.

Indeed, the clubs have been sowing a good seed with their interest in older fi lms; they have contributed to the idea that the cinema of the past is equal or superior to that of the present. < ey have also contributed to the idea that fi lm is endowed with the same qualities as the other arts, one of them being that it is capable of resisting the passage of time. But this idea follows a trajectory that can even be traced to a country without ciné-clubs, like the United States. We can take it for granted, for example, that when Chaplin [699:– 6:88] fi nally created a narrative, voice-over commen-tary for ' e Gold Rush [6:4A] in 6:74 and rereleased City Lights [6:;6] in 6:A5, he was doing something that shared a common denominator, both in form and spirit, with the activity of the ciné-clubs. < e same goes for René Clair when he cut six hundred meters from Freedom for Us [À nous la li-berté, 6:;6], also in 6:A5, and simultaneously restored the negative in keep-ing with current taste.

I can well imagine the ciné-clubs of 6:AA comparing the original, 6:;6 version of Clair’s fi lm to the new commercial one. < is hypothetical exam-ple perfectly illustrates the diL erence between the ciné-club phenomenon

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and that of rereleases. In the fi rst case, we are dealing with a consciousness of, and respect for, history in which the work of art is contextually linked to the date of its making. In the second case, the work, even though it may be old, preserves a universal value and a vitality that are always in keeping with the times. < e aging of a fi lm’s technique and the multiple signs of the year in which it was made—evident in the costumes, the makeup, and the actors’ performances—thereby cease to be insurmountable obstacles to the public’s interest in its essential art. < e ciné-club afi cionado may read a fi lm script and be pleased to discover that the author of the original source ma-terial is from the sixteenth century. < e future spectator of Freedom for Us will probably smile at the slight archaisms of language, yet, ever the capable pedagogue, Clair has deleted the passages that would be incomprehensi-ble without a dictionary and thereby made the fi lm our contemporary. < e cinephiles may go to old fi lms, then, but some old fi lms reveal themselves capable of going back to the public—via the boulevard theaters.

As limited as it may be in principle, the practice of rereleases for some fi lms may have something radically revolutionary about it from the point of view of fi lmic mores. As Marcel L’Herbier [6999– 6:8:] once put the mat-ter, cinema is opposed to the other arts in that these aspire to the conquest of Time, whereas cinema aims to conquer Space. Stendhal [689;– 6974] is not the only one who could proudly claim that he wrote to be read in one

À nous la liberté (Freedom for Us, !"(!); director: René Clair.

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46 ) On Rereleases

hundred years; even the artists most worried about the consecration of im-mediate success—painters, poets, playwrights, and architects—know that the fi nal judgment of their work will be in its appeal to posterity. Cinema, by contrast, is in fact a slave to fashion. It must conquer the largest possible number of screens, as fast as possible, in a maximum of four or fi ve years. < e ideal example of this is Chaplin, whose fi lms have fl ooded the entire world. No geographical conquest in history has even come close to the one achieved by this man-myth. Yet Chaplin himself, by taking care to pull his previous fi lm from circulation before the release of his next one, in order to ensure the latter’s success, has illustrated these last few years the law of spa-tial competition. Cinematic successes are by defi nition extensive and exclu-sive; they are juxtaposed one against the other, not superposed on top of each other.< e practice of remakes itself perfectly demonstrates this state of aL airs.

When a fi lm has been successful enough that people’s memory of it may still have commercial value, it is not enough just to put it back into cir-culation: the picture is remade, sometimes as a carbon copy, with diL er-ent actors and a diL erent director. Here are some examples of this practice: Back Street [6:;4, dir. John M. Stahl; 6:76, dir. Robert Stevenson], Daybreak [Le jour se lève, 6:;:, dir. Marcel Carné; remade as ' e Long Night, 6:78, dir. Anatole Litvak], and recently ' e Raven [Le corbeau, 6:7;, dir. Henri-Georges Clouzot; remade as ' e !(th Letter, 6:A6, dir. Otto Preminger].< ere’s no doubt we could fi nd an economic infrastructure for the aes-

thetic phenomenon of remakes as well as rereleases. < e extent of the com-mercial distribution circuit, the speed with which fi lms must run through it, and the commercial inconsequence that they suL er by the end of their run—these are all the direct consequence of the amount of fi nancial in-vestment in the cinema. < e cinema is an industry that needs to rotate; the new in it chases away the old without any consideration of value, simply be-cause it is old, or, more precisely, because novelty itself is identifi ed with value. < at is the principle behind the building of exclusive movie houses in expensive neighborhoods. Yet economic imperatives aren’t the only cause of this situation. < ey confi rm more than they create the societal demand. Presently the situation isn’t so diL erent in Soviet Russia, either, in spite of the fact that the industry there is nonprofi t. (However, it is true that ideo-logical obsolescence calls for novelty as well.)

A thousand roots may link the cinema to the present, then, but they wither once the season is past. < is is especially true of fi lm’s technical evolution. Even if we were to dispute that there could actually be prog-ress in art, even if we refuse to identify the perfecting of technical means with aesthetic advancement, the fact still remains that the cinema’s fore-

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most strength is one of illusion: it presents itself as the fi ction that comes closest to duplicating the surface of the tangible world. Yet, despite its pho-tographic verisimilitude, this illusion of reality can’t be created without a minimum of conventions. From Louis Lumière’s Workers Leaving the Fac-tory [La sortie des usines, 69:A] up to Orson Welles’s Citizen Kane [6:76], it’s true, the cinema continued to see a reduction in the number of its techni-cal impairments. In 6:4A, for example, a silent fi lm gave its audience a per-fect illusion of reality; by 6:;B, the silence of such a fi lm was a convention that couldn’t be eL ortlessly accepted. Realism is the general law of cinema, then, but it is relative to the form’s material evolution. To the imperious de-mands of realism, the following secondary ones related to artistic technique must be added: photographic style, lighting, and montage. So many con-ventions are transparent during the period of their novelty, yet they become opaque blindfolds after fi ve or six years when another convention comes along and imposes itself on the medium.

Apart from these properly cinematographic factors, what needs to be taken into account is the more or less direct crystallization of an era on fi lm—its tastes, its sensibility, and thousands of little details that date the image. Of all the arts, cinema is the one that leaves itself most open to the passage of time. Whereas the erosion of the years usually doesn’t aL ect any-thing except the incidental superstructures of other works of art, it touches the essence of fi lm: such erosion may “skin” and sometimes even penetrate to the core of a play, a poem, or a painting, but it always destroys the very illusion of reality that the cinema in principle creates.

How, then, do we emotionally identify with heroes, vicariously partici-pate in actions, and avowedly believe in the objective reality of events that the marks of time render in such a way as to make them indissoluble to the imagination? < e woman that I vicariously seduce in the form of an actress on screen can’t be wearing a dress from 6:4A and have short hair like that of a boy, nor can I pick her up in a prewar Hispano-Suiza automobile. < e temporal relativity of cinematographic appearances is their absolute, if you will. In the manner of reality and of dreams, fi lmic action can’t, by defi ni-tion, present itself as past. < e remake, which is nothing but the updating of a fi lm, doesn’t have any more than a shallow link with theatrical mise-en-scène, which adapts an ancient or classic text to the tastes of the present day. Such a text is the essence of a play, its imperishable nucleus, whereas the mise-en-scène of a fi lm can’t be distinguished from its script any more than the body can be from the soul. Reshooting a fi lm may be analogous to rewriting a play, but the two activities are not synonymous: you don’t re-write Molière’s ' e Miser [6BB9].< e obligation of contemporaneity, which anchors fi lm to the depths

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4; ) On Rereleases

of our imagination and prevents it from accompanying the thread of time that pulls us forward, takes on a subtly destructive form when it touches the actor—at least the kind completely identifi ed with cinema and known as the movie star. < is is the very subject of Sunset Boulevard [6:A5, dir. Billy Wilder]. “Stars are ageless,” exclaims the fi lm’s heroine, Norma Des-mond, as she tries to exorcise the consequences of this truth by aP rming it. Yes, a star cannot age, because by being completely identifi ed with her myth, she makes a mockery of mortality by virtue of her timeless image—a timelessness that condemns the actress herself to death, since it forbids her to live and age with her own body. < e cinema, in this way, is the complete opposite of the theater when it comes to glorifying actors. Sarah Bernhardt [6977– 6:4;] ended her career with an apotheosis after half a century on the stage, despite her wooden leg, because consciousness of illusion and the willing suspension of disbelief are at the very foundation of the theatrical universe. < ere, the audience perfectly distinguishes Sarah Bernhardt from Rostand’s Aiglon [6:55] or Racine’s Phaedra [6B88], but on screen it can’t distinguish Greta Garbo from . . . Greta Garbo, even when she embodies (or, better put, “disembodies”) the character of Marguerite Gautier in Ca-mille [6:;B, dir. George Cukor] or Christina of Sweden in Queen Christina [6:;;, dir. Rouben Mamoulian].

It is precisely in the phenomenology of the actor that we discover the laws of cinematic illusion. I have remarked numerous times over the past ten or fi fteen years on the reduction in number, if not the utter disappear-ance, of true stars, and the rise of the mere starlet as well as, more recently, even the anonymous performer. Today we understand better the cause of this phenomenon: as cinematic illusion technically grows stronger and stronger, a layer of consciousness slides between the viewer and the fi lm that locks the image in servitude to time. With time, in fact, such servitude only increases. So much is this the case that, for an ever-larger segment of the public these days, the very concept of the star is fast disappearing. And any autopsy of the movie star in Billy Wilder’s Sunset Boulevard isn’t com-prehensible except from this perspective.

In this regard, Mad Wednesday [a.k.a. ' e Sin of Harold Diddlebock, 6:78] seems to me of even greater signifi cance, because Preston Sturges gen-uinely captures here the novelty of such a phenomenon today. We know that the beginning of Sturges’s fi lm consists of the last reel from Harold Lloyd’s ' e Freshman [6:4A], but, unlike the Queen Kelly [6:4:, dir. Erich von Stroheim] fragment in Sunset Boulevard, this reel is an integral part of the new work: it constitutes an episode that the scenario accurately dates around 6:4A, and that is inserted into Mad Wednesday through specially made linking shots. Moreover, Lloyd the actor really is twenty-two years

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younger at the start of the picture. Sturges thus presents the old on equal footing with the new; he breaks the spell created by Harold Lloyd [69:7– 6:86] in his myth and reembodies it in an actor who has the right age (as well as the right to age) and is, in reality, a sort of miraculously revived Sleeping Beauty—one whose adventures constitute, beyond mere farcical caper, the substance of the fi lm’s scenario.

Without question, the phenomenon of the rerelease surpasses in com-plexity and signifi cance the case of fi lms like Mad Wednesday, in which the cinema tries to regain consciousness of its past, but the rerelease de-rives from the same deep-seated cause: a decisive modifi cation in the rela-tionship between the public and the movies. < e primal and total illusion in which the viewer lost himself a long time ago, the identifi cation without detachment, the euphoria of the cinematic presence whose charm was not yet troubled by any sign of changing times—these have all slowly been re-placed by a conscious and consenting illusion. It is no doubt diL erent from that of the theater but, assuming that this new illusion is at the very least like the one that attends the novel, there remains the possibility of partic-ipating in its imaginary universe despite fi neries of style whose aging does not allow for any confusion with current reality.< ere is, then, no reason to see in rereleases, as is often insinuated, the

consequences of a hypothetical decadence of the cinema. It is not at all be-cause today’s fi lms aren’t as good as those made fi fteen or twenty years ago

Mad Wednesday (a.k.a. < e Sin of Harold Diddlebock, !"#*); director: Preston Sturges.

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4A ) On Rereleases

that we resee ' e (" Steps [6:;A, dir. Alfred Hitchcock], Bizarre, Bizarre [Drôle de drame, 6:;8, dir. Marcel Carné], or A Night at the Opera [6:;A, dir. Sam Wood]. But there does exist now a public capable of appreciating these masterpieces in spite of their age, and that is the reason we go to see them again. In its own time, Bizarre, Bizarre met with sensational failure before getting some ironic box-oP ce revenge with the denigration of Carné’s lat-est picture, Juliet, or the Key to Dreams [Juliette ou la clef des songes, 6:A6]. Yet it could be that when, in 6:AA, a movie theater on the Champs Elysées rereleases Juliette on the occasion of a new fi lm from Carné, we will fi nd in the earlier picture the charms we deny it today.< is leads me to conclude that the fi lmmaker may, in the end, win his

trial on appeal, not only in the discussion groups of fi lm archives or the forewarned membership of the ciné-clubs, but also in the eyes of the pub-lic at large—the one that pays, and therefore the only one that counts for the producer. < e director doesn’t have to “write,” like Stendhal, to be read a hundred years later, but he can no longer be denied the hope of having his fi lm seen ten years after its making. Even if such a rerelease doesn’t reach numbers that would convince producers in the future to invest their capi-tal in late bloomers, even if such a rerelease doesn’t result in anything more than the making of a few good preservation prints of the fi lm in question, we can still see in it something better than its reverse number: the product of any later-designated golden age of cinema in the year of its initial release.

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4B )

%

.K(?.)('0 K() ()- &M, K(?.1( + >2)1& .3) 3> 1.),K(

(France-observateur, September 6;, 6:AB)

I E3) ’& @',&,)- &3 *M3E K0 13)&,K@& >3' &M, fi lms of the past week in order to have an excuse not to talk

about them. From the city of Anjou, where I am trying to entice fi sh to bite my hook, I observe rather the opposite tendency in the press: that the crit-ics are talking about the fi lms of the week because, more and more, dis-tributors are ignoring the prejudice against the “dead” summer season. For two or three years now, we have been witnessing the release, in exclusive Parisian theaters—among all the rereleases and cannon-fodder pictures—of fi lms once reserved for the fall and spring months. True, the programs for August still aren’t comparable to those of October or March, but they aren’t negligible anymore, either, and that means I’ll have to catch up on some of the fi lms released during my absence when I get back to Paris. Nat-urally, the exceptionally favorable weather conditions for the movie-theater business this year should be taken into account, but these really don’t do anything except stress an evolution already in course, whose fi rst milestone has been the practice of summer rereleases.

So, I wouldn’t know how to critique the fi lms that I haven’t been able to see this week, but I’ll use this opportunity to fi nally review, albeit a bit late, the most important book on cinema to be published in France in many years. In my view this is the most signifi cant French fi lm book of the post-war period, aside from the historical works whose value is of a diL erent kind. < e book in question is Cinema, or the Imaginary Man: An Essay in Sociological Anthropology [Éditions de Minuit, 6:AB; translated into En-glish and published by the University of Minnesota Press, 455A], by Edgar Morin. < e arrival on the scene of this young sociologist from the French National Center for Scientifi c Research isn’t unknown to the readers of

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48 ) Imaginary Man and the Function of Cinema

France-observateur, who nonetheless may not know that Morin devotes the bulk of his research to the cinema. Cinema, or the Imaginary Man is the fi rst of a series of works in which he describes the anthropological founda-tions of the cinema.

1.),K( ()- *31.3+3?0

Anthropology and sociology aren’t my fi elds, and I confess right away that I have an a priori distrust, not in these sciences themselves, how-ever uncertain they may be, but in the submission of the cinema to their combined critical apparatus. You can always resort to a sociology or psy-chology of fi lm, or of any other art for that matter, but, at the end of the day, you should also have to determine if, as a result, you are more en-lightened about the cinema in its totality—that is, as an aesthetic phe-nomenon. I understand well that for a sociologist, a movie of almost no aesthetic value could have the signifi cance of ten masterpieces, but I my-self would measure the scope and intelligence of his analysis on the basis of how much it permitted me a fuller comprehension of a fi lm’s superior artistry.

Yet if we observe, notably in certain young critics, the abusive and half-hearted use of cheap sociology to buttress analyses that would otherwise appear to be aesthetically based, we can also reciprocally lament that con-scientious sociological researchers vitiate their own studies, or at the very least considerably reduce their scope, by too obviously ignoring issues of artistic hierarchy and historical context. Literature, as we know, starts at its lowest rung in melodrama and detective fi ction, and the sociology of literature understandably pays special attention to these forms. Yet, above all, it is important to understand how Balzac’s work derives from melo-drama and what the relationship is between the genius of Edgar Allan Poe [695:– 697:] and the laws of the detective story. It then becomes nec-essary, and high time, for sociology to become aware of the superiority of Honoré de Balzac [68::– 69A5] to Pierre Alexis Ponson du Terrail [694:– 6986]!

Edgar Morin’s primary virtue is that he knows he is talking about an art form, and it is his latent preservation of a sense of hierarchy and value in works of art that makes his book useful for the critic, or simply for the thoughtful cinephile. If his anthropology on one level merges with sociol-ogy, it opens on another to a purely artistic understanding of the cinema. More precisely, it opens us up to this understanding.

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&M, K(?.1(+ >2)1&.3) 3> .K(?,*

I wouldn’t know how to summarize this 4A5-page (in large or cof-fee-table format) book here, and I must confess in addition that I barely managed to get through Cinema, or the Imaginary Man on account of its “scientifi c,” at times brutally oL -putting, organization. I do hope, however, not to betray Edgar Morin’s thinking, so I shall immediately place in evi-dence the central premise from which his analysis derives, and to which it ceaselessly returns.

It has become commonplace to resort to comparisons between the cin-ema and dreams, and to build on the parallel between the two by starting with some precise, yet arbitrarily extrapolated, quotations. Edgar Morin begins with anthropological sources that attest to the magical function of the image: that, on the one hand, it empowers the being represented, and, on the other hand, it renders that being capable of indefi nitely extending life as well as defying death. With cinema, civilization has thus returned to the most primitive, and perhaps the most universal, human myth. “< e image,” Morin writes, “retains the magical quality of the double: interior-ized, nascent, and subjectivized. < e double embodies the psychic, aL ective quality of the image, a quality that is simultaneously alienated and magi-cal.” Primitive man, a child, and a neurotic all have in common a certain ability to magically reify the imaginary. “< is commonality,” Morin postu-lates, “is determined by the double—the metamorphoses, the ubiquity, the universal fl uidity, the analogy between microscopic and macroscopic, be-tween the anthropomorphic and the cosmological. < at is, by none other than the constituent characteristics of the cinematic universe.”

More relative and individual than the magical reifi cation of the dou-ble, the psychological realism of dreams constitutes a stage in the conscious subjectifi cation of the image. Dreams appear during sleep as, in eL ect, an objective external reality instead of a phantasmal double. Yet didn’t the fi rst fi lm spectators, who reeled back from the Lumières’ train entering La Cio-tat station in 69:A, exhibit, in their “fi rst startled response,” the survival in modern civilized man of the archaic or oneiric tendency to reify the image, precisely because of its sudden appearance combined with its unexpected realism (thanks in part to movement)?

I won’t examine how Edgar Morin analyzes in a most compelling way the processes of projection and identifi cation that take the spectator from magical-oneiric fascination to simple, aL ective participation, and then to lucidly aesthetic emotion. I will only note that the eL ectiveness of his rea-soning resides for the most part in the dialectics of his logic. Many such

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4: ) Imaginary Man and the Function of Cinema

analyses have been partially made already but without achieving a convinc-ing synthesis, because they lacked dialectical reasoning or, at the very least, a clear awareness of the reciprocity of cause and eL ect. From another angle, Morin has the perspicacity not to see in cinema the birth of phenomena of which it is otherwise the most radical incarnation today. “< e processes of projection and identifi cation,” Morin declares,

which lie at the heart of cinema, are manifestly those that lie at the heart of life. < ey combine there to spare the viewer the Jourdain-esque joy [after Jourdain’s Paradox, as formulated by Philip Jourdain, 698:– 6:6:] of discovering them for the fi rst time in a movie theater. Naïve commentators believe that identifi cation and projection (each of which is always examined apart from other psychological pro-cesses) were born with the cinema. By the same token everyone be-lieves, no doubt, that he invented love himself.

A part of Edgar Morin’s analyses directly or indirectly enlightens us about every single art, or, should we desire it, about art in general, of which cinema is just the most modern of manifestations.

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Even though Morin doesn’t cease to underline the autogenetic links between magic and cinema, he doesn’t belong to the group that sees nothing but magic in the cinema. When it exerts its force on the primi-tive myths concerning images that are at the core of mechanistic civiliza-tion, fi lm evolves very quickly to the level of intellectual consciousness of this civilization. < e deepest, most original pages in this book are therefore those where Edgar Morin shows how cinema, from a primitive and fi xed plane, has expanded as a language—not in spite of its unreality but thanks to it—and has even turned itself into a tool in the service of what was orig-inally a simple search for eP cacy in fantasy. “< e metamorphosis achieved by Méliès,” Morin writes,

has given birth to the dissolve and the fade-out. Stripped of its magic, the dissolve itself becomes a poetic and dreamlike eL ect. < ese eL ects are used progressively: the dissolve and the fade-out are reduced to a purely syntactical function—the sign of an existen-tial relationship between two planes—with the result that the magic

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;5 ) Bazin on Global Cinema

trick has become a sign of intelligence. Final wonder: the cinema al-lows us to witness the birth of reason out of the very system of par-ticipation that gave birth to magic and to the soul.

I won’t quarrel with Edgar Morin much over minor details because I fi nd myself in agreement with most of his fundamental propositions, as well as with his critical approach. What I feel, however, as I close his book may not be any objection but some surprise. < e surprise comes in the pages de-voted to the similarities and diL erences between theater and cinema, be-cause it seems to me that Morin unintentionally neglects to stress the fact that theater presupposes the reciprocal convention of game- playing. And yet, this idea of game-playing, which is essential for the comprehension of certain, if not all, arts, seems nearly absent here. It may be that for Morin, the game is not a fundamental anthropological category, but it also may be that its reality cannot be reduced to an analysis of magical, oneiric, or religious phenomena, or even to a mode of projection-cum- participation. Whatever the case, it would unquestionably have been helpful had Mo-rin justifi ed his position on this matter. If magic has nearly disappeared (at least in coherent social forms) from our scientifi c society, playing games persists in many shapes and forms, of which sports are not the least signif-icant. Truly, a game presupposes a certain level of consciousness that the fi lm viewer doesn’t seem to attain, but that we may nonetheless fi nd in live television transmissions. In any event, there are several questions here that were surely worth raising or at least intimating.

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;6 )

+

1.),K( ()- 13KK.&K,)&(L’esprit, April 6:A8)

N3&M.)? 132+- /, K3', >33+.*M &M() &3 ',-gard criticism as hogwash, or, as is often the case, as a spe-

cial form of hogwash. < e authority of the professional critic resides in the fact that criticism is his job, but his job only in the sense that he frequents movie theaters more assiduously than does the average spectator. I do know, however, that a number of young people who are not critics—yet who see more fi lms than I do—are of the opinion that criticism is hogwash. Some of my friends who have never written a single line believe this as well: in-deed, they are surer of it than most people in Paris.< is short preamble is not precautionary rhetoric on my part; it has the

objective of summarizing the spirit in which I am going to discuss the lat-est article by the fi lm critic Jean Carta (“< e Resignation of Cinema,” in L’esprit of March 6:A8), with whom I have already had a dispute over the fi lmmakers Jean Renoir [69:7– 6:8:] and Juan Antonio Bardem [6:44– 4554]. His violent criticism of French cinema seems to me so strong that I won’t even attempt to attack it frontally. I admit that even I was shocked by Carta’s virulence; in any event, his piece does contain some irrefutable ar-guments among others that seem less valid to me.

For what, then, does Carta—one of the regular fi lm critics for the Cath-olic weekly Témoignage chrétien—reproach French cinema? He says that it is not in touch with the realities of our time. Renoir, for example, who be-fore World War II was the most lucid observer of French society, drifts oL today in the evocation of a Boulangist or reactionary soap opera that is fur-ther reduced to a love story. Carta could have added that Paris Does Strange ' ings [Elena et les hommes, 6:AB, dir. Jean Renoir] isn’t even faithful to the gravity of this veritable sentimental intrigue, at the end of which the French general and politician Georges Ernest Boulanger [69;8– 69:6] committed

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suicide on the grave of his mistress, Madame de Bonnemains [née Mar-guerite Crouzet, died 69:6]. I won’t get into an argument with Carta over the details of this case, because the negative aspect of his critique is on the whole true. It is indisputable, as he argues, that French cinema of the 6:;5s and 6:75s was more “social” than it has been in these last fi ve years, with-out even taking into account the fact that the “dark realism” of the prewar period could itself pass for a faithful if less exhaustive portrait of the society of that time. Renoir’s ' e Crime of Monsieur Lange [Le crime de Monsieur Lange, 6:;B], for example, had manifest and intimate connections with the advent of the left-wing political movement known as the Popular Front.

I agree with Carta in his scathing attack against “progressive” fi lm-makers who do nothing but complain about censorship at the same time they show themselves ready to sell out to any producer, to make any movie for the right amount of money. As for the artistic courage and professional solidarity that should be expected from professional unions, these groups uttered not the smallest word of protest when the producers of Lola Montès [6:AA] ravaged Max Ophüls’s work by making him reedit the original ver-sion, which had not done so well commercially, to their liking—with the complicity of the fi lm’s technicians and actors. < e critics have protested, it’s true, but what do these platonic protests amount to in the face of the

Elena et les hommes (Paris Does Strange < ings, !"%+); director: Jean Renoir.

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;; ) Cinema and Commitment

hypothetical solidarity that the technicians’ and artists’ unions have shown with the directors’ association, if in fact only the latter has expressed its opinion on this matter?

Certainly from Jean Carta’s perspective, messing with a fi lm so out of touch with its time as Lola Montès is a rather benign aL air; I suppose, moreover, that he doesn’t like it the least bit. After all, Lola Montès doesn’t deal directly or indirectly with the Algerian War, or the conditions of the working class, or any of the other social and political problems that eL ec-tively prevent us these days from sleeping at night. < is extravagant and paradoxically accursed work [loosely based on Cécil Saint-Laurent’s never- completed historical novel of the life of the Irish-born American dancer Lola Montez, 6969– 69B6] is nothing but a baroque meditation on the glory of love. Probably, too, this is the only fi lm besides Jacqueline Audry’s 6:A7 version of Jean-Paul Sartre’s play No Exit [6:77] that really has hell as its subject—and it’s more convincing than No Exit as far as I am concerned. If by chance Carta had happened to love Lola Montès, I’d adapt his reasoning to Smiles of a Summer Night [Sommarnattens leende, 6:AA, dir. Ingmar Berg-man], whose tragic eroticism Carta’s eyes would certainly miss. When Au-gust Strindberg mined the depths of tragic eroticism, he was at least simul-taneously addressing the subject of suL ragettes and female liberation!

Don’t believe for a moment that I making an a priori apology here for “detached” fi lms versus committed cinema. I would only like to defend the cinema, be it French or not, against those who would absolutely make it share our historical worries and who judge fi lms for what they translate onto the screen of our sociopolitical present. < at’s a possible critical crite-rion but surely one that has little to do with cinematic art. Despite the fact that we French critics exhibit more subtlety, more eclecticism, and natu-rally more intelligence than Communist ones, must we still judge fi lms as they do? Carta would rightly argue that the Communists do not (should I have written “did not”?) reject nonprogressive fi lms out of hand, and that their true fault lies (“lay”?) in praising socialist-realist pieces of garbage to the high heavens. Yet can we be sure that we will be lucid judges of socially committed cinema if we are unjust toward “detached” cinema? I confess that Carta’s impetuous and brilliant argument would disarm me if I didn’t take a step back from the examples he oL ers in support of it; when I do so, I see that his contempt for fi lms I appreciate is matched only by my dislike of those that he presents as masterpieces.

I won’t revisit our dispute over Bardem, whom I think I just love with more moderation and realism than does Carta, but as far as the otherwise excellent Salt of the Earth [6:A7, dir. Herbert J. Biberman] is concerned, this picture is just not going to take its place in the History of Cinema no

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matter what Carta says. He justly criticizes Gervaise [6:AB] in the name of Battle of the Rails [La bataille du rail, 6:7B], but which is considered René Clément’s masterpiece today: Battle of the Rails, his fi lm about the French resistance, or Forbidden Games [Jeux interdits, 6:A4]? Are Bresson’s Diary of a Country Priest [Journal d’un curé de campagne, 6:A6] and Ladies of the Park [Les dames du Bois de Boulogne, 6:7A] to be judged as inferior to A Man Escaped [Un condamné à mort s’est échappé ou Le vent sou, e où il veut, 6:AB] under the pretext that the latter takes its subject from recent history? Does it displease Carta that Jacques Becker, who fashioned himself a wit-ness of his times, nonetheless turned out the “spurious” Antoine and Antoi-nette [Antoine et Antoinette, 6:78], the “absent” Rendezvous in July [Rendez-vous de juillet, 6:7:], the “vain” Edward and Caroline [Édouard et Caroline, 6:A6], and the very Belle Époque Golden Helmet [Casque d’or, 6:A4]?

Posing the above question is answering it, because we shouldn’t force a director’s talent in any particular direction, and no artist expects to have obligations to French cinema when choosing the subject for his next fi lm. Carta invokes Jean-Paul Sartre [6:5A– 6:95] here. However, this is a doubly dangerous gambit. Mostly because nothing has appeared up to now to con-vincingly confi rm the ideas put forward in Sartre’s preface to the fi rst issue of his literary and political journal Les temps modernes, but perhaps above all because Sartre’s latest endeavor has been to buttress Stalinism from abroad for three years and thereby slow down its collapse—at the very mo-ment when it seemed fated to collapse. His little adventure has given confi -dence to those who have continued during this time to write as if they were playing political dodgeball. I ask Jean Carta in addition for his assessment of the works, say, of André Gide [Return from the USSR, 6:;8] or Paul Clau-del [“Lyrics to Marshal Pétain,” 6:75].

In reality it is in vain that we reproach any art for not being socially con-scious, because it is so when it can be. If Jean Carta’s pessimistic observa-tions condemn anything, it is France, not French cinema. If the fi lmmak-ers who scream about censorship don’t go on strike to demolish it, perhaps the profession lacks the unity and the collective consciousness (except in the defense of its own closed shop) to do so; but it also happens that the most demagogical of the protesters cannot ignore the fact that in the end oP cial censorship plays but a small role in the choice of the subjects treated by the French cinema. If France were a “popular democracy,” Louis Daquin would be able to shoot more fi lms about miners, although they wouldn’t have any more success than did his Mark of the Day [Le point du jour, 6:7:], whose distribution, notably in the north, was a catastrophe.

Note that I don’t speak ill of Mark of the Day, which I defended at the time of its release. But apart from me and Carta . . . in any case, it is not

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;A ) Cinema and Commitment

censorship that condemns this genre of fi lm to commercial failure. Cer-tainly, censorship didn’t prevent us from dealing with anticolonialist or an-timilitarist subjects. It may be unfortunate, but how many of these pic-tures would have seen the light of day without government intervention? Who has prohibited the producers from undertaking fi lms about our great-est postwar social ill: the housing crisis? I haven’t heard of any such sce-nario being submitted for precensorship screening. Oh, I forgot: Robert Darène’s ' e Ragpickers of Emmaus [Les chi- onniers d’Emmaüs, 6:AA]! Alas, it was not banned! Believe me, dear Jean Carta, if a fi lm about the housing crisis could turn a profi t, there would be ten producers rushing to the fash-ionable sixteenth arrondissement to raise the funds to make it.

Maybe you would say that profi table fi lms could be made about the housing crisis; it’s just a question of imagination, and you hold it against our directors for spending so much time, eL ort, and money on the eternal themes instead of on the dramas of their own time. I agree with you, but I would also add that there should be a reason deeper than individual psy-chology or creativity to explain why our scriptwriters and directors do not make the kinds of fi lms you desire. It is this reason or this cluster of reasons that should be analyzed and maybe denounced, but it seems futile to take your frustration out on the fi lmmakers themselves, who generally end up shooting the pictures that suit their individual temperament or their taste, which doesn’t strike me as being something too far from what the general public would deem acceptable.

If Jean Renoir doesn’t shoot fi lms like Grand Illusion [La grande illusion, 6:;8] anymore but only the likes of Paris Does Strange ' ings, we could al-ways say that it’s due to senility on his part. We could also very well think that it’s because today he doesn’t want his message, if there is one, to meet with individual moral refl ection. You, Jean Carta, recognized this tendency quickly enough in ' e Golden Coach [Le carrosse d’or, 6:A4], but I can’t un-derstand how you could passionately love this fi lm—as much as your writ-ing about it reveals, in any event—yet detest Paris Does Strange ' ings. Moreover, one could strongly prefer the fi rst movie and deem the latter anything but its equal or even a failure, but it is not possible to draw a deep artistic dividing line between the two of them. You have also said that the success of ' e Golden Coach, already anomalous enough in your eyes, par-adoxically announced the start of Renoir’s decline. Finally, you desire that Renoir become himself again and you command him to do so in the name of his past, yet you ignore the fact he that he has really never ceased to be himself.

I have been working on an article for L’esprit, about the current renais-sance in Hollywood, where I propose to show that this renewal owes much

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;B ) Bazin on Global Cinema

to the existence of certain conditions favorable to the rise of social realism. < ere’s no doubt anymore, of course, that neorealism is part of the con-temporary life and social landscape of Italy. Yet when we analyze these “re-alisms” up close, we perceive that they aren’t aesthetically worthy in and of themselves, that they serve as aesthetic catalysts toward a synthesis that should always be located on a higher plane than the social one. We see this clearly in the work of Roberto Rossellini [6:5B– 6:88] and Federico Fellini [6:45– 6::;]. If we wanted, then, to prove that French cinema suL ers on ac-count of its abstraction from contemporary events, it wouldn’t suP ce sim-ply to note the obsolescence of its themes; it is also necessary to prove that any updating would be possible on the part of both the fi lmmakers and the public, and to argue persuasively that this rapprochement with current his-tory would truly enrich our cinema—given its circumstances as well as its contributors and their artistic temperaments.

I am sure that Carta agrees with me in not seeing André Cayatte’s or Jean-Paul Le Chanois’s fi lms as the ideal of French cinema, and that he pre-fers Bresson’s Ladies of the Park, Becker’s Edward and Caroline, ' e Best Part [La meilleure part, 6:AA, dir. Yves Allégret], even the sinister Bold Ad-venture [Les aventures de Till L’Espiègle, 6:AB, dir. Gérard Philipe and Joris Ivens]. < e only unforgivable “resignation”—one that eL ectively condemns works of art from both the artistic point of view and the moral one—is the one expressed toward humanity. Whether we are talking about a fi lm or a completely diL erent form of expression, the artist should teach other hu-man beings something worthwhile. But such a revelation doesn’t always have to come from current social or historical circumstances.

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;8 )

*

&M, R2,*& .3) 3> N(K,* -,()(France-observateur, April 7, 6:A8)

M0 ',1,)& 1' .&.R2, 3> ?.()& [6:AB] M(* ?('-nered me a few letters, of which two seem particularly

signifi cant. Since I’m going to grant myself a right to reply that could seem unkind, I won’t disclose the full names of the writers.< e fi rst letter comes from Mr. Jacques D. It is laconic and peremptory:

Dear Sir: A charming, fi ne, and cultivated man named Bernard Le Bovier de Fontenelle has written that “everything is possible and everybody has his reasons.” But the end of your review is stupidly nasty.

< e second letter is in a diL erent tone and lays out its rationale over four pages but, essentially, it also reproaches me for the artistic reservations that I dared to express regarding James Dean. “< ere is,” so writes Mrs. D. from Neuilly-sur-Seine,

a certain kind of unbalanced person to admire and to love! Fortu-nately for his memory (. . .) I have read many articles from American magazines, and all of them were testimonies of friendship toward James Dean. Capricious or temperamental but humane, softhearted, and above all misunderstood . . . I never met him . . . I regret it because know-ing this man must have been very special for all those close to him, even if he wasn’t always kindness itself. You never once met him . . . Well? How, then, can you form an opinion? James Dean will remain nothing less than an actor of great talent,

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of dazzling personality, in his own league, an indefi nable presence made up of rebellion and tenderness, of violence and love. I think that, for me, no one will ever be able to take his place, and that he has left us a deep and lasting legacy, as well as endless sorrow at his passing.

In spite of their diL erences in tone and argument, these two letters seem to me to reveal a common reaction. Each of my correspondents diL ers with me for personal reasons. By daring to lend James Dean a human psychol-ogy, I have committed the crime of “lèse-mythology,” or violating the myth that this man has become. I’ll defend myself by saying that I wrote about him without evil intent—that whatever hypotheses I formulated may be debatable, but they are devoid of malice. In short, I strove to portray James Dean as a particular young man possessing exceptional acting talent but by no means an indescribable or unlimited one. < is little bit of audacity on my part has nevertheless cost me, and in a weekly publication of such seri-ousness as France-observateur, moreover, where Edgar Morin’s article about the James Dean myth—a response so clearly confi rming the existence of said myth—reveals, I think, that I was right to single it out for criticism.

At this point, however, I would like to cite as a worthwhile example of perfectly objective argumentation the criticism made of me by Louis Marcorelles [6:44– 6::5], whose name is not unknown to the readers of France-observateur:

You implicitly attack the Phariseeism of this type of fi lm that inev-itably turns into an exaltation of the “American Way of Life.” But I think that you are a bit unjust in the case of the fi lm from George Stevens [6:57– 6:8A], a work whose sincerity is as undeniable, in my opinion, as the total absence of genius of its producer and direc-tor. (. . .) < ese last few years we have been suL ering from a certain consensual yet involuntary “demystifi cation” complex regarding the American cinema.

I understand how, let us say, a screenwriter and director like Pierre Kast [6:45– 6:97] would feel wronged by my kind of criticism. But George Ste-vens won’t be aL ected by it: Giant has already been heralded as one of the biggest successes in the history of American cinema. With more than S64 million in anticipated box-oP ce receipts in the American market alone, it will immediately secure a place behind Victor Fleming’s Gone with the Wind [6:;:] and Henry Koster’s ' e Robe [6:A;] in the earnings game. < e public may fi nd a fi lmed bestseller in this movie, yet I think there is a lot

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;: ) ' e Question of James Dean

more. Stevens’s taking a stand against racism during the fi ght scene in the diner—a racism sanctioned by the vox populi—marks a turning point in American cinema and, I’m almost tempted to say, in American history. In Giant, make no mistake about it, a cat is a cat and a racist is a racist; there is no subtlety about it: everything here is written in black or white. I agree that problems won’t be solved just by principled statements of the kind found here, yet this picture comes at an important time in American his-tory. And it’s not afraid to cause a little trouble, either.

Finally, I disagree with those who discern “demagoguery” in George Stevens. I have some fears that it may be just such an anticommunist pho-bia that paralyzes so many of our aesthetic refl exes. Once and for all, we must liberate ourselves from the Muscovite burden and judge the world and its inhabitants in the here and now. < e United States, the cradle of liberalism, a liberalism that issued forth from our very own encyclopedic eighteenth century (completely diL erent from the blissfully materialistic nineteenth century, which gave birth to capitalism and its dreadful anti-dote, Stalinist communism—the results of whose ravages we are still see-ing today), is advancing slowly toward the solution to one of its gravest problems, that of the black minority, which holds the sword of Damocles over the great American democracy. We ourselves are not in a position to give lessons to our “great ally” for the simple reason that this racist cancer doesn’t exist here in France. Regarding the USSR, Nikita Khrushchev has admitted that it was easier to deport his country’s own troublesome groups; evidently, that is one way a way of solving the problem—or so the Russians suppose.

Giant (!"%+); director: George Stevens.

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To me, in any event, Giant is unquestionably as important a fi lm as John Ford’s ' e Grapes of Wrath [6:75]. It inserts itself into the history lived by Americans today, as opposed to a fi lm like Sergei Eisenstein’s Battleship Po-temkin [Bronenosets Potyomkin, 6:4A], which was just a reenactment or an a posteriori work of art. < is seemingly incidental aspect of cinema, far from the lofty, metaphysical heights, cannot in any way be ignored, as the new American cinema tries, along with Nicholas Ray, to go beyond appear-ances: to return to the source, to the anguish of the individual in the face of the almost total failure, on a moral and spiritual plane, of modern mecha-nistic civilization, in the East as well as in the West. Stevens is a good guy, a bit uncouth but deeply conscious, like the < eodore Dreiser whom he vis-ibly admires, of the social alienation I describe and of many other aspects of American civilization as well. Stevens represents the great liberal tradi-tion of which we aren’t too conscious here in Europe, our progressives hav-ing become disenchanted with themselves and one another, always squint-ing toward the East.

Stevens emerges from the adventure of Giant, where he risked so much (but let’s admit that the unforeseen death of James Dean has provided the fi lm with valuable publicity, although Dean’s early demise hasn’t been ex-ploited in the United States with as much cynicism as it has here in France), as a colossus of American cinema for whom everything is now possible. Let us hope that his work doesn’t decline in quality. Personally, I prefer Ste-vens’s A Place in the Sun [6:A6] to Giant, because it’s better made (a fi lm from Stevens is only worth as much as its script, and in the case of Giant that script is quite lamentable). I have perused Edna Ferber’s novel, and it is defi nitely Delhi as dreamed up by Sinclair Lewis. But Stevens has notice-ably amplifi ed the antiracist angle of the novel’s subject, which was only roughly sketched in by Miss Ferber. Should we call that demagoguery? Ste-vens can be sure that the Texas bigwigs will not be holding him dear to their hearts any time soon.

I want to address now the criticism that I am being quite unfair with regard to James Dean, and just for the pleasure of demystifying him one more time. Let me say that Dean, and only Dean, gives the fi lm its gen-uine satiric and incisive tone, from the very fi rst scenes in which he ap-pears. Quite a few of his lines are lifted straight from the book, and the way in which he has brought them to life is quite remarkable, showing the great actor that he had in him. Dean achieved his fame, however, not be-cause his fi lmic characters have matched his true character (truly a haphaz-ard amalgam), but because of the crazed mourning into which hysterical bobby-soxers have been transmuted by his sudden death. I won’t hide from the reader the fact that, in some respects, he is for me an actor as signifi -

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76 ) ' e Question of James Dean

cant as Jean Gabin or Humphrey Bogart. He touches me mostly for a rea-son that I concede is very subjective: that is, to the extent that he has more or less taken up the mantle of John Garfi eld and other social rejects of the screen. But there is something to his acting other than an exceptional iden-tifi cation with any character he is playing, and it is precisely Giant that made Dean’s genius explode, putting an end to the dominance of William Wyler, of other Stevens fi lms, and of the rest of the old cinema with its psy-chological pretenses. Rock Hudson and Elizabeth Taylor are nothing more than beautiful mannequins in this picture compared to Dean. Mercedes McCambridge herself is just a bossy lady, a typical female composite à la Hollywood.

In East of Eden [6:AA], Dean transposed modern angst and paranoia back to the good old times of the early twentieth century, a period that, at the very least, was badly defi ned. Elia Kazan’s success with Dean here was in knowing how to treat his star, and his fi lm, in a willfully anachronistic style; his choice of Dean for the part of Cal was thus by no means an ac-cident. By contrast, George Stevens adheres to the style of a glossy family magazine in Giant, so it’s quite understandable that such a style would not mesh with the presence of Dean. < e American fi lmmaker, whether he’s called Stevens or Ray, lacks critical acumen; he doesn’t know how to down-play himself or his work as do our fi lmmakers in France, where the ultimate goal is precisely ever to demystify and show that no one has been fooled. < at will be the French cinema’s superiority for many years to come.

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74 )

$

&M, *&(' *0*&,K + . D ,* 3)(France-observateur, August 6, 6:A8)

I M(D, 13)*.-,' (/+, M3K,E3'C &3 -3 .) &M, sphere of fi lm books because publishing in this area, especially

during the past few months, has been quite fecund. But for now I want only to talk about ' e Stars, by Edgar Morin [Éditions du Seuil, 6:A8]. It is unnecessary to introduce someone like Morin. Readers were able, a few months ago, to read in advance some of the very brightest pages from his small book, which is dedicated to James Dean. And last summer I reviewed his fi rst monograph, Cinema, or the Imaginary Man [Éditions de Minuit, 6:AB], which still remains the most solid essay on the cinema from an an-thropological point of view. ' e Stars is in a certain way an illustration of the theses put forward in Cinema, or the Imaginary Man, through an analy-sis of the star phenomenon itself.

André Malraux’s dazzling summation on this subject is already well known: “Marlene Dietrich isn’t an actress like Sarah Bernhardt; she’s a myth like Phryne.” It was after such a statement that the notion of myth as applied to fi lm actors found an audience [Malraux’s Sketch for a Psychology of the Cinema, published in 6:7B, in fact dates from before the war], but it was employed in a vague, if not erroneous, manner. < ere has been no deep and rigorous analysis of the star phenomenon, instead just a lot pseudosci-entifi c verbalizing. Edgar Morin gives clear defi nitions of this phenome-non and amply demonstrates the psychological, sociological, and economic mechanisms that lie behind “starifi cation.” He writes: “Film, otherwise a means to duplicate life, calls up the heroic and romantic myths, which in-carnate themselves on screen and thereby set in motion once again the old processes of imagination out of which the gods were born.”

Psychologically, the star satisfi es a paradoxical dialectic of idealization and familiarity. If certain stars of the silent cinema (Rudolph Valentino,

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7; ) ' e Star System Lives On

Greta Garbo) were gods inaccessible by defi nition, even when they at-tracted human sacrifi ces (the death of Valentino), the evolution of the phe-nomenon, principally with the coming of sound cinema, tended to position the star at the ambiguous level of hero and demigod. Close enough to us to allow for identifi cation, ideal enough to be nothing but a projection of our desires, the modern star isn’t at all this intransigent sun that burns its wor-shippers but the mirage of a being that establishes an equivocal and sub-tle rapport with social and psychological reality. “< e star system,” Morin writes,

seems governed by a thermostat: if the movement of humanization that brings the star down to the level of mortals brushes too much against everyday life, an internal mechanism reestablishes the dis-tance, and a new artifi ce exalts the star, taking him or her back to lofty heights. But every excess in this regard causes a call to “real-ism”; in other words, the evolution that has occurred since 6:;5 is irreversible, but it still can’t move to the decisive stage that would bring about the total decay of the star system. < e star system fl ies quite low over everyday life.

Nonetheless, it could have eL ectively seemed, in the years 6:7A– 6:7B, at the moment of the triumph of Italian neorealism, that the star system was but an old remnant on its way to extinction. We willingly wrote back then that mythology was yielding to psychology, that the cinema was entering a Romanesque period where the dictatorial primacy of the star wouldn’t be possible anymore. From this point of view, it would be interesting to study the conversion of mythical actors, like Jean Gabin, into normal actors ca-pable of incarnating a diverse range of characters. We could then watch, in the fi lms Gabin made after the war [' e Walls of Malapaga, released in 6:7: as Au-delà des grilles, dir. René Clément; and Marie of the Port, released in 6:A5 as La Marie du port, dir. Marcel Carné], his character being kept wise about life at the same time as he remains open to mythical elements (the theme of the mythic ship and the earthly grate, for example, comes straight from Pepe, the Toulon Man [Pépé le Moko, 6:;8, dir. Julien Duvivier] and Port of Shadows [Quai des brumes, 6:;9, dir. Marcel Carné]). < is “demyth-ifi cation” was progressively like a detoxifi cation. Gabin could well have sac-rifi ced his fi lm career at this juncture, for the immediate and total renounc-ing of his erstwhile character would have broken him professionally.

Nevertheless, the forecasts that concluded with the slow death of the star system have been refuted by the facts; it is here that economic analysis be-comes indispensable for the total comprehension of the phenomenon. Cap-

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italism isn’t the direct cause of the star, but it is the direct cause of the star system. As Morin points out, “< e star responds to an aL ective or mythic need that is not created by the star system. But without the star system, this need wouldn’t fi nd its outlets, its supports, its aphrodisiacs.” Historically, the star was born during the fi rst fi lm competition, in the second decade of the twentieth century. It takes only a reading of the extraordinary book by Adolph Zukor, ' e Public Is Never Wrong [6:A;], to become persuaded. < e star’s revival clearly proceeds from the movie-attendance crisis that Holly-wood started to suL er in 6:79. To this crisis, as to that of sound in 6:49, Hollywood reacted with a technical renewal—CinemaScope and the in-creasing use of color—but even more so with the production of new stars: Marilyn Monroe, Marlon Brando, and James Dean, with the latter’s death proving the degree of “mythifi cation” of his celebrity.

Naturally, the star phenomenon didn’t restrict itself to Hollywood, and, by aesthetic polarization, it determined analogous movements in the other great fi lmmaking nations, the most recent example in France being that of Brigitte Bardot. It could be that, without ignoring the subject, Morin doesn’t underscore well enough the rapport that may exist between the technical and psychosocial processes of star-making. Spurred by capital-istic competition, “starifi cation” wouldn’t have been possible without the concomitant evolution of cinematic style and the invention of the close-up. It’s the close-up, because of the virtual proximity of the actor’s face, that solicits and permits the oneiric identifi cation incompatible with theatrical spectacle. As Malraux always says, “A theater actor is a small head in a big room, a movie actor, a big head in a small room.”

Now we know that the evolution of editing, after the advent of sound cinema and especially after 6:75, tended toward the elimination of the close-up, which was more and more felt to be an unrealistic artifi ce. From this point of view, the enlargement of movie screens, itself independent of the editing process, should have had an eL ect comparable to that of the “re-duction” of cinematic space in the close-up. But in the same composition as before, the actor felt closer to us in CinemaScope than he did in the clas-sic format. Old Zukor himself isn’t fooled, and this is precisely what he ap-plauds about widescreen shooting in his book ' e Public Is Never Wrong. Moreover, a truth that hurt as it dawned found itself confi rmed: it is not at all the décor or the landscape that benefi ts most from CinemaScope, but the actor, and even more so the actor in close shots. By becoming larger, the screen is like a telescope that makes new stars rise up from the night.

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7A )

"

3'*3) E,++,* 1())./( + .=,-(Cahiers du cinéma, October 6:A9)

TM.* E.++ )3& ,T (1&+0 /, ( 1' .&.1(+ *2KK('0 of Peter Noble’s book on Orson Welles, but of what it has

become in the French version released by Pierre Horay Publishers (Or-son Welles le magnifi que, 6:A8 [translated from ' e Fabulous Orson Welles, 6:AB]). If Maurice Bessy [6:65– 6::;] had not loaned me the English orig-inal so that I could consult the index for cross-checking, I would still be completely ignorant of the despicable tampering in which the French ed-itors have engaged, and I would have continued to hold Peter Noble re-sponsible for the gaps, the inaccuracies, and the mistakes that I have been able to detect in the French version of his book. Nothing permits the trust-ing reader to know that he has a “digest” in his hands instead of a “transla-tion,” as it explicitly says on the cover: “translated from English by . . .” (It is better here to hide the name of the translator, who has had the sad nerve to sign this subsistence job, perhaps excused by the need to support an ag-ing mother or several school-aged children; but let us not judge people, for we never know when it could happen to us. I hope at least that she has ob-tained a substantial fee for lending her name to this hack job.)

For what it’s worth, out of curiosity I have made a small calculation. It’s simple: the pages of the English book contain more or less twice as many characters as those of the French book; the fi rst one has 4BB pages without counting the index, the French version only 468 pages and naturally no in-dex. So a priori we know that much of the original text is not included in the French “translation.” But these physical proportions don’t give a suP -cient account of the reality of what we’re dealing with here. We know that in fact the English language is more concise than ours and that a French translation is usually a bit longer than its English counterpart. So it is then necessary to correct the arithmetic calculation by this translation coeP -

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cient. In the end, and taking into account not only the length but also the languages involved, I estimate the quantitative value of this translation to be at most ;A or 75 percent of the original text.< at’s it for the larger view; now let’s get to the details and see a bit of

how this cannibalization job was performed. Let’s accept for a while what I shall call the reduction principle, imposed, let us suppose, by the condi-tions of the French market. Even so, the damage could have been intelli-gently mitigated. I’ll even recognize that the “translator” may have been capable of mitigation, if we judge by the skill demonstrated in certain para-graphs where she has been able to cut half of the original while preserving its essence. It was imperative, however, that this be the general rule. My halting knowledge of the language of Shakespeare and Orson Welles hasn’t let me, in the time I devoted to this task, completely decipher Peter No-ble’s book, but I have read it at least twice in French, and have proceeded to make comparisons between the French translation and two or three chap-ters of the English original.

I’ll take as an example the chapter titled “Return to Broadway: Macbeth and the Conquest of the Old World” in the Pierre Horay version (pp. 6;A– 67B). It’s in fact a fusion of two chapters in Peter Noble’s book (pp. 686– 69;) that have the same title but are split into separate parts. < e fi rst one (ti-tled “Return to Broadway”) is devoted essentially to Welles’s theatrical ad-aptation of Jules Verne’s Around the World in $& Days [6:;9], and I’ll read-ily admit that this section is often faithfully reproduced in French. < e only thing that’s regrettable is the condensation into a three-line report of a discussion between Welles and Mike Todd, which shows us that the lat-ter had already invested S;9,555 in rehearsals for the show by the time he decided to abandon the enterprise. Anyway, if cuts were necessary, this one was admissible.

What is much less admissible, on the other hand, is the plain deletion of a dozen of Peter Noble’s sentences about Orson Welles’s simultaneous activ-ities in radio—which even included the following charming anecdote. One station, fearing to give free rein to the very person to whom it had never-the less initially given artistic independence, thought it necessary to take ex-tra precaution and aired a prelude to the show in question, specifying that Welles’s conception was strictly personal and “absolutely did not represent the opinions of the station.” As a result, the day this announcement was made, Welles proceeded plainly and simply to read on the air pages from the Bible. Although this may appear to be just an amusing anecdote, it has signifi cance. Its suppression would have displeased me less had the “transla-tor’s” role been to suppress the anecdotes in general for the sake of facts and ideas. But one may be led to think the contrary, because if there are two an-

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ecdotes, one long and not really meaningful but judged to “of public inter-est” and another shorter but of greater critical value, the “translator” often chooses the fi rst. So instead of creating, as she should, a deeper impression of Welles’s life and work, she creates a version in French that seems futilely anecdotal in the worst sense of the word.

But let us return to the erasure of the anecdote about the radio program. It is signifi cant, because a record of the total radio activity of Orson Welles (whose aesthetic or qualitative role should also be judged in terms of its sheer quantitative importance) has been nearly suppressed from the French adaptation, with the obvious exception of the famous Martian transmission (“< e War of the Worlds”) and some vague allusions here and there with-out precise chronological references. I also noticed an equally grave and even more inadmissible suppression, since one simple sentence could have mitigated it. < ere is no mention that for the shooting of Macbeth (6:79), Welles and his crew performed the play in a theater (at the Salt Lake City Festival, to be precise) to hone the mise-en-scène before going to the studio. Later on, it’s also omitted that Welles envisioned Tallulah Bankhead in the role of Lady Macbeth; only Agnes Moorehead is mentioned in the French version of Noble’s book.

From the omissions, let us pass now to the errors. I fi nd only on pages 674 and 67; three absolutely false numbers. It’s said that Orson

Macbeth (!"#$); director: Orson Welles.

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Welles earned S4A,555 for his role in ' e Black Rose [6:A5]; in fact Peter No-ble says it was U4A,555. Without a doubt the translator has never seen Nor-man MacLaren’s Dollar Dance [6:7;]! On page 67;, the French text says that Welles received ten thousand pounds for starring in Trouble in the Glen (6:A7), whereas it was really dollars. However, in the case of Trent’s Last Case [6:A4], the French version tells us that Welles got one thousand pounds, as in the original (Noble, p. 696), but, since a number without a mistake would have shamed the editor, the translation says that such a sum was given to him weekly, since this is naturally the ordinary fee. < ese instances of error should all be multiplied numerous times over; only then can we judge the so-called seriousness of this particular enterprise.

But let’s suppose that the above mistakes are just cases of memory lapse or forgetfulness. We wouldn’t be able, however, to show so much indul-gence to the mistranslations, the incorrect meanings, and much less to the factual inaccuracies about a complete period of Welles’s career. All this starts from the cover page with its epigraph: “‘I am a tragic character’—Orson Welles.” < e original phrase says: “I am a lurid character.” I agree that this is not an easy word to translate, but it has only a vague connec-tion with “tragic,” especially in French usage. I believe that the most cor-rect—or maybe the most free—translation here would be “Shakespearean” for “lurid.” In any case, not “tragic,” or maybe this word with an explana-tory footnote to correct its imprecision. Furthermore, I notice in the com-mentary on Macbeth the inaccurate epithet magnétique, whose Anglicism can be heard from a mile away: something like mesmérique or fascinant or hypnotique would have spared the reader the need to consult the Larousse dictionary.

But let us abandon such mean-spirited scourging, which would lengthen this article by far too many words. I’ll content myself to fi nish by mention-ing a fi nal serious mistake, keeping in mind that I have perused only about thirty pages of the original, English text. < e end of the theatrical experi-ence of the Mercury < eater was crowned by two expensive productions that didn’t benefi t from a suP cient public, that of Georg Büchner’s Dan-ton’s Death [written in 69;A, produced at the Mercury in 6:;9] and espe-cially that of Welles’s own Five Kings in 6:;9 (even if this production came from the < eatre Guild in New York and was then reprised by Welles). < e French “translation” simply says, on page B:: “Orson Welles needed fi f-teen thousand dollars; he moved heaven and earth to fi nd them, in vain, and so Five Kings never saw the light of day.” To begin with, these few lines coldly summarize three pages of the original (that would have made six in the format of the French translation), and they also deprive the reader of a

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7: ) Orson Welles Cannibalized

number of anecdotes, of which I’ll be happy to mention the most interest-ing. During the dress rehearsal of Five Kings in Boston, Welles had to make his amateur crossbowmen (students hired as extras) massacre, fi guratively speaking, the orchestra spectators; the mise-en-scène did call for the real shooting of a fl ight of arrows, but in the direction of the backstage area. Sadly, the rotating stage jammed at the wrong moment and the arrows fl ew toward the seats. An account, even condensed, of this anecdote would have spared the “translator” from aP rming that Five Kings died during the re-hearsal period. < e truth (a bit confusing, I agree with Peter Noble) is that this monumental spectacle in two nights never reached Broadway, but it did tour the country, as the Boston anecdote proves.< rough some examples discovered randomly during my limited prob-

ing, we have already seen enough of the disdain for the reader and the sub-ject with which this purely commercial endeavor has been sold to the pub-lic, in the guise of a simple and honest translation. I’ll say it again: I’m absolutely not a priori against the principle of translation-as-adaptation. I know from experience, after having analyzed the problem a few times, that a few transpositions of style and background are necessary before one can present a foreign critical work to the French reading public; the reason is that social mores, artistic tastes, and critical habits are diL erent from coun-try to country: France, Italy, Germany, the United States, and so on. It’s also true, sadly, that the conditions of the French publishing market for cinema books don’t allow the release of large and therefore expensive vol-umes. It should be remarked, as well, that the publication of too many un-interesting fi lm books, or books as mutilated as the one under review here, has the precise eL ect of destroying this very market. < e cinephile who has already spent two thousand francs to buy three books that are good in the end only for fi rewood—well, he is lost as a buyer for Marie Seton’s Ser-gei M. Eisenstein: A Biography [6:A4] or P. E. Sallès Gomès’s Jean Vigo [6:A8]. < erefore we should have no mercy on those buccaneers of publishing who exacerbate an already compromised situation.

If Pierre Horay Publishing had wanted to act honestly instead of just profi ting from Orson Welles’s name, they could have condensed the origi-nal text in a more reasonable way. It seems to me that it could have survived without great damage by having its length reduced by one third (Peter No-ble’s style is somewhat journalistic and aims less at conciseness than for the approval of the reader), while preserving the essence of the anecdotes and especially of the detailed information. We could dump into notes or place in a smaller font the material that’s diP cult to fi t in—the facts and espe-cially the dates—without breaking the continuity of the whole. But precise

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continuity was perhaps the fi rst element to be cavalierly sacrifi ced in this enterprise. < e sifting, in this case, looked to preserve the chaL instead of the wheat.

In the end, we know that the most important pages of this kind of book are surely to be found in the index. < e Peter Noble version has three: the general index of quoted names (six full pages), that of the roles played by Welles in the theater or the cinema, and fi nally the index of Welles’s oeu-vre, including theatrical productions, fi lms, writings, etc. Of these valuable indexes (which, however, are far from being exhaustive, notably when it comes to Welles’s radio work), naturally nothing survives in Pierre Horay’s version, where scientifi c exactitude has defi nitely been judged to be obscene.

Voilà! Let yourselves be warned, at least, of what kind of adulterated merchandise you’d obtain by buying Orson Welles le magnifi que. But if you can read English, you should also know that Peter Noble’s ' e Fabulous Orson Welles [6:AB] was published in London by Hutchinson & Co.

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A6 )

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A @'3/+,K ,T .*&* .) &M, ',+(&.3)*M.@ /,&E,,) criticism and the creative work of art, but it poses itself es-

sentially in the same terms for all the arts, and it would be presumptu-ous of me to pretend to add something to what philosophers, aestheticians, and artists themselves have already written about the subject. < e only use-ful way to approach the issue for cinema, then, is to grasp it concretely on the level of experience and historical context. < erefore I am simply going to present a series of remarks or refl ections on the state and practice of the profession of fi lm criticism. I myself have had the good fortune to practice it for fi fteen years already in a variety of forms (since I consider ciné-club debates, for example, a kind of fi lm criticism), and particularly in all the formats oL ered by the press—from the large-circulation daily to the spe-cialized quarterly review—with stops along the way on the weekly maga-zine, whether specialized or not.

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< e fi rst remark deriving from my experience that I’d like to make, and that I wish to underline in every refl ection to follow, is that the principal satisfaction this profession gives me resides in its seeming useless-ness. Writing fi lm criticism is almost like spitting into water from a bridge. I say almost, because in spite of everything, there does arrive the rare mo-ment when one can prove, in a particular case, the infl uential or at least sensitive role of criticism: in the case of art-house or experimental cinema, maybe (but less than what one might imagine). < ere is also the kind of criticism that has been able to promote one fi lm or another after it was

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taken out of circulation following a very short initial run. Even in a case like this, though, it is necessary to observe that criticism just supplied the missing publicity. Such a fi lm was destined to succeed anyway, provided that it got good word of mouth from its fi rst viewers—the best form of advertisement, in the end. < is amounts to saying that a written critique, even a “bad” one, is the equivalent of free advertising. It also happens, more and more, that advertising itself uses criticism, without our actually being able to say at the same time that the quotations in the ads are really paying homage to criticism’s eL ectiveness. First, because the cleverly chosen cita-tions are always favorable to the fi lm in question, even when the review it-self was a pan; and next, because they indirectly demonstrate the very im-potence of criticism, which doesn’t become potent until it is launched by the springboard of advertisement.

In fact, and in the immense majority of cases, criticism plays only a small role during the fi rst week of a fi lm’s run (let’s say that it aL ects between A and 6A percent of box-oP ce receipts), but almost no role for the rest of any commercial run. Proof from the reverse angle: even the unanimous favor of critics has never been able to do more than, in the best of cases, prolong for a few days the fi rst run of a fi lm to which the public didn’t spontaneously respond. And how many foreign fi lms, culled from the festivals, aren’t even released in Paris, or, if they are, turn out to be box-oP ce bombs, in spite of the support of the critics?

I would add a paradoxical correction to the above by advancing the proposition that the always-low margin of critical eL ectiveness is otherwise directly proportional to the print run of the publication in which the fi lm review appears. At least this is so for fi lms whose fi rst run is lightly subject to infl uence: a good review from Le monde is surely more important than a good review from France-soir, because the total number of readers who take into account what Le monde’s Jean de Baroncelli [6:67– 6::9] says is larger than the number of those who worry about the opinions of Robert Chazal [6:64– 4554] or France Roche [born 6:46] in France-Soir. It’s a question of journalistic market. < e only exception may be the monstrous case of Le fi -garo, whose critical terrorism toward Parisian showings—though not the same for the theater and the cinema—is undoubtedly attributable to a very peculiar phenomenon of bourgeois sociology.

It is without irony, however, that I declare myself satisfi ed with this gen-eral condition of critical impotence. I have no envy whatsoever for the po-sition of my theater colleagues, whose pens, by contrast, are fearsome, pos-sessing B5 to 95 percent of the power that decides the fate of any spectacle. Only the boulevard, popular theater escapes their judgment, a little like the cinema. It’s clear that the success of a theater piece depends on a certain

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A; ) Refl ections on Criticism

group of thousands, or tens of thousands, of spectators, who usually de-cide which productions they will attend after reading their favorite critic. Should I confess that this critical responsibility scares me? Not because of any fear of responsibility on my part, but because I judge it disproportion-ate and debatable. I cannot understand how the theater critic Jean-Jacques Gauthier [6:59– 6:9B], for example, could avoid committing suicide or en-tering a Trappist monastery, given all the power he has. No, my response is just one of humility. I don’t want the moral authority, and especially not the state of intellectual grace, that gives the critic the monstrous privilege of deciding the fate of works of art he doesn’t like. Let us say that the critical ideal would be to be able to help those works one likes and to have very lit-tle infl uence on the fate of all the others; but given that the two functions are obviously linked, I still prefer near-total impotence to abusive power.

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Could it be said that cinema can do without criticism? By no means, and I would like to aP rm criticism’s necessity right now, together with its “uselessness.” I don’t know which philosopher or psychologist has maintained that consciousness is nothing but a secondary phenomenon, and that with it or without it, for example, Descartes would have writ-ten the Discourse on Method [6B;8] just as well. < is is clearly a false idea, but one to which I grant the value of metaphor. With or without criticism, Chaplin, GriP th, Murnau, Stroheim, and Dreyer would have prospered anyway: there wouldn’t have been a singled altered shot in any of their fi lms on account of the critics. < e huge amount of criticism produced, by contrast, is just a matter of secondary consciousness, and one whose neces-sity cannot be measured by its utility. I do believe, however, that the para-sitic critical vegetation on the majestic tree of art establishes, after the fact, that this symbiotic relationship is absolutely necessary, not for art’s slow growth, but undoubtedly for its happy maturation.

In any case, criticism has two faces: one turned to the fi lm, a face that I have already said is cursory and without economic value; and the other one turned to the public, the opposite face (in this environment) and the one that really justifi es criticism’s existence. To be sure, the ineL ectiveness of fi lm criticism has a statistical base: the fate of a fi lm rests on three to four million viewers, out of which number a critical review can infl uence only several hundred thousand. But if we abandon this quantitative reference for a qualitative criterion, if we think in terms of critical well-being and not critical eL ectiveness anymore (fi ne, I’ll get myself classifi ed as a spiritualist

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critic!), then I must say that if I were to reveal the essence of cinema to only ten wild-eyed readers—even to just one such reader—my role as a critic would be justifi ed.

In the good old days when I could still practice oral criticism at work-shops and in ciné-clubs, the superiority of the pleasure it gave me over the kind I get from written criticism resided in my feeling—immediate, physi-cal, and intensely human—that our fi lm discussions resulted in some genu-ine intellectual conversions. I can’t tell you how many times I have been de-tained at the door of a workshop or a ciné-club by a viewer (generally over forty years old) who tried to tell me that he wasn’t able to judge the validity of my analysis of the fi lm in question, but that this analysis had nonetheless revealed to him that cinema existed, that it was certainly an art, and that he had become a “believer” now. I remember that once, there was an el-derly, distinguished lady sitting in front of me on a streetcar in Geneva who dared to spontaneously introduce herself and discuss with me a talk I had delivered the previous evening. Well! Don’t believe me if you so choose, but, over time, encounters like these have a much greater infl uence on the money a fi lm makes during its opening week than any 65 percent increase in the profi ts eL ected by a positive review in the print media.

Surely, then, it’s not forbidden to wish that the number of chosen few who have seen the light would rise, and that the quality of their numbers could become the quantity. Actually, this has been achieved to a limited but appreciable extent with the growth and proliferation of experimental and art-house cinemas. But criticism proper is only one factor among many others in a complex phenomenon that, after a decade, should lead to the constitution of a full and specialized fi lmgoing public. < is is naturally a phenomenon of aesthetic sociology, and one that is not even new, since we also saw it in the years between 6:4A and 6:;5. < e activity of the ciné-clubs and the Cinémathèque Française, of the popular culture movements, and, it should be said as well, the relative quality of postwar French criticism—all of these no doubt constituted the principal convergent forces that re-sulted at the time in a substantial increase in the number of enlightened moviegoers.

I speak above about the relative quality of French fi lm criticism after World War I, and I would like now to explain myself. < e wisdom of my forty years allows me perhaps a certain objectivity regarding today’s “young critics” in comparison with the postwar journalistic generation. So I pro-claim the following: in spite of all their faults (and God knows, there are some, and quite irritating ones, whatever critical tendency they may man-ifest), the generation of critics from the 6:A5s is defi nitely superior to any-thing French cinema has previously known. < e French critics between

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6:;5 and 6:75 were better informers, however; they kept closer to the cin-ema that was being made in France at the time. I mean by this that there wasn’t any real diL erence, as there is now, between studio and industry re-porting (which these days often degenerates into stupid gossip) and seri-ous information. < e great generation of silent fi lm critics, for their part, should also be evaluated more carefully.

It is true that, back in the days of the silents, criticism had both quality and the additional merit of being the fi rst of its kind. < is is important, be-cause if criticism is the conscience of cinema, cinema owes to criticism its self-consciousness. From another point of view, this criticism didn’t sepa-rate itself from fi lmic creation, and we will see that, in this regard, the new French critics join up with their forerunners (I’ll come back to this later). But I have to say, after having attentively read the complete collection of the best fi lm publication of the silent era, Cinéa-ciné [6:45– 6:;4], that if the critical refl ection here reveals itself always to be estimable and interesting, the dullness of the writing would not be accepted today by anyone.

It is true that our Young Turks nowadays always commit the opposite excess: that of intellectual preciosity, or a pamphleteering style at any cost. At least one can say that in the weeklies, monthly magazines, and even quarterly reviews where they write, the concern with style, with the form in which thoughts are written down, constitutes a promotion of fi lm criticism as a literary genre—traces of which we’d search for in vain during the pe-riod after World War I. Back then, only ideas as such seemed to count for anything, and simply expressing them was enough. Today there is a school of criticism, however, that sadly reveals the same characteristics: the Ital-ian school. Translated into French, the best Italian articles—seemingly vi-tal and important—crumble away like sawdust: nobody here will publish them, and I don’t think the French publishers are going to be contradicting me on this matter any time soon. < at the concern with literary style and rhetorical eL ect sometimes leads French critics to debatable excesses is well known, but these fl aws are the price (the rest can be explained away to ju-venility) one pays for a fundamentally new quality in critical writing that, for the fi rst time, places fi lm criticism on a par with traditional criticism. < e intellectual and stylistic worth of work like that of Claude Chabrol and Éric Rohmer, on Alfred Hitchcock—no matter what we may think of the thesis of their 6:A8 book—is worthy of comparison with the best criticism of the post-World War I period: they should get the Sainte-Beuve Prize or, even better, the Armand-Tallier Prize.

But, to be fair, it’s necessary once again to place criticism in the larger context of the fi lm press. I apologize in advance for not nuancing my argu-ment here, but if the fi lm criticism of the years 6:;5– 6:75 fi nally seems dis-

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appointing to me in hindsight (examples: who defended Renoir’s ' e Rules of the Game [La règle du jeu, 6:;:]? Who took his Boudu Saved from Drown-ing [Boudu sauvé des eaux, 6:;4] seriously?), the same years, by contrast, saw a specialized press such as we can’t even conceive of today. Cinémonde and Pour vous back then were stylish and sumptuously illustrated week-lies, and both more or less realized the ideal of satisfying the desires of the idle browser as well as the demands of the serious reader who takes fi lm se-riously. < at’s something like what the postwar magazine L’ écran français tried to do, and we know what became of that. < is phenomenon is not en-tirely French, given that (true, following a ten-year grace period) the Ital-ian journal Cinema nuovo (after Cinema) itself had to capitulate. Maybe economic reasons are the determining factors in these instances (increased printing costs, for example), but they shouldn’t cause us to underestimate what’s probably more important: the evolution of the public’s demands.

First, I’d like to volunteer the opinion that the level of criticism of these otherwise excellent weeklies would no longer satisfy the enlightened por-tion of today’s moviegoing public. < ese people fi nd their intellectual pas-tures, free from concessions to popular mythology, in the best columns of the nonspecialized weeklies, which I don’t hesitate to proclaim quite su-perior to their counterparts from the years 6:;5 to 6:75. < is allocation of readers leaves none but the frivolous of mind to the cinema weeklies, and they certainly have adapted to their audience. But the most important con-sequence of this distribution of readership is the replacement of the review journal by the specialized weekly. Never, in the history of French cinema, has a review has been able to survive more than a few years (for example, the admirable fi rst series of Revue du cinéma from 6:4: to 6:;6, as well as its second series from 6:7B to 6:7:); many reviews of diL erent critical tenden-cies once existed, but, despite their persistence, they have not lasted. < is phenomenon, which became especially accelerated after 6:A5, may not be completely new to French criticism, then, but it continues to be regretta-ble. < anks to the review journal, though, the “young critics” movement in France was born and grew, since it was on the staL s of these reviews that most of the best weekly critics got their initial training.

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I would like now to reprise the question of criticism from an-other angle. I have presented criticism as a necessary yet almost useless ser-vice, without any substantial eL ect on the fate of fi lms (except perhaps in the case, after a delay, of a second ruling, but such a belated resuscitation

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doesn’t interest anyone except the ciné-clubs and the art-house theaters). I know quite well what objection this hypothesis calls for: that if criticism is unable to seriously modify the course of a fi lm’s trajectory, it can then act upon its source—the source, that is, of its creation. It would then be neces-sary to examine the possible infl uence of fi lm criticism on the directors and scenarists who read it.

I would say that, with regard to the matter of critical infl uence, my skep-ticism is even greater now, and this doesn’t bother me in the least. First, because it would be intolerably presumptive to pretend to teach the prac-titioner his trade (such lessons could come only from the equivalent of a Baudelaire or a Valéry). But, above all, because the creator of art doesn’t ex-pect much from the critics, for reasons connected with the profound psy-chology of creation. Criticism commences only with the result, the fi nished work. It has as its mission not so much to “explain” but to open up the art-work’s meaning (or more often meanings) to the consciousness and spirit of the audience. Some put forward the silly objection (which the creators of art are the fi rst to make, but we can fully understand their position) that criticism purports to discover, in any work it appraises, a thousand wonder-ful little meanings that in fact never even crossed the author’s mind. Such a “sublime” discovery in the mise-en-scène, for example, may have originated in nothing more than a technical accident.

I myself am tired of refuting the above argument, which is weak at best. If the fi nal work were nothing but the sum of the artist’s conscious inten-tions, it wouldn’t be worth much. Moreover, we could in principle state that the quality and depth of a work of art are measured precisely by the distance between what the creator meant to put in it and what it actually contains. (Taking into account diL erent artistic temperaments, there exist highly lucid artists who are more conscious of what they are creating than other authors, but of all the arts, cinema is the one that by its very nature leaves the most to “unconscious” chance.) Besides, the purpose of criticism is not to unravel the psychological process of creation (an even more un-certain operation today than aesthetic analysis, which has its own arbitrary component), but rather, as I have said, to help nurture the audience’s intel-lectual and moral sensibility as it comes into contact with the work of art. For this task, there aren’t any rules, and no bias is admissible except one: that of taste. A critical method, whatever it may be, has no intrinsic value if it’s not controlled, limited, or corrected by one specifi c quality that ulti-mately passes judgment on the critic himself: taste. < is is obviously a qual-ity that’s hard to defi ne, but it alone can distinguish theoretical ranting from critical elaboration. < e anything-goes attitude in criticism is the ref-uge of those who lack this secondary sense, and it’s an easy excuse for bad,

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impressionistic criticism whose easy irony is nothing but a mask for analyt-ical ineptitude.

But let’s return to the subject of the creator. If he is worthy of this title, it’s in him from the very beginning, in his experience, so that he can draw from it what is needed to create. I don’t say that critics, good or bad, have nothing to teach artists; whatever critics say, however, can only be one el-ement in the complex of factors that constitute the success or failure of a fi lm. In any case, the critical response counts for quite a bit less than the simple reactions of a theater full of people. < e artist’s own self-esteem re-mains to be considered, but that is another story for another day.

After describing the essential independence of creation from criticism, I must now mention, in conclusion, a new phenomenon: the more and more frequent independence of criticism itself from artistic creation. It could be said that, from 6:;5 to 6:A5, one of the characteristics of French criticism lay in the fact that there was an almost total absence of intermixing be-tween the fi lm industry, on the one hand, and what the critics were writing about it, on the other. < e coming of sound more or less marks this rup-ture, because the emergence of fi lm criticism during the silent era, by con-trast, was tightly bound to creation: Ricciotto Canudo, Louis Delluc, Mar-cel L’Herbier, Germaine Dulac, Abel Gance, Jean Epstein, Jean Tédesco . . . all were at the same time fi lmmakers and aestheticians. I won’t analyze whether this “confusion” was fortunate or not, but the fact is that critical refl ection and artistic creation were interdependent back then.

Two contemporary foreign examples prove, at the very least, that the conjunction of the analytical and the imaginative has nothing abnormal about it: the English (with Gavin Lambert, Lindsay Anderson, and the Sight and Sound staL ) and, above all, the Italians since the founding of the Centro sperimentale di cinematografi a [the Experimental Film Center or Italian National Film School] in 6:;A, during the Fascist era. < is last in-stance is the best proof of intermixing, given that in Italy not only have professional critics intermittently or defi nitively crossed the line between criticism and fi lmmaking, but fi lmmakers themselves have also crossed this line by constantly carrying on dialogues with various critics (in the press, at conferences, festivals, etc.). Since I can’t refrain from a certain skepticism about the artistic fecundity of such exchanges of opinion, my purpose here is neither to applaud nor denounce them, but instead to continue examin-ing the French situation, which is quite diL erent.

Here in France, we have a generation of young intellectuals who more or less consciously have the desire or the vocation to produce cinema, and for whom the knowledge and understanding of their future profes-sion come not from the studio and the obscure tasks of an assistant on the

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A: ) Refl ections on Criticism

set, but from the frequenting of screenings at the Cinémathèque Française and from the practice of fi lm criticism itself. < is has the double advantage of allowing them the possibility not only of earning their living through journalism, which isn’t something negligible, but also of helping them de-fi ne for themselves, as well as others, which fi lms to love and which to re-prove—i.e., to portray in advance the image of the ideal cinema they’d like to one day to create. Hence the partiality, the polemical and militant char-acter, of these young critics. But it’s only natural, because this is passionate criticism written by virtual creators. Objectivity is not its goal.< at said, I am not trying to diminish the essence or the scope of criti-

cism, because in art, taking sides is legitimate and can be productive if it’s backed up by intelligence, taste, and talent. To be sure, this new criticism is sometimes narrow-minded and even unfair, but the narrowness of its an-gle of refl ection often makes the intelligent shaft penetrate further than so-called objective criticism into the object of inquiry. Art is not science. Ly-senkoism (the Soviet doctrine that maintains the possibility of inheriting environmentally acquired characteristics) may be a kind of ideological de-mentia that plagues biology, but Hitchcockism and Bergmanism are stra-tegic analytical operations that, in the end, will surely enrich the history of fi lm criticism.

I speak so freely here about fi lm criticism vis-à-vis artistic creation be-cause, personally, I don’t believe in a “politics of authors” that puts too much emphasis on the authorial director. In art, as in criticism, there are no absolute truths or absolute errors. Truth in criticism isn’t defi ned by who-knows-what measurable and objective exactitude, but, fi rst and fore-most, by the intellectual excitement unleashed in the reader: its quality and its ampleness. < e function of criticism is not to bear on a silver platter a truth that may not exist, but, as much as possible, to further—in the minds and hearts of those who read it—the impact of the work of art which is true to itself.

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B5 )

Interlude

()-'O /(=.): 3), 1M(' (1&,' .) *, ('1M 3> () (2&,2'

(Cahiers du cinéma, May 6:A8)

I >,,+ . *M32+- @3.)& 32& &M(& &M, ,**,)-tial characteristic of American cinema is that un-

exceptional fi lms, those commercial fi lms that are its principal ingredient, are precisely genre fi lms. American cinema thrives fi -nancially if the genres thrive. Production can keep going at an av-erage or even above-average rate as long as there are good genres. < e weakness of the European fi lm industries is that they are in-capable of relying on genres for current production. In French prewar cinema, even if there wasn’t exactly a genre there was a style, the realist fi lm noir. It’s still around but it’s diversifi ed, and I’m afraid that one of the problems of French cinema may arise from its inability to sustain good basic genres that thrive, the way they do in America.

. &M.)C &M,',’* *3K, &'2&M .) /3&M @3.)&* of view: a cinema based on stars and a cinema rejecting conven-tional attitudes to acting: the two kinds of cinema seen to co-exist, for example, in Italian cinema. I mean that there is a cer-tain kind of fi lm, with a particular cinematic importance, that is based on the star. It’s quite obvious that French cinema before the war was built around Jean Gabin. < ere’s an essential and pro-found connection between the scripts, the style of the fi lms, and

,T&' (1&,- >'3K “*.T @,'*3))(?,* ,) R2V&, -’(2&,2'*: Débat sur le cinéma français (avec André Bazin, Jacques Doniol- Valcroze, Pierre Kast, Roger Leenhardt, Jacques Rivette, et Éric Rohmer).” Cahiers du cinéma 64, no. 86 (May 6:A8), pp. 6B– 4:.

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B6 ) One Character in Search of an Auteur

Gabin. It’s indisputable. But on the other hand you could give ten examples where the star is a disaster. You have to judge the mat-ter in context. I think we’re all agreed in assuming that it’s not in the direction of the international superproduction, where the star has a fundamental role, that French cinema has the most chance of progress. < is will happen by rediscovering a way of captur-ing the inspiration of talented people, and that ought not to hap-pen independently of acting but with acting at a level beyond that of the star.

&M, R2,*&.3) 3> &M, @2', *1' .@&E'.&,' .* out of date in psychological terms. It’s possible that the evolution of the cinema (I know nothing about it, which I readily admit) is moving in the direction of the director-auteur working on the sce-nario with the scriptwriter or scriptwriters. But it matters very lit-tle to me whether there are scriptwriters as such—what does mat-ter is that the scriptwriter should exist as a function.

What we come back to in fact isn’t the problem of people, but the problem of inspiration and themes. American cinema is just about inexhaustible in the richness of its themes; that’s just not the case in France. Before the war there were thematic continu-ities. Now we have to ask ourselves what they are. < e great unity that existed before the war has split in all sorts of directions. But one characteristic remains—of context, though not of subject matter—that is, beyond psychology, a particular novelistic vision of the world. Films like Jacques Becker’s Golden Helmet [Casque d’or, 6:A4] or Edward and Caroline [Édouard et Caroline, 6:A6] are fi lms that, without any specifi c literary origins, seem to me very French and very “postwar.” Roger Leenhardt’s ' e Last Vacation [Les dernières vacances, 6:79] is also a very postwar fi lm. One may say the same for René Clément’s Forbidden Games [Jeux interdits, 6:A4] or Robert Bresson’s Diary of a Country Priest [Journal d’un curé de campagne, 6:A6]. While they vary widely in style, atmo-sphere, and theme, they have in common a sharper sense of hu-manity than anything in prewar cinema, as well as a capacity for analysis that is close to literature. I’m afraid we’re losing this, and it’s the only capital we’ve got.

.’K E3)-,'.)? EM,&M,' @',E(' >',)1M 1.)-ema, which did in fact demonstrate quite exceptional thematic and inspirational unity, whichever directors were involved, could

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B4 ) Bazin on Global Cinema

be linked up with the up-and-coming literature of that time. It’s normal for there to be a time lag between a literary generation and its passage into cinema. For instance, existentialism, which is out of date in literature, could have brought us (I don’t think it will now) the equivalent of the pre-war fi lm noir, whose relation-ship to surrealism Roger Leenhardt has clearly shown.

It’s not absolutely necessary to establish whether French fi lm-makers should or shouldn’t derive the inspiration for their themes from the literary patrimony. Both methods could be useful. If they aren’t it’s because American cinema actually has themes out-side literature. < is cinema is perhaps greater because it has in it-self enough sociological inspiration to draw on. It is very possible that for historical reasons French cinema has none, and perhaps the novel oL ers a greater source of inspiration, but it isn’t really important. < e problem is to fi nd out whether there is material or not.

&M,',’* )3 .),D .&(/.+.&0 (/32& ( -.',1& ',-lationship between a given society and the cinema, although that’s the case in America and in Italy. Neither do I think that there’s any direct relationship between the French novel and French so-ciety. It goes beyond just cinema. It’s perhaps because at this stage in the development of society and of French art the connection can’t be made. Should one seek themes related to contemporary reality at any price? < at’s what Jean-Paul Le Chanois and André Cayatte did. We can see the outcome of that. It isn’t exemplary.

What’s more, it’s not enough just to have a good rich sociolog-ical foundation. < ere must be extremes. In Italy, unemployment fulfi lls the role of fate and destiny. < ree-quarters of Italian neo-realism is founded on fear, social fear. American society is polar-ized by two things that fi gure importantly: money and luck. In France it’s not material that’s lacking, but the possibility of drama inherent in it.

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II

> .+K ' ,D .,E* ()- 1' .& .1.*K

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BA )

!!

K('1,+ 1(')O ’* +, N32' *, +WD, (-(0/' ,(C)

(D.O.C. éducation populaire, January 6:79)

.)&'3-21&.3)

I’ve chosen to begin here with the form of this fi lm or, more pre-cisely, with its dramatic construction. Such a point of departure need by no means be fatal. Usually one begins the discussion of a fi lm with the reac-tions of the audience to the story or the characters and then fi nishes with commentary on the artistic strategies used by the writer-director to visu-alize or validate the action as he had conceived it. But the point of depar-ture is less important than respect for the fundamental principle of all fi lm analysis: in the cinema, even more than in any other art form, the content can never be separated from the form.

Indeed, the critical analysis of any movie succeeds in proportion to its answers to the following questions: did the audience grasp the relation-ship between the cinematic techniques used and the thematic intention of the director; and, inversely, could the content itself be defi ned indepen-dently of the techniques employed in this instance to express it? Nothing is more dangerous than a fi lm commentary that treats the content and the form separately. When such commentaries are published, they help to cre-ate those naïve pedants in cinema societies or fi lm clubs who always want

< is article, best known by the name “Paper on Daybreak (Le jour se lève, 6:;:),” has a famous history. It is the fruit of dozens of fi lm presentations given by Bazin in a variety of locations: factories, cinema clubs, etc. Originally a simple pamphlet distributed to the public, it was published in 6:79 in D.O.C. éducation populaire, then in Regards neufs sur le cinéma, edited by Jacques Chevallier (Éditions du Seuil, 6:A;), and fi nally in Le cinéma français de la libération à la nouvelle vague, 6:7A– 6:A9 (Éditions de l’Étoile [6:9;], 6::9), pp. 8B– 654. Le jour se lève was directed by Mar-cel Carné, written by Jacques Prévert, and featured Jean Gabin in the leading role.

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BB ) Bazin on Global Cinema

to discuss “technique” and claim to appreciate above all else the qualities of the photography, the camera movements, the unusual angles, etc. We are going to see, precisely in the instance of Le jour se lève, a fi lmic technique whose excellence is wholly inappreciable independent of the story or the ac-tion itself.

If, by way of exception, I begin with the formal element of dramatic construction, this is because in this case it is original enough to have held, without interruption, the audience’s attention. But the reader will see that my comments here are the result of a lot of eL ort, beginning with a few for-mal elements and then delving little by little into the subject by showing that the physical geography of the fi lm in question is strictly determined by an artistic geology, wherein the form and the content are completely iden-tifi ed with each other.< is article, then, is the result of something like shorthand. I apologize

in advance for its presentation and sometimes its style, which is less concise than it should be. < e piece follows a critical course that was developed, in a way, improvisationally. For more clarity, I include in italics remarks ad-dressed exclusively to critics; these constitute a sort of criticism of criticism, or, if you will, instructions for the aspiring critic.

*0)3@*.* 3> &M, *1,)(' .3

In a working-class neighborhood, one man shoots down another with a revolver. < e police arrive to arrest the murderer, an otherwise peace-ful factory worker, who resists and barricades himself inside his one-room apartment. < e siege lasts an entire night, which François will pass by re-lating the simple and painful love story that led him to kill, and which, at dawn, will end in his suicide.

Before the fi lm, ask the audience to focus its attention on the following points: the construction of the narrative; the decor; and the music.

&M, 3'.?.)(+.&0 3> &M, 13)*&'21&.3)

Question the audience on the singularities of the fi lm’s construction. ' ey will quickly notice that what distinguishes Le jour se lève from the ma-jority of fi lms they are used to seeing is how the story unravels now in the pres-ent, now in the past.< is fl ashback process, which is no longer so rare in the cinema (it’s be-

come a popular trend in American fi lms, which frequently begin with the

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B8 ) Marcel Carné’s Le jour se lève

end), was relatively rare in France during the period of Le jour se lève, and even now fl ashbacks are very rarely used as they are in Marcel Carné’s fi lm. In a picture like Fritz Lang’s ' e Woman in the Window [6:77], the action of the past is simply framed by the dénouement in the present and the re-turn to that dénouement at the conclusion; the action in the past is not cut up into fragments that are interspersed with scenes in the present. In Billy Wilder’s Double Indemnity [6:77], we get a story from the immediate past that is spoken into a Dictaphone, and if we come back to the present at all, it is less for a return to the present itself than to hear testimony. In Or-son Welles’s Citizen Kane (6:76), for its part, the past is shown in fl ashback through the memories of several diL erent characters in the present. < e structure of Le jour se lève, by comparison, is thus relatively exceptional.

What we have in Carné’s fi lm is perfect balance in the narrative, which is divided into three groups of memories that are framed by four important fragments of action in the present. What problem did the fi lmmaker desire to resolve with such a remarkable script, and to what extent did he succeed?

In literature—the novel, for example—it is easy to describe an action that takes place in the past. Verb tenses are made for that. One can write, “Last Sunday François had gone to see Clara in the furnished room of a small hotel across the street from where he lives.” < e past perfect “had gone” is suP cient here to indicate the past. In fi lm, by contrast, the im-ages projected on the screen are necessarily identical whether the event de-picted takes place in the present or the past—which is to say, I don’t have the means to photograph a table eight days ago. It is the distinctive feature of photography, and more so of cinematography, to provide us with “cur-rent” documents. It was necessary, nonetheless, that Marcel Carné succeed in getting us to accept that the action occurring in his one-room apart-ment was contemporary with us, in the present, while the Gabin character’s memories were taking place in the past.

Try to make the audience discover the use of important devices: dissolves, music, decor.

Defi nition of a dissolve. Quite often in fi lms, in order to pass from one scene to another, which is often quite distant in time or in space, the pro-cess used is called a dissolve: that is to say, the last image of the fi nish-ing scene disappears little by little to allow, through superimposition, the fi rst image in the following scene to appear. < e dissolve is in some ways a punctuation mark—one could almost say a typographical notation—com-parable to the opening of a new paragraph, or the bottom of a page left blank to signal the conclusion of a chapter. But the dissolve is used to an-other end in Le jour se lève.

In this fi lm we can see two diL erent devices used to pass from one scene

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B9 ) Bazin on Global Cinema

to another. In the sequences in the present the shot-changes are made very quickly through the use of wipes, which have a kind of sweeping or slid-ing eL ect.

Defi nition of a wipe. A wipe is the substitution of one image for an-other as the replacement image sweeps or pushes the original oL the screen. Wipes are used especially in contemporary fi lms.

Marcel Carné wanted to register, by means of the wipe, the diL erence in space or time between fragments of action occurring in the present. Each scene in the present is then separated from the past action, evoked in the Gabin character’s mind, by a dissolve of exceptional length.

What does such a dissolve correspond to?

(6) < ere is a physiological correspondence to the dream-state. < e eye fi xes itself, the pupil widens, and the image of objects re-fl ected on the retina becomes blurry. < e crystalline lens of the eye then ceases to accommodate the force of the eye’s own voluntary attention. (4) < e dissolve contains a superimposition. Now, the super-imposition is generally employed to make us understand that an event or a character is imaginary. < e superimposition is therefore used in fi lms about ghosts. Since objects and characters in such an image are in some way transparent, they are interpreted by view-ers as half-real, as being as much a part of a dream as of reality. < e long dissolves in Le jour se lève are like sensitive symbols of the purely imaginary character of the images that will follow. < roughout each such transition we visibly feel some sort of shift in reality. We pass from the hard and concrete present to a diL erent reality—diL erent because it is only retrieved through memory.

Ask the audience members who among them understood from the beginning, and without any ambiguity, that with the fi rst dissolve, the Gabin character was beginning to relate his past.

Probable response: only a few spectators will have understood this in so short a time. ' is is because cinematic devices are at once much less nuanced and much less explicit than those of literature. Hence the producers of Le jour se lève thought it necessary to add to the fi rst-run print of the fi lm, shown to the public, a sound-accompanied superimposition that represents in some way the conscience of the Gabin character, who declares in a beyond-the-grave tone: “Hope—do you remember?” ' is little phrase, designed to avoid any ambigu-ity, was not found in the initial cut.

Ask the audience what they noticed about the music of Le jour se lève.

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B: ) Marcel Carné’s Le jour se lève

Probable response: the music is much more important when it doesn’t ap-pear, even in moments of transition between the past and the present.

When you do hear it, the music is obsessive and has a hammered-out quality. < e tones of the chosen instruments are themselves strange. We can indicate two principal themes: one sentimental, that of the oboe pri-marily, the other dramatic and oppressive, that of the basses and the per-cussion instruments. < ese two themes are sometimes mixed and some-times separated, but always very subtly. < e oboe theme itself is sharp and very melodic, whereas the tympani theme, by contrast, is heavy and exclu-sively rhythmic. Now, each time that we pass from a scene in the past to one in the present or vice versa, there is a change in the music, or simply in the apparition of a musical element—which corresponds psychologically to a kind of inversion of values. < ere are even passages where the music seems to have been turned inside out. < anks to the music, there is a sono-rous ambience to the fi lm that aurally gives the sense of a reversal in the na-ture of things.

If Marcel Carné had had only the dissolve at his disposition, the tempo-ral changes in the action would have been much more diP cult to accom-plish. It is in large part thanks to the music of Maurice Jaubert in Le jour se lève that the viewer is psychologically prepared for the sort of dramatic cap-sizing that corresponds to the evocation of memories. One only has to com-pare the facility with which these transitions are made to the awkwardness of the return to the present in Claude Autant-Lara’s Devil in the Flesh [Le diable au corps, 6:78], for example.

It is important to underline in this regard the role of music in fi lms.Maurice Jaubert [6:55– 6:75] is perhaps the most important fi lm com-

poser to date. He wrote the music for every fi lm by Marcel Carné up to 6:75, the year of Jaubert’s death. About fi lm music he averred that it did not need to double the action, to paraphrase it, as do the innumerable nup-tial marches that accompany wedding scenes, or the sentimental violins that underscore trysts between couples in love. Such music must, on the contrary, play its own dramatic role, coming in only where it adds to the psychology of the characters or the character of the action. Recall the ad-mirable leitmotif of Carné’s Port of Shadows [Quai des brumes, 6:;9], based on the theme of the fateful sailors’ song “Corsair/< e Great Runner,” when the Gabin character walks through the streets of Le Havre. It is the mu-sic, and almost exclusively so, that gives dramatic meaning to this long se-quence where we see nothing but the Gabin character anxiously walking about the city.

If one could conduct the experiment of showing Port of Shadows or Le jour se lève with only the dialogue and without music, one would notice

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that each fi lm is thereby seemingly emptied of part of its meaning, that the psychology of the characters is impoverished, that the action itself is less clear in any event. < e music in these fi lms in no way constitutes a mere ac-companiment: it is incorporated into the action and even constitutes an ac-tion in its own right. < is is to make the viewer feel clearly the weight of the past—and feel that the present, when we come back to it, will not es-cape the grip of the past.

When the action that we see on screen in Le jour se lève is from the past, there is in fact no music (except during the love scene in the greenhouse, and we shall see why), but when we return to the Gabin fi gure in the pres-ent in his room, the music reenters the fi lm and remains there as long as we are in the present; quickly, thanks to the repetition of this process, but foremost thanks to the quality of the music, we identify its score with the imagination of François. < e music inhabits us, if you will, even as the pro-tagonist’s memory inhabits him. One scene in particular is quite represen-tative of this point: near the end of the fi lm, the obsessed François stops in front of the mirror, takes a chair and throws it, we hear the crash of broken glass, and then the music stops, as if this act of anger had liberated the hero from his obsession, as if the mirror itself were François’s very memory—except that it is only the symbol of that memory. After a few moments of silence the muQ ed and haunting tympani theme, little by little, regains possession of the dramatic space, then the oboe theme insinuates itself irre-sistibly into this sonorous mass and in its own way asserts itself as the pro-tagonist’s memory of the young fl oral-shop worker Françoise.

At the end of Le jour se lève, when Françoise, injured in the crowd, is car-ried to Clara’s room, no music accompanies this scene. But when we learn that the police are going to use gas, and the camera takes us onto the roof where a gas-squad specialist is crawling toward François’s attic room, music accompanies the action because, although the Gabin character is not visi-ble, the action is once again centered on him. It is the music, on the roof, that makes François’s presence palpable. It radiates from his room like a dramatic aura passing beyond the physical framework of the set, and thus makes the policeman’s approach all the more moving. But when we hear the sound of François’s revolver fi ring a second before the oP cer throws the gas-bomb in, the music stops suddenly. < e following shot shows us the diL use and in eL ect anticlimactic explosion of the canister near François’s body. A slight backward tracking shot uncovers the decor of half of the room where the tear gas is spreading—a scene that will accentuate the fi rst rays of the breaking day, the ringing of the alarm clock, and once again the outburst of music, which is intense this time and almost glorious dur-ing what has become nothing short of a grand fi nale. Undoubtedly a dra-

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86 ) Marcel Carné’s Le jour se lève

matic counterpoint but also an indication that the “soul” of the hero has fi -nally been freed, this kind of double sonority emanating from him, from his room, spends itself in the serenity of his demise.

Naturally there is no music playing in the present when a violent action, such as a hail of gunfi re from police revolvers, distracts François from his memories. In other words, when there is music to be heard, one can say that the drama takes place between the Gabin character and the music. To do away with the music in these instances would in no way be to remove an “accompaniment,” as clever and even intelligent as that might be; it would be to do away, cleanly and neatly, with one of the drama’s protagonists: François’s double, as it were. When the Gabin character smashes the mir-ror, we get the feeling that, fi guratively speaking, he has just killed the mu-sic, and a sort of dread overcomes us as we are confronted with the absurd brutality and extreme derisiveness of this action.

When I say that there is no music in the past, I exclude, obviously, real music in the fi lm, like that of the café concert. < ere is only one exception: the love scene in the greenhouse, where we fi nd, precisely in its pure state, the oboe theme. But this scene is an exception because it is privileged, sit-uated, as it is, in some way outside time. It was necessary to show the dif-ference between the nature of this scene and that of other people’s realities, and the music helped to do that. < e set was conceived with the same goal in mind, as I shall discuss.

In sum, Marcel Carné resolved the problem of the diL erent temporal natures of certain parts of the action in Le jour se lève through a visual de-vice (the dissolve of an unusually long duration) and an aural one (the mu-sical accompaniment composed by Maurice Jaubert).

Also noteworthy are the modifi cations in decor and costume between past and present. < e wardrobe from the past is no longer visible by the door in the present. < e François of the present never wears a cap. In the present, the plaza is fi lled with people. All the while that the present ac-tion is taking place, other modifi cations appear on the set: bullet holes in the wall, broken windows, etc. < ese modifi cations in decor (especially the moving of the wardrobe) provide a reference point in the mind of the viewer and aid him, if the need arises, to locate the scene in time. But this process is not in any way artifi cial. None of these modifi cations has the primary goal of helping us place the scene; each one has a strict dramatic justifi cation. (See, later in this article, my discussion of the dramatic sig-nifi cance of the shattered glass and above all of the displacement of the wardrobe.)

Yet, after resolving these problems of dramatic or temporal mechanics, the fi lmmakers still had to satisfy other structural requirements connected

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with the sequences in the past vis-à-vis the scenes in the present. In eL ect, as we have seen, the action of the fi lm unravels simultaneously on two lev-els. While François is recalling his memories, the action in the present de-velops: the attack on his door by the police sergeants; the captain’s arrival and then that of the mobile unit; the arrival of Françoise and Clara, fol-lowed by the scene between these two women. François himself is aL ected by his memories, and his psychological state alters as a result. Each time that we fi nd him in his room in the present, he is doing something or some-thing is happening to him, and therefore when we return to the past we be-gin in each instance at a diL erent point in the psychological development of the hero—that is, of the person who is doing the remembering.

Moreover, it was not certain, at the start of François’s voluntary confi ne-ment in his room, that the drama had to develop in the way it did. It is the evocation of his memories that undermines, little by little, all of his will to resist—up to the fi nal crisis, which will drive him to cry out from his win-dow to the crowd below, “< ere is no more François, it’s over. Don’t know any François. I have no more faith, do you understand?”

It was necessary as well, each time the fi lm returned to the present, to create—in addition to the visual and musical transitions—a plausible psy-chological and dramatic transition that would justify the return. Marcel Carné had recourse to various devices to accomplish his aim. I will note only one, particularly successful on account of its psychological realism. It occurs during the second-to-last transition, after François has recounted his breakup with Clara. < e latter hands him a brooch similar to the one given to Françoise by Valentin. < is scene concludes curiously with a static shot in which we see Clara’s face, unmoving, fi xing an equivocal look at François. Upon refl ection, I must say that the duration of this shot is im-probable; the actress Arletty could not have remained in that pose for such a length of time. To what does this improbability owe its existence, then?

As François recalls his diP cult memories, the moment arrives when Clara gives the brooch back to him and says: “She [Françoise] has a lit-tle one like this, too.” < is especially terrible moment stays engraved in the Gabin character’s mind like an image from a nightmare. Arriving at this point in his memory, he stays there as if frozen in time; and just as the sleeper awakes from a bad dream in a kind of fi t, François comes back to re-ality from the moral pain he is feeling. < at is why the image is linked to a long dissolve of François’s room, with him sitting on his bed and facing the mirror, on the side of which can be found pinned the brooch. We fi nd it completely natural here that François, whose gaze notices at that particular moment the object of his pain, gets up, tears oL the brooch, and viciously throws it out the window. < e transition is thus psychologically justifi ed

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8; ) Marcel Carné’s Le jour se lève

by the image of Arletty and the linking to the present action that follows, where we see the image of the brooch attached to the mirror in François’s room.

I want to touch now on Marcel Carné’s other great recourse to tie to-gether past and present in Le jour se lève: namely, the decor.

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In eL ect, François, locked up in his room, is surrounded by most of the objects that symbolize his memories of love. Each one of them calls up a happy, painful, or embarrassing moment in his aL air with Françoise. < ese objects have become familiar to us and, thanks to them, we fi nd that in the Gabin character’s room—where the present-tense drama unfolds—noteworthy signs of the past evoke his memories. < us the decor here has a role both psychological and dramatic. I shall better demonstrate this point by conducting, with the help of the audience, a little experiment.

Try to have the audience reconstruct the decor in François’s bedroom.' e following items will certainly elicit a response from the audience:

a bed,a table,a fi replace,a mirror,a rattan armchair,a straight-backed chair,a wardrobe.

It is unlikely that there will be any audience response to the following items, but it’s possible, proportionally speaking:

a washbasin,a nightstand.

Various objects that will also certainly elicit an audience response:

a teddy bear (on the fi replace),the brooch,the revolver at the end,an electric lamp covered by a newspaper,a soccer ball.

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A few viewers will have noticed the pedal-and-gear mechanism of a bicycle.Other objects that will be noticed in the course of the fi lm’s action:

a new tie,an ashtray,a pack of cigarettes,an alarm clock,two empty boxes of matches,two photos and a drawing of François on the wall,sports photographs on either side of the mirror, etc.

Ask the audience (again) to describe the tablecloth, the bedspread, and the wallpaper. Nearly all the viewers will have noticed their nature and appearance.

After this short questionnaire, which must be handled in such a way as to interest the audience and not bore them too much, announce that every audi-ence member without exception has forgotten to mention one piece of furniture and several objects, even though all of these appeared on screen numerous times. ' ese are: a marble-topped chest of drawers situated between the fi replace and the wardrobe; on top of this chest of drawers, an aluminum basket that one fi xes on the handlebars of a bike, and a lunchbox. On the fl oor, there are bicy-cle tires. If the audience, which felt quite familiar with François’s room to the point of knowing it almost through and through, has forgotten such things, it is because these particular objects are the only ones in the entire room that have no dramatic function at any time.

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Viewers noticed the alarm clock because it rings at the end of the fi lm; the revolver because, in a sense, it is the wellspring of the action; the teddy bear because it is a souvenir from an important moment in the past; the necktie because the Gabin character carefully picks it up after remov-ing its tag, and because, since he has just killed Valentin, this could seem like an act of mockery on his part. Similarly, we noticed that François is careful to make his cigarette ashes, which would otherwise soil the table-cloth, fall into the ashtray. So much cleanliness and an almost manic pas-sion for order, each of which reveals a tidy side that smacks a bit of the bachelor, strike the audience as moral and psychological traits of astound-ing lifelikeness, highlighted by their contrast with the dire dramatic situa-tion at hand.

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8A ) Marcel Carné’s Le jour se lève

To continue: the bullets that tear the wallpaper draw the audience’s at-tention to its decorative stripes. < e mirror that Gabin smashes at the end recalls numerous times throughout the action when his character, François, looks anxiously at his refl ection, or when we see him only through his re-fl ection in the mirror. Conversely, the chest of drawers, the aluminum bas-ket, and the bicycle tires are situated in a part of the room where the action, so to speak, never occurs. It was natural, therefore, that the audience did not notice them. Nevertheless, if this part of the room had not been visible, if there had been no bicycle tires and no aluminum basket, the room’s de-cor would have been incomplete; and without the chest of drawers, we cer-tainly would never have detected the presence of the tires and the basket—consciously or unconsciously.

I had the opportunity to make the counterproof of the above under the following conditions. After showing only the fi rst three reels of Le jour se lève, I asked the audience to describe the decor for me. I was surprised to note that, through the course of twenty such experiments comprising from a thousand to fi fteen hundred viewers, almost the entire audience had seen the chest of drawers. < e reason was simple: they had not had the time to be taken in by the action. It would have required half an hour of supplemen-tary projection to give the specifi ed objects the time needed to take on their intended role as dramatic relief. During the third reel the audience was still able to notice the chest of drawers for want of a reason not to notice it.

Far from invalidating the success of my previous experiments, the fail-ure of this current one only confi rmed it. And from it we can lay down the laws of fi lmic decor. Except, naturally, in fi lms of a marvelous or fantastic nature, the cinematic decor should be realistic and meticulously selected. It also has to be spread out over the whole set so that it confi rms the plau-sibility of the action. Yet the decor must not be confi ned to a merely deco-rative function. < is is because fi lm, through the magnifi cation of objects, through camera movement, and by means of selective editing, can make the entire world of the frame intervene in the action, whereas the theater more or less has only the actor and his dialogue as its resources. < e cin-ema, by contrast, is able to treat the decor as actor in its own right in the dramatic narrative.< e totality of the decor in Le jour se lève is consequently indispensable,

and the experiment I’ve just conducted brings to the fore the role that decor can play. < e chest of drawers is what we can call ambient decor, with an exactitude or precision that is necessary to our sense of the fi lm’s truth. < e alarm clock, the teddy bear, and the wardrobe, by contrast, play a dramatic role in the action in addition to any ambient function they may perform.

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You might have noticed the role played in the fi lm by the Gabin character’s cigarettes: the smoking of each cigarette in his pack marks in some way the passage of time during Le jour se lève. François’s obligation, for lack of matches, to light his cigarettes one oL the other compels him to be vigilantly attentive to the burning tobacco. When, by accident, he for-gets to keep his cigarette lit, we experience a strange pain, as if this bit of negligence on his part marked a decisive moment in the tragedy that is tak-ing shape at the same time. It seems that François was condemned to la-ment the very moment his pack of cigarettes was all used up. < is alone—the last little pleasure of smoking—allowed him to go on living. Still, he was unable to extend his luck, or his pleasure, and the inattentiveness that had permitted his cigarette to extinguish itself was fi nally nothing but a si-multaneous renunciation of struggle: a subconsciously deliberate and re-vealing mistake by François.

It would be equally important to show, to some extent, the exact role played by each of the other parts of the decor.< e stairway of the residential hotel is a geometric space in the life of

the building, a sort of artery through which the inhabitants manifest them-selves and from which, at the sight of François, all life fl ees save the police-men at the bottom, with their hands on the banister. Moreover, the dra-matic symbolism of a decorative element like the cigarette, whose meaning is clearly perceived by the viewer, is without doubt subtler in the case of the wardrobe. < is famous Norman wardrobe that François pushes against the door and that gives rise to a savory bit of dialogue on the stairs between the police chief and the concierge—in it we naturally see nothing but one de-tail of an intrigue that captivates us mostly through its realism. Indeed, we can well imagine its mention in a miscellaneous news item about this murder-suicide.

In reality, however, the implicit symbolism of this wardrobe is as neces-sary and precise as that of a Freudian symbol. It is not the chest of drawers, the table, or the bed that François puts in front of the door; it had to be this heavy Norman wardrobe, which he pushes like an enormous slab enclos-ing a tomb. < e body language with which the Gabin character moves the wardrobe, as well as the very form of this piece of furniture, makes clear that he is not merely barricading himself inside his room: he walls himself in. Even if the material result is the same and we do not consciously see any diL erence between the two actions, the dramatic tonality of one over the other is altogether diL erent.

More slippery still, and almost impossible to defi ne, is the role of an-

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other element in the decor: the glass. < ere is a lot of glass in the fi lm: the mirror and the panes of the window in François’s room, most prominently. < e love scene takes place in a glass-enclosed greenhouse, a synthetic, arti-fi cial place where the fl owers growing are of a diL erent species from the li-lacs we gather in spring. < en there are the frosted panes enshrouding the cloak room during the scene of the café-concert and the mirror behind the bar there, the mirrors and windows in the scene between Valentin and François at the bistro, and even the dark glasses belonging to the overly symbolic character of the blind man. Furthermore, when François is going to Françoise’s place, instead of following him through the door, the cam-era glides to the window and observes him for a moment through the pane of glass.

Although it is impossible to claim that, at any one moment in Le jour se lève, glass is a symbol extending beyond its intrigue-related, realistic justi-fi cation, it seems that the set designer could not arbitrarily have found so many opportunities to show glass to us. Without question, glass is a re-fl ective, transparent material that is at once “truthful,” since it lets us see through it; “deceptive,” since it nonetheless serves in part to separate us from what we want to see; and “dramatic,” because if you ignore it you will break it and hence be responsible for your own misfortune. In this case, glass seems, by its very presence, to condense or constrict François’s entire drama. At the very least a sort of agreement, a complicity, exists between glass and this man’s drama, as if he could fi nd something like an echo of his own fate in the glass environment that surrounds him.

We see, then, how Marcel Carné’s realism, at the same time as it stays meticulously faithful to the verisimilitude of the decor, knows how to poet-ically transpose it: not by modifying it through a formal or pictorial trans-position, as German expressionism did, but by extricating its immanent poetry, by compelling it to reveal the secret pact this decor has made with the drama. It is in this sense that one can talk about Carné’s “poetic re-alism,” which distinguishes him perceptibly from the style of a Jean Gré-millon, for example (whose realism relies less on the eL ects of decor), but above all from the much more objective realism of a René Clément or a Georges Rouquier. In thus stripping German expressionism almost com-pletely of its recourse to visible transpositions in the decor, Carné simulta-neously knew how to interiorize its poetic teachings by using the lighting and the set symbolically. (< is is what the Fritz Lang of M [6:;6] had al-ready known how to do without ever managing to do without it.) < e per-fection of Le jour se lève is that the symbolic never precedes the realistic during the fi lm, yet somehow still manages to top it in the end.

Notice, as well, the fi lm set’s suburban plaza, the exactitude of its decor

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with its central building erected against the sky. It seems that this partic-ular corner of a leprous neighborhood had to be ugly; in reality, one para-doxically becomes aware of the poetry that emanates from this place. < e set here might have appeared real to most of the audience but it is artifi cial, constructed entirely in a studio. We touch at this point on an important problem connected with fi lmic decor. I have said that, except in movies of a marvelous or fantastic nature, such decor had to be realistic and ex-hibit a meticulous verisimilitude. Nonetheless, if one were directly to fi lm a real suburban plaza comparable to the one in Le jour se lève, one would see that it would seem less real, that it would incorporate less drama, and that it wouldn’t give oL the sort of bitter poetry that inheres in Alexandre Trau-ner’s decor.< is is because, to be believable, the decor should not be under-con-

ceived in relation to the narrative. In real surroundings, the decor would have been so, because it would have been impossible to choose the exact an-gles for the viewpoints needed or to project to the precise location the lumi-nous beam of an arc lamp. < ese technical reasons alone would suP ce to justify a set reconstruction, but there are more. In designing the small sub-urban plaza, Trauner composed it as a painter does his canvas. Completely submitting himself to the requirements of cinematic reality, he knew how to give the plaza the lightly poetic interpretation that makes it not a repro-duction, but a work of art submissive to the artistic economy of the fi lm as a whole.

It is worrying that, these days, Marcel Carné grants the decor too much importance in the overall scheme of his work. Already in ' e Devil’s En-voys [Les visiteurs du soir, 6:74], it was possible to see the visual signifi cance of Georges Wakhévitch’s production design more than its dramatic import. In Gates of the Night [Les portes de la nuit, 6:7B], the development of the de-cor goes so far as to eat into the fi lm like a cancer. Nearly devoid of the dramatic, this decor barely even serves the function of ambience. In Gates of the Night Carné asked Trauner for a sort of picture frame that was at once realistic and poetic—a frame within which the action, itself anemi-cally dramatic, could unfold. Such severe and exacting design restrictions, happily, are not noticeable in Le jour se lève.

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< e decor plays a dramatic role in this fi lm, as I was saying, but it does so as a function of what would have to be called the psychology of de-cor. < at is, psychologically speaking, the decor serves to unify the charac-

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ters just as much as the performances of the actors themselves. < e decor in Le Jour se lève could even be said to constitute a surprising piece of social documentary. For example, when we see Valentin dead on the concierge’s bed, he is spread out on top of newspapers. We can imagine why. < e con-cierge did not want this guy, whom she did not know, placed on her bed-spread, for any excess of blood could have stained it; she goes to fi nd some old newspapers in a cabinet and spreads them out beforehand. < is sim-ple, documentary-like detail in the decor says more about the psychology of the concierge than could any stretch of dialogue. It is with such details, as much as with the action itself, that we establish character.

It is particularly with regard to the Gabin character that the decor in-terests me, however. His room, otherwise almost bare, allows us to recon-struct not only the life, but also the tastes and traits, of François. Sports appear to be his only distraction: bicycling and soccer. His bicycle, more-over, is to him a supreme luxury, and for this reason he takes good care of its mechanism (the pedals and gears, the tires). It is a beautiful racing bike made for the road, shiny and well-maintained. François also owns a soc-cer ball, and the only photos on the wall are of sporting memories. < ese sports objects are the only “disorder” he allows in his room, because in fact he does not consider them disorderly. On the contrary, he bestows on them a sort of privilege or status that he does not grant the other objects in the room.

Now, this room is meticulously arranged. François’s variously styled fur-niture is nonetheless not entirely ugly: the Norman wardrobe itself is very beautiful. It is characteristic of this sort of residence hotel, where the rooms are more like small apartments (François, to be sure, lives in one of the cheapest rooms, an attic apartment). < e furniture and the interior deco-ration do not have the anonymity associated with rooms in tourist hotels, where guests rent by the day—like the room Clara occupies, on the other side of the plaza, with its copper bedstead, fl uL y divan, and a copy of Jean-François Millet’s Angelus [69A8– 69A:] on the wall. In rooms like these we get the feeling that people never fully unpack their suitcases (which pretty much corresponds to Clara’s situation). In François’s place, by contrast, renters stay for years, and the bric-a-brac furnishings therefore include some solid components, comfortable old things. < ere are just as many positive elements to the decor in his room, then, as there are signifi cant defi ciencies.

Such a room has served others, as well, but it has always had the time to get used to them. In this little apartment, a poor but authentic human sedi-ment seems to have deposited itself over the years. François himself has un-doubtedly lived there quite a while already; he has arranged the place after his own fashion—very simply, but in his uniquely rigorous way. He rules

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this particular roost with a fastidious tidiness evidenced by the mechani-cal refl ex that drives him to perform, after Valentin’s murder, the ritualistic gestures of making his cigarette’s ashes fall nowhere but into the ashtray—a gesture he completes even though shots have been fi red—and of carefully putting away his tie after having removed its label. (< ese gestures have a dramatic value at this particular instant, to be sure, but at the same time they defi ne François’s overall psychology.) < is is all because François is a bachelor. Accustomed to solitude since childhood, he has learned to take care of himself. What he has known of women did not prevent him from learning how to keep house and sew on new buttons.

Moreover, one can suspect in François a hint, if not of misogyny, then at least of distrust of women: he has lived up to now without counting on them. < is is due to his social origins (dependence on state welfare) but also to his character. He has never been lucky, he says; he has always needed more tenacity, more will, more structure in his life just to hold out and not sink to the bottom. We therefore feel in François a form of patent stoicism or, rather, conscious austerity. He must not drink, his life is orderly, he al-most never goes out, and his little free time is devoted to bicycling and soc-cer. His artistic sensibility itself is weak if not nonexistent—where would he have gotten it? (< e only pictorial element in the room: a sketch of Gabin above the bed, most likely a souvenir from a friend who knew how to draw or from some carnival artist who did it for a hundred francs.) But François possesses a common man’s feel for elegance that is not incompat-ible with his bad taste in things generally. His tie is not pretty but he also did not choose it by accident. His cap goes with his personality; he makes it a sort of point of honor never to take this cap oL , even with women (wit-ness the love scene).

François seems almost apolitical; whereas sports and his friendship with fellow cyclists as well as soccer players leave visible traces all over his room, we have no clue as to any political opinion he may hold, nor anything that indicates, for example, membership in a militant workers’ union—toward which his work at the foundry should nevertheless have driven him. On this particular point, we doubtless have to take into account a number of constraints, the chief extracinematic one being a producer’s concern to re-main safe inside the most politically benign, irreproachably neutral terri-tory. < e same constraint seems to have been imposed on Jacques Becker’s Antoine and Antoinette [Antoine et Antoinette, 6:78]. To tell the truth, one can’t imagine François’s being involved in militant politics at all. Even if he is “unionized,” there is an anarchic aspect to this man that must make him as wary of politics as he is of women; the open solidarity of his colleagues at work or his sports associates is certainly more to his liking. One should also

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take into account here the anarchic individualism of Jacques Prévert him-self in the composition of François’s character.

We can thus see how character traits join with the actor’s own perfor-mance to justify certain dramatic situations and to explain individual be-havior—indeed, to establish the very grounds of narrative credibility.

EM3 .* ?(/.)X

Naturally, the Sherlock Holmes species of inquiry—in which we have just indulged so as to reconstitute the life and character of François from a few clues oL ered by the decor in his room—is not something the viewer himself consciously and happily conducts. Yet it is thanks to the presence of these clues that the viewer more or less has an idea of Fran-çois’s identity: that he lives for himself with a kind of moral and social pre-cision. Nevertheless, it goes without saying that the audience receives a lot of other information about the character played by Jean Gabin. < e decor comes above all to confi rm, clarify, and retouch the idea of this character as it constitutes itself through the dialogue and action of Le jour se lève. I would like now to elaborate upon the profound nature of this action in its relationship to the protagonist and the actor who embodies him.

It is said that Gabin demands, before signing a contract to shoot a fi lm, that the script include an angry scene during which he will kill someone. And, indeed, one notices that in the majority of his movies, Gabin incar-nates a character carried away by anger to the point of murder: for instance, in Julien Duvivier’s Escape from Yesterday [La bandera, 6:;A], Jean Renoir’s ' e Human Beast [La bête humaine, 6:;9], and Carné’s Port of Shadows in addition to Le jour se lève; and, recently, in Georges Lacombe’s ' e Room Upstairs [Martin Roumagnac, 6:7B] along with Raymond Lamy’s Mir-ror [Miroir, 6:78]. < is story is probably apocryphal, but it might as well be true. And such a demand would be the result, not of capriciousness on the part of a star, but of consciousness of the nature of his character or personality.

In reality Gabin is not an actor who gets asked to play the protagonist of a narrative; he is himself, before there is any narrative, a protagonist to whom the screenwriter must bend his will and imagination. No matter what the script, Gabin would not know how to have a destiny other than his own. And this destiny in fact includes outbursts of anger, acts of mur-der, and the death of the Gabin character himself by the end.

In Le jour se lève, François fought patiently, day after day and with clenched teeth, against the rotten luck that had been dogging him. Since

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his birth, marked by a kind of social malediction (known as public assis-tance), he has struggled steadfastly against the mechanized or scientifi c gods of modern society and has been able to hold out against them: the ma-chines, the factory, the industrial chemicals, and even the crowded bus that drops him oL in the rain. At age thirty, he could think that he had out-lasted these gods’ malicious hounding, that his courage—and one could say, in the old-fashioned sense of the word, his virtue—had helped him to elude fate. < en François meets the woman who is going to save him from his solitude and consecrate his victory over life. It always seems that only a woman can save Gabin (Michèle Morgan in Port of Shadows, for example), and nearly all his pictures are the story of such a salvation—however illu-sory it may be.

François meets Françoise the day after their shared saint’s day, which may be a sign that she is destined for him. He could very well continue his aL air with Clara, but he would not cheat on Françoise for such a plea-sure, because Clara is cut from the same cloth as he. Françoise is precisely made of something else, and the success of their love will permit François an “out”: through her, he will escape Clara by escaping himself. He contin-ues his relationship with Clara only so long as it takes Françoise to assure him of her love. Ironically, it is Françoise—in whom François has placed all

Le jour se lève (Daybreak, !"("); director: Marcel Carné.

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9; ) Marcel Carné’s Le jour se lève

his hope to go on living,—who is about to set in motion the instruments of destiny.

François’s purity, and his need to believe in the purity of Françoise, will come back to haunt him. She, in her way—although we don’t know through what kind of naïve duplicity—is going to negate all the hope that François has placed in her. < e reason is that Françoise’s own purity, na-tive and almost virginal, reveals itself to be ambiguous and therefore an abetter of Valentin’s supreme impurity. But the drama resides in the pos-sibility, not that Françoise has cheated on François with Valentin—if this were all, François could easily break oL their relationship—but that maybe she did it without ceasing to be pure. How? < at is the mystery for which François must die. < e closer he comes to possessing Françoise, the more he is shaken in his certitude, like the needle of a compass as it approaches a pole. His simple soul could not be saved by anything except the simplicity of someone else’s purity, and in Françoise purity shows itself to have a dou-ble meaning—an inconceivable kind of purity that seems an accessory to what, for François, is the very symbol of impurity.

François’s error is that he does not comprehend the metaphysical trap that Françoise’s purity has set for him. He could be saved if he renounced salvation through the mirage of purity, if he accepted Clara’s saving grace, because Clara is of the same race as he even though she knows how to live with the impure. After François, she will go back to being with an ordinary animal trainer from the circus, not because she didn’t really love François but because she has fi nally decided simply to live. Clara’s purity is her wis-dom. She was not unworthy of François, but he is not able to see her real purity, always fascinated as he is by the intangible mirage of Françoise’s purity.

All that life and society has refused François and all that he has nonethe-less painfully wrested from them in his solitude—suddenly Françoise com-promises this for him; and even more so, she compromises the entire capital of hope he had placed in her. Nevertheless, all is perhaps not lost. Every-thing could even be saved, since Françoise has promised not to see Valen-tin, and it seems that she has kept her promise, for Valentin complains to François about this. Could it be that Françoise fi nally exists for François, that his patience and love ended by compelling her to be? Valentin, to be sure, applies himself to the retrospective destruction of this completely new reality, plunging it back into question. Yet François resists him; he has a sudden burst of wisdom, the preservationist’s instinct for happiness: for the fi rst time he masters his anger, calms himself, lets go of Valentin, and tells him to shut up and leave. Still, the other guy insists. So it is that François

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proceeds to commit the irreversible act, thereby clumsily unleashing the spirits of destiny. Blinded by anger, he seizes the revolver and fi res.< e dialogue here perfectly summarizes the metaphysical substance of

the situation:

François (suddenly very calm and lucid): —It won’t get you anywhere.Valentin (backing away toward the door): —And you? . . .

From this point on the infernal machine will set itself implacably in motion. < e case can then be handled by the secular arm of modern des-tiny: justice, the police, their mobile unit, and the police chief himself, who leads this major operation in person. Nothing is left for François but to wall himself in, in the room that has already become his tomb.

It is necessary to recall here that in the epic just as in ancient tragedy, anger is not at all a psychological state but rather a metaphysical one, a kind of sacred possession. < e modern viewer also (unconsciously) inter-prets François’s anger as a second state, as it were, for which the hero him-self could not be morally responsible. < is state may even represent the best in François, the purest element of his being that the evil forces of destiny bait in order to force him into a series of angry gestures, at the conclusion of which there will be nothing left for him except to die.< e tragic situation of Gabin’s character appears clearly in the scene

where we see François shout from his window to the attentive crowd be-low, which is silent and almost stunned at fi rst, then little by little comes to life and, as one, entreats him to come down: “You are a good guy, we know you, we’ll testify for you.” < e crowd does indeed know François: they know his innocence. Like the chorus of ancient tragedy, they lament the hero’s destiny; and this scene (despite Prévert’s poor writing at this point) has a majestic beauty about it. < rough the crowd’s intervention, there are also millions of brotherly spectators who silently cry out their support for François, who they nonetheless know is going to die.

If supplementary evidence were necessary to prove the exceptional na-ture of François’s destiny, it would suP ce to remark that Jean Gabin is the only French actor, and almost the only actor in the world (Chaplin ex-cepted), for whom the audience expects the story to end badly. After all, all the romantic, stargazing women out there would be terribly disappointed if Gabin got married to Jacqueline Laurent or Michèle Morgan at the end of a fi lm. For this reason, Gabin was right to demand yet again his homicidal outburst from screenwriters, since it constitutes the signifi cant moment in an immutable destiny wherein the viewer recognizes, from fi lm to fi lm, the same hero. To be sure, this is a hero scaled to an urban world, a suburban

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9A ) Marcel Carné’s Le jour se lève

and industrial < ebes where the gods merge with the blind (yet still tran-scendent) imperatives of modern Western society.

13)1+2*.3)

In this way, the analysis of the François-Gabin character makes ex-plicit—and clearly defi nes—the profound nature of Le jour se lève. In spite of its careful structure and stylized (if otherwise realistic) appearance, this fi lm is nothing less than a psychological or even social drama. Like that of tragedy, the veritable fatedness or inexorability of the narrative and its char-acters is purely metaphysical. < e realism of the mise-en-scène, of the de-cor, the characters, the dialogue, and the intrigue itself, is only the pretext for the modern incarnation of an action that we would doubtless not know how to describe outside its contemporary manifestation—but that essen-tially goes beyond such a manifestation. Nevertheless, this dramatic action is not valid or convincing except in exact proportion to its realism. < e art of Marcel Carné and his collaborators is to make reality, whether it be psy-chological (the characters of Valentin, Françoise, Clara) or material (the de-cor, including the cigarettes and the wardrobe), fulfi ll its function as real-ity before insinuating its symbolic values into the picture. It is thus as if the poetry did not begin to make its presence felt until the precise moment when, paradoxically, the action seemed to identify itself only with the most plausible details of its own surface. Let me be clear: the realism in Le jour se lève has the rigor of poetry. < at is, everything is “written” in verse, or at least in prose, that is invisibly poetic.

I have had the opportunity to show, progressing through this article, how the mise-en-scène, the decor, music, dialogue, costumes, and the ac-tors’ performances work together in Le jour se lève to create a narrative and its characters without its ever being possible to disassociate technique from script, form from content, or subject from style. < is is surely one defi ni-tion of good cinema.

A fi nal remark: one perspective has, without question, been absent from this analysis, and that is the moral one. I hope the reader will have under-stood by now that this perspective seems as false to me as the technical one, and that it is as absurd to judge the “moral value” of a fi lm apart from its substance as it is to judge a movie’s abnormal camera angles without taking into consideration the abnormality of the story they tell. I hope, moreover, to have even convinced the reader, by implication, of the excellence of the moral code of a fi lm like Le jour se lève, which is fi nally nothing less than a tragedy of purity and solitude, if not of the soul.

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9B )

!)

+ (2' ,)1, 3+ .D .,'’* M(K+,&(Le parisien libéré, October 6;, 6:79)

TM.* E,,C , &M, @(' .*.() @2/+.1 E.++ *,, , (>&,' its crowning at the Venice Festival, the celebrated fi lm of

Laurence Olivier [6:58– 6:9:].Fundamentally, the challenge of Hamlet [6:79] was more diP cult to

meet than that of Henry V [6:77], because this time Olivier has renounced the magic trick of showing us, not the play, but the representation of the play. < is time he intends to place the viewer squarely in the same situation as that of a theater spectator in front of the stage.

Was the challenge successfully met? Shakespeareans will defi nitely de-bate Laurence Olivier’s interpretation of the daydreaming Prince of Den-mark. But such disputes will eternally resurface with regard to stage pro-ductions as much as fi lmic ones. I myself would prefer to look at this work from a strictly cinematic point of view. It seems indisputable to me that Shakespeare’s play fi nds here, thanks to cinema, a sort of dramatic novelty that is more contemporary and consequently more accessible to us. How many French people have attended a presentation of Hamlet recently? How many of them have watched it without getting bored? Here the drama of Hamlet, thanks to Olivier’s scenic continuity, the clarity of his cinematic means, fi nally becomes understandable to the spectator unfamiliar with Elizabethan culture—without, however, losing its richness or profundity. Who would deny that this constitutes progress of a kind? After all, Shake-speare didn’t write in order not to be understood.

Certainly, we can’t expect from the screen the exquisite pleasure, the specifi cally theatrical emotion, that overtakes us when the curtain rises in front of the footlights. Taken by itself, I’m sure that this distinction would justify the survival of theater. But couldn’t classical theater pieces like

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98 ) Laurence Olivier’s Hamlet

Hamlet, which only a restricted public and students still see, conquer once again, on the screen, the audience they deserve? Please don’t anyone tell me that this would mean the death of theater. On the contrary, it is cinema that can bring back the public that theater has lost precisely by giving this public the taste for great drama.

Hamlet (!"#$); director: Laurence Olivier.

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99 )

!(

13R2,+ .), E, K(-, .& Y K.1M(,+ ?3'-3) ’* 10' ()3 -, /,'?,' (1

(Cahiers du cinéma, December 6:A6)

W,++ , 3C(0, 10' ()3 -, /,'?,' (1 [6:A5]—K(-, into a fi lm by Michael Gordon [6:5:– 6::;], acted by José

Ferrer, awarded an Oscar, presented without shame in Paris, and dubbed [into French] by Jean Martinelli—this monstrosity of patent absurdities, this combination of every imaginable aesthetic, literary, and technical her-esy, actually isn’t far from being a great fi lm! It is in any case a good piece of work and one from which I have taken the liveliest pleasure, not for the rea-sons the naysayers would like to believe, but precisely because of what this picture desires to be: a solid, honest representation of Edmond Rostand’s play. < at Jean Dutour [6:45– 4566], the literary humorist and paragon of pure cinema, covered his face in shame didn’t prevent us from shooting two Cyranos in France—one mute (wouldn’t a mute Cyrano be worth a dubbed Cyrano?) in 6:4A [dir. Augusto Genina, starring Pierre Magnier] and one with sound not so long ago in 6:7B [dir. Fernand Rivers, with Claude Dau-phin in the leading role]—and from massacring in each instance a master-piece that the Americans have sent back to us in perfectly adapted form. < is paradox merits some analysis.

Above all, it proves once again that the time of fi lmed theater has come. Since we have had, on the one hand, Cocteau’s ' e Storm Within [Les pa-rents terribles, 6:79], and on the other, Olivier’s Hamlet (6:79), Gordon’s Cyrano de Bergerac now confi rms that there is no theatrical genre that couldn’t in principle be adapted to the silver screen. It’s just a matter of not straying from the essential in a vain search for “cinematic” illusions. Direc-tor Gordon knew well what he was doing when he based his mise-en-scène on the theatricality of Cyrano de Bergerac. His set, for example, doesn’t at-tempt to open up onto the horizon when the script gets “trapped” indoors. Even the outdoor scenes, like the siege of Arras, take place in a studio

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9: ) Michael Gordon’s Cyrano de Bergerac

Cyrano de Bergerac (!"%&); director: Michael Gordon.

whose “discoveries” aren’t so diL erent from what they would be onstage. (< e paintings of El Greco have curiously infl uenced the decor, particularly during the siege of Arras.) Almost all of the fi lm is bathed in nocturnal, low-key lighting that has the double advantage of blurring the outer limits of the dramatic space and sculpting it on the inside through lighting. < e action there remains as confi ned to the screen as it would be to the stage.< is Cyrano doesn’t distinguish itself from the rest through any particu-

lar feat; visually, it is poor, a fi lm whose means remain small-scale through-out. Michael Gordon didn’t wish to compete against Laurence Olivier. Simply and without genius, but always with convincing intelligence, he has avoided the pitfalls of fi lmed theater. His shooting script follows the text; it doesn’t preempt it or add a baroque mise-en-scène to the preciosity of the play’s intrigue. Without a doubt, Orson Welles would have made a dif-ferent fi lm of Cyrano de Bergerac. < is supposition isn’t gratuitous, for just such a project was in a very advanced stage, and I even saw the Alexandre Trauner’s models for the set. But in the absence of Welles’s genius, Michael Gordon’s modest but sure talent does a perfect job. < e balcony scene, for example, evidences a shooting script that can’t help but add to this scene’s dramatic movement. Roxanne’s point of view, as well as Christian’s, is iden-tifi ed with that of the camera. Her amazement, his anxiety, Cyrano’s au-

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:5 ) Bazin on Global Cinema

dacity in prompting Christian’s words—all are formally inscribed within the space of the scene, which doesn’t lose anything on the screen. On the contrary, it gains, as do other scenes in the fi lm, always provided that the script obeys the spirit of the original text and the fi lm director does as his theatrical counterpart would do, albeit with fewer resources.

We French tend willfully to deem Cyrano untranslatable—although it is true that this is defi nitely not the chief theoretical objection we would make of such an endeavor—persuaded as we are of the superiority of Gallic theater and the subtlety of our language. Proud of the play’s universal suc-cess, we nevertheless are not above surprise that somebody outside France could understand anything about this work. We serve Cyrano to others with such eloquence that we won’t suL er another to serve it to us. < ey don’t have the Alsace and Lorraine, so to speak, and they do not know that French chicken is cooked in wine! < ese savages dare to fl avor chan-ticleer with cranberry sauce and Cyrano with the likes of Errol Flynn. < e best we could hope for would be a good western. Our sending the Ameri-cans Sarah Bernhardt, Benoît-Constant Coquelin (who introduced Cyrano to the Americans), and Louis Jouvet—well, that could only have educated them a bit. But pretending that we accept, at a stone’s throw from the Co-médie Française and the Porte Saint-Martin monument, a Cyrano made in Hollywood, damn it all, that goes beyond even the Technicolor processing of Joan of Arc [6:79, dir. Victor Fleming].

Fine then, good people, but who plays Cyrano in the French provinces? Nobody, and with good reason. < ese pieces don’t allow for staging except on the highest level—the very type of work, then, that only the cinema could give a new shine and a new public. While waiting for a French fi lm-maker who knows how not to betray Edmond Rostand, why not examine this American Cyrano from up close?

So, again, I don’t fi nd the fi lm so bad. Without question it does not con-tain the mise-en-scène or interpretation of Coquelin, but the fi lm never-theless has one, and quite a valid interpretation at that, as a result of which I’m not sure that Rostand himself wouldn’t gain in one arena what he in-evitably loses in another. Well, it’s been said that this cinematic version of Cyrano de Bergerac lacks a script, and that from time to time the verses measure thirteen or fourteen feet due to dubbing requirements. I myself observed, however, that the dialogue is mostly the same as Rostand’s, ex-cept for a few syllables, and that his alexandrines—in spite of the handicap of dubbing—translate to the screen perfectly. < is adaptation is something that honors not only the director but also the writer: it’s a test from which a script emerges enriched.

Regarding the cuts, they don’t spoil the piece at all. A certain tightening

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:6 ) Michael Gordon’s Cyrano de Bergerac

of the dialogue and even of the intrigue was admissible, if not necessary, to avoid the redundancy enforced by the visual possibilities of cinema, which are more explicit than those of theater. < e point here is by no means to be-tray Rostand but to serve him. Yet this version in particular reveals qual-ities that we don’t always ascribe to Cyrano. Gordon’s fi lm proves that the value of the dramatic piece doesn’t reside only in its verbal panache, the beautiful scintillation of a somewhat fl ashy poetry—its Victor Hugo [6954– 699A] side by way of José-Maria de Heredia [6974– 6:5A].< e worldwide popularity of the character of Cyrano is already a sign of

his humanity, of the theatrical solidity of the character. He is not the exclu-sive property of France anymore. Instead of giggling at the nerve of the for-eigner (without ever asking ourselves why we dare to stage Shakespeare), it would be more intelligent to rediscover, through an unusual interpretation and a diL erent tradition, the youthfulness and richness of the play. For my part, I was surprised to be thrilled at Michael Gordon’s picture, to laugh and to cry with it as much as I did in the theater, and, on the whole, at the same moments. Yet I felt in this case as if I had abandoned myself to emo-tion with more security; it was as if, deprived of a portion of its stylized ver-bal wizardry, further away from its original text but closer to its characters, the piece confi rmed its deepest qualities and revealed that its fl ashiness ac-tually concealed gold.

Regarding José Ferrer [6:64– 6::4], he’s admirable; his Cyrano is cer-tainly less Gascon French and more Spanish. He has put some Don Quix-ote into the mix but, that’s not an absurdity at all—quite the contrary, it’s a very original interpretation that is perfectly justifi ed by the script and doesn’t diminish the character at all. In this I see a consequence of the uni-versalization of the character about which I spoke just a moment ago. Isn’t it better that a Hispanic American actor took Cyrano for a cousin of Don Quixote, so that French radio listeners of Jean Nohain [6:55– 6:96] would more willingly take him for the Gascon cousin of Marius [Marius, 6:;6; dir. Marcel Pagnol]? For Marius himself is “proper French,” is he not?

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:4 )

!#

&M, ?M,&&3 (* 13)1,)&' (& .3) 1(K@ : ( +>' O- ' (-3C ’* &M, +3)? N32'),0

(Cahiers du cinéma, February 6:A4)

TM,', .*, (+(*, D,'0 +.&&+, 1M()1, &M(& &M, reader of these lines will be able to act on them. If she lives in

Paris and hasn’t already gone to see this fi lm at the Cinéma d’Essai, it will be too late by now; and if he lives in the provinces, I doubt that he would have the chance to fi nd ' e Long Journey [a.k.a. Ghetto Terezín; Daleká cesta, 6:A5] on the marquees of the cinemas in his city. < is is not to im-ply the existence of a sordid cabal, or who-knows-what kind of Machiavel-lian plot; actually, that would even be preferable, because the phenomenon at hand is much more serious: it’s the normal game of fi lm distribution, which will probably keep this fi lm out of more modest markets. Everything damns it: its Czech origin (just from this national reference, it’s already a victory that censorship hasn’t suppressed the picture), its subject (“we have had enough of these concentration-camp stories already”), and its unusual style. In short, “this movie’s not commercial.” < ere remains the possibility, if improbability, of appreciation elsewhere—an appreciation that nonethe-less will not refute the pessimistic tone of this paragraph. I am referring to private screenings or the ciné-clubs, to whose attention I passionately rec-ommend this fi lm. At the very least, then, some several thousand spectators could learn of the existence of ' e Long Journey.

It is a curious coincidence that this month, January of 6:A4, has seen the release in Paris of the two best fi lms yet (and under advertising conditions almost as unfavorable for one as for the other) about the war or the con-centration camps. I refer naturally both to the American Lewis Milestone’s A Walk in the Sun [6:7A], which has been reviewed elsewhere by Jacques Doniol-Valcroze [6:45– 6:9:, co-founder of Cahiers du cinéma], and—with-out question—to the Pole Wanda Jakubowsla’s ' e Last Stage [Ostatni etap, 6:79]. It’s at once diP cult and unpleasant trying to establish a hierarchy be-

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:; ) Alfréd Radok’s < e Long Journey

tween the Polish fi lm and the Czech one, because their qualities can’t re-ally be compared. < e fi rst picture distinguishes itself through its complete, and seemingly impossible, detachment from formalist concerns; ' e Last Stage conveys the most direct, the most brutal aspect of a reality that could, alas, have suL ered excessive ornamentation. < e second fi lm, by contrast, is overburdened with aesthetic reference; I would even say, if a sort of terror-ism-by-critique didn’t hover around this word, that ' e Long Journey is one of the most formalistic fi lms I have seen in a long time.< is remark shouldn’t be taken a priori as being in its favor at all. Even

less so when one considers that the reference in question points to German expressionism of the 6:45s and 6:;5s. If there is an aesthetic that seems to have been overcome in world cinema, in Western as in Soviet fi lms, it’s pre-cisely this one. It is therefore astonishing to fi nd it taken to a paroxysmal level here, particularly in a Czech fi lm of 6:A5 (if the fi lm is indeed from this date, as has been said). It’s even more astonishing that this unexpected, formalistic resurgence took place in consonance with a subject that doesn’t seem to fi t it in the least.

I have spoken of a concentration camp, but the fi lm is more precisely about the anti-Semitic persecutions in Prague prior to the war and the life of the Jews trapped in the Terezín, or < eresienstadt, ghetto before most of them were transported to the Polish ghettos, whence there was no return. A Christian Czech has married a young female Jewish doctor, in spite of the persecution of Jews that has already begun. < e marriage guarantees her, for the time being, some measure of immunity (even if it has brought, by contrast, additional danger to her husband). < ey see, one after the other, their friends and then their parents receive the order to relocate to the sin-ister Terezín, a small fortifi ed village “arranged” into a ghetto. < ere, in ef-fect, is the world of the concentration camp, in all its monstrous logic. Per-haps a less physically atrocious world than could be found in other places, Terezín was just a stage—and not the last—in the downward spiral, but a complicated one whose own sociology complemented that of the concen-tration camp. < e least abominable aspect of this universe was not that it could have been even worse, on account of which it should have appeared to its victims as heaven on earth. < e Jew from Prague may have lived in the anxiety of relocation to Terezín, but the Jew of Terezín subsisted in the anguish of transfer to the concentration camp of certain death.

When the incarcerated father of the young Jewish woman succeeds, thanks to the complicity of a guard, in having a letter from Terezín sent to her, it’s just to demand some money and—absurd request—a bit of hair dye; the old man hopes, against all evidence, that black hair will cancel his fate as an old Jew scheduled for the next departure. He is still selected,

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however, and when the convoy rattles heavily along the main street of Te-rezín, in mud and pouring rain, the soggy hair of the man falls across his face. It’s true, by the way, that the Germans embellished these departures with music. A choir of inmates, ordered to appear in their Sunday best—bearded skeletons in stiL collars and bowler hats, perched atop a beat-up hearse as if they were on a podium—had to play for their coreligionists. Others would play for them later.

I doubt that Alfréd Radok [6:67– 6:8B] consciously sought out the style of his fi lm because he wanted the artistry that would result from com-bining it with such a subject. I’d more willingly believe that this style is mostly the product of the infl uence of expressionist aesthetics, which has always been latent if not explicit in Czech cinema. What surprises me here is that the most dubious characteristics of expressionism have paradoxically gained a profound justifi cation, a kind of realistic virginity. < e excess de-cor (understood nonetheless as real decor, this is the expressionism of Fritz Lang’s M [6:;6], not of Robert Wiene’s Cabinet of Dr. Caligari [Das Cabinet des Dr. Caligari, 6:45]), the high-contrast and symbolic lighting, the abnor-mal angles, the theatrical composition of certain scenes (the one, for exam-ple, in which a woman announces the arrival of the Russians—by striking the harp inside a grand piano—truly reminds the viewer of the gong scene

Daleká cesta (< e Long Journey, a.k.a. Ghetto Terezín, !"%&); director: Alfréd Radok.

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:A ) Alfréd Radok’s < e Long Journey

in Lang’s Metropolis [6:48]). All the paraphernalia attending such artifi ce, which we thought was outdated, reveals itself here to be the most logical, and the most necessary, for the expression a nightmarish reality. Involun-tarily, no doubt, but precisely because of an intrinsic and in a way meta-physical fi delity to the concentration-camp universe, the fi lm recalls the world of Kafka [Franz, 699;– 6:47] and, more curiously, that of de Sade [Donatien Alphonse François, Marquis de Sade, 6875– 6967].

My reference to the former man imposes itself irresistibly on the spirit in this instance, and, perhaps now for the fi rst time, the name of Kafka can be invoked in connection with the cinema. < e origin of the fi lm can’t be the cause of this, for the author of the story on which ' e Long Journey is based [Erik Kolár, 6:5B– 6:8B], although he lived in Prague, isn’t anywhere less known or loved than in his native Czechoslovakia. It is only because of the logic of its subject and its style that, infl uences aside, ' e Long Journey re-constitutes a universe similar to that of the Jewish Kafka. With de Sade the comparison is less evident, since eroticism has but a minor and accidental place in this fi lm. But a scene like the one where a Nazi forces, at gunpoint, a woman to transport a bucket of garbage with her teeth while crawling on all fours achieves a refi nement in mental cruelty of which de Sade and only de Sade could provide the archetype. More indirectly, the motif of the for-tress, with its tall brick walls—this stony prison-house evokes the moral confi nement of the Marquis himself.

I well know that these literary comparisons aren’t those that the critique of such a subject would seem to call for, but what else could be said about this fi lm, except to note that its story is true and distressing? And that, if Radok has not exactly been able to surpass himself, he has been able to bear witness not only to what the story objectively was, in the full extent of its horror, but also to an intimate dimension that, without denying the poli-tics or the sociology of the subject, places each of them in an intrinsic po-sition with regard to the human condition, so as to enable us to realize that maybe this ghetto is something other than a concentration camp. It is signifi cant that salvation comes, yet that it doesn’t seem possible it will come (from the outside, of course, when the fi rst Soviet truck is seen on the road). < e internal organization of the camp and the resistance—rela-tive but eL ective—that was able to diL erentiate its workings from the op-pression of the concentration camps, seem here not so much impossible as unthinkable. < at is the essential diL erence between this fi lm and ' e Last Stage. On ' e Long Journey’s victims rests a double curse, that of the camp and of their race; for this reason their fate appears all the more inexorable, as if it were fulfi lling a prophecy. Only the young doctor represents an ele-ment of social and moral resistance, but she has married a non-Jew and is

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:B ) Bazin on Global Cinema

therefore already halfway out of her personal ghetto. Yet she attempts sui-cide anyway—to liberate her Christian husband from the danger she rep-resents for him. < e walls of Terezín do fi nally open upon the arrival of the Russian soldiers, but only, as it were, at the Biblical sounding of the sev-enth trumpet.

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:8 )

!%

N3*,@M +3*,0 ’* K : ' ,K(-, .) &M, 2*(

(Cahiers du cinéma, April 6:A4)

C' .&.1* (', 2).&,- .) 3@@3*.)? &M, @' (1&.1, 3> remakes. But the indignation that we manifest with regard

to remakes isn’t entirely free of a certain confusion, and it hides an aes-thetic paradox that deserves some detailed analysis. < e remake is actu-ally a constant in the history of art; the notion of plagiarism is more re-cent and, for all that, has more shame associated with it. (It was Edmond Rostand, not Cyrano de Bergerac himself [6B6:– 6BAA], who, long after the fact, reproached Molière [stage name of Jean-Baptiste Poquelin, 6B44– 6B8;] with the words, “What the hell were you doing stealing a scene from the real Cyrano’s ' e Pedant Tricked [Le pédant joué, 6B7B]?”) After all, the slow evolution of the literary or the plastic arts is based as much on copying as on innovation. How many signifi cant works of art are not known to us only through one or two copied or plagiarized versions, and through the varia-tions the original has suL ered in them (as much as the idea of an “original” can preserve any meaning in this system of avatars)?< e cinema—an absolutely recent art form but one that, from the point

of view of its aesthetic ontogeny, could still be considered as primitive—spontaneously repeats the behavior of the other arts. < e true masterpieces are few and far between, the laws of success and the scale of values being as ruthlessly pragmatic as they are. < e producer who had the idea of buying the rights to Julien Duvivier’s Pepe, the Toulon Man [Pépé le Moko, 6:;8] or Marcel Carné’s Daybreak [Le jour se lève, 6:;:] was essentially behaving like a copyist from the Middle Ages or a pharaoh of the < ird Egyptian Dy-nasty. Unfortunately, it’s necessary to agree that the results of copying in the cinema aren’t the same as in the other arts. For a long time now artists in painting and literature—unlike fi lm practitioners—have been choosing their borrowed material from an infi nitely more vast historical selection.

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Statistically speaking, this does not automatically mean that remakes in such arts fail less frequently; still, in the end the truth remains that, where fi lm is concerned, it’s going to take a lot more than the occasional success-ful remake to save the Hollywood Gomorrah.

Yet a distinction must be made here. When we use the term “remake” we are often mixing up very diL erent procedures. Certain scenarios, for example, have been subject to periodic adaptation over the years. Jacques Doniol-Valcroize [6:45– 6:9:], for instance, has remarked on the many ver-sions of ' e Last Days of Pompeii [6:55, 6:59, 6:6;, 6:4B, 6:;A, 6:75, 6:A5]. How many versions have there been of Quo Vadis [6:56, 6:6;, 6:4A, 6:A6]? < e Japanese movie that’s being shot now by Daisuke Itô [69:9– 6:96], if I’m not mistaken, will be the tenth version of Les misérables [6:5:, 6:64, 6:6;, 6:68, 6:4A, 6:;7, 6:;A, 6:77—two diL erent versions—6:79, 6:A5, 6:A4] since the one by Albert Capellani in 6:64. Now this practice is completely justi-fi ed and the results prove it. Henri Fescourt’s 6:4A fi lm of Les misérables is certainly better than Capellani’s, and if Raymond Bernard’s sound version of 6:;7 isn’t on the same level as Fescourt’s silent picture (something that I choose to ignore), it’s just a historical accident. When all is said and done, the comparable worth of Jacques Feyder’s Lost Atlantis [L’Atlantide, 6:46] and G. W. Pabst’s Queen of Atlantis [L’Atlantide, 6:;4] has nothing to do with their chronology; and it’s true that the latest adaptation of this tale, Gregg Tallas’s Siren of Atlantis [6:7:], with Maria Montez, is probably infe-rior to them both. But would it really have been a better fi lm had the previ-ous versions not existed?

It happens that this variety of remake is founded, on the one hand, on a copy of the source materials and not on the original work itself and, on the other hand, on the evolution of cinematic technique. From frescoes to oil paintings in the history of art, the repetition of a subject supposes a deep transformation in its representation. Today we have a bias in the tra-ditional arts that permits us to judge a scene represented as a fresco with the same criteria we would apply to the identical theme painted in oil. < e use of perspective or low-contrast imaging doesn’t seem to us to be intrin-sically superior anymore, but we weren’t capable of eclecticism like this un-til a century ago. Even Viollet-le-Duc [6967– 698:], under the pretext of res-toration, forced the medieval look on romantic architecture. For the true contemporaries of an art in evolution, eclecticism is an impossible luxury of the spirit. A work of art considered obsolete from a technical viewpoint thus naturally becomes emptied of its aesthetic value, and a painting turns into nothing but a well-glued, colored canvas that can be painted over. Mu-tatis mutandis, a fi lm becomes a few pounds of celluloid that would be put to better use in shoe heels or hair brushes.

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:: ) Joseph Losey’s M

Now cinema is the only art form of which we are truly contemporaries; it develops and ages alongside us. < erefore it is pointless to be surprised when the public loses interest in a fi lm—even if it is a masterpiece—af-ter its obsolescence becomes perceptible. And the signs of obsolescence are multiple. Apart from the most obvious ones, such as the passage from si-lent to sound cinema, from orthochromatic to panchromatic fi lm stock, and, nowadays, from black-and-white to color cinematography—with all the stages of technical perfecting that come in between—it’s necessary to take into account storytelling technique (along with the history of edit-ing), photographic style, and, fi nally, the countless temporal or topical ref-erences contained in the image itself: manner of dress, type of makeup, act-ing style, etc. Regarding these latter signs of aging, cinema’s situation is nothing like that of theater, where the restaging of a play in the end is al-ways an adaptation to the taste of the day of an immutable text, which be-comes modernized by the contemporary mise-en-scène.

It’s true that this conjuncture—of an increasing number of remakes yet continuing advances in fi lm technique—has evolved quite rapidly over the past few years; I myself have commented on this phenomenon in what is otherwise an account of a related occurrence, the rerelease or reissue of old or classic fi lms (“A propos de reprises,” Cahiers du cinéma, I, no. A [Septem-ber 6:A6], pp. A4– AB). With the creation of cinematheques [Cinémathèque in French (also cinematheque) refers to a fi lm archive with an accompanying small cinema that screens classic and art-house fi lms.], the increase in the number of ciné-clubs, and the forming of an “elite audience”—something that has helped to make motion pictures available to a much wider pub-lic—the great movies of yesteryear are regaining their value. Eclecticism concerning the aging of fi lms is coming into prominence these days, and it allows some fi lms not to age anymore, bestowing on them the immortality of traditional works of art. It remains to determine to what extent this evo-lution of public taste is going to interest the fi lm industry: whether it con-stitutes a commercial phenomenon of note but one that remains at the mar-gins, or whether such an evolution in taste becomes genuinely integrated into the economic mainstream of production, as in the case of painting, where the antiquity of the works doesn’t hurt their economic value at all.

But it’s necessary to distinguish from the variety of remake described above, which is as old as cinema itself, and a very special kind that is par-ticular to Hollywood. In this sense the remake is not temporal but geo-graphic. And the aging of the original fi lm doesn’t play any a facilitating or even accidental role in its adaptation. Pepe, the Toulon Man hadn’t aged yet when the American Algiers [6:;9] was made from it; neither had Day-break [Le jour se lève, 6:;:] aged vis-à-vis ' e Long Night [6:78] or, more re-

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cently, France’s ' e Raven [Le corbeau, 6:7;] when ' e !(th Letter [6:A6] was adapted from it. For the most part, and this is the biggest diL erence be-tween fi lmmaking and the practice of the other arts, it’s not the scenario that is remade: there is an eL ort to copy the fi lm itself, as if a stencil were being traced. Everything happens as if the producer had thought that the artistic and commercial excellence of the original resided only in the fi nal look of the fi lm, and whoever remained close enough to that look would automatically reproduce the original’s success. < e childishness of such rea-soning, from an aesthetic point of view, wouldn’t escape even a cretin from Las Hurdes [the Spanish region depicted in Buñuel’s documentary Land without Bread, known as Las Hurdes in French, of 6:;;]. < is is, a priori, the way a prelogical mind works: one, that is, still ruled by magical analogy.

Whatever we may think of producers—even those from Hollywood—subjectively speaking, it’s diP cult to conceive of them as fully responsi-ble beings. It’s necessary that they stop being only the passive agents of a sociological phenomenon. However, I can’t discern exactly which phe-nomenon: perhaps the Americanization of cinema. Let’s take as an example Daybreak. Its commercial success has been modest but fi nally unsatisfac-tory; by contrast, this fi lm’s critical acclaim has been enormous abroad—much more than in France, particularly in Sweden, Italy, and England. < e penetration of French fi lms into the American market being insignifi cant, we then witness the following economically absurd phenomenon: a presti-gious fi lm whose prestige doesn’t pay. In sum, everything happened as if Daybreak had opened a market that it was unable to feed—not only be-cause the French fi lm was poorly distributed to most places abroad, but chiefl y because it wasn’t truly appreciated except by an international elite, since the general public everywhere is conditioned by the American style of moviemaking.< is is where the Hollywood producer comes in: he coolly notices the

fi nancial failure of Daybreak despite its acquired critical prestige and tells himself the reason is simply that the fi lm isn’t American. He then acquires the licensing rights, remanufactures the product in his studio, and re-releases it to the market under the U.S. brand, thereby augmenting the prestige of the original prototype through the force of the American cin-ema’s sociological domination of half the world (obviously beginning with the United States itself). < is is something like what happens in fashion when a great Parisian couturier sells the production rights to an article of clothing to a New York manufacturing fi rm. Sadly, the analogy stops at the sociological level. Aesthetically and economically, copying a dress poses problems completely diL erent from those of remaking a fi lm.

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656 ) Joseph Losey’s M

< e above explanation should be taken at face value, yet it seems to me that it has the additional advantage of addressing three highly vexing issues:

6. < e impossibility of believing that there still exist producers stupid enough to be motivated by the idea that the quality of a fi lm can be traced to its images rather than its scenario. < e existence of such an individual becomes conceivable, if not tolerable, from the instant we discover that he is merely eager to exploit the economic consequences of the privileged sociological position that American fi lms enjoy. 4. < e fetishist fi delity to the original, in the process of remaking a fi lm, such that it is copied take-for-take and its characteristic de-tails are reproduced as fully as possible. < is is about giving the pub-lic the illusion of a reproduction—an illusion eagerly awaited in the American counter-brand. ;. < e fact that remakes are undertaken in this form only in Holly wood, understood in the qualitative sense of the word as well as the global, geographic, quantitative one.

Now we can neatly appreciate the quality of exchange between French and American cinema by using Pepe, the Toulon Man/Algiers as a prime ex-ample. < e source of Duvivier’s fi lm is manifestly the American gangster fi lm—Howard Hawks’s Scarface [6:;4], to be exact. < at infl uence is ob-served in the character of Gaston Modot, whose ball-in-cup trick is taken from George Raft’s tic of constantly fl ipping a coin in Hawks’s picture. Yet Pepe, the Toulon Man is the very example of a deeply transposed and assim-ilated, positive infl uence. From American social mythology Duvivier has retained only the universal outlines, a certain tragic romanticism concern-ing the life of a criminal in the big city. < e scenario, the dialogue, and the characters are reconceived in a French sociological context, or, more precisely, a North African one. But this is a conventional, stylized North Africa that combines exotic scenery, Marseille-style banditry, and Parisian mythology. < e inaccuracies in Pepe, the Toulon Man may enrage the Alge-rians, yet this is a good sign, for it means that this fi lm is the opposite of a neorealist work about the casbah.

In adapting Pepe, the Toulon Man, whose own source is American, Holly wood manages to retain the Algerian setting. In John Cromwell’s ver-sion, with Charles Boyer and Hedy Lamarr (there is another American re-make, called Casbah [6:79], directed by John Berry [6:68– 6:::] and starring Tony Martin and Yvonne De Carlo), numerous shots have been copied ex-actly and every eL ect has been painstakingly preserved. To put it another,

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better way, we fi nd here a sort of double for the Gaston Modot character, dressed almost in the same manner, who puts the ball into the cup almost as well. Even the man fl ipping the coin in Scarface, freely interpreted by Duvivier, can be found in Algiers in an instance of grotesque plagiarism by way of an American avatar. < is detail betrays the aesthetic value of the re-make in the restricted, Hollywood sense of the word.

And Joseph Losey [6:5:– 6:97] sadly illustrates once again what’s wrong with this kind of remake in M [6:A6], adapted from Fritz Lang’s celebrated 6:;6 masterpiece. < is new example does, however, present several instruc-tive variations on the remake not found in Algiers. < e Americanization process here is immediately explicit, given that the action has been trans-ported to a U.S. city that goes unnamed but is evidently Los Angeles. < e same had already been done in ' e Long Night and ' e !(th Letter. < ere it was, without question, a laudable and sensible measure. < e equivalent of French social realism in America can’t be anything but American realism. Unfortunately, the change of geographic location in the case of the Ger-man M exists in radical contradiction to the formal fi delity after which the American scenario and its mise-en-scène strive (a fi delity that has its lim-its, as we’ll see).< e fi lm hasn’t been copied shot by shot, but sequence by sequence, with

a precise reconstitution of the original images whenever possible—the bal-

M (!"%!); director: Joseph Losey.

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65; ) Joseph Losey’s M

loon in the telegraph wires, for example. < e development of the plot and the characters is the same (the red-balloon seller, for one); all the pivotal scenes are there with all their incidents (the chase after the man in the building by the night watchman, the panic of the murderer who has acci-dentally locked himself in a kind of attic, and the safecracker who has been forgotten in his hole). But let us look at the diL erences between the two fi lms, mostly of form, for they are quite curious.

Joseph Losey seems to have wanted to modify M ’s style after the ne-orealist fashion. Whereas Fritz Lang had done everything in the studio, Losey depended largely on exterior locations. < ose are the elements, in-cidentally, that, when isolated from the whole, constitute the good part of his fi lm—the part that demonstrates that this young and impetuous direc-tor deserved a better fate. I get the distinct impression that, if the scenario allowed him, he’d just like to make a good picture in a personal vein. But in this case the imperatives of remaking Lang’s M imposed on him an ab-surd return to expressionism, to a falsely German décor and cinematic style that are both perfectly at odds with neorealism: for instance, in the storage room where the murderer is trapped with mannequins and a slew of wax limbs. As for the music, whose role in Fritz Lang’s version was essential, in Losey’s adaptation there has been an attempt to preserve it by drowning the soundtrack in the famous whistling motif: an instance of aural bathos that deprives the music entirely of any dramatic eL ect.

Let’s go now to the modifi cations in the scenario, for they will allow us to fully grasp the absurdity behind the whole idea of the Hollywood “re-make.” We remember the role, crucial in the narrative, of the criminals and their bosses, who decide to mobilize the underworld of the city in an eL ort to make up for an impotent police force. < is cult of beggars and thieves, transformed into a court of justice, will in the end judge the igno-ble character played by Peter Lorre [6:57– 6:B7]. With Fritz Lang, this idea was admirable and well-developed and inscribed itself in a kind of poetry of banditry, in the manner of Brecht’s ' e ' reepenny Opera [Die Dreigro-schenoper, 6:49] and according to the social history of Germany in 6:;5. With Losey, the picturesque and romantic lowlifes become gangsters and shoeshine boys and everything falls apart. Such characters, which could have been written by the American Dashiell Hammett [69:7– 6:B6] or the Briton James Hadley Chase [6:5B– 6:9A], are not the kind to feel outraged by the rape of little girls! In this context, the main character himself loses most of the horrible aura that surrounds him. In the case of Fritz Lang’s M, the guarantee of authenticity was the true story of the Vampire of Düssel-dorf, the serial killer Peter Kürten [699;– 6:;6]. But American sadism isn’t German or even English sadism. And even if bloodthirsty satyrs did exist

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in Los Angeles at the time, their crimes didn’t acquire the exemplary aura, the mythical resonance, that managed to terrorize a whole city in the case of Fritz Lang’s fi lm.

Where the Americanization of the details succeeds in destroying the new M, however, is through the intrusion of psychoanalysis. < e police in-vestigation and, especially, the fi nal mockery of the judicial process in the garage are occasions to explain these crimes by attributing them to a case of the Oedipus complex. But it would be wrong for us to smile at this revela-tion. If Freud has become the deus ex machina par excellence of American fi lms, even those that could have been good, like Henry Hathaway’s Four-teen Hours [6:A6], this is much more than simply a puerile little trend. < e psychoanalytical explanation imposes itself today on Hollywood as impe-riously as an article of the Hays Motion Picture Production Code [6:;5– 6:B9]. We already knew that the criminal could not escape justice (that is why, in Algiers, Pepe is killed by the policemen, because suicide would be a way to escape them). Later it became necessary to explain his crimes by re-vealing that, at some point in the past, the criminal protagonist had fallen on his head.

I’m not kidding: between the years 6:75 and 6:7A, we were hardly able to fi nd a single murderer who didn’t replicate the fate of other movie mur-derers by suL ering a fall from a bike at the age of fi ve (the exception that confi rms this rule is a fi lm without concessions of any kind: Hitchcock’s Shadow of a Doubt [6:7;]). < is development is a response to the desire to consider the criminal, as well as antisocial behavior in general, as inherently pathological. < e more seductive and apparently normal the criminal is, the more indispensable it will be to confi rm the existence of a hidden crack in his past. But confi rming is not explaining. So psychoanalysis oL ers the scenarist the universal panacea used so often today. And Freud’s psycho-analytical truth remains unquestioned in the sense that it is systematically employed in the dénouement of nine American fi lms out of ten.< is is truer now more than ever, when the triumph of justice implies

the solving of the human mystery posed by the crime. < e true crime of the criminal, the thing that has to be stamped out, is his diL erence from the normal, average American. Before even good sense, then, it’s knowledge of the Oedipus complex that everyone in the world wants to have; there is no odious monster that can’t be reduced to some unfortunate form of this complex. In this way everything falls into place, the moral universe be-comes once again a place without mystery, and Homo americanus can con-tinue to live in a world where everyone has essentially the same chance of happiness and social integration. Such an extreme aversion to psychologi-cal mystery is perhaps doing more damage to American fi lmmaking than

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65A ) Joseph Losey’s M

the kind of harm the institution of painstaking censorship did to eroti-cism. Actually, however, such psychologization is just the manifestation of a yet another kind censorship, in another place: the Devil, after all, is not American.

Have I strayed too far from my subject? Not hardly. I was saying that the psychoanalysis featured in Joseph Losey’s M would have demolished anything remaining of Fritz Lang’s fi lm—had something remained. Under Lang’s direction, Peter Lorre begs his judges; he even weeps before them, but what he inspires is pity, not the kind of vain psychological comprehen-sion that could be purchased at the nearest drugstore. Finally, Losey’s fi lm clearly reveals the absurd mechanism of the remake that consists in copy-ing the details while betraying the essentials. < is solely exterior fi delity to form is the excuse that permits rereleasing to the distribution market a new fi lm billed as an exact replica of a prestigious original. Yet, at the same time, there’s an eL ort to rectify in the new model everything that is out of step with Hollywood movie mythology, including the very social setting in which the events of the story take place.

It should be clear by now that the better a fi lm is, the more its details are charged with inner meaning and the more rigorously interdependent those details become. < e furniture in the Gabin character’s attic room in Le jour se lève is not an interchangeable part of the décor; tragedy lurks there as in-timately as it does in the heart of the protagonist. It wouldn’t be possible to touch that furniture without modifying at the same time the drama and the characters as well. In any adaptation, the only way to remain faithful to the original and eventually to equal it is to go all the way back to the source and from there to follow the natural path to a new historical setting, as well as a new social landscape. Nonetheless, as I have said, in spite of its mon-strous absurdity, the practice of the Hollywood remake is alive and well.

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65B )

!+

3'*3) E,++,* ’* 3&M,++3(Cahiers du cinéma, June 6:A4)

H,', E, ?3 (?(.). .> .& ’* ),1,**('0 &3 /, >3' or against Orson Welles’s fi lm Othello [6:A4], I’m defi nitely

for. Jacques Doniol-Valcroze [6:45– 6:9:] and I were pretty much the only ones of this persuasion after the screening at Cannes, where Welles [6:6A– 6:9A] was applauded and booed at the same time. I have to admit that I wouldn’t have awarded this picture the grand prize, which does not refl ect either its qualities or its defects. < e special jury prize would have been more appropriate in this instance. Yet I’m afraid Welles may be destined to be misunderstood in precisely this way.

After the insult suL ered by Macbeth [6:79, dir. Orson Welles] at the Ven-ice Festival [where the fi lm was abruptly withdrawn after being compared unfavorably with Laurence Olivier’s 6:79 version of Hamlet, which was also in the festival’s competition], now a jury at Cannes is so impressed—against all probability—that it awards Othello the grand prize. We can cer-tainly see why, but this otherwise excessive honor isn’t addressed only to what is good in Othello. < e same jury would not have crowned Welles’s Macbeth, which had its own virtues. Implicitly, the award is being given to what is academic in Othello’s artistic audaciousness: that is to say, to its Eisensteinian side. But I put myself in the place of jurors who might well have liked the fi lm for other, better reasons. Will they be able to rekindle the enthusiasm for Welles of those who may, as a result, discover his genius anew—thanks to William Shakespeare? < at’s a real moral dilemma.

Whatever the case, Grand Prize winner or not, Othello seems to me to be a fascinating work. Before any other praise, the quality of Welles’s adap-tation must be recognized: in particular, its faithfulness in spirit, through the craziest kind of boldness, to Shakespeare’s dramatic poetry. I don’t think there is another director in the world who could allow himself, with-

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658 ) Orson Welles’s Othello

out subjecting his work to ridicule, to cut so much from the original text and replace it with spectacle whose attempt at visual equivalence is totally warranted. It is manifestly absurd to pretend to imagine what Shakespeare would have put in place of his verbal poetry had he shot movies instead of writing tragedies, but we could ask ourselves if what Welles has done is at the very least one of the possible solutions to this hypothetical question. I think the answer is yes, and I don’t think that this is a minor point. From such a perspective, the comparison with Olivier’s Hamlet is crushing. His [Olivier’s] mise-en-scène was an acceptable framework for Shakespeare’s

< e Tragedy of Othello: < e Moor of Venice (!"%)); director: Orson Welles.

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text, but it could never have been a visual substitute for it (it’s true, though, that in this respect Olivier’s Henry V [6:77] was quite superior).

Using such a fundamental quality as a starting point, we’re free to dis-tribute both praise and blame to Othello. Since my purpose here is not to do a full-length critique of Welles’s fi lm, I’ll content myself with declar-ing what I believe to be its biggest success and its most acute failure. To this end, I’ll confi rm once again that the solution to adapting drama to fi lm resides not in the performance of the actor, but in the conception of the decor. < e theatrical stage is a closed, centripetal universe oriented to-ward its own interior, like a clam. < e movie screen, by contrast, is a cen-trifugal surface, a frame placed on one portion of the limitless universe of natural creation. Dramatic texts are conceived to resonate in an enclosed space; they irremediably disperse and dissolve when transferred to a natu-ral setting. When passing from the stage to the screen, the text must there-fore fi nd a place that satisfi es two contradictory qualities: that of cinematic space, on the one hand, and of theatrical space, on the other.

Welles succeeds in this regard in a dazzling manner, as he recreates a to-tally artifi cial dramatic architecture, yet one composed, almost completely, only of natural elements borrowed from Venice and the fortifi ed Moroc-can town of Mogador. < anks to the editing and the camera angles (which make it impossible for the mind to spatially organize the elements of the decor), Welles invents an imaginary architecture adorned with every arti-fi ce, yet possessing all the simultaneously calculated and random beauty that only real architecture can have with its natural stone, sculpted by cen-turies of wind and sunlight. Othello thus takes place out in the open but absolutely not in nature. < e walls, the archways, the corridors—they all reverberate, refl ect, and multiply like mirrors the eloquence of this tragedy.

However, I am not able to admire without reservation Welles’s conti-nuity cutting, which prodigiously divides the fi lm into little pieces, like the shards of a mirror shattered by someone who has gone crazy with a hammer. Pushed to this extreme, such a stylistic bias becomes fatiguing. But my principal disappointment derives from Welles’s acting in the role of Othello; I must confess that it sometimes falls into exhibitionism without having, it seems to me, the sort of enormous yet mocking naïveté that ren-dered the close-ups of his Macbeth admirable. Still, if there’s a fi lm worth seeing again, it’s this one. I shall return to it.

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65: )

!*

( K,&(-E,*&,'): >' ,- =.)),K()) ’* M.?M )33)

(France-observateur, October :, 6:A4)

O > (++ &M, -.*1,')./+, ?,)',* .) &M, M.*&3'0 of cinema, the Western is the only one whose development

can be followed without interruption from the very origins of cinema un-til the present day, without any indication of a decline in its favor with the public or, as a result, with the producers. Of the nearly four hundred fi lms produced every year by Hollywood, around ninety are Westerns. It’s a fact that the majority of this output is of highly inferior quality, shot over just a few days with almost laughable means and featuring editing that is com-pleted with stock footage. < e infatuation of television with the Western, as well as TV’s consumption of cheap movies in general, is obviously bound to drop the already low bar of these cinematic productions, whose intellec-tual and formal level approaches that of the Sunday newsreels. But the pro-liferation of such mediocre fi lms at least showcases the popularity of West-erns, and their numbers do not exclude honorable products with suP cient stylistic means and accomplished actors, around twenty or thirty of which appear each year. It is in this latter category, which naturally has its own hierarchy of quality, where we fi nd nearly all the Westerns that make the rounds—however briefl y—on the Parisian circuit.

What’s most stunning, however, is not so much the permanence of the Western genre but its fi delity to itself. Where comedy is concerned, for ex-ample, the burlesque style of Mack Sennett didn’t survive at all beyond the mid-6:45s. From that period only Chaplin managed to persevere up until Limelight [6:A4], yet at the cost of a series of radical evolutions to his style. But American fi lm comedy hasn’t shined too brightly now for more than ten years. < e crime thriller, for its part, has changed its skin many times, from Underworld [6:48, dir. Josef von Sternberg] to Naked City [6:79, dir. Jules Dassin], paying homage to its noir ancestor along the way. In spite of

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the evolution of fi lm technique, beyond even the matter of individual taste or the wider context of historical events, only the Western has remained true to itself—to the essence of its dramatic or moral themes and formal style—without interruption for nearly forty years. < e Western can’t be de-fi ned, then, only by the geographical or historical localization of its sce-nario. < at is just the frame of an action whose limited variations are re-duced in the fi nal analysis to various combinations of intangible motifs given life by characters that exist only to fulfi ll their function.

Sometimes, it must be said, the unconsciously Corneillian [a reference to Pierre Corneille (6B5B– 6B97), the French neoclassical dramatist often called “the founder of French tragedy”] side of Westerns has been parodied. It’s true that a lot of these movies contain manifest analogies to Corneille’s Cid [6B;B]. But on both sides, seventeenth-century French drama and the twentieth-century Western, an implicit conception of women in relation-ship to ethical imperative—in short, a sense of chivalry—may be found. Being ambiguous, then, the parody serves at the same time to underline the greatness of the Western by virtue of its allusive subject and style. Indeed, it could well be said that in our day the Western constitutes the only authen-tic refuge for tragedy and the epic. For in it we fi nd the very kind of tran-scendent moral ethos that serves as the basis for Corneillian drama.

It may seem paradoxical to talk about the greatness and seriousness of a genre that passes more readily for something puerile and naïve. In the the-ater as in literature, naïveté and courage may not go hand in hand anymore after one or two centuries. But in fi lm, one can still fi nd, between 6:4A and 6:;A, some admirable and important Westerns that are both naïve and cou-rageous—and as anonymous as the eleventh-century Song of Roland (I re-member one of them that Henri Langlois was quite proud of presenting at the Cinématèque Française back in 6:78). Without a doubt, it is necessary to consider such naïveté as a constituent part of the Western: it wouldn’t be able to lose it without ceasing to be its courageous self, and this in fact has become the fundamental problem of the genre in the last fi fteen years of its history.

We could consider Stagecoach [6:;:] as the high point in the evolution of quality Westerns. What is wonderful about John Ford’s fi lm is that it combines the force of naïveté, of simplicity, with the advantages of intelli-gence. Admirably laid out, his scenario never overwhelms the themes that it introduces, just as the characters, in spite of their richness, never over-whelm the roles that they fi ll like eggs in their shells. From this classic point of equilibrium, it was surely inevitable that the crisis of the West-ern would itself evolve. We owe to it a series of remarkable fi lms between 6:75 and 6:7B, among them William Wyler’s ' e Westerner [6:75], How-

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666 ) Fred Zinnemann’s High Noon

ard Hughes’s ' e Outlaw (6:7;), and Ford’s My Darling Clementine [6:7B]. What these fi lms have in common is precisely the avowal of the impossibil-ity of naïveté. Each of them tries in its own way to surpass the traditional Western, whether through irony, like ' e Outlaw, through psychology, like ' e Westerner, or by means of brilliant formal variations, like My Darling Clementine.

It is as if great directors were aiming here at reevaluating a genre that had reached the critical point, at least among mediocre practitioners, where oft-repeated tradition becomes tired convention. For the best artists, it’s about staying on the same road but going in a slightly diL erent direction. Just as we have been able to talk about the metanovel, then, I’d readily call this type of fi lm the meta-Western.< e producer Stanley Kramer [6:6;– 4556] and the director Fred Zin ne-

mann [6:58– 6::8] give us a great example of the meta-Western today with High Noon [6:A4]. It certainly has been a long time since we saw—in the Western or any other genre—an American fi lm made with such vigor and intelligence. I would even say that the fi lms of John Huston couldn’t com-pare with it. < e marshal of a small town has married a young Quaker woman; out of respect for the convictions of his wife, who opposes the vio-lence that comes with his job, he plans to resign and leave the area. It’s then that he learns about the imminent return, on the noon train, of a crimi-nal he had captured fi ve years ago and who has just been pardoned by the Northern authorities. < ree members of his gang wait for him at the sta-tion, and they know that their fi rst job will be to help their boss take re-venge against the law oP cer who once jailed him. It’s 65:;5 in the morn-ing. As of now, the marshal is no more: he’s oP cially a civilian who has the right to leave this whole sordid aL air to his successor. Even better, the en-tire town wants it that way: they’d like him to depart immediately with his wife, as intended.

However, the marshal must remain despite himself and his fear, against the will of his fellow townspeople and his wife, who rebukes her husband for breaking his promise to quit his post on the day of their marriage. At fi rst the marshal doesn’t doubt that he can fi nd the help he needs to face the four bandits, but little by little he succumbs to the evidence that, whether because of cowardice, self-interest, or even fellow-feeling (on the part of those who encourage him to fl ee from a pointless fi ght), everybody shies away. He ends up completely isolated, abandoned by everyone to confront alone the four men sworn to kill him. Flight was still possible before the train arrived, but backing oL now would mean running away and aP rm-ing the futility of any resistance on the marshal’s part. < e private and pub-lic reasons for sacrifi cing himself to the law then become revealed one af-

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ter the other, and because of them there is no acceptable course of action except to go in vain to the death that awaits him on the noon train. < e marshal is Gary Cooper, whose old and weary mask slowly becomes one of fear, loneliness, and despair. < e man who played the eccentric but win-ning Longfellow Deeds in Frank Capra’s Mr. Deeds Goes to Town [6:;B] is now just a long, vacillating silhouette in tall cowboy boots as he wanders down deserted streets.

What I will criticize about High Noon, in spite of its evident and even exceptional qualities, may be those qualities themselves. Without question, this is one of the three best Westerns since Stagecoach (the other two be-ing ' e Westerner and My Darling Clementine). But my admiration for it is not without qualifi cation. More precisely, my admiration is for the fi lm more than for its protagonist. I was certainly drawn in by the vigorous ac-tion, which respects the unities of time and place until it becomes a chal-lenge to do so, but in the end my nerves and my intelligence were aL ected more than my heart. At no moment did I feel goosebumps because of any sincere, innocent attachment to the protagonist. Rather than as a “West-ern in the shape of tragedy,” as the critic Jacques Doniol-Valcroze described

High Noon (!"%)); director: Fred Zinnemann.

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66; ) Fred Zinnemann’s High Noon

High Noon, I see this fi lm as a tragedy in the shape of a Western—a trag-edy whose relationship to the traditional tragic themes of the Western is similar to that of Jean Anouilh’s 6:77 Antigone to Sophocles’s classic drama of the same name. No doubt adroitly, Zinnemann detours from its natu-ral destination a dramatic universe of which only the appearance and arti-fi ce remain.

I well understand that we could add such an asset to the fi lm’s capital. But only if we suppose that Westerns couldn’t survive as quality fi lms ex-cept at the price of self-deception—which, in the case at hand, turns out to be nothing more than clever decadence. < is is precisely what, in my opin-ion, is refuted by the twenty or thirty worthy Westerns produced each year, of which I spoke above. I believe that, for the most part, the episode of the meta-Western is ending and that we will see a return to the values of the classical Western: that is, if the American studios don’t sacrifi ce quality to quantity by reducing the budgets for all of these fi lms.< e last few months in Paris, we have been able to see two Westerns

very characteristic of the type of fi lm in which adherence to the rules of the genre is respected, but only through the fi rst half, which naturally results in a reduction in quality. In both of these pictures we fi nd a subject simi-lar, in dramatic as well as moral terms, to that of Zinnemann’s High Noon. < ey are ' e Gunfi ghter [6:A5, dir. Henry King], with Gregory Peck, and Along the Great Divide [6:A6, dir. Raoul Walsh), with Kirk Douglas. In the fi rst, an aging gunfi ghter runs the risk, during a three-hour period, of be-ing killed; love prevents him from fl eeing his fate on time. In the second, a sheriL stubbornly resists, against all apparent reason and moderation, an angry mob that wants to lynch a cattle thief and suspected murderer; this stubborn resistance on the sheriL ’s part eventually costs the lives of several innocents and should cost him his life, as well.

Unlike in High Noon, the treatment of the scenarios in both ' e Gun-fi ghter and Along the Great Divide sadly suL ers from many concessions or gaps, and each picture’s mise-en-scène, sometimes admirable, is visibly cut oL in other places. < ere is no intellectual perspective, no detachment on the part of either director from his subject such that we would be moved to see something else, or something more than a Western: no psychological subtlety, no social thesis, invites us to look beyond the pure game of com-bining traditional themes with standard devices.

I certainly admire Zinnemann’s fi lm, but I would have preferred these two to it had they been perfectly executed.

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667 )

!$

)3&,* 3) &E3 >.+K* /0 N3M) 1'3KE,++. E3K,) .) 1(?,*: 1(?,-; ()- 3>> &M, /,(&,) @(&M: &M, ?3--,**

(Cahiers du cinéma, July 6:A;; Cahiers du cinéma, October 6:A9)

E3K,) .) 1(?,*

May and June will be full of fi lm programs sabotaged by a distri-bution network dumb enough not to know how to profi t even from its free trump cards: in the course of the last few weeks, fi lms precisely like Giu-seppe De Santis’s No Peace under the Olive Trees [Non c’ è pace tra gli ulivi, 6:A5] and John Brahm’s ' e Secret Sharer [6:A4, a segment of the fi lm Face to Face], taken from Joseph Conrad’s short story. < e fi rst one has been re-leased only in dubbed form and in a small boulevard screening room, as if it were just some quaint melodrama seasoned with eroticism—which is what it appears to be from a certain angle. Now, whatever we may think of this Italian fi lm, it is clear that it deserved, even under these conditions, the attention of the critics. < ey themselves are guilty—of needing stimulation and not fi nding it—but even they can be excused when fi lms are released on the fl y, with completely unrecognizable titles (recall Lewis Milestone’s A Walk in the Sun [6:7A], which was released in France as Commando de la mort) at out-of-the way theaters.< e case of ' e Secret Sharer is even more typical: used as fi ller on a

program featuring Richard Fleischer’s ' e Narrow Margin [6:A4], the fi lm wasn’t even advertised outside the theater where it was playing. < e critics didn’t receive any information about it, either, when it should have had a favorable bias from them before the fact because it was adapted from a story by Conrad. But how could they have known? < e formula of running two medium-length fi lms on the same program was original in its own right, yet no promotional material underlined this fact. It’s in this manner that the best adaptation of Graham Greene’s fi ction, Brighton Rock [6:78, dir.

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66A ) John Cromwell: Caged and < e Goddess

John Boulting], has itself gone unnoticed in France—under the asinine ti-tle Gang of Killers.

In the same way, nobody has had any idea of going to see Caged [6:A5], an American fi lm directed by John Cromwell [6998– 6:8:]. Who would have dared to dream up such a title? Indeed, this rhetorical question was confi rmed by an advertising campaign that seemed to be ashamed of it. For my part, it was only on the last day of the fi lm’s run that I noticed it was by John Cromwell, and therefore I rushed to see it before it disappeared. In the end, a fi lm from the director of Abe Lincoln in Illinois [6:75] and ' e Enchanted Cottage [6:7A] had every chance of not leaving me indiL erent to its fate.

And it did not. Dealing with a subject that today is more or less blithely ignored—that of the social and moral malfeasance of prisons conceived in a purely repressive fashion—Cromwell has been able to adopt a tone that forcefully calls our attention to that very subject once again. < e austerity of the script is already quite unusual in itself: we get acquainted with the heroine only upon her entry into prison, and we leave her upon her release. Starting as an almost innocent woman, sentenced to one year for having acted as a lookout during a heist in which her husband was killed, she is implacably turned into a future criminal by a stupid and rotten-to-the core, coercive regime—a future criminal, moreover, who is greeted at the gates of the prison on the day of her release by cohorts in a luxury car.

Caged (!"%&); director: John Cromwell.

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Certainly, since this is a small fi lm of visibly limited means, the treat-ment of details isn’t without its shortcomings. Moreover, the situations and the characters are perhaps a bit too conventional: in the latter case, for ex-ample, the easy opposition between the good warden who wishes to ap-ply better rehabilitative methods and the evil head of guards who is cruel, corrupt, and protected by abominable politicians. But we can easily for-give such script concessions for the reality of the mise-en-scène, where John Cromwell’s blunt but honest and convincing style can be found. Composi-tions nearly always in close shots, making faces essential to the story; a gray and hard image purifi ed through asceticism of all plastic beauty; the direct-ing of the actors in the same restrained style—all of these qualities give the fi lm a unity of tone and style that we don’t run into so frequently. Caged deserved better than the silence it got, in any event. Go see it if it comes your way. (Cahiers du cinéma, July 6:A;)

3>> &M, /,(&,) @(&M

It’s interesting to analyze ' e Goddess [6:A9] in light of Ten North Frederick [6:A9], because the comparison allows us to better situate and de-fi ne John Cromwell’s fi lm. At fi rst sight, the script by Paddy Chayefsky [6:4;– 6:96], especially if we superpose it on his screenplay for Marty [6:AA], risks being confused with the “sociological” genre under which I would place Philip Dunne’s movie. But I think that this is precisely the kind of misunderstanding that should be avoided. ' e Goddess is in another class and comes from a diL erent drama school. Chayefsky’s true sources of in-spiration are to be found less in American novels of social commentary and critiques of soulless capitalism than in the oeuvre of Anton Chekhov [69B5– 6:57] or Jean-Paul Sartre [6:5A– 6:95], to cite just two literary infl u-ences on the screenwriter of ' e Bachelor Party [6:A8].

In other words, if Chayefsky’s work is accidentally sociological and crit-ical because of current historical conditions and the situations of the char-acters themselves, it is, in essence, moral and metaphysical. Whereas in Ten North Frederick it’s a sociological approach that more or less penetrates the protagonist’s moral consciousness all the way down to his personal health, the method in Chayefsky’s scripted fi lms is transcendent; it’s the essence of the human condition that is being examined and questioned in the context of American civilization. < is civilization is certainly determinant, but no more than Russian civilization in Dostoyevsky’s heroes: as a cause, it is im-mediate but not primary. Such an account could be doubted in the case of Marty and perhaps a bit more for ' e Bachelor Party. But those who would

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668 ) John Cromwell: Caged and < e Goddess

compare ' e Goddess to Sunset Boulevard [6:A5] would be making a seri-ous error, even if both are harsh investigations of Hollywood alienation. In Billy Wilder’s fi lm, this alienation is defi ned entirely on the psychologi-cal and sociological levels, while the same condition in ' e Goddess makes sense only from an ontological perspective.

I admit that Paddy Chayefsky’s scenario loses its way sometimes, and overall I don’t regard the fi lm as a perfectly convincing enterprise, but the very thing that annoys me about it seems to be worthy of esteem, if not admiration, or in any case of interest in itself. We could rightfully chide John Cromwell, though, for his choice of leading actress [Kim Stanley], unknown in the cinema if apparently famous on Broadway. She plays ad-mirably, in a style maybe a bit theatrical that otherwise doesn’t displease me; but she looks thirty-fi ve years old when the scenario initially makes her just sixteen, and she should have done a better job of acting out the younger age. Even more annoying is the viewer’s obligation to believe the success of this woman—who has no grace or intelligence—as a Hollywood star. We can’t discern how she has managed to rise to the top. But this relative im-plausibility has another inconvenience attached to it: because the character exudes no more than stale sex appeal, the kind you fi nd in some erotic rou-tine, the spectator’s spirit is prevented from taking refuge in the traditional categories of American cinema. He is forced to refl ect about the character on his own.

What troubles me most, I confess, is the main character’s mental vac-uum. Estranged [from family and friends] since her teenaged years, the her-oine whose portrait Chayefsky paints is defi ned by that vacuum, which is

< e Goddess (!"%$); director: John Cromwell.

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not only moral but also intellectual, and it has been so since birth or at least since the girl’s adolescence. < is “portrait of an idol” is only gilded plaster for the Oscars. We would better understand the destruction of a character for whom we could feel sympathy and admiration from the beginning. But that has been done before many times (' e Big Knife [6:AA], A Star is Born [6:A7], ' e Barefoot Contessa [6:A7]), hasn’t it?

Moreover, Chayefsky refuses to avail himself of easy drama: Hollywood here means not simply the obliteration of personality within the confi nes of the Hollywood myth, but the promotion of nothingness itself. His major theme, then, is evidently that of ennui. We fi nd it in the secondary char-acters, especially in the heroine’s husbands. About the heroine herself, we can’t say that she actually feels ennui, since this condition is subsumed in her, melded, inscribed in her very being. She hasn’t got enough conscious-ness for that, just enough to become crazy. But she spreads ennui all around her, like radiation from her existential disintegration, and Chayefsky stud-ies its decaying eL ects on all those exposed to it.

Regarding John Cromwell’s admirable mise-en-scène, some critics have refl exively complained that it’s just like television, fi rst because of Chayef-sky’s own television work but also because of the length of the fi xed close-up shots. But this is absurd. I don’t pretend to know well the oeuvre of this seventy-one-year-old director, to whom American cinema is indebted for some its best psychological dramas. I still haven’t forgotten, after twelve years, the use of the interminable close-up in Abe Lincoln in Illinois [6:75], which couldn’t possibly have owed anything to television technique. Crom-well has always had a soft spot for this camera position; he may be a bit clumsy in this, but he is very sure of the obtained eL ect. Whatever it may be, the suL ocating intensity in ' e Goddess of the sequence shot inside the car (during the hysterical monologue of the girl, while the young man won-ders if he’s going to have the courage to kiss her) doesn’t owe any of its ef-fectiveness to TV style. It is to be judged only according to the technical means of cinema.

Cromwell also oL ers to us, especially in the beginning of the fi lm, shots of more classic beauty; perhaps these are somewhat obsolete, but what a pleasure to reencounter the magisterial science of atmosphere of the old masters of American cinema: the lyricism of D. W. GriP th, nuanced, en-riched, and sweetened by over thirty years of experience. It is possible that the sequence depicting the young girl returning to school, and not fi nd-ing anyone to share the happiness of her having passed the entrance exam to the higher class, is a little sentimental, but I think more about the shot where we see her calling out to her neighbor in vain. < e harmony here among the decor, the shot, and the sound takes us in right away, and this

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66: ) John Cromwell: Caged and < e Goddess

one-second image imprints itself one one’s memory with a burning inten-sity. So much eL ectiveness in simplicity may not be very “modern,” it’s true. Today we prefer punching the stomach to touching the heart; let us be on our guard, however, lest we lose still fl avorful fruits by shaking the coco-nut tree too hard.

' e Goddess is the fi rst fi lm with a screenplay by Paddy Chayefsky that isn’t defi ned solely by its script, even though it still remains determinant here. It is possible that John Cromwell’s mise-en-scène doesn’t perfectly match the scenario, doesn’t marry that scenario to the kind of penetrat-ing softness found in ' e Bachelor Party, as directed by Delbert Mann. But the relative autonomy of the mise-en-scène establishes a strange ten-sion in ' e Goddess, contributing in the end to the unusual character of this whole endeavor, which is puzzling in many ways but always stunning and, in any case, much more worthy of refl ection and interest than most ambi-tious American fi lms. (Cahiers du cinéma, October 6:A9)

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645 )

!"

3) (K/.?2 .& 0 : N3M) M2*&3) ’* &M, ' ,- /(-?, 3> 132' (?,

(Cahiers du cinéma, October 6:A;)

O > (++ &M, M3++0E33- -.',1&3'* EM3 (@@,(',- on the scene after the war, John Huston [6:5B– 6:98] is cer-

tainly the one about whom we have written the most—excepting Orson Welles, of course. < e new fi lm criticism hasn’t missed the chance to write about an oeuvre that lends itself to exceptionality. < e succession of ideas, the intellectualism of style—not usual in the American cinema—the the-matic unity of Huston’s oeuvre, and the calculated lucidity of the mise-en-scène: all of these couldn’t help but justifi ably move the attentive viewer and seduce the intelligent critic. To this we should now add the aP nity of the theme of the ultimate absurdity of human action with the great cur-rents of postwar French literature. But this characteristic of Huston’s work was so obvious or superfi cial that it ended up becoming dubious. We were left to wonder if the well-known subject of failure was truly essential to this director, or, if it was essential to him, whether it wasn’t of questionable moral or dramatic quality. In the end, what really counts in art is style: that is, the interiorization of the work’s theme or idea in its form.

Regarding style, Huston’s is freely chosen and calculated but limited by a certain austerity, without any natural lyricism or poetry to it. It could pass for the style of an old Hollywood regular, trained in the studio yet a bit smarter than the others, and turned into a director by way of a detour from the screenwriting profession. In short, we see here the very argument that could be used to lower Huston’s talent to a secondary level, to deem it impure. After ' e Red Badge of Courage [6:A6], that argument is even stron-ger. It certainly is true that this fi lmmaker’s temperament remains more that of a scenarist than of a director, and that we could consider the pre-dominance of the writer in him as a limitation.

Huston’s style, even in its more ample manifestations, still remains too

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646 ) John Huston’s < e Red Badge of Courage

cerebral, too lucid. It has some admixture in its composition that will prob-ably always prevent it from truly rising to the level of the personal; instead, it will remain confi ned to that general notion of style that is confused with rhetoric. In this sense, Huston isn’t Orson Welles or Jean Renoir or even John Ford, even if we wanted him to be. His mise-en-scène is never any-thing but the apt and vivid shaping of a dramatic idea. < e means that he uses are by no means original, at least in their essence. His cutting, for its part, remains classical to the point of being banal until its most heated mo-ments. It follows that we can’t regard Huston as a “truly great” director. But it may suP ce to admire him as a great fi lm afi cionado.

Since we are harangued these days into nodding our heads at the name of Hitchcock, I’ll say, in order to refi ne my thinking, that it seems evident to me that the director of I Confess [6:A;] has a personal style, also that he’s an inventor of original cinematic forms, and in this sense his superiority over Huston is indisputable. But I won’t allow myself to consider ' e Red Badge of Courage or even ' e African Queen [6:A6] as works any less wor-thy of esteem than Rope [6:79] or Strangers on a Train [6:A6]. In the end, the movie’s subject has to count for something! When, for example, Roger Leenhardt made ' e Last Vacation [Les dernières vacances, 6:79], his audac-ity and inventiveness were assuredly not only formal. < e value and novelty of this work resided essentially in the fact that it expressed as cinema things more refi ned and acute than usual, that it interiorized cinematic expressiv-ity to the point of denying fi lm’s “spectacularity.” I mean that the conquest of fi lm rhetoric has to some extent lost its fascination and that what matters most now is an aesthetic hierarchy of subjects: after all, the depths of screen language were plumbed only through the exploration of primary and essen-tial themes.

To get back to Huston, when we compare the script of ' e African Queen to the great majority of Hollywood productions, we can’t avoid being pleas-antly surprised by its astute boldness, its psychological self-consciousness, and its relative subtlety. < erefore this fi lm still retains a minimum number of dramatic conventions completely absent from the admirable Red Badge of Courage. < e story of this picture is far too well known for me to revisit it here. Let us just remember that the movie we are watching has been mu-tilated (by the studio, MGM) and reconstructed around an “explanatory” commentary that tries hard but happily in vain to give the fi lm a dramatic unity and a classic, linear psychological progression. But this commentary only succeeds in underlining, by contrast with it, the ambiguous layer of the mise-en-scène. And even with the narration, ' e Red Badge of Courage has been judged uncommercial: its distribution to American movie theaters has been halted. It seems that this has occurred not so much for political

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reasons or because a cynical description of war isn’t totally in accord with the actual nature of such events—indeed, only a superfi cial reading of this work could fi nd such pacifi st intentions in it—but on account of the fi lm’s nonconformity to the canon of Hollywood genres.

War fi lms, you see, are traditionally spectacular; they tend towards the display of moments of bravery that emphasize the capital invested therein. Now Huston’s means are certainly important here; he hasn’t hidden them. He has done something worse: he has succeeded in exposing those means and thereby annulling their spectacular value. A battle is taking place on the screen, and during the whole of its duration, the viewer, just like the protagonist of the fi lm, has the feeling of not seeing anything but a lot of smoke and chaos. Formidably composed, measured, and calculated, this mise-en-scène doesn’t show anything; it merely analyzes. Its real objective is not the battle, as its purpose is precisely to deny the existence of the bat-tle as an autonomous reality, inscribed in a determinate time and space—denying it even the category of ontological existence.

What is admirable here, however, is that Huston never misleads us about what he wants. It would be very easy for him to defeat the reality of war by breaking it into chunks, to abolish the forest for the trees, as it were. In the admirable A Walk in the Sun [6:7A], Lewis Milestone decided to see the war from the point of view of the infantryman, so the camera remained (at least at the start of the fi lm) always at the level of the infantryman’s eyes. < e ef-fect was arresting but diL erent from Huston’s aim. < e latter adopts a view from above or without for both his protagonist and the action. We under-stand how this soldier sees the war and the disarray of his conscience over having to participate in it, but we never identify with him. < is is not war as seen by the infantryman, but simply war, and man at war.< e incoherence (but incoherence here is something like the aP rma-

tion of a negation) is not relative to the individual in battle; it’s the es-sence of battle itself. If Fabrice didn’t see much of the Battle of Waterloo in Stendhal’s ' e Charterhouse of Parma [69;:], it may be because he wasn’t in the right place. Huston’s hero, by contrast, launches himself right into the storm, and therefore much of what he sees doesn’t make a whole lot of sense. Huston in fact restricts our vision of the war; his camera’s fi eld may be the fi eld of battle, but the view we get of it is as general as the one that GriP th gave us in ' e Birth of a Nation [6:6A]. If it were necessary to assim-ilate such a point of view to that of an individual taking part in the action, this person would have to hold, at the very least, the rank of captain. But let’s just say that it’s simply the furthest perspective a human being—say, a reporter instead of a soldier—could have of such events through the testi-mony of his senses.

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64; ) John Huston’s < e Red Badge of Courage

John Huston would no doubt admit that he recognizes the infl uence on his fi lm here of the photographs of Mathew Brady, the ancestor of all war reporters. In short, what’s important to note is that Huston doesn’t hide behind a fi ctitious gimmick, that of the subjective camera; his third- person storytelling remains implacably objective, an objectivity that is not the ideal of God’s own, but the limited objectivity of man: his measure, as it were. Moreover, we wouldn’t be able to say that the war is depicted as radically absurd from this angle. ' e Red Badge of Courage is as bellicose as it is pacifi stic. < e only real lesson to be extracted from this picture is that, without question, human action is never anything but a fragment of a more general reality that surpasses our immediate or direct comprehen-sion because of its overwhelming dimensions. When we believe we have mastered an event through our intelligence and have responded to it by ex-ercising our free will, we are nothing but the dupes of our own vanity and our own ignorance. It is reality that includes us within itself and moves all around us without our knowing it. Failure, if not fatality, is the ransom for our illusions.

In this regard, the most signifi cant shot of Huston’s oeuvre could be the crane movement in ' e African Queen that raises the camera above the boat stuck in the marshland reeds and reveals the liberty of the wide-open river—which is just a few meters away. < e heroes thus reach their goal un-knowingly, for, in their position, the horizon is too low for them to discover the fact that they have escaped certain death. < e same is true for the man engaged in the war. But it’s not necessary to believe that a helicopter would suP ce to restore to him a total and quasi-divine view of things. < e cam-era in ' e African Queen dominates the situation and the landscape only by way of metaphor. In fact, our actions don’t extend any less in time than in space and yet they inevitably escape our apprehension, even if we have total knowledge of their immediate eL ect. In the end, then, General Robert E. Lee doesn’t know any more about the situation than does the young soldier under his command.< is is precisely the view of human action that Huston applies to the

psychology of his hero in ' e Red Badge of Courage. In the same way that we aren’t able to say for sure whether the battle is won or lost, any more than we can tell what place it will have in the history of the Civil War, we aren’t able to penetrate the motivations of the men so as to determine their moral or psychological classifi cations. Huston doesn’t deny cowardice or heroism; he just proves the inanity of any judgment that induces the cause from the eL ect. A hero may be just a weakling who fl ees by running for-ward. Bravery and cowardice don’t exist in themselves as instances of fail-ure or success, victory or defeat. < e obscurity behind human actions is

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just the reply of the relativity of motive to those actions. By featuring Audie Murphy in the central role, Huston isn’t trying in bad taste to ridicule this man, the most decorated soldier of World War II; but he is trying to doubly aP rm, through Murphy and the character he plays, that there isn’t in the end any objective proof of human heroism other than the number of rib-bons and citations a soldier receives.

What undoubtedly places ' e Red Badge of Courage well above Huston’s other fi lms is that the metaphysics of the picture, or at least its moral out-look, isn’t explained by the dramatic structure of the scenario; nonetheless, metaphysics or morality remains immanent in every image. It was the out-come of the action that permitted talk of failure on the part of the auteur of ' e Maltese Falcon [6:76] and ' e Treasure of the Sierra Madre [6:79], for in these movies Huston inscribed himself in the development of events, as op-posed to letting the dramatic structure speak for itself or come to its own conclusion. < at is, the same mise-en-scène in either instance could have led Huston to supply a happy ending instead of what we get; and “failure” revealed itself in these fi lms to be more a thesis than a theme. In ' e Red Badge of Courage (and to a very large extent in ' e African Queen, whose conclusion is mostly optimistic), the idea, if we can still speak about an idea here, is internalized, and with the same stroke it is then superseded by a moral dialectic that moves the fi lm’s auteur beyond failure or pessimism.

< e Red Badge of Courage (!"%!); director: John Huston.

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64A ) John Huston’s < e Red Badge of Courage

A lucid, implacably objective report on war and the psychology of the war-rior, ' e Red Badge of Courage isn’t a black and bitter fi lm, though. As far from pessimistic idealism as it is from lyrical illusion, it fi nishes more on a note of positive stoicism, with an active skepticism that is not without humor.

However great it may fi nally be, what makes for the aesthetic worth of a fi lm is less the ideas of its auteur than the way in which those ideas are integrated into the mise-en-scène. It’s true, as I indicate above, that this is Huston’s limitation, that he doesn’t have a genuinely personal style. His ed-iting itself is unoriginal, but that doesn’t matter much in ' e Red Badge of Courage because the mise-en-scène resides mostly in the intrinsic treat-ment of events as registered by the camera. < e unprecedented precision of his structuring of the battle and the exceptional verisimilitude achieved by the fi lm’s historical realism notwithstanding, Huston is generally opposed to what we call “composition.” His framing of shots is never of the kind to be found in military paintings (quite the opposite, it is necessary to re-mark, alas, of Pudovkin’s framing in Admiral Nakhimov [Admiral Nahi-mov, 6:78]). < e silver screen is not the stage for a theater of operations here because the military event just cannot be regarded as spectacle. What char-acterizes a spectacle is not so much the scope or the intensity of the action, but its physical arrangement and structure. Spectacular appearances them-selves just exhaust the senses. Huston, by contrast—and to repeat—never cheats with long shots. His mise-en-scène is eminently interior, I won’t say psychological but novelistic; this is not spectacle but storytelling, indivisible from the critical intelligence through which events are refracted.

If we wished to defi ne the theatricality of a mise-en-scène, we could compare it with the painting constructed according to classical perspec-tive—that is, with only one vanishing point at eye level that arranges the outermost edges of objects in the form of an imaginary pyramid. < e shot would then demarcate the transparent base within, around which the uni-verse of the event is arranged: coherent, closed, and self-suP cient. At the same time, there exist mise-en-scènes that have nothing to express except what they simply show, and among them are even some of Huston’s, save for the mise-en-scène in ' e Red Badge of Courage. In this picture, to the contrary, the screen is just a section of the event, which Huston avoids plac-ing in isometric perspective. Instead, it is endlessly crisscrossed by explo-sions from falling shells—which we may or may not regard as important—just like asteroids from other worlds. Certain elements undoubtedly serve as joints between dramatic nebulae, but we don’t follow them along their respective paths of travel. I’m thinking of the artillery wagons that hurtle down the road along which the wounded soldiers walk. Rather than racing

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with the wagons here, we stumble along with the hero among the rotting corpses of yet another forgotten battle.< is impossibility of referencing the shown action with an ideal action

fi tted out with a global geometry fi nds its equivalent inside any one shot in the director’s refusal to highlight signifi cant narrative details. For exam-ple, the relatively important character of the young lieutenant appears only sporadically; we suddenly discover him at one point wounded and limp-ing, but without our attention being drawn either to his appearance or to the signifi cance of his injury. It’s because of details like these that ' e Red Badge of Courage is perhaps the most revolutionary fi lm yet in American cinema. We understand the outrage of the adolescent viewers who decided the fate of Huston’s fi lm, because he not only didn’t organize his mise-en-scène according to a simple and exhaustive dramatic mechanics, he also required an active contribution from the audience to the mise-en-scène. What he shows us doesn’t make sense if we don’t contribute some insight of our own, the discerning fruit of an intellectual complicity.< is quality of the mise-en-scène should be defi ned as its realism. < e

ambiguity, or, better, the uncertainty that it supposes in things and actions is mostly a question of conscience as well as respect for people, objects, and events in and of themselves. As a result, Huston eliminates any theatrical-ity in the costumes, makeup, and acting. Whether beards are fake or real may not be a good criterion of cinematic realism in general, but, at the very least, such beards are certainly extremely important to the phenomenologi-cal realism of which ' e Red Badge of Courage partakes. One can’t imagine a fi lm from the neorealists Rossellini or De Sica with wigs. < eir scenar-ios, moreover, are set in contemporary times. What’s surprising in Huston’s fi lm is precisely this feeling of contemporariness to the story, the idea not that the past has been reconstituted but that, on the contrary, it has been updated.

Certainly other directors have seen fi t to take extreme care with the truthfulness of their fi lms’ décor, costumes, and makeup, but more of-ten this exactitude becomes one of the manifest objectives of the mise-en-scène—so much so that it in itself becomes highlighted or underlined. In Huston’s work, such exactitude is no more accidental, or inevitable, than the rest: it is a necessary but never privileged attribute of the image. If it had been emphasized in ' e Red Badge of Courage, for example, we would have had to pay attention to the leg of the limping young lieutenant in a corner of the screen. It is certainly possible to go wrong by employing to-tal archaeological rigor, but the truth wouldn’t be complete without the beards; they are the sign, far more ineluctable than coincidental, of the in-divisible realism of the fi lm’s mise-en-scène.

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648 ) John Huston’s < e Red Badge of Courage

Huston has now brought oL one big project, ' e Red Badge of Courage, and is planning to bring oL another one—Moby Dick [6:AB]—after Mou-lin Rouge [6:A4] and Beat the Devil [6:A;]. < e second, Moby Dick, will prob-ably succeed at shedding light on the meaning of the fi rst, which, as I have noted, was partially disfi gured in postproduction. We may see that the no-tion of failure in the earlier fi lm is resolved in a brilliant ethical light, in which the momentary success of human enterprise becomes almost a mat-ter of indiL erence. By comparison with ' e Red Badge of Courage, each of Huston’s previous pictures appears fi nally, if not as a caricature, then pretty much as the drama of a moral idea that only ambiguity, or more pre-cisely the cultivation of a novelistic mise-en-scène, could restore to its full plenitude.

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649 )

)&

&M, .&( + . () *1,),(Cinéma %( à travers le monde, 6:A7)

TM, 6:A6– 6:A4 *,(*3) M(- ,)-,- 3) ( &' .2K@M()& note for Italian neorealism with the wonderful Two Cents’

Worth of Hope [Due soldi di speranza, 6:A6] by Renato Castellani. Another masterpiece opened the 6:A4– 6:A; season, Umberto D. [6:A4], by Cesare Za-vattini and Vittorio De Sica. Unfortunately, the fi lm was released under deplorable conditions at the end of September and was insuP ciently sup-ported by the critics, who were still napping after the holidays, so it en-joyed absolutely no success. Violently attacked in Italy for parapolitical rea-sons, Umberto D. consequently did not fi nd the welcome in Paris that it deserved. For this, shame on the critics’ children and grandchildren up to the seventh generation!

In the Zavattini and De Sica oeuvre, Miracle in Milan [Miracolo a Mi-lano, 6:A6] was a parenthetical work. It was an excursion into fantasy, related to realism and in its service perhaps, but generally following a diL erent path from the one defi ned by Shoeshine [Sciuscià, 6:7B] and Bicycle ' ieves [Ladri di biciclette, 6:79]. With Umberto D., this director and screenwriter return to pure neorealism, in which they attempt to eliminate all conces-sions to the traditional concept of cinematic dramaturgy.

Now an eccentricity of Zavattini’s is his claim that Italian cinema must, contrary to all evidence, “transcend” neorealism. < is is a perilous and par-adoxical position after the success of Bicycle ' ieves, which represented the pinnacle from which any artist could only descend. But Umberto D. proves that the undeniable perfection of Bicycle ' ieves does not delimit the neo-realist aesthetic; indeed, for this reason Umberto D. may even be superior to Bicycle ' ieves. < is latest fi lm succeeds, rather than in the strict ap-plication of the laws of neorealist form, in creating an almost miraculous equilibrium between neorealism’s revolutionary conception of screenwrit-

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ing and the exigencies of classical storytelling. Where one would never have believed that such a compromise could exist, these fi lm artists have arrived at an ideal synthesis between the necessary rigor of tragedy and the sponta-neous fl uidity of daily reality. For Zavattini, however, this success did not come without sacrifi cing a part of his aesthetic theory, which we all know would create a cinematic “spectacle” of ninety minutes in the life of a man to whom nothing ever happens. An impossible task, perhaps, except in a theoretical fi lm that would refl ect reality like a two-way mirror, but such a deeply aesthetic notion is as inexhaustible as nature itself.

From this point of view, Umberto D. tries to go, and succeeds in going, much further than Bicycle ' ieves did; two or three of its scenes, in fact, more than suggest the complete neorealism that Zavattini visualizes. Dis-agreement will inevitably arise, because the fi lm’s social themes and its sen-timent may make some people consider it a plea for old-age pensions, while others dismiss it as nothing but a populist melodrama. < ere will always be the carping critic who wants to mock De Sica’s “faint heart,” yet it is clear that the real fi lm here is much more than the sum of its parts.

First let’s look at the fi lm’s “action.” A retired bureaucrat, reduced to half-misery and demoralized by the threat of losing his room, decides against committing suicide because he cannot fi nd a home for his dog or muster up the courage to kill the animal, either. But this fi nal scene is not the pathetic conclusion (also, what conclusion are we talking about, since the old man has to live on?) of a dramatic chain of events. If the events hap-pen to be dramatic, they are so in themselves and not with regard to a preestablished “action.” Granted, the succession of these events, sometimes only moments, is not incoherent. One can see some progress in it, but this progress is accidental as it were: the opposite of necessary or inevitable and tragically transcendent. To wit: Umberto D. is suL ering from angina, and

Umberto D. (!"%)); director: Vittorio De Sica.

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his illness fi lls up a lot of time in the fi lm; it will land him in the hospital, but his hospitalization has almost no consequences for the action and, after his recovery, the protagonist fi nds himself in the same situation as before. < e basic unit of the fi lm is thus not a scene, an event, a coup de théâtre; its mainspring is not even the protagonist’s character: the story is only a suc-cession of concrete moments of life, none of which can be said to be more important than the others.

Indeed, the story of Umberto D.—if one can still speak in this instance of a story or plot—is as much about the times when “nothing happens” as it is about dramatic events, such as the protagonist’s failed suicide. De Sica dedicates more than one reel to showing us Umberto D. in his room, clos-ing his shutters, arranging various objects, looking at his tonsils, going to bed, taking his temperature. Too many pills for a sore throat, I have to say! Enough pills for suicide . . . < e sore throat plays its small role in the plot, but the most beautiful sequence in the fi lm—and one of the highest achievements in the history of cinema—is the awakening of the pregnant little maid. Rigorously avoiding dramatic italicizing, the scene perfectly il-lustrates Zavattini’s conception of narrative and hence of mise-en-scène.

Early in the morning, the young girl gets up, comes and goes in the kitchen, drowns the ants that are swarming in the sink, grinds the cof-fee, closes the door with the tip of her toe . . . and all these “irrelevant” ac-tions are reported to us with meticulous temporal continuity. < is scene is without any dramatic “usefulness,” as the camera limits itself to fi lming the young woman during her habitual morning activities. Cinema becomes here the very opposite of the art of ellipsis, which one can too easily think it was made for. Ellipsis implies analysis and choice; it organizes facts accord-ing to the dramatic sense they must be submitted to. De Sica and Zavattini try, by contrast, to divide the event up into smaller events, and those into even smaller events, up to the limit of our perception of duration.

I mentioned to Zavattini that this last scene sustains our unfl agging in-terest, whereas Umberto D.’s bedroom scene does not succeed in the same way. “You see,” he told me, “that the aesthetic principle is not in ques-tion, but only its application. < e more screenwriters reject genres of action and spectacle and try to make a story conform to the continuity of every-day life, the more choosing from among the infi nite events of someone’s life becomes a delicate, problematic issue. < e fact that you were bored by Umberto D.’s sore throat, yet moved to tears by my little heroine’s coL ee grinder, only proves that I chose the second time what I, and perhaps you, had not conceived of before.”< is is an uneven fi lm, certainly, and one that does not satisfy the soul

as much as Bicycle ' ieves, but Umberto D. is also a fi lm whose weaknesses

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are due only to its ambitions. Nonetheless, we should no longer be mis-taken about the concept of “realism” in fi lm art: the purpose of De Sica and Zavattini is to make of cinema an asymptote of reality, in the process al-most making of life itself a spectacle—life in itself at last, even as the cin-ema alters it. < is places a fi lm like Umberto D. not only in the forefront of neorealism, but at the very edge of the invisible avant-garde, which I, in my own small way, hope to promote.< e year began with a misunderstood masterpiece (De Sica’s Umberto

D.), and it ended with an accursed masterpiece, Roberto Rossellini’s Europe ’%! (Europa ’%!, a.k.a. ' e Greatest Love, 6:A4). Just as critics had reproached De Sica for making a social melodrama, they accused Rossellini of indulg-ing in a confused, indeed reactionary, political ideology. < ey were once again wrong for the most part, for they were passing judgment on the sub-ject without taking into consideration the style that gives it its meaning and its aesthetic value.

A young, rich, and frivolous woman loses her only son, who commits suicide one evening when his mother is so preoccupied with her social life that she sends him to bed rather than be forced to pay attention to him. < e poor woman’s moral shock is so violent that it plunges her into a cri-sis of conscience that she initially tries to resolve by dedicating herself to humanitarian causes, on the advice of a cousin of hers who is a Commu-nist intellectual. But little by little she gets the feeling that this is only an intermediate stage beyond which she must go if she is to achieve a mysti-cal clarity all her own, one that transcends the boundaries of politics and even of social or religious morality. Accordingly, she looks after a sick pros-titute until the latter dies and then aids in the escape of a young criminal

Europa ’A6 (Europe ’A6, a.k.a. < e Greatest Love, !"%)); director: Roberto Rossellini.

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from the police. < is last initiative causes a scandal, and, with the com-plicity of an entire family alarmed by her behavior, the woman’s husband, who understands her less and less, decides to have her committed to a san-itarium. If she had become a member of the Communist party or had en-tered a convent, bourgeois society would have had fewer objections to her actions, since the Europe of the early 6:A5s is a world of political parties and social organizations.

From this perspective, it is true that Rossellini’s script is not devoid of naïveté, even of incoherence or at any rate pretentiousness. One sees the particulars that the author has borrowed from Simone Weil’s life, without in fact being able to recapture the strength of her thinking. But these reser-vations don’t hold up before the whole of a fi lm that one must understand and judge on the basis of its mise-en-scène. What would Dostoyevsky’s ' e Idiot [69B:] be worth if it were to be reduced to a summary of its plot? Be-cause Rossellini is a true director, the form of his fi lm does not consist in the ornamentation of its script: the form is supplied by its very substance.< e auteur of Germany, Year Zero [Germania, anno zero, 6:78]—another

fi lm in which a boy kills himself—is profoundly haunted in a personal way by the horror of the death of children, even more by the horror of their sui-cide, and it is around his heroine’s authentic spiritual experience of such a suicide that the fi lm is organized. < e eminently modern theme of lay sainthood then naturally emerges; its more or less skillful development by the script matters very little: what matters is that each sequence is a kind of meditation or fi lmic song on this fundamental theme as revealed by the mise-en-scène. < e aim is not to demonstrate but to show. And how could we resist the moving spiritual presence of Ingrid Bergman, and, beyond the actress, how could we remain insensitive to the intensity of a mise-en-scène in which the universe seems to be organized along spiritual lines of force, to the point that it sets them oL as manifestly as iron fi llings in a magnetic fi eld? Seldom has the presence of the spiritual in human beings and in the world been expressed with such dazzling clarity.

Granted, Rossellini’s neorealism here seems very diL erent from, if not the opposite of, De Sica’s. However, I think it wise to reconcile them as the two poles of one and the same aesthetic school. Whereas De Sica in-vestigates reality with ever more expansive curiosity, Rossellini by contrast seems to strip it down further each time, to stylize it with a painful but nonetheless unrelenting rigor, in short to return to a classicism of dramatic expression in acting as well as in mise-en-scène. But, on closer examina-tion, this classicism stems from a common neorealistic revolution. For Ros-sellini, as for De Sica, the aim is to reject the categories of acting and of dramatic expression in order to force reality to reveal its signifi cance solely

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through appearances. Rossellini does not make his actors act, he doesn’t make them express this or that feeling; he compels them only to be a cer-tain way before the camera. In such a mise-en-scène, the respective places of the characters, their ways of walking, their movements on the set, and their gestures have much more importance than the feelings they show on their faces, or even than the words they say. Besides, what “feelings” could Ingrid Bergman “express”? Her drama lies far beyond any psychological nomenclature. Her face only outlines a certain property of suL ering.

Europe ’%! gives ample indication that such a mise-en-scène calls for the most sophisticated stylization possible. A fi lm like this is the very opposite of a realistic one “drawn from life”: it is the equivalent of austere and terse writing, which is so stripped of ornament that it sometimes verges on the ascetic. At this point, neorealism returns full circle to classical abstraction and its generalizing quality. Hence this apparent paradox: the best version of the fi lm is not the dubbed Italian version, but the English one, which employs the greatest possible number of original voices. At the far reaches of this realism, the accuracy of exterior social reality becomes unimportant. < e children in the streets of Rome can speak English without our even realizing the implausibility of such an occurrence. < is is reality through style, and thus a reworking of the conventions of art.

Michelangelo Antonioni belongs to the same artistic family as Rossel-lini, albeit with perhaps a more conscious intelligence of cinematic means. Antonioni’s fame in France is not yet equal to his talent. His fi rst fi lm, a tense and cutting work, which recalls the rigor of Bresson and the sensitiv-ity of Renoir, was Story of a Love A- air [Cronaca di un amore, 6:A5]. It re-vealed, in addition to its outstanding director, an astonishing actress: Lucia Bosé. Since then, Antonioni has made two very good fi lms that have not been released in France: ' e Lady without Camelias [La signora senza came-lie, 6:A;], a satire on beauty pageants, and above all ' e Vanquished [I vinti, a.k.a. Youth and Perversion, 6:A4], whose release in France might be pre-vented for stupid reasons of censorship.< e Italian critics themselves are divided and hesitant about ' e Lady

without Camelias, but I saw ' e Vanquished at the Venice Film Festival, and the fi lm completely fulfi lls the early hopes that I had about its direc-tor. Its purpose is to evoke the moral situation of postwar youth on the ba-sis of three true stories, one Italian, one English, and one French—each of which chronicles a senseless murder. < e French portion is the one caus-ing all the fi lm’s troubles, as it is (too closely) inspired by the actual murder on which it’s based. < e three parts of ' e Vanquished are unequal, and the Italian one could have been made by any director with a little talent, but the French part is excellent and the English wonderful. < e latter reaches

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the extreme purity of a kind of stylized realism, stripped bare of any ele-ment borrowed from the charms of the edited or plastic image: this is a true chess game of reality where the actors’ behavior and the environment in which they are placed are the only signs of a hidden truth.

Italian cinema, however, was not as high on the honor roll of inter-national fi lm festivals this season as in the previous one. I must neverthe-less single out among the fi lms that have not yet been released in Paris an appealing work by Mario Soldati titled ' e Wayward Wife [La provinciale, 6:A;], after a short story by Alberto Moravia. < is endeavor is interesting, for the Italians consider Soldati one of their best novelists, and his work in the cinema, usually quite commercial, has had little to do so far with his work as a talented writer. A strange fellow who looks like Groucho Marx, he is indeed also the director of the comedy O.K. Nero [O.K. Nérone, 6:A6]. With this picture, it is a little as if François Mauriac were earning a living by making a movie in imitation of the French comic strip ' e Stooges [Les Pieds Nickelés].

But in Italy writers and fi lmmakers don’t live in separate worlds: I can see a brief but signifi cant confi rmation of this in the six-minute cinematic short titled It Is the Sun’s Fault [È colpa del sole, 6:A6], written and directed by the novelist Alberto Moravia. It is a brief but grating love story set in high society. Now, in ' e Wayward Wife, the novelist Soldati directs a short story by the same Moravia, the author of Agostino [6:77]. Its title tells all. < is is the story of an Italian Emma Bovary, who married a professor who is neither handsome nor rich, and who is blackmailed by a Romanian count-ess—who is more of a procuress than a countess. < e provincial woman is the too-beautiful Gina Lollobrigida. In view of the potential of its authors, this interesting fi lm, made with intelligence and a defi nite sense of novelis-

La provinciale (< e Wayward Wife, !"%(); director: Mario Soldati.

I vinti (< e Vanquished, !"%)); director: Michelangelo Antonioni.

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tic depth, is nonetheless somewhat disappointing and does not come up to the level, say, of Rossellini’s moral rigor or Antonioni’s visual style.

At the same Cannes Film Festival where ' e Wayward Wife was screened, Vittorio De Sica was showing his latest fi lm: Terminal Station [Stazione Termini, a.k.a. Indiscretion of an American Wife, 6:A;). He himself had the cunning and taste to sing the praises of [Henri-Georges] Clouzot’s ' e Wages of Fear [Le salaire de la peur, 6:A;] at the festival’s preliminary press conference, in a discreet way of alleviating the jury’s subsequent guilt for not singling out Terminal Station for the Cannes honor roll. And all in all, the exclusion of Terminal Station by the Cannes judges was as justifi ed as the absence of Umberto D. from the honor roll of 6:A4 was a scandal.< e weaknesses of the fi lm were unfortunately contained in the prem-

ises of its making. Terminal Station is the result of an American mortgage contracted by De Sica after his trip to the United States, where he was sup-posed to make a fi lm. < is trip was twice unlucky as, on the one hand, the project never materialized and, on the other hand, it was nearly the cause of a falling out between the director and his screenwriter Zavattini, who was not able to go because the American embassy rejected his visa applica-tion. To the great satisfaction of all those who admire Italian cinema and who love these two wonderfully complementary personalities, the quarrel, which lasted for two years, fi nally seems to have given way to a new, trust-ful collaboration since a certain letter from De Sica to Zavattini, which the latter published in Cinema nuovo and which was later reprinted in Cahiers du cinéma. Both are now working on their next fi lm: Gold of Naples [L’oro di Napoli, 6:A7].

Whatever Zavattini’s personal feelings might have been during that pe-riod, he nevertheless worked on the screenplay of Stazione Termini. But the conditions of the fi lm’s production inevitably steered it toward a com-promise between the demands of neorealism and the American concep-tion of romance. Selznick, the producer, probably wanted an “Italian fi lm” in which one could fi nd the external signs of neorealism, but a fi lm also adapted to the tastes of an American audience—and to the greater glory of Mrs. Selznick, a.k.a. Jennifer Jones. Zavattini had initially written a funda-mentally Italian story in which the ultimate parting of the two lovers was the result of a social imperative—the ban on divorce in Italy. Granted, this ban would have had little signifi cance for the Americans, since divorce is legal in the United States. But from Zavattini’s dialogue, as well, very little was left after its rewriting by Truman Capote. < erefore, the fi lm is what it had to be: divided between two opposite inclinations, that of neorealism, with a mise-en-scène detailing life in a big Roman train station at 8 p.m.,

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and that of sentiment, with any social element reduced to the role of set-ting—active, to be sure, but ultimately subordinated to a sentimental story and to our interest in the two stars of the fi lm, Montgomery Clift and Jen-nifer Jones.< at said, it would be profoundly unfair to treat Terminal Station as just

a mediocre or failed fi lm. First, within the warped framework imposed by the producer, De Sica has nevertheless been able to suggest psychological and social truths that are movingly accurate and clinically sharp. I partic-ularly like the young American nephew of the female protagonist, who is so precisely yet discreetly typifi ed with his proud, juvenile incomprehen-sion. One can sense in this fourteen-year-old boy—whom a dozen carabin-ieri trail behind like live toy soldiers in a kid’s world—the frankness and severity of a simultaneously liberal and puritanical civilization: the great American one. < e role of this secondary character, who embodies both the moral and social conscience of the heroine, is a beautiful and intelli-gent creation. But beyond these partial successes, which would fully satisfy many another fi lmmaker, Terminal Station evidences from beginning to end an ease and class of mise-en-scène, and an elegant sensitivity, that are the true marks of a great director.

With the De Sica– Zavattini collaboration, on the one hand, and on the other, the Rossellini and Antonioni fi lms, I have delineated the aesthetic domain of neorealism, whose inclinations can be both extremely rigorous and extremely contradictory. Between these two poles, the year has oL ered

Stazione Termini (Terminal Station, a.k.a. Indiscretion of an American Wife, !"%(); director: Vittorio De Sica.

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us some other fi lms that are not without their own concessions and are a mixture of various infl uences. But although they are less purely representa-tive of the neorealist school, they nevertheless possess value.

By order of merit, I should perhaps mention fi rst ' e Road to Hope [Il cammino della speranza, 6:A5], by Pietro Germi, a young fi lmmaker who is one of the great hopes of the new Italian cinema. In this fi lm a group of miners and their families secretly leave their village in Sicily—whose sulfur mines have just closed down, depriving all the workers of their jobs—for a promised land where, they are told, there is work for everybody: France. < ey sell what little furniture they have, collect their raggedy clothes, pay the would-be smuggler who has oL ered to take them to the border and sneak them across, and then they leave: a miserable army rich only in hope. Abandoned halfway by their so-called guide and questioned by the Italian police, who order them to go back to Sicily (compulsory residence in one place is common in Italy), most of them decide to continue on with their journey anyway. < ose who did not give up arrive at the border, where pro-fessional smugglers, who are used to this kind of emigration, make them cross at night during a snowstorm. At dawn, the Promised Land is before them. < e survivors may fi nally be able to fi nd work as unskilled laborers, or even, with a little luck, as miners.

Il cammino della speranza (< e Road to Hope, !"%&); director: Pietro Germi.

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< e screenplay of ' e Road to Hope, which is wonderful in its general outline, is unfortunately weakened by some melodramatic contrivances and political compromises. One of the two love stories is akin less to neo-realism than to cheap soap-opera romance, despite the appealing characters played by Raf Vallone and Elena Varzi. Moreover, the last ten minutes of the fi lm recall much too visibly [Leopold] Lindtberg’s ' e Last Chance [Die letzte Chance, 6:7A] without duplicating its eloquence. ' e Road to Hope is also marred by inexplicable fl aws that are diP cult to explain precisely: does the problem lie in the screenplay, or in the very print I saw of the fi lm, which seems to be in a rather sorry state? < ese awkwardnesses remain sec-ondary, however, and do not really compromise the narrative line of this simple odyssey of misery, whose extremity truly verges on the absurd.

Still, I would mostly reproach Pietro Germi—whose In the Name of the Law [In nome della legge, 6:7:] was seen in France—for his inclination to-ward aestheticism and even a certain taste for visual rhetoric. < is some-times substitutes, in ' e Road to Hope, for a profound and heartfelt com-mitment to the subject matter. His latest fi lm, ' e Bandit of Tacca del Lupo [Il brigante di Tacca del Lupo, 6:A4], presented in Venice, unfortunately confi rms these fears, which continue to prevent me from ranking Germi among the foremost Italian movie directors.

By contrast, it is its conscious epic ambition that gives Giuseppe De San-tis’s No Peace under the Olive Trees [Non c’ è pace tra gli ulivi, a.k.a. Bloody Easter, 6:A5] its originality and power, despite the fi lm’s baroque excesses. With Tragic Hunt [Caccia tragica, 6:78] and Bitter Rice [Riso amaro, 6:7:], De Santis had completed the fi rst two works in an epic anthology on the subject of Earth Woman. Less pure and with less formal creativeness than Tragic Hunt, less successful in its parallel treatment of the erotic and peas-ant themes, No Peace under the Olive Trees is nevertheless an appealing fi lm, a strange one even in the excess or imbalance of some of its ambitions. < e romanticism of De Santis, his unbridled lyricism, often upsets the very elementary plausibility of the screenplay to exult in some kind of delirious baroqueness.< is is the story of a shepherd who, absent during the war, is robbed by

a rich landowner and who, upon his return, takes back the sheep that be-long to him. But nobody will dare testify in his favor, because the mighty landowner holds in his power all the shepherds of the region. Even Lucia, in love with the shepherd, will fi nally forsake him; even as he is sent to jail, she agrees to get engaged to the villain, who is her parents’ creditor. But the shepherd escapes from prison and comes back to get his revenge. Hiding in a wild and mountainous terrain, he is this time protected by his friends and helped by Lucia. < e fi lm climaxes, on the one hand, with a lascivious

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dance by Lucia Bosé, which recalls that of Silvana Mangano in Bitter Rice (not to mention Eleonora Rossi Drago in Clemente Fracassi’s Barefoot Sav-age [Sensualità, 6:A4], which, like Bitter Rice, explores the same vein of—let us call it—agricultural eroticism); and, on the other hand, with the revolt of the shepherds, whose gathered herds stream down the mountains into the legs of the carabinieri. < e villain deservedly ends up at the bottom of a ravine.

If we limit No Peace among the Olives to its plot, this fi lm is merely a kind of peasant melodrama writ large, where nothing is spared: neither the rape of the poor young shepherdess by the rich landowner nor the fi -nal triumph of a latent natural justice that is one step ahead of social jus-tice. But it is obvious that the primal simplicity of this story is intentional on the part of its author, who has conceived his fi lm both as a fresco and as an epic. Documentary realism is thus combined with narrative as well as visual stylization. < e care given to the otherwise realistic photography proves my point, for each image is composed as a tableau: women strike poses of Pietàs or of Madonnas; the actors look as though they had just stepped out of a Michelangelo fresco; and the walk-ons themselves play the role of the ancient chorus. To be sure, one must acknowledge that the re-sult is somewhat grotesque. One is hard put to discover any synthesis be-tween the formal ambitions of the mise-en-scène and the childishness of the screenplay.

As for the presence of Lucia Bosé, it has mostly to do with an erotic ob-session that is purely its own justifi cation. But in a hundred places of this baroque endeavor, a cinematic genius that cannot leave us indiL erent re-veals itself. < e fi lm was released in Paris, by the way—in a small theater

Non c’è pace tra gli ulivi (No Peace under the Olive Trees, a.k.a. Bloody Easter, !"%&); director: Giuseppe De Santis.

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on the outskirts of the city—three years after its making (and after it was released in the French provinces) only in a dubbed version. It goes without saying that this stupid exploitation has added quite a few misunderstand-ings to all those that the fi lm already contained.

As though he had achieved with No Peace among the Olives the epitome of his baroque delirium and had therefore freed himself from it, De San-tis evidences in Rome, Eleven O’Clock [Roma, ore undici, 6:A4] a remarkable sense of dramatic construction as it relates to the mise-en-scène. < e fi lm was inspired by a true story, which unfortunately loses force on account of the triviality of its theme. < e staircase of a building has collapsed under the weight of two hundred unlucky young women who have come to ap-ply for a typist’s job. One is dead and many others are severely injured. < e fi lm begins at dawn as the line of applicants is already forming. Almost im-perceptibly, De Santis isolates eight or nine of the candidates, whose past and reasons for being there we progressively learn. We will witness a few hours from their individual destinies, which are more or less changed for-ever by the horrible accident.

In Rome, Eleven O’Clock De Santis and his screenwriters have skillfully been able to avoid the artifi ce of fi lms consisting of such sketches and to in-terweave the various, exemplary destinies they have chosen without inter-rupting the fl ow of the narrative. But the director plays the game of neo-realism only partially here. Whereas his screenplay delves into the social present for its essential component, the violence of the stairway collapse, he nevertheless does not deprive the fi lm of a skilled yet fi nally traditional dra-matic construction. Neither does he want to deprive this endeavor of the

Roma ore undici (Rome, Eleven O’Clock, !"%)); director: Giuseppe De Santis.

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676 ) ' e Italian Scene

advantages of a spectacular cast: Lucia Bosé, Carla del Poggio, Elena Varzi, Léa Padovani, Raf Vallone, and Massimo Girotti are the impressive stars.

Almost at the same time, Augusto Genina was making another fi lm about the same true story: ' ree Forbidden Tales [Tre storie proibite, 6:A4]. I shall mention it here only for the sake of thoroughness and because a com-parison with the fi lm by De Santis makes the concessions of Rome, Eleven O’Clock appear like so many ascetic choices. A wily old fi lmmaker, Genina is capable of the best (Heaven over the Marshes [Cielo sulla palude, 6:7:]) as well as the mediocre. ' ree Forbidden Tales does not even try to hide the fact that it consists only of sketches—three of them, in fact—one being in-decent, one provocative, and one melodramatic. < e fi lm is so skillfully made that it verges on craftiness, but in the end its narrative strands are too arbitrarily connected to the real tragedy that is the work’s pretext.

With Times Gone By [Altri tempi, 6:A4], Alessandro Blasetti has assur-edly taken even less trouble than Genina to link up his seven sketches. But at least he is honest about it. < e sole common denominator of his fi lm is its evocation of the end of the nineteenth century. < e tone varies, as do the length and subject matter of the tales that Blasetti tells us with re-lentless vigor. Still, he is able to balance tragedy, realism, morality, senti-ment, and irony, not to mention music and song. Moreover, he has a wel-come preference for the comic touch, as displayed in the best of the stories, “< e Judgment of Phryne.” A mediocre lawyer who can’t fi nd clients is ap-pointed to do pro bono work on a hopeless case—that of a young woman who killed her mother-in-law with rat poison. He fi nds brilliant inspiration in the rather low neckline of his client (Gina Lollobrigida): he will have her plead guilty in the name of beauty, and in this small dusty court he will get the same indulgence from the jury for her as the ancient Greek courtesan

Tre storie proibite (< ree Forbidden Tales, !"%)); director: Augusto Genina.

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Phryne got from her jurors. Blasetti’s intelligence, which found in Vittorio De Sica’s acting talent (as the attorney) a charming complicity, was that he chose to keep his lawyer a professional mediocrity, even in his fi nal tri-umph. < is is what gives the lawyer’s chance inspiration all its savor. One is reminded here of the work of both Georges Courteline and Marcel Pagnol. Or perhaps simply of the great tradition of Neapolitan farce, for which De Sica will no doubt fi nd renewed inspiration in his forthcoming fi lm, Gold of Naples.

Since I am dealing now with comic neorealism, I should not forget Cops and Robbers [Guardie e ladri, 6:A6], which garnered its directors (Steno [Ste-fano Vanzino, 6:6A– 6:99] and Mario Monicelli [6:6A– 4565]) the prize for best screenplay at the 6:A4 Cannes Film Festival. In truth, I fi nd this award a little excessive (especially when one considers that Umberto D. did not even make it to the honor roll). But the fi lm did have humor and verve. It provided its two stars, Totò and Aldo Fabrizi, who are the Italian Fernan-del and Raimu, with something better than an excuse for silly antics: a sub-stantial plot, one that even went quite far in the direction of satirical real-ism. A police oP cer (Fabrizi), who is also a father with a family, arrests the Totò character, who is a thief and even more so a father with a family. < e prisoner escapes, and the policeman is forced to run after him. He catches him but in the process makes the acquaintance of Totò’s family. Under-standing being the fi rst step toward love, our policeman takes a liking to the prisoner, who will then himself have to drag this law enforcer back to prison. Totò will even decide not to run away anymore, so as not to cause the policeman any further trouble. < is is the recognizable theme of an ex-cellent social farce, which the screenwriters managed to stuL with thou-sands of little realistic details that are all absolutely credible.

Altri tempi (Times Gone By, !"%)); director: Alessandro Blasetti.

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67; ) ' e Italian Scene

I did not want to end this chronicle of the neorealist year in fi lm on a negative note. But how can I keep silent about a fi lm by Luciano Em-mer, whose art documentaries had put him, at the age of twenty, in the foreground of the world’s top documentary makers? His fi rst feature fi lm, Sunday in August [Domenica d’agosto, 6:A5], confi rmed the promise that his documentary shorts had shown, even though this picture, in my opinion, had something a little too intellectual, too ingeniously aesthetic, about it to leave me satisfi ed. It would be better for Luciano Emmer’s reputation if he were to forget as soon as possible his second feature fi lm, which is the di-sastrous result of an impossible coproduction. On the theme of the Ital-ians in Paris, Emmer tries in vain to depict for the benefi t of these two na-tions the material and psychological aspects of superfi cial tourism. But how could he possibly have survived the handicap of a ridiculous and monstrous dubbing, which makes the French speak Italian in the Italian version and the Italians speak French (with a Marseilles accent!) in the French version? < e failure of Emmer’s second feature, Paris Is Always Paris [Parigi è sempre Parigi, 6:A6], on the French market will, I hope, serve as a lesson for produc-ers who would still be attracted by such two-headed monsters.

Of course, the idea of such a book as Cinéma %( à travers le monde [Cin-ema ’%( Across the World, 6:A7] implies a bit of mental gymnastics, as the co-incidences or absurdities of distribution prevent the fi lm season in France from coinciding with the fi lm season throughout the rest of the world. < erefore, I deem it necessary, after this review of the main fi lms released during the 6:A4– 6:A; season (festival premieres included), to remind the reader briefl y of the oversights and anomalies of a current crop that some-times recalls the state of King Ubu’s Poland. At least two fi lms should have

Lo sceicco bianco (< e White Sheik, !"%)); director: Federico Fellini.

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been released a long time ago with all the acclaim that their merits deserve. First, a fi lm by Alberto Lattuada: ' e Overcoat [Il cappotto, 6:A4]. Adapted from the famous short story by [Nicolai Vasilievich] Gogol, this fi lm is probably Lattuada’s best and should have won the prize for best screenplay at the 6:A4 Cannes Film Festival.

Second, if the French distributors knew their job well, they also would not have failed to release a delightful little comic fi lm—' e White Sheik [Lo sceicco bianco]—by the screenwriter Federico Fellini, presented at the 6:A4 Venice Film Festival, and which I personally fi nd superior to ' e Young and the Passionate [I vitelloni, 6:A;] by the same author. ' e White Sheik has been praised to the hilt by the Italians this year. It is a charming and sen-sitive satire on the success of comic strips in popular newspapers. < e hero of one of them, the “White Sheik,” seduces a young provincial woman who is on her honeymoon in the big city; she then leaves her husband to go in search of her mythic lover. < e delightful and intelligent Brunella Bovo (who played the little maid in Miracle in Milan) is the naïve protagonist of this wonderful little adventure.

It is equally the case that the same distributors who release fi rst-rate works years after their making fl ood the French market with third-rate Ital-ian movies, which we could very well do without. Take, for instance, the various grandsons of the ' ree Musketeers (including the current 6:A; ver-sion), the many miserable imitations of Cabiria [6:67], the low-budget ver-sions of Quo Vadis? [6:6;], or even the many ridiculous melodramas that have more in common with cheap romanticism than with neorealism. Any defense of French national cinema has always argued against the American B movies that invade our screens at the expense of native fi lms or good for-eign pictures. I would not hesitate to write that today we are also facing an Italian peril. It is perhaps less wide-ranging and less powerful from an eco-nomic point of view, but it is far more depressing from an aesthetic per-spective. For whereas American B movies very often retain some technical virtues and a certain dramatic poetry that is characteristic of the Holly-wood system, bad Italian movies, by contrast, are like bad French movies, if not worse: they are moronic and shoddy; nothing saves them. If the Italian cinema has occupied since the war a top ranking in world cinema, it owes that ranking exclusively to its genuine works of art and not at all to its cur-rent commercial production, which is far worse than mediocre. But I trust that intelligent advertising and smart exporting on the part of Italian fi lm distributors will remedy this situation.

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67A )

)!

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(Cahiers du cinéma, January 6:A7)

O ) &M, (>&,')33) 3> *,@&,K/,' 4 , 6:A;, (& &M, Venice Festival, I awaited with resignation the screening of

the American fi lm ' e Little Fugitive [6:A;]. < ere was no documentation whatsoever about this independent picture. But there was only one possible conclusion in relation to the screening hour, since, in spite of all the oP cial denials, it’s well known that the afternoon sessions are devoted to the lesser fi lms. Even the seats are cheaper. So the professional conscience sometimes has an excuse to give in to Adriatic temptations. But, for once at least, per-severance and virtue have been rewarded, and those who saw ' e Little Fu-gitive were able to trouble with a sadistic insistence the consciences of those absent from the screening.

Taking into account diplomatic contingencies, the judgment of the fes-tival juries is, in the fi nal analysis, not as bad as we may pretend. < is year the Golden Lion, or grand prize, was not awarded; the six fi lms that won the Silver Lion were in theory on the same artistic level. In fact, the or-der of the festival list of six contained an implicit hierarchy. Kenji Mizo-guchi’s Ugetsu [Ugetsu monogatari, 6:A;] headed the list, as it should have, since only the Golden Lion won by Akira Kurosawa’s Rashomon [6:A5] two years earlier prevented the new Japanese fi lm from getting it in 6:A;. Fe-derico Fellini’s ' e Young and the Passionate [I vitelloni, 6:A;] came in sec-ond, which can be explained only by a somewhat misplaced chauvinism. But ' e Little Fugitive was then named before John Huston’s Moulin Rouge [6:A4], Marcel Carné’s ' e Adulteress [' érèse Raquin, 6:A;], and Aleksandr Ptushko’s Sadko [' e Magic Voyage of Sinbad, 6:A;], and it was in the end, together with Ugetsu, the most applauded fi lm of the festival.

So a small independent fi lm without any famous actors, nearly an am-ateur fi lm, slipped between the great Hollywood names almost clandes-

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tinely; further handicapped by the unpopular afternoon screening hours, it fi nally eclipsed the most important French, English, and Soviet fi lms on the program and returned home with the biggest award earned by an American fi lm. < e jury in Venice deserves to be congratulated for this rel-atively courageous decision.

' e Little Fugitive is the work of a team of three artists: Ray Ashley [6:66– 6:B5], Morris Engel [6:69– 455A], and a woman named Ruth Or-kin [6:46– 6:9A]. At the beginning they pooled SA,555 of their own money, which allowed them to shoot enough fi lm to give potential producers an idea of their intentions and talent. < e result was that they were able to raise S45,555 to S;5,555 more. In fact, the fi lm was practically produced cooperatively and absolutely outside the normal circles of fi nancing for this sort of endeavor—and for an almost laughable amount as well. < e chief performer, little Richie Andrusco, was discovered by the fi lmmakers on a Coney Island merry-go-round, but this itself is not so original: from the be-ginning, all children who have acted in the cinema have been discovered more or less by chance.

At this juncture, it would be good to make an attempt at evoking for the reader the subject of this unusual fi lm. But the crude summary that I am about to make of ' e Little Fugitive won’t be able to capture anything about it except the less important and even trivial aspects. A seven-year-old boy, Joey Norton, is left by his mother in the care of his older brother, Len-nie, so that she may visit her own mother, who is sick. In order to get rid of this brat who tries to butt into all their games, the brother and his friends stage an incident with a toy gun to make Joey believe that he has shot and killed Lennie. Some catsup splattered on the older boy’s shirt simulates the accident. Terrifi ed, Joey runs away, but the taste of freedom quickly gains the upper hand over the intangibility of remorse, and the child winds up taking refuge at Coney Island, that mixture of theme park and public beach on the outskirts of New York City. From this point on plot summary becomes impossible, because the fi lm simply makes a spectacle of the boy set free in this showman’s paradise. Finally, thanks to the initiative of the man who runs the pony ride, the older brother ends up fi nding his younger sibling just in time, so that their mother, returning from her trip, doesn’t suspect a thing.

I will happily analyze ' e Little Fugitive on a hierarchy of critical planes. We could start by lauding the three authors for the psychological originality of their scenario. It’s well known that ordinarily the cinema doesn’t bother to evoke the troubles of children at all, except from an educational, or bet-ter, reeducational, point of view. ' e Little Fugitive, on the other hand, avoids even indirectly preserving the authority or viewpoint of the adult

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678 ) Ashley, Engel, and Orkin’s Little Fugitive

over that of the child, who is the focus here. But under this label, the fi lm wouldn’t garner anything but minor interest in its clever and gently touch-ing script. It must be admitted, in any case, that it’s precisely the whimsi-cal character of the subject that constrains ' e Little Fugitive and prevents it from attaining the greatness of some classic fi lms about children. Sidney Meyers’s ' e Quiet One [6:79], for example, a lot less original in technique, had quite a diL erent and more powerful resonance all the same.< e socially documentary aspect of the fi lm is more interesting. With

commendable skill, the fi lmmakers have avoided giving the nod to the pic-turesqueness of the decor, on the one hand, and to social realism over the psychological realism of the child’s behavior, on the other. < e entire mise-en-scène, in fact, is subordinated to the boy’s comportment. But on the side, Ashley, Engel, and Orkin are visibly preoccupied with giving us a so-cial document about Coney Island. To be honest, they must have seen Lu-ciano Emmer’s Sunday in August [Domenica d’agosto, 6:A5], certain British documentaries, and maybe Robert Siodmak’s People on Sunday [Menschen am Sonntag, 6:;5] and Pál Fejös’s Lonesome [6:49], too. And if they haven’t seen all these pictures, then they have found their inspiration through the medium of photo reportage, in the style of Life magazine, which they have attempted here. If the fi lm had been Italian or English, this aspect would surely have seemed less surprising. Its originality is largely due to what it re-veals to us: some aspects of American life that even the so-called neorealist productions from Hollywood haven’t yet shown us. Beyond whatever gaps a national cinema may have, we measure it in regard to its refl ection of the social domain, and I don’t imagine that anything from the French cinema is more exhaustive in this respect than ' e Little Fugitive.

But the radical novelty of Ray Ashley, Morris Engel, and Ruth Orkin’s fi lm comes less from its subject, as interesting as that may be, than from the execution of the mise-en-scène. Not that this is by any means a for-malist work—on the contrary, all the critics have taken pleasure precisely in defending it against its formal imperfections. Instead, at its most essen-tial, the subject of ' e Little Fugitive is born out of the very structure of the fi lm’s narrative.

In light of its mise-en-scène, I’d readily assume that ' e Little Fugi-tive was shot in 6B mm and then enlarged to ;A mm in the manner of ' e Quiet One, also distributed by Joseph Burnstyn [6:55– 6:A;]. < e sudden death (from a heart attack) on the Paris-to– New York plane of this little old hunchback, to whom America owes its knowledge of the best of postwar European cinema, deprives us temporarily of the background information we’d love to have about the shooting of ' e Little Fugitive. Burnstyn de-clared in Venice, however, that the mise-en-scène demanded a lot of work

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beforehand with the actors, and that the child’s improvisation was just an illusion. But I’m more inclined to interpret such a declaration as Burstyn’s judgment that any suggestion of the “amateurish” in connection with the fi lm would have risked harming its fi nancial prospects.

In truth, it is quite possible that every scene demanded very long re-hearsals as well as many takes, and it would be diP cult to dissuade me from the idea not only that Richie Andrusco was free to improvise the de-tails of his characterization but also that all of the fi lm’s interest lies therein. Let us take as an example the sequence of the cans. Joey has tested his skill at Coney Island against the traditional pyramid of dented cans, whose top-pling by a single projectile shot is awarded a prize. Completely baQ ed by not succeeding at so seemingly simple a game, the child practices with any-thing he can get his hands on and then returns to the stand to verify his progress. Considered as an episode, an element of the action, this sequence would still remain within the province of the classical scenario, but its dra-matic interest in that regard is insignifi cant. All its charm, all the force of its spectacle, comes from the accretion of detail.

So, detoured at one moment from his obsession with the cans by the mysteries of cotton candy, Joey buys an enormous serving; but, immedi-ately disappointed by the over-sugary concoction, he realizes that, once re-

< e Little Fugitive (!"%(); directors: Ray Ashley, Morris Engel, and Ruth Orkin.

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67: ) Ashley, Engel, and Orkin’s Little Fugitive

duced to the size of a small ball, it will serve as a perfect projectile with which to continue his training. Certainly the idea of transforming a piece of cotton candy into a projectile for a game may have come from the screen-writers. What couldn’t have been foreseen in the script, however, is the evo-lution of Joey’s mimicry, of his gestures while gathering up as much of the cotton candy as possible, kneading it together, amassing at the edge of an overpass a pyramid of used paper cups, and then demolishing it amidst the legs of oblivious adult passersby. In other words, it’s probable that the scene directions in the script described the event we see, but only to a certain de-gree before yielding to the pure improvisation of the actor. It would be bet-ter to say, for the rest, that the scenario yielded to life itself, because this improvisation has nothing in common with the kind found in the comme-dia dell’arte, which remains within the category of the theatrical play.

In ' e Little Fugitive the amalgam of dramatic order, its aesthetic or-ganization, is assisted by the spontaneity of life. Probably the initiative of the boy suggested a number of moments in the scenario, but, even if every-thing he did fi nally had been foreseen in a crude outline, every shot of his actions, every point of view on them, couldn’t have been planned in ad-vance. In short, it is the awareness we have of this margin of indetermina-tion that gives the fi lm its charm. Cesare Zavattini has often spoken of the (unrealizable?) fi lm in which the director wouldn’t know the ending, a fi lm as free as life itself. In this sense, ' e Little Fugitive is a case study in neo-realism, not so much for its socially documentary aspect, which has never really been essential to neorealism, nor for its on-location setting, but for the way in which it approaches that scriptless fi lm ideal wherein the drama arises exclusively from the evolution of the present. Applied to childhood, this perspective seems to me not only especially conducive, but also fun-damentally necessary. If cinema exhibits any superiority over literature in this domain, it is precisely because, since childhood is impenetrable to us grown-ups, the observation of children’s behavior is the only serious—and at the same time possible—way of knowing it.

After René Clément’s Forbidden Games [Jeux interdits, 6:A4], which rad-ically demystifi ed childhood, rendering it in its ontological and moral ob-jectivity, Ray Ashley and his collaborators’ fi lm constitutes an original, and without doubt defi nitive, step forward in movies about childhood. Now, alas, we can see such a classic of the genre as Nikolai Ekk’s Road to Life [Putyovka v zhizn, 6:;6] or Gerhard Lamprecht’s Emil and the Detectives [Emil und die Detektive, 6:;6; remade by others in 6:;A, 6:A7, 6:B7, and 4556] only through the misty, rose-tinted glasses of a fairy tale.

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6A5 )

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(Le parisien libéré, March 65, 6:A7)

TM, R2(+.&.,* 3> N(@(),*, 1.),K( (',) ’& 2)-known anymore to the Parisian public. After the stunning

revelation of Akira Kurosawa’s Rashomon [Castle Gate, 6:A5], we have been able to nuance our admiration and discover very diL erent aspects of Japa-nese fi lm production, which otherwise has a profound unity derived from the long and solid traditions that are associated with the country’s inimita-ble dramatic art.

Kaneto Shindo’s Children of Hiroshima [Gembaku no ko, 6:A4] seems to me, however, to be the fi rst example in Parisian commercial distribution of a tendency in this cinema that could roughly be classifi ed as “Japanese neorealism,” by analogy with certain contemporary Italian fi lms. In fact, alongside works evoking the ancient mores of princely courts of the seven-teenth century, such as Kenji Mizoguchi’s ' e Life of Oharu [Saikaku ichi-dai onna, 6:A4], which is currently being shown at the Cinéma d’Essai, Jap-anese fi lmmakers make numerous thought-provoking fi lms in which the social problems of the postwar period are approached with frankness. It shouldn’t come as a surprise, then, if we found in the treatment of these contemporary issues the same essential qualities that we do in Japanese movies that feature historical or legendary themes.< e title of this fi lm by Shindo [6:64– 4564] indicates well enough which

contemporary issue is at hand. A young schoolteacher, who has miracu-lously escaped the apocalypse brought on by the bomb, returns to Hiro-shima on a pilgrimage to the ruins of her parents’ home. She fi nds an old servant there who has suL ered only burns and now barely survives by beg-ging. At the same time he raises, as best he can, his grandson, who is as old as the Atomic Age. < e young woman proposes to take the child with her and adopt him, and the old man painfully accepts this ultimate sacrifi ce.

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6A6 ) Kaneto Shindo’s Children of Hiroshima

But when the child refuses to leave him, he commits suicide in his burn-ing cottage in order to relieve the child’s future of the burden of its miser-able past.

More than a story that could seem somewhat melodramatic, Children of Hiroshima is an extraordinary meditation, a sort of realistic poem about the singular tragedy of our time. Without hatred, without even resentment, with, in my opinion, a politeness or courtesy of feeling that is but a supe-rior form of wisdom, this fi lm evokes the fearsomeness of the bomb, espe-cially—and possibly more terribly—the indelible terror with which it has marked humanity. < e burns on the face of this old beggar are but the hid-eous mask of our own anguish, an anguish borne of that which was sup-posed to deliver us from all anguish.

Will Japanese children be smitten for the sins of their fathers unto the seventh generation? < e old man answers this question in his own way through his voluntary death. In this deeply moving fi lm, which gives a les-son in dramatic sobriety to Western cinema, one will admire the paradoxi-cal synthesis of horrid violence, sustained tragic intensity, and the most del-icate reserve, of which the practice of hara-kiri is the traditional symbol.

Children of Hiroshima is truly a great fi lm that is also—alas!—a fi lm of our times.

Gembaku no ko (Children of Hiroshima, !"%)); director: Kaneto Shindô.

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6A4 )

)(

/' .++ . ()& D(' . (& .3)* 3) *3K, E,++ -C)3E) )3&,* : ).1M3+ (* ' (0 ’* N3M))0 ?2.&('

(Le parisien libéré, February 69, 6:AA)

W,*&,')* @'3D.-, M3++0E33- E.&M ( D,'0 @('-ticular diet. Americans refer to them as the bread and but-

ter of their cinema, understood in the sense that this is both a staple food and a superfl uous one. Westerns always provide, their success is assured, some studios are specialized in their serial production, and every other stu-dio sets aside for them a more or less substantial portion of its total budget. We would be wrong, however, to believe that Westerns should be consid-ered, a priori, a minor genre because of their popularity, and that therefore they are unworthy of being taken seriously.< e yearly output of Westerns covers every level of production quality,

from the various low-level series to the great polished works that every stu-dio tries to make every other time. < ere has also appeared a subgenre that we could qualify as “super-Westerns,” played by seasoned actors and di-rected by prestigious fi lmmakers. Such was the case for High Noon [6:A4] as well as for Shane [6:A;], and it’s the case now for Johnny Guitar [6:A7], star-ring Joan Crawford and directed by Nicholas Ray [6:66– 6:8:].

We know that the themes, like the characters, of Westerns are only a few and well codifi ed. < ere is never an attempt to emphasize the background or “past” of the story; instead it’s the details here and now that get fore-grounded, together with a style of presentation that will combine surprise with the recognition of classical, established situations. So we fi nd once more in Johnny Guitar the ranchers’ fear of the new immigrants that the railroad will bring with it, the mistrust and even enmity on the part of the fi rst pioneers toward those who intend to transform their free plains into parceled and plowed lands.

Vienna (Joan Crawford) is a former saloon singer, hardworking and entrepreneurial, who has gambled on the prosperity the railroad and the

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6A; ) Nicholas Ray’s Johnny Guitar

development of local agriculture could bring by building her own well-appointed saloon in the neighborhood of the future train station. Such in-solence, combined with the favors of a handsome young adventurer, earns her the jealousy and hatred of the daughter of a local banker recently mur-dered in the course of a stagecoach holdup. As much to protect herself as to see once again the only man she has truly loved, Vienna summons Johnny Guitar, a man more skilled in gunplay than in romance, and this rival, whom the young adventurer dismisses, isn’t looked upon favorably by any-one in town. Trapped between two jealousies—the most ferocious natu-rally being that of the other woman—the Joan Crawford character will have a bad day, escaping her own lynching only by a miracle and watching her saloon be burned to the ground. She will save her life and her love in the end, but only after a gun duel with her malicious female enemy.

It could have been feared that Nicholas Ray’s mise-en-scène would not somehow be enough to detour the viewer, who wouldn’t see anything in this story except a pretext for traditional brawls. < is young fi lmmaker wanted to treat his scenario with elegance and refi nement, as a tragedy of jealousy and animosity. Ray’s screenwriter, however, hasn’t always been able to adapt to his intention, and it’s regrettable that the rigorous order of the director’s mise-en-scène contradicts, toward the end, the arbitrary nature of events. Although we can’t reproach Shane or High Noon, we can, on the other hand, prefer Nicholas Ray’s work because of its intelligence and sensi-

Johnny Guitar (!"%#); director: Nicholas Ray.

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bility. His Johnny Guitar is rich with bright ideas of rare quality, and, with a discretion that perhaps is missing in Hollywood, he knows how not to transform those ideas into mere “eL ects.” < is discretion and elegance of expression are the marks of a distinguished fi lmmaker of whom we expect a truly worthy fi lm.

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6AA )

)#

(C .' ( C2'3*(E(’* ' (*M3K3) ()- &M, *,D,) *(K2' ( .

(France-observateur, April 47, 6:A4; and Le parisien libéré, December 8, 6:AA)

P (' (-3T.1(++0, &M, R2(+.&0, 3'.?.)(+.&0, ()- importance of a work like Rashomon [Castle Gate, 6:A5] are

deeply disconcerting for critics. < is is because the fi lm hurls the viewer into an aesthetic universe that is absolutely Oriental. It does this, though, through cinematic technique (photography and editing) that implies a solid and by now “ancient” assimilation of the whole evolution of Western cinema, so that the picture enters easily into what is otherwise a radically foreign system at the same time as it retains an Oriental metaphysics, eth-ics, and psychology. Indian movies are slow; those from Egypt are elemen-tary and therefore don’t count: a series of fi lters seems to come between us and the stories such fi lms tell. < ese fi lters are not the same as physical or emotional awkwardness; instead, they determine certain characteristics of fi lmic technique: shot length, slowness of acting, simplicity in editing, the absence of ellipses, and so forth. < e fi lmic technique of Rashomon, by con-trast, is far less alienating than that of any Soviet picture. < e artfulness of the staging and directing in this fi lm thus implies not only technological means of the same caliber as those of Hollywood but also total possession of the expressive resources of the cinema. Editing, deep-focus shooting, fram-ing, and camera movement all serve the narrative here with equal freedom and profi ciency.

And yet this story is specifi cally Japanese in subject matter if not struc-ture. < e action takes place during the Middle Ages. A rich traveler and his wife are passing through a forest when a thief ambushes them. He sub-dues the man, ties him to a tree, rapes his wife before his eyes, and then kills him. A woodcutter witnesses all of this. But during the trial of the thief, captured a few days later, the three survivors of the event—the thief, the woodcutter, and the wife—each relate a diL erent version of what hap-

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6AB ) Bazin on Global Cinema

pened. < e fi lm then presents us with the three successive versions, or rather four. With astounding boldness, the fi lmmaker, Akira Kurosawa [6:65– 6::9], also presents us with a version of the murder as told through the medium of a witch speaking in the dead man’s voice.

Nonetheless, nothing leads us to believe that the dead man’s tale is more accurate than the stories of the others. We are apparently dealing in Rashomon, then, with a “Pirandellian” [a reference to the modernist drama of Luigi Pirandello (69B8– 6:;B), which often blurs the distinction between illusion and reality] action, but one that also has a moral purpose: it serves to illustrate not so much the impossibility of knowing the truth through the vehicle of human consciousness as the diP culty of believing in the goodness of man. For in each of these versions, one of the three protago-nists in the drama—the thief, the rich traveler, or his wife—reveals an evil side. We can suppose that this radical phenomenon is fairly sincere, since we know that Rashomon’s plot is based on some short stories by Ryûnosuke Akutagawa, who committed suicide in 6:48.

I have spoken of Rashomon’s “Japaneseness,” and it so happens that cer-tain aspects of the fi lm are purely Japanese: fi rst of all the action itself. Can anyone imagine an American or European script based on such an au-

Rashomon (Castle Gate, !"%&); director: Akira Kurosawa.

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6A8 ) Akira Kurosawa’s Rashomon and Seven Samurai

dacious situation as a wife’s being raped before her husband’s eyes? Sec-ond, the fi lm is especially Japanese in its acting style. < e infl uence of Noh theater here is quite obvious. Yet the real problem, which only a special-ist could resolve, is how and in what way the traditions of Japanese theat-rical acting are adapted in Rashomon to fi lmic acting. But if the acting in this picture is always perceived as excessive, it is never exaggerated—nor is it meant to be symbolic. In other words, the acting style is in the tragic vein and yet it does not abandon psychological realism. It could not be more diL erent from the exaggerated acting, for example, of the silent expression-ist cinema. < e actor in Rashomon is simultaneously tragic and natural, perfectly integrated with the real setting in which he tragically performs. < e basic problem of the tragic actor, then—which Western fi lms have re-solved only infrequently and uncertainly (in Nosferatu [6:4;], ' e Passion of Joan of Arc [La passion de Jeanne d’Arc, 6:49], Ladies of the Park [Les dames du Bois de Boulogne, 6:7A], and Hamlet [6:79])—is not in question here. It is resolved immediately.

In the same way, there is no break or dissonance between the acting style and the cutting. If it were possible to argue that “fi lmology” is the concern of philologists and logicians, a fi lm like Rashomon would be the perfect example. Is the language of fi lm as self-encompassing as is human reason? If so, we cannot say that Kurosawa is copying Western fi lms here or even that he is inspired by them. It would seem, rather, that he achieves the same result through the fundamental unity and universality of screen vo-cabulary, grammar, and style. A traveling shot is a traveling shot, be it Jap-anese, French, or American—but there has to be a certain rhythm, speed, and harmony between frame and camera movement endemic to the fi lm in question. < e traveling shots in Rashomon, therefore, are no more “im-ported” than the acting.< ere is an even more signifi cant example relative to the use of sound:

the fourth version of the rich traveler’s murder, as we have seen, is told through the words of the witch in a dance of possession. As the oracle speaks with the dead man’s voice, strongly oL key and in a high pitch, the eL ect, as might be expected, is hallucinatory. Such an original idea—West-ern fi lms themselves quickly lost interest in the expressionism of sound—implies a mastery of technology that is equaled only by the liberty with which it is used.

How does it turn out, then, that all these reasons for admiring Rashomon nevertheless do not result in my unqualifi ed approval? < is fi lm implies the past and future existence of a fi rmly established production system in Japan with skilled technicians, well-trained actors, an entire body of national cin-

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ematic talent—in short, a situation much more comparable to that of En-gland or France than to the one in Mexico. < us beneath our admiration for, and astonishment at, such a work should lie an uneasy feeling that we are perhaps being deceived. For Rashomon, in its own way, is a serial fi lm. And wouldn’t we have the same feeling after seeing a good American studio product for the fi rst time? At the hundredth viewing, let us say, we would discover that cinematic language is, in the fi nal analysis, only language, and that a great fi lm is something more. In a word, I suspect that hidden by the apparent originality (relative to our ignorance) of Rashomon, there is a certain banality of perfection that limits my aesthetic pleasure.

' e Seven Samurai [Shichinin no samurai, 6:A7] itself might not be the very best Japanese production: in the ratings given to Japanese fi lms by Japanese critics, for example, ' e Seven Samurai was rated third in 6:A7, even as Rashomon was rated fi fth in 6:A5. < ere is undoubtedly more rea-son to prefer, over Kurosawa, the tender lyricism and subtle musical po-etry of Kenji Mizoguchi [69:9– 6:AB; director of ' e Life of Oharu, 6:A4, and Ugetsu, 6:A;). Like Rashomon, ' e Seven Samurai exhibits a too-facile assimilation of certain characteristics of Western aesthetics and the splen-did blending of them with Japanese tradition. Moreover, there is in this in-stance a narrative structure of diabolical cleverness. For its progression is arranged with an intelligence that is all the more disconcerting because it respects the romantic approach at the same time as it spends perhaps too much time and labor on the blossoming of the narrative itself.

Still, ' e Seven Samurai is one of the best fi lms from the Japanese school ever to have arrived in the West. Even though for several years now I have been waiting for my admiration for Akira Kurosawa to wane, fi nally to ex-pose my alleged naïveté of the preceding year, each new fi lm of his con-fi rms the feeling that I am in the presence of everything that constitutes good cinema: the union of a highly developed civilization with a great the-atrical tradition and a strong tradition in plastic art, as well.

As its title indicates without ambiguity, this picture belongs to the tra-ditional, historical vein that has already given us Teinosuke Kinugasa’s re-markable ' e Gates of Hell [Jigokumon, 6:A;]. Every cross-cultural transpo-sition being performed, ' e Seven Samurai is a sort of Japanese Western, but one worthy of comparison with the most glorious examples of the genre produced in the United States, especially the fi lms of John Ford. For the rest, this reference gives but an approximate idea of the fi lm, whose scope and complexity largely go beyond the dramatic boundaries of American Westerns. Not that ' e Seven Samurai is a complex story in the way that Kurosawa’s Rashomon is—in fact quite the opposite is the case, its narrative line being as simple as possible. < is general simplicity is enriched, how-

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6A: ) Akira Kurosawa’s Rashomon and Seven Samurai

ever, by the fi neness of the fi lm’s details, their historical realism and hu-man veracity.

To summarize the plot: a poor peasant village is regularly pillaged after the yearly harvest by a gang of bandits, who never fail to return the next time that the rice is gathered. < e townsfolk fi nally decide to hire some samurai—mercenaries well-versed in the art of war—in order to protect themselves from the next raid. A wise old samurai accepts this commission and recruits six cohorts here and there, each of whom inspires his trust for a diL erent reason. Afterward they endeavor to fortify the village so as to pre-emptively decimate their enemies. Nonetheless, the clash is brutal, for the bandits are armed with weapons almost unknown in sixteenth-century Ja-pan. When the fortieth, and fi nal, bandit has bitten the dust, no more than three samurai are left. But at least the peasants will now be able to plant—and gather—their rice in peace.< e beauty and skill of this narrative arise from a certain harmony be-

tween the simplicity of the action and the wealth of details that slowly de-lineate it. < is kind of narrative reminds one of Ford’s Stagecoach [6:;:] and Lost Patrol [6:;7], but in ' e Seven Samurai there is more romantic complexity as well as more volume, and variety, in the historical fresco. As we can see, these points of reference are very “Western.” < e same holds

Shichinin no samurai (< e Seven Samurai, !"%#); director: Akira Kurosawa.

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6B5 ) Bazin on Global Cinema

true for the otherwise extremely Japanese images, whose depth of fi eld is reminiscent of the cinematographic eL ects of the late and much-lamented Gregg Toland [6:57– 6:79].

In conclusion, I cannot do any better than allow Akira Kurosawa to ex-plain his artistic ambitions himself: “Normally, an action movie can only be an action movie. But how marvelous it would be if an action fi lm could at the same time paint a portrait of humanity! < at has always been my dream, ever since the time I was an assistant director. And for the last ten years I have been wanting to reconceive historical drama from this new point of view.” SuP ce it to say that ' e Seven Samurai itself is not unwor-thy of such an aim.

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6B6 )

)%

-3++ .) &M, >+,*M , 13&&3) 3) > .' , : ,+ . ( C (=() ’* /(/0 -3++

(Le parisien libéré, January ;, 6:A8)

TM()C* &3 &M, >(1& &M(& ( 1(&M3+.1 1('-.)(+ , of course an American, saw fi t to blush in the pulpit, the lat-

est fi lm from Elia Kazan [6:5:– 455;], Baby Doll [6:AB], comes preceded by a warning notice that seems to have been forced on the producers. < ank-fully, the fi lm, though its advance reputation is not unearned, is worth more than the scandal it has caused. It is true that, on the simplest level, the subject shows an audacity that belongs more to written language than to images, but everything is done in the appropriate manner, and the fi lm’s tone—at least this is the way it seems to me—doesn’t permit much oL ense. Certainly even less when you consider the kind of oL ense that even the slightest play by Georges Feydeau [69B4– 6:46] can cause.

We’re in the South, in Cotton Country. “Baby,” a simple but coquettish girl, has married the proprietor of a small cotton gin on the verge of being driven out of business, along with a few others, by the more modern com-pany belonging to a Sicilian entrepreneur named Silva Vacarro. In these tough times, Archie Lee Meighan, the husband, has only one consolation, even if it is a relative one: his marriage has remained unconsummated. But Baby has promised him, against her childish prudishness, to really become his wife the day she turns twenty, and this impatiently awaited day is ap-proaching. Archie is becoming more irritated, however, as Baby shows less and less enthusiasm. Overwhelmed by his “wife’s” rebuL s, which are exac-erbated by his fi nancial troubles, the desperate Archie attempts a desper-ate solution: he sets fi re to Silva’s factory. Silva wonders where the hit came from and decides to play a trick in order to fi nd out. He keeps Archie busy by giving him tons of cotton to gin, at the same time as he himself gets closer to Baby in a curious seduction maneuver that has the real goal—however dubious—of getting her to accuse her husband in writing. Upon

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returning home, Archie suspects something but can’t be sure, with the re-sult that he becomes half-mad with envy and jealousy. It will be necessary for the police to intervene. But, in fact, who will say whether Baby Doll has, or has not . . . ?

Like the plots of most of Tennessee Williams’s plays, that of Baby Doll leaves little for summary. < e action happens mostly inside the characters instead of externally, through events. As unusual as these human fi gures may be, they seem natural in light of the dramatic climate Tennessee Wil-liams creates for them. And the word “climate” has to be understood here in its proper and fi gurative meaning. In the cinema, the author of A Street-car Named Desire [6:A6] has never been better served than by Elia Kazan. Even if the mise-en-scène of Baby Doll, shot in black and white in ;A mm format, doesn’t show any exceptional luster, I’m not far from preferring it to that of Kazan’s On the Waterfront [6:A7] or East of Eden [6:AA].

Clever, lively, and full of humor, Baby Doll manages to exorcise the most risqué elements from its sexual content, with the result that this “school for wives” in Erskine Caldwell country becomes a beautiful piece of litera-ture and of cinema. Naturally, Baby Doll is admirably acted, notably by Eli Wallach, who gives the equivocal role of Silva an irresistible accent.

Baby Doll (!"%+); director: Elia Kazan.

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)+

(C .' ( C2'3*(E(’* &3 + . D ,(Cahiers du cinéma, March 6:A8)

I *M(++ (--',** +(&,' .) &M.* @.,1, &M, >(1& &M(& the director of Rashomon [Castle Gate, 6:A5] suL ers, especially

at Cahiers du cinéma, from prejudice in favor of the tender and musical Mizoguchi, and shall limit myself for the moment to noting that it is pre-cisely the current retrospective at the Cinémathèque Française that has al-lowed us to revise our view of Akira Kurosawa, inadequately known in France up to now by only two fi lms: Rashomon and ' e Seven Samurai [Shichinin no samurai, 6:A7].

Yet it’s virtually certain that both these fi lms attest to an extremely skill-ful and deliberate Westernism. (< is aspect is well analyzed and explained in the outstanding little book by Marcel and Shinobu Giuglaris titled Le cinéma japonais, !$"+– !"%% [Paris: Éditions du Cerf, 6:AB].) Kurosawa be-longs to a younger generation (he was born in 6:65, whereas Kenji Mizo-guchi [69:9– 6:AB] has just passed away at the age of fi fty-eight); he is essen-tially a postwar director. He is visibly infl uenced by Western cinema from the 6:;5s and 6:75s, and perhaps even more so by American movies than Italian neorealism. His admiration for John Ford, Fritz Lang, and Char-lie Chaplin, in particular, is quite evident. < e Western infl uence on Kuro-sawa is not just passive, however. He isn’t merely concerned with integrat-ing it into his work; he also understands how to profi t from this infl uence and use it to transmit back to us an image of Japanese tradition and culture that we can assimilate mentally as well as visually.

Kurosawa succeeded so well at doing this with Rashomon that it could be said this fi lm opened the gates of the West to Japanese cinema. After Rashomon, though, many other Japanese fi lms have come our way—most notably those of Mizoguchi—which have revealed to us work that, if not more authentic, is at the very least purer and more characteristic. Ever since

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then, ingratitude toward Kurosawa has been easy to fi nd, and, given that it was already fashionable to tarnish the prestige of Japanese cinema with the charge of the snobbery of exoticism, Kurosawa’s reverse exoticism—that is to say, his concessions to the rhetoric of Western cinema—itself quickly be-came fair game. Such concessions on Kurosawa’s part were especially note-worthy in ' e Seven Samurai, which, on a secondary level, was no more than a John Ford Western in a feudal setting.

I do not know whether it was the sum of prejudice against Kurosawa—partly shared by me—that rendered some commentators blind to the fi lms of his presented at the Cinémathèque Française, yet it seems to me always good, at least for one critic, to come forward with a radically opposed view. I’m talking in particular about To Live [Ikiru, 6:A4], which one reviewer has peremptorily dismissed by saying that it is the ultimate in absurdity, whereas I fi nd it to be perhaps the most beautiful, the wisest, and the most touching of the current wave of Japanese fi lms I have had the chance to see.

But let me underline right away that To Live has a contemporary set-ting, and that this fact alone radically alters the whole vexing problem of infl uence. For a hundred profound reasons To Live is most assuredly a Jap-anese fi lm, but what really strikes us and imposes itself on our minds is the universality of its theme. More precisely, although To Live is as Japanese as Lang’s M [6:;6] was German or Welles’s Citizen Kane [6:76] was Ameri-can, there is no need of mental translation from one culture to another to be able to clearly read the general signifi cance of this fi lm in addition to its particular inspiration. < e internationalism of To Live isn’t geographic but geological: it arises from a subterranean moral layer where Kurosawa knew it was to be found. Yet since the fi lm is also about a man of our times, with whom a relatively short airplane trip would bring us face to face, Kuro-sawa is within his rights, on occasion, to draw from the worldwide rheto-ric of cinema to tell his story, even as James Joyce drew on the vocabulary of all languages in order to reinvent English in his fi ction—an English that could be said to be translated in advance and therefore be untranslatable.< is may be why To Live has been classed as one of the ten best national

fi lms of 6:A4 by the Japanese critics, who had reservations about all the samurai fi lms that were sent to international festivals and especially about Rashomon. < is leaves me wondering whether, instead of considering Ku-rosawa’s cosmopolitanism in Rashomon and ' e Seven Samurai as a conces-sion to marketability—even if it is of a superior quality—we shouldn’t con-sider such cosmopolitanism as a dialectical progression that points the way forward for Japanese cinema. My personal taste still makes me prefer the style of Mizoguchi, even as I prefer the purity of the Japanese music that inspired him, but I must say that I surrender before the amplitude of intel-

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6BA ) Akira Kurosawa’s To Live

lectual, moral, and aesthetic perspectives opened up by a fi lm like To Live, which, in its scenario as in its form, well blends these perspectives into a document of incomparable importance.< e subject of To Live is a sort of inversion of the Faust theme. < e old

doctor, in eL ect, desires to regain his youth so that he can live a life ded-icated to evil. < e character from To Live knows that he is doomed to die and innocently tries, during the months he has left, to comprehend the life he has hitherto unconsciously ignored. If he fi nds that the easiest thing to do, as a municipal civil servant, is the good social deed within his reach, it’s not because he is more tempted by good than by evil, but because a young and simple creature has revealed to him the meaning of the most modest act of creation. Unbeknownst to himself and everyone else, this good old man becomes a saint because, for him, it’s the shortest path to life.

One can see all the potential pitfalls surrounding such a subject: senti-mentality, melodrama, moralism, social tendentiousness. All of these per-ils are more than avoided here: they are transcended and they become so thanks especially to the intelligent structuring of the narrative, which left me utterly stunned. What one critic has called “the interminable funeral”—a funeral that in fact takes up almost half the fi lm—is an act of incredible daring: an hour during which we hear the friends, relatives, and guests in attendance as they talk about the dead man. All the while they drink rice wine and nibble on little cakes. It’s true that these conversations are inter-rupted by fl ashbacks that slowly reveal to us the activities of the main char-acter before his death and, through them, his real personality. But these re-turns to the past are quite brief in each instance, and by no means do they

Ikiru (To Live, !"%)); director: Akira Kurosawa.

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6BB ) Bazin on Global Cinema

reduce the conversation of the funeral-goers to a simple narrative device. < e essence of the fi lm, then, is as much in the present as in the past, and the tension of the story arises from the gradual convergence between the hidden truth of the evoked reality and the consciousness of it that is slowly attained by the various witnesses. In the end, they have fi nally understood the secret of the dead man: he knew himself to be doomed and nonetheless had sacrifi ced his last days to an exemplary mission; everybody at the fu-neral is drunk, however, and this truth only serves to exalt a group of vain drunkards who will have forgotten it by the following morning.< ere are many other things to say about To Live—most notably about

the role of tempo in the narrative, which is so diL erent from Western dra-matic conventions with their artifi cial symmetries, yet without a single minute that could be considered gratuitous. < is Japanese fi lm is only the wiser and more delicate for treating time in this way. We must hope that a French distributor will decide to present this masterpiece to the public, for then I would have the opportunity to see it yet again.

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6B8 )

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(Cahiers du cinéma, March 6:A8)

A >,E @' .D(&, *1',,).)?* M(D, (&&' (1&,- (&-tention to Satoru Yamamura’s fi lm ' e Cannery Boat [Ka-

ni kô sen, 6:A;], which fi nally premiered at the Vendôme < eater in early February and which represents a relatively original aspect of the already di-verse Japanese fi lm industry. I say “relatively” because the public already has knowledge of some other Japanese fi lms about social issues, such as Kaneto Shindo’s Children of Hiroshima [Gembaku no ko, 6:A4]. However, ' e Cannery Boat is more than a “social” picture; it undisputedly belongs to a more precise genre known as the revolutionary fi lm, for which Sergei Eisenstein’s Battleship Potemkin [Bronenosets Potyomkin, 6:4A] may serve as the archetype.

Yamamura [6:65– 4555] isn’t concerned with hiding what he owes to So-viet cinema and to Eisenstein’s fi lm in particular: rather the opposite is true. < is cinematic infl uence doesn’t wholly diminish the merits of ' e Can-nery Boat, not only because it is completely justifi ed by the subject matter, but also because the spirit of comparison is imposed more by the contrasts between these two fi lms than by their similarities. < e revolt aboard the battle ship Potemkin is by no means a kind of absolute reference point for the taking of a maritime Bastille. Indeed, when the sailors of the Japanese warship—called by radio to put down the mutiny on the crab- canning ves-sel—climb aboard, the naïve enthusiasm of the striking sailors, who never doubt that the government supports them, is doubly heartbreaking by con-trast with the revolutionary fraternity of the Russian sailors and the citizens who embrace them.

Anyway, the comparison with Eisenstein’s fi lm can’t be pressed too far, as it is not required until the end, which also includes most of the best se-quences in ' e Cannery Boat. < e rest of the fi lm, however, diL ers radi-

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cally from the style of Eisenstein, notably in the individualistic character of the scenario and the mise-en-scène. Yamamura tries to interest us per-sonally in almost every one of his characters, which leads, I have to con-fess, to some very boring moments. < e cause of this boredom is perhaps the inadequacy of the subtitling, or even the lack of adaptation on the part of our eyes to the variegation of Eastern facial features. I don’t believe so in the end, though, because while the documentary content of ' e Cannery Boat is manifestly touching, the mise-en-scène reveals a lack of imagina-tion when properly considered. ' e Cannery Boat is certainly an interesting fi lm that oL ers many beautiful moments, but one whose cinematic rendi-tion (God forbid I’m forced to say formal!) should not in the least be over-estimated. When all is said and done, this is nothing but a second-rate pic-ture whose importance should not be compared to that of Kurosawa’s To Live [Ikiru, 6:A4].

Kanikôsen (< e Cannery Boat, !"%(); director: Satoru Yamamura.

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6B: )

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()-'=,N E(N-(’* C ()(+(Cahiers du cinéma, June 6:A8)

L(*& 0,(' @3+()- &2'),- ( >,E M,(-* E.&M () interesting fi lm, Shadow [Cie., 6:AB), from the young direc-

tor Jerzy Kawalerowicz [6:44– 4558]; even without sharing François Truf-faut’s enthusiasm, I couldn’t fi nd this picture anything but interesting and therefore awaited with great anticipation the Polish releases for this year. In Warsaw I had seen Andrzej Wajda’s fi rst fi lm, A Generation [Pokolenie, 6:A7], a somewhat unbalanced work but quite endearing, and one that, for all its treating yet again of the subject of the resistance, didn’t cheat with the facts this time in the name of politics. Furthermore, love wasn’t sub-ordinated to the patriotic ideal here; it went hand-in-hand with that ideal.

Kanal [Sewer, 6:AB] reprises with more ambition, and in a symphonic di-mension, the themes melodically sounded through the “scale” of the ro-mantic couple in A Generation. No doubt that Andrzej Wajda [born 6:4B] is sometimes undone here by the very amplitude and multifariousness of his subject. Because of this, his success is even more uneven in Kanal than it was in A Generation, but it is also more evident and signifi cant. < is time we get a real measure of who the director is, and we optimistically look for-ward to his future works, especially if Wajda is able to get rid of what re-mains of the academic and the conventional in his conception of narrative as well as character.

Like more or less every member of the young generation of Polish fi lm directors, Wajda is a disciple of Aleksander Ford [6:59– 6:95], whose expres-sive and dramatic formalism is not without kinship to its American equiva-lent (without at the same time possessing the American temperament). < e weak point of Kanal visibly resides in what the picture has in common with Ford’s Five Boys from Barska Street (Piatka z ulicy Barskiej, 6:A7): the expres-sionistic use of decor within the framework of a very composed realism; a

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plastic, dramatic, and psychological conception of the action that is actu-ally more sensitive than—and even the opposite of—the one the subject ex-amined calls for. But the extreme sensitivity and the utter frankness of in-spiration fi nally make this brilliant shell crack, and we hope that in the end Wajda doesn’t retain from such cinematic calligraphy anything except the lesson in technique it entails.

Kanal tells us about the odyssey of a group of insurgents in 6:77 War-saw. Forced by German advances to abandon the suburb they had been de-fending, the survivors of a company of resistance fi ghters will try—with-out any hope of succeeding—to get to the center of the capital by passing through its sewers. Almost all of them will disappear in this dark and re-volting labyrinth, and the subject of the fi lm is the behavior of each person in the face of the probability of such a horrible death. < e characters of this new lost patrol, sadly, are of unequal or irregular verisimilitude, but I note with pleasure that each one’s personal psychology, as well as the psychology of his or her relationships with the others, constitutes the fi lm’s true focus. According to my Polish friends, Kanal ’s reaction against any political ide-alism in its characterization and dialogue itself leads in the end to a kind of nonrealism. < ese characters talk about death, love, and heroism, but never about the tactical and political issues of the Warsaw uprising, which made up an important subject of discussions back in those days. It is also true that such discussions from August of 6:77 can hardly be reconstituted now.

Kanal (Sewer, !"%*); director: Andrzej Wajda.

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686 )

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E(' > .+K* : ' .1M('- >+, .*1M,'’* /,&E,,) M,(D,) ()- M,++ ()- ()&M3)0 K()) ’* K,) .) E('

(France-observateur, June 45, 6:A8)

TM, (+K3*& *.K2+&(),32* ',+,(*, 3> &E3 (K,'-ican war fi lms, Between Heaven and Hell [6:AB] and Men in

War [6:A8], invites a comparative critique. In fact, their comparison and contrast will be more fruitful than any examination of the points they have in common, which are at the same time obvious and purely exterior; for this reason it makes more sense to extract the essential oppositions between these two pictures.

Between Heaven and Hell is a fi lm from Richard Fleischer, a young di-rector (forty-one years old [6:6B– 455B]) in whom we had placed high hopes after ' e Narrow Margin [6:A4]. < is is a war movie that doesn’t fall short of the bravery and realism of character to be found in such big and implacably grim (if not cynical) productions such as ' e Men [6:A5], Attack [6:AB], and ' e Caine Mutiny [6:A7]. As in these three fi lms, the scenario in Between Heaven and Hell is built around an oP cer steeped in his responsibilities, a veritable product of military sociology. < e oP cer here is called Waco: he commands a punishment or disciplinary company stationed on a particu-larly dangerous Pacifi c island in Japanese hands. In spite of the inevitable prudishness of the dialogue, which pretends to ignore certain things, Waco is introduced to us as a pederast protected by two implausible blonde rep-robates, who are armed to the teeth and serve as his personal bodyguards. It’s precisely to Waco’s company that a young private—demoted from ser-geant after having shot his frightened and inexperienced lieutenant, whose panic attack was the cause of the death of three of his own men—will end up being transferred.

Some fl ashbacks inform us that this young man, Sam GiL ord, is a rich landowner down South in civilian life, with a plantation and a cotton mill,

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who treats his sharecroppers like serfs. But the war, with its erasure of so-cial class, has revealed the oneness of the human race to him and the equal-ity of men in the face of danger and death. His best comrades have been his old sharecroppers. In Waco’s company he will make new friends, who will then be killed one after the other (including Waco) until GiL ord becomes almost the sole survivor of this group of soldiers who were holding down an advanced position. Wounded, he will cross enemy lines to save his last, grievously wounded comrade. When he fi nally gets back to camp, he is able to warn his superiors about the position of the remaining Japanese units. For the rest, the war is reaching its fi nal moments.

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To facilitate my analysis, I shall distinguish among three aspects of this fi lm.< e less important aspect in the end, but not a negligible one from the

point of view of the mise-en-scène, concerns the spectacular realism of the war’s reconstruction. It is particularly accomplished here. < is is true of both the large-scale scenes (the island landing, for instance) and the more localized incidents (notably the shelling of Waco’s headquarters by Japanese

Between Heaven and Hell (!"%+); director: Richard Fleischer.

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68; ) Fleischer, Between Heaven and Hell; Mann, Men in War

mortars), yet there is nothing original in either of them, and we have al-ready seen this sort of thing very well done before.< e ideological aspect of the scenario is certainly more signifi cant, and

I shall distinguish the positive side of it from its negative one. As far as the American cause goes, the fi lm’s ideology is relatively sympathetic, albeit el-ementary and didactic in its treatment. On the other hand, we could also admire, and almost without reserve, the critical realism of the fi lm. < e quiet security with which American cinema unmasks at least some of the fl aws of American society, even if it doesn’t question the nation’s basic prin-ciples, should not go uncredited. We would search in vain for an equivalent elsewhere. No national army in the world would permit its censors to ac-cept the exposure of the vices, the idiocy, or the incompetence of some of its oP cers. In France, for example, special care is taken to ensure that no superior oP cer is cast in a negative light on fi lm.

It doesn’t follow necessarily that Between Heaven and Hell is a great fi lm. Its mise-en-scène lacks a distinctive style, for one. Everything is well done but without a personal tone. < e script, moreover, lacks rigor and clarity of intention. What is clear is naïve, while what is mature is confused. In short, we are quite far here from Attack or even ' e Men, even if the raw materials of Between Heaven and Hell aren’t intrinsically inferior to those of the lat-ter two fi lms.

K,) .) E('

With Men in War, the spectator is immediately introduced to a radically diL erent undertaking. From the fi rst images, style takes over and, regarding ideology, one would search in vain for it here until the end. On the other hand, Anthony Mann’s fi lm shares with Richard Fleischer’s an overriding feel for technical realism and the objective truths of war, but on the scale—almost down to one person this time—of the patrol.

We’re in Korea in 6:A5. An infantry platoon fi nds itself surrounded by the enemy, and the soldiers’ truck is out of commission. < eir headquar-ters doesn’t respond, either. < eir only recourse is to get to Hill Z7BA, which is twenty-fi ve kilometers away. So begins a harrowing march through the tall grass of a scrubland, where the enemy has no doubt concealed snip-ers that could decimate the small and heavily weighed-down patrol. Sud-denly a jeep shows up and the lieutenant stops it; it’s being driven by a ser-geant whose only concern is to quickly reach a hospital, where he hopes to get treatment for his colonel: the latter has been injured by a mine and sits propped up against the window adjoining his seat. By unburdening the pla-

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toon of its equipment, this jeep will get the men to their goal, so the lieu-tenant requisitions it against the wishes of the sergeant. < e colonel will have to wait to be taken care of by medical personnel.< e platoon makes its way toward the hill in a straight column, but the

men fall, one after the other, to sniper bullets, mortar fi re, or land mines. During this long march the personalities and practices of the lieutenant (Robert Ryan) and the sergeant (Aldo Ray) become evident through their juxtaposition. < e latter, instinctive and experienced, reacts to danger with as much fl air as cynicism; not less resolute, the lieutenant, by contrast, maintains certain principles. Nevertheless, as the sole survivors of the ill-fated patrol, they will reconcile over the bodies of their comrades-in-arms in an ending that isn’t without reminders of the conclusion of Julien Du-vivier’s Escape from Yesterday [La bandera, 6:;A].

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I’ll say this right away: this fi lm displeased me, and I haven’t reached the accord I normally share with Anthony Mann [6:5B– 6:B8].

It is not because the fi lm is about the Korean War. < e historical period is objectively presented, and only a lack of objectivity could spoil this par-ticular period setting. It could even be said that Mann’s enterprise here isn’t

Men in War (!"%*); director: Anthony Mann.

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68A ) Fleischer, Between Heaven and Hell; Mann, Men in War

kind to the Americans. < e Koreans just do their job, and less callously in any case than the American oP cer who forces an enemy prisoner to march in front so as to discover the minefi elds before his men step on them. In-deed, we could go so far as to abstract the conventionally jingoistic side of the ending in order to make it say something else. No, what’s missing from Anthony Mann’s fi lm is somehow the equivalent, as well as the opposite, of the main weakness in Between Heaven and Hell.< e latter oL ers up both a naïve thesis and a didactic one, as I’ve indi-

cated. Men in War, on the other hand, implicitly shows a complete lack of social and historical judgment. As horrible and cruel as this war is, it is treated by the director as a simple external condition, established a priori. Men in War, in the end, is a Western transposed to the period of the Ko-rean War. < is is a particularly violent (if subtle) Western, without ques-tion, one where, as befi ts the genre, the action is tacitly presented as the pri-mary value—not the only one but the fi rst, and the one that gives rise to all the others. To be sure, Men in War, unlike Anthony Mann’s other West-erns, aspires to be more than just an adventure fi lm. < e men in those other Mann movies certainly attract their share of interest, for the best Westerns are based precisely on the clash of the personalities.

I agree that the clashes in Men in War are interesting and nuanced, but they are completely independent of the political framing and historical con-ditions of the action. < ence stems my displeasure. If this war evokes any-thing in me, it’s primarily what is happening in Algeria right now, or, for example, what happened during the American confl ict with the Indians in the previous century. In fact, it’s the Indians that Anthony Mann’s Koreans remind me of. < e war against the American Indians was defi nitely neither particularly moral nor particularly intelligent, but the hindsight and espe-cially the popularity of Westerns have turned it into a kind of accepted con-vention. We can think whatever we want about the historical justifi cation for the Korean War—except that we should not refuse to think about it. And I’ll admit that Anthony Mann takes it upon himself to make an indi-rect apology for this war by presenting it to us as something like an unre-lieved fact of nature, a simple source of action.

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Whatever objections I could make about the general spirit of the fi lm, they are less pronounced than my gripes concerning the mise-en-scène. Without a doubt, Men in War is one of the fi lms in which Anthony Mann has worked out his shooting style with the most care. < e choice of

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black and white (for the fi rst time since Winchester ’*( [6:A5]) has allowed him a certain formalism of framing and composition, both of them under-lined by the superb cinematography of Ernest Haller.

Mann himself has confessed to his preference for shooting exteriors. And in Men in War we fi nd a perception of the very air through which the character passes—pushed to expressionistic excess. Here, danger is found at the level of the grass, where every single blade counts. < e camera is al-most always placed about fi fty centimeters above the ground, and in its movement it toys with the parallax of the tufts of vegetation, which are thereby set in extraordinary relief. < e presence of danger is thus identifi ed with the presence of grass. Does the camera show the men’s feet, amidst the grass, in close-up? < en we’ll take three seconds to guess that the ground is mined. So why from time to time abandon this almost subjective perspec-tive to reveal to us, through reframing, the more distant dangers that the fi lm’s protagonists seemingly ignore? < is procedure, together with some others, is the equivalent of the classic panoramic shot revealing the Indians in Stagecoach [6:;:].

It is here where the fl aws in the mise-en-scène join and amplify those in the screenplay. Lacking a genuine moral perspective of events, Anthony Mann didn’t know how to adopt and maintain a physical viewpoint. Giv-ing primacy to the action, he has allowed himself to accept mere fi lmic de-vices to reference this incident or that—at the expense of the men them-selves, who stop being the center of the mise-en-scène.

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688 )

(&

D + (-.K.' /' (2) ’* K(+D((France-observateur, September 64, 6:A8)

A/32& &M, *3D .,& K(+D( [6:A8], -.',1&,- /0 Vladimir Braun [69:B– 6:A8], it won’t suP ce simply to say

that this fi lm confi rms the “new look” of cinema announced by Samson Samsonov’s ' e Cricket [6:AA] and Grigori Chukhrai’s ' e Forty-First [So-rok pervyy, 6:AB]. Rather curiously, a comparison can be made between the latter fi lm and Malva, whose action also takes place among Caspian Sea fi shermen and that similarly distrusts those insular passions that can fi nd physical embodiment only in nature. Let me quickly add that there is no undressing in Malva to accompany the fi lm’s externalized passions and that the risqué quality of the fi lm’s tone, its dramatic situations, and its sexual content is less free than one might think. Still, Malva is a love story without prudishness, though we should marvel at it less because of that than because this love story constitutes the one and only interest in the scenario. < e characters in Malva ask themselves but one question: how can we live freely and true to ourselves, despite our condition as des-titute fi shermen, or without that miserable condition’s having a deleteri-ous impact on our emotions? Even had it been well-dramatized in a hyper-realistic fashion in this particular social and geographic milieu, however, Malva’s sentimental adventure would still have an exclusively moral qual-ity about it and therefore could easily be transposed to a completely diL er-ent context.

Regarding the cinematographic form of this fi lm, it is less brilliant than that of ' e Forty-First though it seems to me to be more original. It’s true that the adaptation of Maxim Gorky’s 69:8 novella, the fi lm’s source ma-terial, is quite clunky, but it does allow the mise-en-scène—one totally grounded in character as opposed to action—to fl ow freely. Everyone lives

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for him- or herself in Malva, and the characters’ way of walking on the sand, of dreaming at the edge of the water, of speaking but saying nothing, matters a lot more in the end than the dramatic events themselves. Chief among the performers, Dzidra Ritenberga won the award for best actress at the seventeenth annual Venice Film Festival.

Malva (!"%*); director: Vladimir Braun.

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68: )

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(C .' ( C2'3*(E(’* &M'3), 3> /+33-(Cahiers du cinéma, October 6:A8)

AC.' ( C2'3*(E(’* &M'3), 3> /+33- [C2K3)3*2-jô, 6:A8] disappointed me. My admiration for the great Jap-

anese fi lmmaker owes less to Rashomon [Castle Gate, 6:A5] or ' e Seven Samurai [Shichinin no samurai, 6:A7] than to two sublime fi lms sadly un-known in France: To Live [Ikiru, 6:A4] and ' e Idiot [Hakuchi, 6:A6, from the 69B: Dostoevsky novel]. Yet there is in Kurosawa [6:65– 6::9], without a doubt, a temptation toward formalism to which he has completely suc-cumbed in this curious adaptation of Shakespeare’s Macbeth to a Japanese feudal setting.

Extraordinary images, impressive costumes, dazzling technical prowess, and suL ocating violence can be found here—but none of the moral and metaphysical dimensions of Shakespeare so much present in Orson Welles’s adaptation, for one, in spite of the latter’s cardboard decor. I must say that I expected so much beforehand from Kurosawa’s new fi lm, both because of the personality of the director and because of the subject itself. Indeed, it was a pleasure to see the transposition of Shakespeare’s tragedy to the Jap-anese Middle Ages, and we could hope that this setting would refresh the play’s look without betraying its spirit.

With ' e Idiot, Kurosawa had to solve otherwise diP cult adaptation problems, and we know that he overcame them in a spectacular fashion. But this director always seems to be torn between two contradictory ten-dencies. He is a formalist, even an expressionist, in Rashomon or ' e Seven Samurai, two fi lms full of moments of courage, on the one hand, and mo-ments of a sometimes too-intelligent synthesis of Eastern tradition and Western aesthetics, on the other. < ese two fi lms are the ones that have made Kurosawa’s name renowned among us, for reasons that I myself fi nd to be a little irritating. Yet the same man is the maker of fi lms in which

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the moral thesis steers clearly away from formal concerns, so much so that the work ends up waylaying us and we fi nd ourselves lost, as in I Live in Fear [Ikimono no kiroku, a.k.a. Record of a Living Being, 6:AA]. Not that this means that in To Live and ' e Idiot there aren’t a number of similar, suc-cessful attempts at style funneled through the raging torrent of feeling.< erefore it’s embarrassing to imagine that the same man who was the

maker of these two fi lms—a little infl uenced by Italian neorealism and a lot by the great sentimentalism of the German-American cinema of the 6:;5s and 6:75s—has also made such formalistic, feudal fi lms as ' rone of Blood and ' e Seven Samurai, which are burdened by their mise-en-scène as if by a samurai’s armor. Either I am missing something in this Japanese Macbeth, or ' rone of Blood illustrates quite well the limits of an integral formalism that loses itself in mannerisms of the perfectly vapid and spasms of the futilely violent. Fragments of intensity follow one upon the other, al-ways dazzling yet at the same time monotonous and disconnected, because they have been operating at the level of paroxysm from the very start. Ad-mirable images (notably the riding sequences in the rain, reprised from ' e Seven Samurai) stand juxtaposed against the emptiness, or more precisely the conventionality, of the characters. So much is all this the case that we can’t help but imagine another dirt-cheap Macbeth like Welles’s 6:79 ver-sion, with cardboard decor into which Shakespeare’s lyricism was nonethe-less able to breathe life.

Kumonosu-jô (< rone of Blood, !"%*); director: Akira Kurosawa.

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696 ) Akira Kurosawa’s < rone of Blood

Going against the line advanced by most critics, I would like to add, fi -nally, two things: fi rst, I can be disappointed by ' rone of Blood without losing any of my esteem for the same director’s To Live and ' e Idiot; and, second, I can admire the good fi lms by Akira Kurosawa and love those of Kenji Mizoguchi.

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()

*(& 0(N .& ' (0 ’* (@(' (N .&3(France-observateur, December 6:, 6:A8)

A @(' (N.&3 [&M, 2)D()R2.*M,-, 6:AB], /0 *(&0(N.& Ray [6:46– 6::4], the director of Song of the Road [Pather

Panchali, 6:AA], which in my opinion was the revelation of the 6:AB Cannes Film Festival, has won the Golden Lion at Venice for 6:A8. I’ll say right away that I am both delighted and miL ed by this victory. Delighted, be-cause I admire the second fi lm almost as much as the fi rst and I am happy for the young and likeable Bengali team that won this award. But I can also understand the irritation it causes in those who didn’t like the fi rst fi lm and as such don’t share my enthusiasm. Having had jury-duty experience at fes-tivals, I can see that the reasons for this choice may not be the best ones. Last year, for example, the Japanese fi lm ' e Burmese Harp [Biruma no ta-te goto, 6:AB], by Kon Ichikawa, failed to win for reasons moral and spiritual but only secondarily cinematic. < is year, Aparajito wins the prize for so-cial, moral, and—let us call them—accessibly exotic reasons but not neces-sarily cinematic ones.< ough constituting a complete work unto itself, Aparajito is a sort of

Song of the Road and therefore the second of three fi lms (Ray is preparing the third and fi nal installment even as I write) that, taken as a whole, will be quite comparable to those of Mark Donskoi’s Gorky trilogy [6:;9– 6:76] from the Soviet cinema. Adapted, like Song of the Road, from Bibhu tibhu-shan Bandopadhaya’s 6:;4 Bengali novel. Originally published in 6:4:, Pather Panchali was the fi rst novel written by the author to be published. It was followed in 6:;4 by a sequel, Aparajito (itself infl uenced by Maxim Gorky and Roman Rolland and consequently written in the grand inter-national tradition of socialist fi ction). < is picture is almost impossible to summarize, for its narrative is dreamy, relaxed, and highly subjective. It is also frequently conceived from the point of view of a child, which means

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69; ) Satyajit Ray’s Aparajito

that it exhibits the tone of semiautobiographical novels of childhood such as Rolland’s ten-volume Jean-Christophe [6:57– 6:64].

I had said last year how highly I thought of Song of the Road. But the qualities of this fi lm, which burst onto an Indian fi lm scene whose previous high points lay two levels below it, were so unheard of at the time that it was hard not think of the picture as just a strange and singular miracle. But now we are reassured: Aparajito, made under the same conditions as Song of the Road and by the same team, wholly confi rms the validity of everything that made us like and even become attached to the fi rst fi lm. Certainly, the cinematic infl uences are visible: Donskoi, Rolland, Robert Flaherty [6997– 6:A6], Jean Renoir [69:7– 6:8:], the Italian neorealists . . . all remarkably but also perfectly assimilated and transposed.

Satyajit Ray himself, a young giant whose bronzed skin stands in stark contrast to the whiteness of his suits, talks about his work with a reassuring clarity, frankness, and perception. We sense in him all the necessary cul-ture (cinematic and otherwise), but also the determination, energy, and—why not say it?—political sense (understood in the broadest, most noble meaning of the term) that should well insert his fi lms into the contempo-rary Indian sensibility at the same time as these works respond to the needs of his countrymen. So much conjoined vitality, education, taste, and ded-ication in one artist are not to be found just anywhere, and certainly not every day. About the prominently evoked Jean Renoir in this context, let me be precise and say that Satyajit Ray wasn’t the assistant director for ' e River (Le fl euve, 6:A6). Ray only met Renoir during the fi lm’s making and he states that his conversations with the director were decisive for him. He saw, before or after Song of the Road, most of Renoir’s French or American fi lms. Of the latter he prefers ' e Southerner (6:7A), and as for all of Renoir’s work, he prefers ' e Rules of the Game [La règle du jeu, 6:;:].

Aparajito is the urban continuation of Song of the Road, where the action took place in the countryside. < e father, a public reader of holy books, has taken his family—that is, his wife and son—to Benares. Life fl ows on ever so sweetly there until the death of the father halfway through the fi lm. < e now-widowed mother is then persuaded by the counsel of an uncle that the boy should be prepared for the Buddhist priesthood back in the fami-ly’s ancestral village. < erefore she and her son return to the countryside. However, the boy is so intelligent that he has brilliant success at the local public school, and this defi nitively steers him away from a religious profes-sion: instead he will leave home with a scholarship to study at the Univer-sity of Calcutta. < e fi lm ends with the death of the mother, which leaves the teenager alone in the world but determined to succeed in life.

I confess that of Ray’s fi rst two fi lms, I prefer Song of the Road, whose

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tone seemed to me more unusual and freer. < e picturesque documentary that Aparajito oL ers of Benares disturbs our Western attention somewhat, and, overall, the death of the parents brings a relatively sentimental element to the drama. Yet the essence of the fi lm, which is above all a veracity of character hitherto unattained by Indian cinema, endures. One of the rea-sons is that, except for the man who plays the father, the actors aren’t pro-fessionals. Another is that the choice of images, their linking in itself, is de-termined less by the importance of events than by the traces these events have left on the memory of the child, who is the protagonist of the tale. It was inevitable, then, that the interest of Aparajito would boil down to what the very text of the Venetian prize says: the fi lm’s “simplicity of expression and sincerity of feeling,” not the exoticism of its human and geographic set-ting. Transposed to the West, I don’t think that Satyajit Ray’s fi lm would merit any less interest.

In sum, these two fi lms by Satyajit Ray are the fi rst manifestation of a cinema worthy of Indian civilization, even as its Japanese counterpart is the perfect complement to Japanese culture. Without question, in addition to twenty soapy melodramas, we have already had the opportunity to see, by virtue of festivals, three or four Indian fi lms deserving of a certain level of interest. I am thinking most notably of Ezra Mir’s Pamposh [6:A7] and, in

Aparajito (< e Unvanquished, !"%+); director: Satyajit Ray.

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69A ) Satyajit Ray’s Aparajito

the neorealist spirit, Bimal Roy’s Calcutta, ' e Cruel City [Do Bigha Za-min, a.k.a. Two Acres of Land, 6:A;], which has already been released in Paris. But these otherwise valuable and exceedingly rare exceptions are but naïve and clumsy prattle compared to Song of the Road and Aparajito. If I am to believe those more competent than I, Satyajit Ray is a new and still unique phenomenon in the otherwise productive Indian fi lm industry (as we know, one of the most important in the world because of the very quan-tity of its output: 495 fi lms per year). Such productivity, alas, doesn’t nec-essarily indicate any coming spring for the Indian cinema, which continues to remain almost totally rooted in a sort of religious, social, and melodra-matic music hall.

Satyajit Ray himself is now thirty-six years old, and, until Song of the Road, he had been painter and designer. When he and a team of colleagues, including the photographer who would become his assistant, Subrata Mi-tra, decided to adapt Bibhutibhushan Bandopadhaya’s novel of the same name to the cinema, they had no cinematographic experience. < is fact beggars belief in the face of the quality and often mastery of their images, as well as the directing of the actors. But these young fi lmmakers, lack-ing experience that they somehow acquired in a hurry, had something bet-ter: their love and knowledge of cinema, a kind of culture in itself, which would serve them well. And if one of the criteria of modern cinema resides in the novelistic quality of its narratives, its capacity to unite the objectiv-ity of the image with the subjective modalities of language, Satyajit Ray is a fi lmmaker to be cherished indeed.

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69B )

((

*&()+,0 C' (K,'’* &M, @' .-, ()- &M, @(**.3)

(France-observateur, December 6:, 6:A8)

S&()+,0 C'(K,' [6:6;– 4556] M(* ,('),- ',13?).-tion and esteem by producing some of the most interesting

American movies of the last ten years. He illustrates, together with Mark Hellinger [6:5;– 6:78], Walter Bernstein [born 6:6:], Harold Hecht [6:58– 6:9A], and Robert Aldrich [6:69– 6:9;], the joyous tradition of the indepen-dent fi lm that struggles, often victoriously, by pitting intelligence and in-genuity against the competition of the great Hollywood studios with their powerful movie spectacles and vast advertising machines.

Let us recall that this is the man who has to his credit ' e Men [6:A5], Death of a Salesman [6:A6], High Noon [6:A4], and ' e Wild One [6:A;]. But it seems that, fortunately, Kramer wishes to change his strategy and fi ght the “big boys” on their own turf. ' e Caine Mutiny [6:A7], even if it cor-responded in spirit and script to the four fi lms named above, was already a huge production in Technicolor. Anyway, with ' e Pride and the Passion [6:A8], Stanley Kramer has now gone further and manifestly tried to make his own War and Peace.

On its face, the choice of subject here fi ts quite nicely into the enlight-ened and audacious tradition that has been established by the producer of ' e Wild One. C. S. Forester’s 6:;; novel itself was certainly spectacular, but it was also revisionist, for it revised the historical adventure novel through the artifi ce of its point of view. It is well known that the hero of Fores-ter’s story is a gigantic cannon that partisans haul through half of Spain in the middle of the Napoleonic occupation. In theory, Kramer still main-tains that the cannon is the central character. In reality, he has trivially dis-placed the interest away from it toward the classic protagonists, two men and a woman who is torn between what each of them represents. < e trite-ness of this love story is thus challenged only by its implausibility. Add the

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698 ) Kramer’s < e Pride and the Passion

fact that these Spanish guerrillas speak English like Frank Sinatra, and you have an idea of the credibility of such a historical setting. I know that in King Vidor’s War and Peace [6:AB], Natasha speaks the language of Shake-speare, but, although this solution is not ideal, the psychological richness of Tolstoy’s universe, or what is left of it, distracts our attention from the lin-guistic anomaly, whereas the inanity of the heroes in ' e Pride and the Pas-sion gives us plenty of cause to notice it.

Only one thing can be said in defense of Kramer, the director and pro-ducer of this fi lm: the spectacular realism of some moments of bravery gives the battle scenes or the cannon shots some presence as a result. < ere is very little else to be said about a movie that intended to be much more. For the rest, epic poetry, manifest lyricism, truth in character, and substance in di-rection were needed. Without Fred Zinnemann or Edward Dmytryk, then, Stanley Kramer is decidedly nothing but a proud producer who goes astray.

< e Pride and the Passion (!"%*); director: Stanley Kramer.

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699 )

(#

N( @(): &(-(*M. .K( . ’* ).?M& -'2K ()- (C .' ( C2'3*(E(’* +3E,' -,@&M*

(Cahiers du cinéma, July 6:A9)

I M(- 1+(**.>.,- &(-(*M. .K(. [6:64– 6::6]—2)-32/&-edly a bit too quickly—as a Japanese André Cayatte [6:5:–

6:9:] because of his Darkness at Noon [Mahiru no ankoku, 6:AB], but Imai’s Night Drum [Yoru no tsuzumi, a.k.a. ' e Adulteress, 6:A9] itself doesn’t relent from a kind of didactic neorealism, despite the fact that it’s the touching story of a cuckolded samurai. Given that I have a big weakness for Japanese cinema, even anonymous examples of it, I took pleasure in Night Drum to the extent that I could fi nd, here and there, some moments of sui generis geniality, even though in the end this fi lm is lacking the grace of a Kenji Mizoguchi [69:9– 6:AB] or the force of an Akira Kurosawa [6:65– 6::9].

Speaking of Kurosawa, he is the director of the recent Lower Depths [Donzoko, 6:A8]. And joy to the Mizoguchians, as ' e Lower Depths is even more indefensible than his previous fi lm, ' rone of Blood [Kumonosu-jô, 6:A8]. Yet I—who, if we are to believe certain auteurs, don’t make a habit out of the practice—feel myself quite capable of continuing to admire To Live [Ikiru, 6:A4] and ' e Idiot [Hakuchi, 6:A6] at the same time I detest ' e Lower Depths. By the same token, my being against the fi lm doesn’t pre-clude my discerning Kurosawa’s talent in it. His aesthetic error resides in a general bias on his part that he apparently cannot escape: a weak assess-ment of the overall fi lmic enterprise and a rushed shooting schedule.

In any case Kurosawa has chosen—since it’s a piece of drama (not a novel as is often believed)—to respect the play’s theatrical structure to the bitter end. As a consequence, almost all the action takes place against a sin-gle background and never leaves the small complex formed by the com-mon “dormitory” of the courtyard and the lodging house. Even worse, within this background, the camera, along with the characters, is always turning its back on the “fourth wall,” and this evidently distracts and con-

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69: ) Imai’s Night Drum; Kurosawa’s Lower Depths

fuses the French viewer. Indeed, Kurosawa’s fi lm may be more in the spirit of Jean Renoir’s 6:;B adaptation of Gorky’s text (' e Lower Depths [Les bas-fonds]) than of the original play itself, but the Japanese characters here have nothing in common with those of Renoir. < e Pepel fi gure (the thief, here known as Sutekichi) in particular is not very likeable, and “< e Actor” ad-dled by alcohol is pitiable human dregs, very far from the noteworthy de-mentia captured by the actor Robert Le Vigan in Renoir’s version. Any-thing else?

To be sure, Kurosawa has not adapted the fi lm from Renoir’s Lower Depths—as Fritz Lang did his Human Desire [6:A7] from Renoir’s ' e Hu-man Beast [La bête humaine, 6:;9]—so an honest critique should begin with

Yoru no tsuzumi (Night Drum, a.k.a. < e Adulteress, !"%$); director: Tadashi Imaï.

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6:5 ) Bazin on Global Cinema

the fi lm in its original language, something that I confess I am unable to do, and all the more so because the English subtitling of Kurosawa’s ver-sion was itself quite inadequate. At least we can sense the subtlety and fi ne-ness of his intentions: they are evident. < is is surely an intelligent and, in any event, a well-conceived interpretation, though some may disagree. If we doubted beforehand that the monotony and simplicity of this mise-en-scène would be the result of a conscious bias and not of weakness or inabil-ity on the director’s part, brief sequences brusquely animated with stun-ning mastery would prove it to us—especially the sequence depicting the involuntary murder of the old landlord KostoloL (called Rokubei in Japa-nese) by Pepel, where the meager space seems abruptly to explode. With-out ever letting us escape from these few square meters, Kurosawa inserts here an action of incredible intensity, which we would undoubtedly deplore in a virtually or even literally enlarged space. < ese fascinating few min-utes may not have kept me from feeling bored during what amounts to two hours of monotonous discussion, but they did free the critical establish-ment from naïvely believing that this Japanese director lacks imagination.

Donzoko (< e Lower Depths, !"%*); director: Akira Kurosawa.

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6:6 )

(%

*31.3+3?.1(+ '32& .),* : @M.+ .@ -2)), ’* &,) )3'&M >' ,-,' .1C

(Cahiers du cinéma, October 6:A9)

W, 132+- /, *,D,', 3' .)-2+?,)& E.&M &M.* fi lm from Philip Dunne [6:59– 6::4]—that is, after we

condemn it along with the genre to which it belongs; or, after admitting the genre, we compare it to fi lms like ' e Man in the Gray Flannel Suit [6:AB] or Peyton Place [6:A8]. Ten North Frederick [6:A9] eL ectively proceeds from the following specifi cally American sociological theme: the confl ict between the demands of social success and those of self-respect. < e hero of the fi lm, realizing the futility of what has hitherto constituted the purpose of his life, now prefers to compromise his professional situation and possi-bly lose the esteem of his fellow citizens in order to fi nally be at peace with himself. < e subject isn’t new but, before the war, it hadn’t been broached except in the world of comedy, and principally by Frank Capra. < e biggest theme in Hollywood then was mostly the optimistic one about the genu-ine chance for success that each American has in his or her life, just like the French soldier with the fi eld marshal’s baton in his cartridge pouch.< e bad conscience of cinema regarding the “American way of life” is a

relatively new phenomenon. It’s not old in novels, however: precisely those by John O’Hara, from whose 6:AA book the fi lm of Ten North Frederick was taken. I haven’t read it, but I’m amazed that O’Hara’s admirable Appoint-ment in Samarra [6:;7] itself has not yet been adapted to the screen. It’s the story of both the private and social decline of a man driven to suicide dur-ing a forty-eight-hour period for having thrown a whiskey glass at an im-portant man whose face he can’t even seem to recall. < e unities of time and action make Appointment in Samarra an exemplary model of sociologi-cal tragedy; Ten North Frederick, however, or at least the fi lm by that name, doesn’t have such unity.< e fi rst part is sociological and the second is rather more psychologi-

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6:4 ) Bazin on Global Cinema

cal. J. B. Chapin is a socialite lawyer married to an ambitious woman who pushes him to pursue a career in politics. He enters the contest for lieuten-ant governor, generously feeding the coL ers of the party at the same time as a respectable percentage of his donation gets detoured to a corrupt inter-mediary’s pockets. But the whole political endeavor is jeopardized by the threat of a family scandal: his daughter has secretly married a jazz trum-pet player by whom she’s pregnant. Ever egged on by his wife, Chapin pays for an annulment to the marriage, and a convenient miscarriage then erases the last traces of this unfortunate adventure. Except that the girl is so sick-ened by her family’s actions that she leaves them to move on her own to New York. < e lawyer then realizes that he has lost what matters the most in his life, the trust of his children, and he also understands what a sad farce his marital happiness has been when his wife, disappointed by his po-litical failure, confesses to him that she once had an aL air with an associ-ate of his.

However, happiness is still within reach for this fi fty-fi ve-year-old man: it begins the day when, wanting to visit his daughter in New York, he meets instead her roommate, a young and celebrated cover girl who will prefer this older man to her boyfriend. Chapin refuses to die before he knows

Ten North Frederick (!"%$); director: Philip Dunne.

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6:; ) Philip Dunne’s Ten North Frederick

love, and, if he does give up the young woman because of the seeming madness of such a May– December romance—which would make the girl suL er one day—at least he’ll carry to his grave the knowledge of a happi-ness other than that of “social success.” His death will come soon: half a suicide by alcohol, half a murder by the wife who was a cold witness to his heavy drinking and who will fi nd in her widowhood the prestige and dig-nity that her husband’s decline had compromised.

We’d search in vain to justify this Ten North Frederick through its mise-en-scène. A former scenario writer like Nunnally Johnson and Joseph Mankiewicz, Philip Dunne doesn’t seem to play the repressed director like them. < e only redeeming qualities of the fi lm reside in the adaptation and in the directing of the actors. < e adaptation gives the impression of faith-fulness to the source material and seems to do justice to the relative psycho-logical subtleties of the novel; the directing of the actors, without question, is classical but, for this genre, such a style works impeccably well. < e en-semble is naturally dominated by a Gary Cooper in his best form and al-ways a pleasure to watch. Suzy Parker is quite beautiful. But Christ, this little Diane Varsi, with all the stubbornness of a modern young American girl, she starts to get on my nerves!

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!"# )

Bazin Bibliography

$%%&' $( )*+,- $)./* /* 0,1*23

Bazin, André. Le cinéma de la cruauté: Eric von Stroheim, Carl ! eodor Dreyer, Preston Sturges, Luis Buñuel, Alfred Hitchcock, Akira Kurosawa. Paris: Flammarion, !"4#. Reissued by Flammarion in !"54.

———. Le cinéma de l’occupation et la résistance. Paris: Union Générale d’Éditions, !"4#.

———. Le cinéma français de la libération à la nouvelle vague ("#$%– "#%&). Paris: Édi-tions de l’Étoile, !"56. Reissued by Cahiers du cinéma in the collection Petite Biblio-thèque (!""5).

———. Jean Renoir. Paris: Éditions Champ Libre, !"4!.———. Orson Welles. Paris: Éditions du Cerf, !"47. Reissued by Ramsay Poche Ci-

néma, Paris, in !"5#; by Cahiers du cinéma/Éditions de l’Étoile in !""5; and then by Cahiers du cinéma again in the collection Petite Bibliothèque (7886).

———. Qu’est-ce que le cinéma? In four volumes: !. Ontologie et langage (!"#5); 7. Le ci-néma et les autres arts (!"#"); 6. Cinéma et sociologie (!"9!); and :. Une esthétique de la réalité: Le néoréalisme (!"97). Paris: Éditions du Cerf, !"#5– !"97 (reissued in a new edition, 7886). Abbreviated edition, Qu’est-ce que le cinéma? Paris: Éditions du Cerf, !"4# (in one volume containing twenty-seven of the original sixty-four articles; repr. 7888).

Bazin, André, and Éric Rohmer. Charlie Chaplin. Paris: Éditions du Cerf, !"46. Re-issued by Ramsay Poche Cinéma, Paris, in !"5#, and then by Cahiers du cinéma in the collection Petite Bibliothèque (7888).

Bazin, André, Serge Daney, Jacques Becker, Charles Bitsch, Claude Chabrol, Michel Delahaye, Jean Domarchi, Jacques Doniol-Valcroze, Jean Douchet, Jean-Luc Go-dard, Fereydoun Hoveyda, Jacques Rivette, Éric Rohmer, François Tru; aut. La po-litique des auteurs: Entretiens avec dix cineastes. Paris: Éditions Champ Libre, !"47. Reissued by Éditions de l’Étoile in !"5:.

!"#$%&'()*"!*#$+$,'(--.../0*!"#$%&'()*"!*#$+$,'(--.../0* !1231/4.../256/.78!1231/4.../256/.78

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6:B ) Bibliography

('&.1+,* ()- ',D .,E* /0 /(=.) .) &M,.' 3'.?.)(+ +()?2(?, (('' ()?,- (+@M(/,&.1(++0)

Bazin wrote, in total, around twenty-six hundred articles, essays, and re-views, in Le parisien libéré, L’esprit, France-observateur (L’observateur), Cahiers du ci-néma, Radio-cinéma-télévision (Télérama), L’ éducation nationale, Arts, D.O.C. éducation populaire (Peuple et Culture), L’ écran français, Les temps modernes, Ciné-club, L’ informa-tion universitaire, L’ âge nouveau, Revue du cinéma, Courrier de l’ étudiant, Poésie #%, and Revue des lettres modernes, among other journals, magazines, newspapers, and weeklies. Because he made his living from journalism, Bazin would often review the same fi lm for multiple publications (occasionally within a day of each other)—sometimes with only minor variations, sometimes with major changes or additions; then, some time later, he would publish an extended essay on the very same fi lm in yet another jour-nal or magazine. Although frowned upon today, such a practice was not uncommon in the 6:75s and 6:A5s: James Agee, for example, reviewed the same fi lms for ' e Na-tion and Time. As late as the 6:B5s, Stanley KauL mann was reviewing the same fi lms for ' e New Republic and Playboy, but for the latter magazine he used a pseudonym. (Bazin’s pseudonym was “Florent Kirsch,” an amalgam of his son’s fi rst name and his wife’s maiden name.) I have recorded all such instances of Bazin’s “repeat” reviews, for the sake of openness, clarity, and comprehensiveness.

Some of the following citations are incomplete because I did not have every article in hand as I was preparing this bibliography: a number of them therefore either do not have a page range, or the volume or issue number is missing. In all cases, however, the article can be located on the basis of the information provided.

“À Biarritz.” Le parisien libéré 6A46 (August 7, 6:7:).“À Biarritz Cocteau joue du tambour pour les paysans basques et participe activement

aux débats publics [L’homme du sud (' e Southerner)].” Le parisien libéré 6A6: (Au-gust 4, 6:7:).

“À Bruxelles: Après quinze jours de compétition les dés sont jetés.” Le parisien libéré 9B4 (June 4A, 6:78).

“À Bruxelles, William Wyler . . . fait du cinéma et le festival révèle les paysages.” Le pa-risien libéré 9A: (June 46, 6:78).

“À Cannes Le Ballon rouge est le héros du Festival oP ciel; Buñuel et Orson Welles jus-tifi ent le festival oP cieux.” Le parisien libéré ;B4; (May A, 6:AB).

“À Cannes, le cinéma monte au ciel mais la pluie en tombe [Subida al cielo].” Le parisien libéré 4;89 (May 8, 6:A4).

“À Cannes, deux chefs-d’oeuvre [Quand passent les cigognes (Letjat zuravli); Mon Oncle].” L’ éducation nationale 45 (May 4:, 6:A9).

“À Cannes, entre une réception et un incident technique Jean-Pierre Aumont et Maria Montez cherchent à faire oublier l’absence des autres vedettes internationales [Ma-ria Candelaria].” Le parisien libéré BA9 (September 4A, 6:7B).

“À Cannes: Faute de se battre pour les fi lms, on s’est mitraillé avec des fl eurs [Bienvenue M. Marshall (Bienvenido Mr. Marshall)].” Le parisien libéré 4B8: (April 47, 6:A;).

“À Cannes, les américains avec La loi du seigneur [Friendly Persuasion] ont abattu leur dernière carte.” Le parisien libéré ;:76 (May 67, 6:A8).

“À Cannes, l’Italie marque un nouveau point et les jeux seront bientôt faits [Le Man-teau (Il Cappotto)].” Le parisien libéré 4;95 (May :, 6:A4).

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“À Cannes, les jeux sont faits: Les jurés auront à choisir entre les grandes et les petites nations.” Le parisien libéré ;;68 (May 66, 6:AA).

“À Cannes, journée consacrée au néo-réalisme franco-américain avec le Rifi fi et Marty qui ont remporté un vif success.” Le parisien libéré ;;59 (April ;5, 6:AA).

“À Cannes, Leslie Caron et Jacques Tati: Lili et Les vacances de Monsieur Hulot.” Le pa-risien libéré 4B89 (April 4;, 6:A;).

“À Cannes on cherche encore le candidat à la palme d’or.” Le parisien libéré ;:;9 (May 65, 6:A8).

“À Cannes, où la France triomphe Bilan du festival international.” Le parisien libéré B84 (October 65, 6:7B).

“À Cannes, où l’on attend toujours de bons fi lms: Pétanque et pêche à la ligne occupent le festival.” Le parisien libéré 4;87 (May 4, 6:A4).

“À Cannes: Quand la haute couture fait concurrence au cinéma.” Le parisien libéré BB; (October 6, 6:7B).

“À Cannes, triomphe de la couleur: A- aire de vie ou de mort [A Matter of Life and Death/Stairway to Heaven] et Henry V.” Le parisien libéré :;; (September 68, 6:78).

“À chacun selon sa faim.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 75A (October 45, 6:A8).“À cor et à cri [Hue and Cry].” Le parisien libéré 669A (July 8, 6:79).“À deux jours du palmarès la France et l’U.R.S.S. demeurent les seuls prétendants sé-

rieux.” Le parisien libéré 74AA (May 68, 6:A9).“À l’est d’Eden [East of Eden]: Si Genèse savait.” Le parisien libéré ;7B6 (October 48,

6:AA).“À l’est d’Eden [East of Eden] et Je suis un sentimental.” France-observateur 49B (Novem-

ber ;, 6:AA).“À Jean Gabin, le prix citron de la télévision.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 6B5 (February 9,

6:A;).“À Knokke-le-Zoute, Gérard Philipe se passionne pour les fi lms expérimentaux.” Le pa-

risien libéré 67:8 (July 8, 6:7:).“À Locarno le premier fi lm d’un jeune réalisateur français reçoit le prix de la mise en

scène [Le Beau Serge].” Le parisien libéré 7;4: (August 64, 6:A9).“À mi-course du Festival de Berlin: Le cinéma français entre en lice [Les Aventures de

Monsieur Pickwick (' e Pickwick Papers); Capitaine Paradis (' e Captain’s Paradise); Là où se dressent les cheminées; Magie verte; Les vacances de Monsieur Hulot; Les en-fants d’Hiroshima (Genbaku no ko); Les procès à la ville-coupables (Processo alla città); O’Cangaceiro].” Le parisien libéré 48;6 (June 4A, 6:A;).

“À l’ombre des potences [Run for Cover].” France-observateur 494 (October B, 6:AA).“À l’ombre des potences [Run for Cover]: La violence ne paye pas.” Le parisien libéré ;7;B

(September 49, 6:AA).“À l’ouest quoi de nouveau?” Journées de Mulhouse 6B (January 68, 6:AB).“À propos de Crime et châtiment [Crime and Punishment]: Devrait-on enregistrer le di-

rect?” Radio-cinéma-télévision 49A (July ;, 6:AA), p. ;A.“À propos de Cannes (Histoire du Festival de 6:7B à 6:A4).” Cahiers du cinéma no. 44

(April 6:A;), pp. AA– A9.“À propos de l’échec américain au Festival de Bruxelles.” L’esprit 6A, no. 6;8 (September

6:78), pp. 49– ;4.“À propos de L’espoir ou du style au cinéma.” Poésie #% 4B– 48 (August 6:7A). Partially

reprinted in Le cinéma de l’occupation et la résistance. Paris: Union Générale d’Édi-tions, 6:8A.

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6:9 ) Bibliography

“À propos de Human Comedy [Et la vie continue/' e Human Comedy].” Poésie #% 4; (February 6:7A).

“À propos de Martin Roumagnac et Jean Gabin.” L’esprit 6;5 (February 6:78).“À propos de Porquoi nous combattons [Why We Fight]: histoire, documents, et actuali-

tés.” L’esprit 67, no. 64; (June 6:7B), pp. 6544– 654B, in Qu’est-ce que le cinéma? Vol. 6, Ontologie et langage (Éditions du Cerf 6:A9), pp. ;5– ;B.

“À propos de ‘Psychologie du Gros lot [Christmas in July].’” Radio-cinéma-télévision 7A: (November 4, 6:A9).

“À propos de réalisme.” L’ information universitaire no. 6699 (April 6A, 6:77).“À propos de reprises.” Cahiers du cinéma 6, no. A (September 6:A6), pp. A4– AB.“À propos de Van Gogh: L’espace dans la peinture et le cinéma.” Arts 465 (April 6A,

6:7:).“À propos (dilatoires) de Venise.” France-observateur 64; (September 69, 6:A4).“À propos du diL érend entre Buñuel et Simone Signoret [La Mort en ce jardin].” Radio-

cinéma-télévision ;4A (April 9, 6:AB).“À propos du fi lm de Jean Renoir: French Cancan et la peinture impressioniste.” L’ édu-

cation nationale ;7 (December 9, 6:AA).“À propos du fi lm Le Gaucher [' e Left-Handed Gun].” Radio-cinéma-télévision 7A8

(October 6:, 6:A9).“À propos du Pain vivant.” France-observateur 4A5 (February 47, 6:AA).“À propos d’un festival de cinéma amateur [Toros et Toreros; La Montagne aux mé-

téores].” Cahiers du cinéma no. B: (March 6:A8).“À propos d’un livre d’Edgar Morin: Le star system est toujours vivant.” France-

observateur ;88 (August 6, 6:A8), p. 6A.“À quand un fi lm sur Babel (en version doublée)? [Stromboli (Terra di dio)].” Radio-

cinéma-télévision 79 (December 68, 6:A5).“À la recherche de la télégénie.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 485 (March 45, 6:AA).“À la recherche du temps perdu: Paris !"&&.” L’ écran français 669 (September ;5, 6:78),

p. B, in Qu’est-ce que le cinéma? Vol. 6, Ontologie et langage (Éditions du Cerf, 6:A9), pp. 76– 7;; in Le cinéma français de la libération à la nouvelle vague, !"#%– !"%$ (Édi-tions de l’Étoile [6:9;], 6::9), pp. 476– 47;.

“À la recherche d’une nouvelle avant-garde.” Almanach du théâtre et du cinéma (6:A5).“À Sao Paulo, festival de la gentillesse.” Le parisien libéré 4:;B (February 6:, 6:A7).“À Sao Paulo, les fi lms de Stroheim qui datent de 4A ans ont étés les vrais succès du fes-

tival.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 468 (March 67, 6:A7).“À Sao Paulo, ville champignon de près de trois millions d’habitants, le festival fait une

grande place à la France.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 46B (March 8, 6:A7).“A-t-on le droit à la télévision de couper les fi lms en morceaux?” Radio- cinéma- télévision

459 (January 65, 6:A7).“À tous péchés miséricorde [For ' em ' at Trespass]: Un fi lm trop noir.” Le parisien libéré

6B5B (November 66, 6:7:).“À Venise.” Le parisien libéré 6A7; (August ;5, 6:7:).“À Venise, Chiens perdus sans collier bien accueilli par le public réussira-t-il à remonter le

handicap de la France?” Le parisien libéré ;745 (September :, 6:AA).“À Venise, deux journées françaises avec Les héros sont fatigués et une brillante réception

au Palais des Doges.” Le parisien libéré ;769 (September 8, 6:AA).“À Venise: Le festival de cinéma est aussi celui de l’austérité.” Le parisien libéré 4788

(September 6, 6:A4).

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“À Venise (hors festival) Orson Welles n’étonne plus que les pigeons.” Le parisien libéré 6A77 (August ;6, 6:7:).

“À Venise Jour de fête donne le fou rire aux Italiens et aP rme la supériorité de la sélec-tion française.” Le parisien libéré 6A76 (August 48, 6:7:).

“À Venise un western manqué; le souper américain mais un grand fi lm: L’homme tran-quille [' e Quiet Man].” Le parisien libéré 479; (July :, 6:A4).

“À )( pas du mystère [)( Paces to Baker Street]: Ou le crime a une odeur!” Le parisien li-béré ;9A: (February B, 6:A8).

“À voir.” L’esprit 67; (February 6:79), p. ;55.“Abdulla le Grand.” Le parisien libéré ;A8A (March 9, 6:AB).“Abondance de carême: Un tramway nommé désir [A Streetcar Named Desire].” France-

observateur 655 (April 65, 6:A4). Partially reprinted in Le cinéma de la cruauté. Paris: Flammarion, 6:8A.

“Abraham Lincoln [Abe Lincoln in Illinois].” Le parisien libéré ;95 (November 4, 6:7A).“Achille avec nous: Un ‘homme quelconque.’” Le parisien libéré 49A6 (November 6;, 6:A;).“Acquittement et condemnation.” L’esprit (July 6:7:), p. 6657L .“L’action à Cannes: La fi n d’un festival.” Action, A; (May 46, 6:AB).“‘L’action’ au Festival de Cannes: Un Othello russe [Othello; Le petit carrousel de fête

(Körhinta); La fi lle en noir (To koritsi me ta mavra)].” Action, A5 (April ;5, 6:AB).“L’actualité ne se réduit pas aux sports; revenons encore sur les insuP sances du journal

parlé.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 7A; (September 46, 6:A9).“L’adaptation ou le cinéma comme digeste.” L’esprit 6B, no. 67B (July 6:79), pp. ;4– 75;

partially reprinted in the collection of essays “Cinéma et roman: éléments d’appré-ciation,” Revue des lettres modernes no. ;B– ;9 (Summer 6:A9), pp. 456– 458.

“L’adieu aux armes [A Farewell to Arms].” Le parisien libéré 7468 (April 4, 6:A9).“L’adieu aux armes [A Farewell to Arms].” Radio-cinéma-télévision 7;5 (April 6;, 6:A9).“Adieu Léonard.” L’ information universitaire no. 66A: (October :, 6:7;).“Adieu torero.” Le parisien libéré 664B (April 49, 6:79).“Adolph Zukor, inventeur des stars d’Hollywood: Comment vit et meurt la vedette.”

Radio-cinéma-télévision 47A (September 4B, 6:A7).“Adolph Zukor inventeur des stars de Hollywood engagea Sarah Bernhardt et continue

à croire au star-system.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 47; (September 64, 6:A7).“L’aL aire Bel-Ami.” France-observateur 475 (December 6B, 6:A7).“L’a- aire Ciceron [Five Fingers]: Invraisemblable . . . mais presque vrai.” Le parisien li-

béré 4746 (June 4B, 6:A4).“L’aL aire de La bergère et le ramoneur.” Le parisien libéré 47:7 (September 45, 6:A4).“L’a- aire de Trinidad Rita [A- air in Trinidad].” Le parisien libéré 4B76 (March 66, 6:A;).“A- aire de vie ou de mort [A Matter of Life and Death/Stairway to Heaven].” Le parisien

libéré 4667 (June ;5, 6:A6).“L’a- aire du collier de la reine.” Le parisien libéré B79 (December :, 6:7B).“L’aL aire du court métrage.” France-observateur 478 (February ;, 6:AA).“L’aL aire du fi lm des J; [Les vaincus (I vinti)].” France-observateur 6;8 (December 4A,

6:A4).“Les a- ameurs [Bend of the River]: Un western aperitif.” Le parisien libéré 4A8; (Decem-

ber 44, 6:A4).“' e African Queen: Une prodigieuse aventure.” Le parisien libéré 4;78 (March ;6, 6:A4).“' e African Queen: Une singulière aventure, admirablement racontée.” Radio-cinéma-

télévision 66B (April B, 6:A4).

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“Agence matrimoniale: La mariée n’est pas toujours belle.” Le parisien libéré 4755 (June 4, 6:A4).

“Agnès et Roberto.” Cahiers du cinéma no. A5 (August 6:AA).“L’aide à la qualité.” France-observateur 656 (April 68, 6:A4).“L’aigle à deux têtes.” Le parisien libéré 64A8 (September 4:, 6:79).“L’aiguille rouge . . . ou les dangers de l’alpinisme.” Le parisien libéré 4675 (July ;6, 6:A6).“L’aimant [' e Magnet]: Attire quelque fois l’or.” Le parisien libéré 4;:9 (May ;5, 6:A4).“Aimé avec mépris, le western est la forme lyrique du cinéma américain [Seven Men

from Now, High Noon, et Stagecoach].” Arts B76 (October 4;, 6:A8).“Aimez-vous le ciné-club?: On en a mis partout.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 6:9 (Novem-

ber 6, 6:A;).“L’air de Paris: Du grand air à la romance.” Le parisien libéré ;64B (September ;5, 6:A7).“L’air de Paris: Un grand metteur en scène, de grands acteurs, mais un petit scenario.”

Radio-cinéma-télévision 47B (October ;, 6:A7).“Air Force.” Le parisien libéré 6A8 (February 6B, 6:7A).“Aïtanga [Bastard].” Le parisien libéré 65BB (February 69, 6:79).“Alice au pays des merveilles [Alice in Wonderland]: Une oeuvre incertaine.” L’ écran fran-

çais 45; (May 68, 6:7:).“Alfred Hitchcock maître du suspense et de l’angoisse, et peut-être advantage . . .”

Radio- cinéma-télévision 4B4 (January 4;, 6:AA).“Alfred Hitchcock: Le metteur en scène le plus pittoresque du monde tourne à Cannes

[To Catch a ' ief ].” Le parisien libéré ;57B (June 4:, 6:A7).“Ali Baba et les quarante voleurs.” Le parisien libéré 66:6 (July 67, 6:79).“Ali Baba: Mille et une couleurs.” Le parisien libéré ;45; (December 4:, 6:A7), in Le ci-

néma français de la libération à la nouvelle vague, !"#%– !"%$ (Éditions de l’Étoile [6:9;], 6::9), pp. B:– 85.

“Alice au pays des merveilles [Alice in Wonderland].” L’ écran français 45; (May 68, 6:7:).“Alice au pays des merveilles [Alice in Wonderland]: Un long voyage.” Le parisien libéré

44BB (December 48, 6:A6).“Allemagne année zero [Germania anno zero].” L’esprit 6AA (May 6:7:), in Qu’est-ce que

le cinéma? Vol. ;, Cinéma et sociologie; Première partie: L’enfance sans mythes (Édi-tions du Cerf, 6:B6), pp. 4:– ;4; in Qu’est-ce que le cinéma? (Cerf, 6:8A, rpt. 4555; single-volume version), pp. 45;– 45B.

“Allemagne année zéro [Germania anno zero]: L’esquisse d’une grande oeuvre.” L’ écran français 69: (February 9, 6:7:).

“Allez donc coucher ailleurs! [I Was a Male War Bride]: Un fi lm où vous ne dormirez pas.” Le parisien libéré 6B74 (December 47, 6:7:).

“L’amant de Lady Chatterley: Un fi lm distingue.” Le parisien libéré ;A5A (December 68, 6:AA).

“L’amant de Lady Chatterley: Infi dèlement fi dèle.” Radio-cinéma-télévision ;66 (Janu-ary 6, 6:AB).

“Les amants.” Le parisien libéré 775A (November 65, 6:A9).“Les amants de Brasmort: Des péniches et des hommes.” Le parisien libéré 4594 (May 47,

6:A6).“Les amants de minuit: Midi à quatorze heures.” Le parisien libéré 4BB7 (April 8, 6:A;).“Les amants de la nuit [' ey Live by Night]: Noir et rose.” Le parisien libéré 469A (Sep-

tember 44, 6:A6).“Les amants de Tolède.” Le parisien libéré 4B65 (February ;, 6:A;).

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“Les amants de Vérone.” Le parisien libéré 6;:7 (March :, 6:7:).“Les amants du Tage.” Le parisien libéré ;487 (March 44, 6:AA).“Les amants du Tage: Encore!” Radio-cinéma-télévision 486 (March 48, 6:AA).“L’amazone nue: Un peu habillée.” Le parisien libéré ;;;6 (May 49, 6:AA).“L’ âme en peine.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 7A7 (September 49, 6:A9).“Amère victoire [Bitter Victory].” Le parisien libéré 765A (November 44, 6:A8).“Amère victoire [Bitter Victory].” France-observateur ;:7 (November 49, 6:A8).“L’Amérique marque des points avec un fi lm courageux sur la drogue [Une poignée de

neige (A Hatful of Rain)].” Le parisien libéré 75;8 (September 7, 6:A8).“Un ami viendra ce soir.” Le parisien libéré A46 (April 45, 6:7B).“Amiral Nakhimov [Admiral Nahimov].” Le parisien libéré 65B5 (February 66, 6:79).“Amiral Nakhimov [Admiral Nahimov]: Peinture de bataille.” L’ écran français 6;9 (Feb-

ruary 68, 6:79).“L’Amiral tempête [Admiral Ushakov]: Le rouge et la Mer Noire.” Le parisien libéré ;6A:

(November 9, 6:A7).“Amore: La voix humaine et les voies de Dieu.” Le parisien libéré ;A:; (March 4B,

6:AB).“L’amour à la ville [Amore in città].” France-observateur ;A7 (February 46, 6:A8).“L’amour à la ville [Amore in città].” L’ éducation nationale : (February 49, 6:A8), in

Qu’est-ce que le cinéma? Vol. 7, Une esthétique de la réalité: Le néo-réalisme (Éditions du Cerf, 6:B4), pp. 67B– 67:.

“L’Amour à la ville [Amore in città]: Histoires vraies!” Le parisien libéré ;9BA (Febru-ary 6;, 6:A8).

“Un amour désespéré [Carrie].” Le parisien libéré 4B:9 (May 69, 6:A;).“L’amour d’une femme: Un fi lm pur!” Le parisien libéré 4::B (April ;5, 6:A7).“Amour en croisière [Luxury Liner]: À voir frais.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 95 (July 4:,

6:A6).“Amour en croisière [Luxury Liner]: Ice-cream.” Le parisien libéré 4648 (July 6B, 6:A6).“L’amour est en jeu.” Le parisien libéré 75B4 (October ;, 6:A8).“L’amour mène la danse [Happy Go Lovely]: Il la mène bien.” Le parisien libéré 4;76

(March 47, 6:A4).“L’amour outre-rideau de fer [La fl eur de fer; Quand passent les cigognes (Letjat zuravli);

Romance du Faubourg (Zizkovská romance)].” Cahiers du cinéma no. 97 (June 6:A9), p. ;7.

“L’amour n’est pas un péché: Un fi lm vénial.” Le parisien libéré 4749 (March 8, 6:A4).“Les amoureux [Gli innamorati] ne sont pas seuls au monde!” Le parisien libéré ;B9A

(July 6B, 6:AB).“Les amours de Blanche-Neige: De bons skieurs . . . une mauvaise histoire.” Le parisien

libéré 6BB5 (January 67, 6:A5).“Les amours de Liang Shan Po et Chu Ying Tai: Un opéra de porcelain.” Le parisien li-

béré ;;;: (June 8, 6:AA).“Les amours fi nissent à l’aube.” Le parisien libéré 4B96 (April 48, 6:A;).“Un an d’édition sur le cinéma.” Le parisien libéré ;986 (February 45, 6:A8).“Un an de livres sur le cinéma.” France-observateur ;79 (January 65, 6:A8).“André Bazin et Pierre Kast répondent à Louis Daquin: Entretien sur une tour

d’ivoire.” Écran français, 6:B (March 4:, 6:7:).“André Bazin juge le fi lm de Clouzot: Les espions.” Le parisien libéré 7585 (October 64,

6:A8).

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“André Cayatte a secoué le public vénitien avec un fi lm où la vengeance est un plat brû-lant [Oeil pour oeil].” Le parisien libéré 75;B (September ;, 6:A8).

“André Gide [Avec André Gide].” France-observateur :B (March 6;, 6:A4), in Qu’est-ce que le cinéma? Vol. 6, Ontologie et langage (Éditions du Cerf, 6:A9), pp. 86– 87.

“André Gide vivant!” [Avec André Gide].” Le parisien libéré 4;45 (February 49, 6:A4).“Androclès et le lion [Androcles and the Lion]: Encore du chrétien!” Le parisien libéré 485;

(May 4;, 6:A;).“Andromaque à la télévision.” France-observateur 678 (March A, 6:A;).“L’ange des maudits [Rancho Notorious]: Fritz Lang et Marlène Dietrich.” Le parisien li-

béré 4BBB (April :, 6:A;).“Anna Karenine [Anna Karenina]: Un beau fi lm qui manque d’âme.” Le parisien libéré

67BA (May ;6, 6:7:).“Annapurna, Oiseaux exotiques [Water Birds], et Le grand Méliès: Un programme formi-

dable.” Le parisien libéré 4BBA (April 9, 6:A;).“Les anneaux d’or [Golden Earrings].” Le parisien libéré 64A6 (September 44, 6:79).“Une année de cinéma vue par l’équipe de L’ écran français.” L’ écran français 69; (De-

cember 49, 6:79).“L’année funeste.” Le parisien libéré B5B (July 4B, 6:7B).“Les années di/ ciles [Anni di/ cili] ou vie et mésaventures d’un lampiste.” Le parisien li-

béré 45:4 (April B, 6:A6).“Les années sauvages [' e Rawhide Years]: Doublement conventionnel.” Radio-cinéma-

télévision ;8B (March ;6, 6:A8).“Les années sauvages [' e Rawhide Years]: Western fl uvial.” Le parisien libéré ;9:8

(March 44, 6:A8).“Annie Rouvre est élue Miss Cannes ’78.” Le parisien libéré :;: (September 47, 6:78).“Antoine et Antoninette.” Le parisien libéré 7, no. :;8 (September 46– 44, 6:78), p. 4.“Antoine et Cléopatre.” Le parisien libéré 6;7B (January 64, 6:7:).“Aparajito [L’Invincible/L’Invaincu].” Cahiers du cinéma no. 8A (October 6:A8).“Aparajito [L’Invincible/L’Invaincu].” France-observateur ;:8 (December 6:, 6:A8), p. 46.“Aparajito [L’Invincible/L’Invaincu].” Le parisien libéré 7676 (January ;, 6:A9).“Aperçus sur le cinéma mexicain [Racines (Raices)].” L’ éducation nationale 67 (April 6:,

6:AB).“L’appât [' e Naked Spur]: Du très bon western!” Le parisien libéré ;;94 (July 48, 6:AA).“Appel d’un inconnu [Phone Call from a Stranger]: Appel aux larmes.” Le parisien libéré

4A48 (October 4:, 6:A4).“L’apport d’Orson Welles.” Ciné-club 8, no. 6 (May 6:79), pp. 6, A.“Après l’amour.” Le parisien libéré 65A7 (February 7, 6:79).“Après le Festival de Cannes: Les grands thèmes du cinéma 6:7B.” Courrier de l’ étu-

diant ;4 (October ;5, 6:7B). Reprinted in Le cinéma de l’occupation et la résistance. Paris: Union Générale d’Éditions, 6:8A.

“Après le Festival de Cannes: Hollywood peut traduire Faulkner, Hemingway, ou Caldwell.” Courrier de l’ étudiant ;; (November 6;, 6:7B). Reprinted in Le cinéma de l’occupation et la résistance. Paris: Union Générale d’Éditions, 6:8A.

“Après le Festival de Locarno, Le beau Serge accumule toutes les audaces.” France- observateur 7;4 (August 67, 6:A9).

“Après-midi de taureaux [Tarde de toros]: :5 minutes de vérité.” Le parisien libéré ;895 (November A, 6:AB).

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“Après le rose et le noir [Deux sous de violettes].” Cahiers du cinéma no. 8 (December 6:A6), pp. 7:– A6. Courrier de l’ étudiant ;4 (October ;5, 6:7B).

“Après le triomphe du Condamné à mort quelques pronostics pour le palmarès du 65ème Festival de Cannes.” Le parisien libéré ;:74 (May 6A, 6:A8).

“Après vingt-quatre heures du Festival de Cannes jurés, journalistes et délégués ré-sistent mal au marathon du cinéma.” Le parisien libéré BAB (September 44, 6:7B).

“Après les vingt-quatre heures du Mans: Maigres résultats pour les moyens employés.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 497 (June 4B, 6:AA), pp. ;7– ;A.

“L’arc et la fl ute [En djungelsaga].” Cahiers du cinéma no. 97 (June 6:A9), pp. 49– ;5.“L’arc et la fl ute [En djungelsaga]: Un documentaire à la fois grandiose et familier.” Le

parisien libéré 747; (May ;, 6:A9).“Arsène Lupin: Un fi lm de Jacques Becker.” L’ éducation nationale 6A (April 66, 6:A8), in

Le cinéma français de la libération à la nouvelle vague, !"#%– !"%$ (Éditions de l’Étoile [6:9;], 6::9), pp. 86– 8;.

“Arsenic et vieilles dentelles [Arsenic and Old Lace].” Le parisien libéré 87A (January 9, 6:78).

“L’art à la télévision, une émission qui perd sur tous les . . . tableaux.” Radio-cinéma- télévision 7A9 (October 4B, 6:A9).

“L’assassin a de l’ humour . . . Anglais [' e Ringer].” Le parisien libéré 49:7 (January 6, 6:AA).

“L’assassin s’ était trompé [Cast a Dark Shadow].” Radio-cinéma-télévision ;85 (Febru-ary 68, 6:A8).

“L’assassin s’ était trompé [Cast a Dark Shadow]: Le mariage ne paie pas!” Le parisien li-béré ;9B7 (February 64, 6:A8).

“Assassins et voleurs: Gai, gai assassinons-nous!” Le parisien libéré ;9B8 (February 6A, 6:A8), in Le cinéma français de la libération à la nouvelle vague, !"#%– !"%$ (Éditions de l’Étoile [6:9;], 6::9), pp. 459– 45:.

“Les assassins sont parmi nous/Les meurtriers sont parmi nous [Die Mörder sind unter uns].” Le parisien libéré 668; (June 4;, 6:79).

“Une assez triste journée . . .” Le parisien libéré ;:;: (May 66, 6:A8).“Association criminelle [' e Big Combo]: Série noire américaine.” Le parisien libéré ;A4A

(January 65, 6:AB).“Assurance sur la mort [Double Indemnity] et Laura.” Le parisien libéré B47 (August 6B,

6:7B).“Athéna [Athena].” Le parisien libéré ;A;: (January 4B, 6:AB).“Atoll K: Laurel et Hardy en exil.” Le parisien libéré 4465 (October 44, 6:A6).“Attaque [Attack]: En force.” Le parisien libéré ;8AB (October 9, 6:AB).“Attaque [Attack]: Robert Aldrich.” France-observateur ;;A (October 66, 6:AB).“Attention aux rats, Pierre Dumayet!” Radio-cinéma-télévision 685 (April 6:, 6:A;).“Au cinéma.” Le parisien libéré AA6 (May 4A, 6:7B).“Au carrefour du siècle [' e Beginning or the End].” Le parisien libéré 6;44 (December 6A,

6:79).“Au chevet du grand malade: Le cinéma français se meurt; les studios sont fermés ou

‘tournent’ au ralenti.” Le parisien libéré 65;9 (January 68, 6:79), pp. 6– 4.“Au-delà de la fi délité: Mina de Vanghel.” France-observateur 679 (March 64, 6:A;).“Au-delà du mal [Mi Klalah L’Brahah]: Laissons-nous porter.” Le parisien libéré 6455

(May 69, 6:A6).

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“Au-delà du mal [Mi Klalah L’Brahah]: Un spectacle intéressant.” Le parisien libéré 4584 (November A, 6:A6).

“Au diable la richesse! [Abbasso la ricchezza!]: Deux grands acteurs.” Le parisien libéré 6B;7 (December 6A, 6:7:).

“Au diable la vertu.” Le parisien libéré 48AB (July 47, 6:A;).“Au festival cin [Les chaussons rouges (' e Red Shoes); Amore; L’aigle à deux têtes (' e

Eagle with Two Heads)].” Le parisien libéré 6449 (August 4B, 6:79).“Au Festival de Biarritz: La nuit maudite mobilise les forces armées et < ilde Tamar ef-

fraie les fantômes.” Le parisien libéré 6A44 (August A, 6:7:).“Au Festival de Bruxelles Alan Ladd et son fi ls ont ému le public avec Le Fier Rebelle

[' e Proud Rebel].” Le parisien libéré 748: (June 67, 6:A9).“Au Festival de Bruxelles: Un bon fi lm anglais, Hue and Cry.” Le parisien libéré 9A5

(June 66, 6:78).“Au Festival de Bruxelles: Le café du cadran ne remporte pas le succès espéré.” Le pari-

sien libéré 9A7 (June 6A, 6:78).“Au Festival de Bruxelles, l’eL ort français: Les vedettes françaises arrivent aujourd’hui.”

Le parisien libéré 9A4 (June 6;, 6:78).“Au Festival de Bruxelles: Journée des vedettes françaises.” Le parisien libéré 9A;

(June 67, 6:78).“Au Festival de Bruxelles Le silence est d’or remporte un grand succès . . . Mais Mélo-

die du Sud [Song of the South], de Walt Disney, est une déconvenue.” Le parisien li-béré 9A6 (June 64, 6:78).

“Au Festival de Cannes.” Le parisien libéré BA: (September 4B, 6:7B).“Au Festival de Cannes: Avec Une fi lle de la province [' e Country Girl] Grace Kelly a

remporté un succès personnel mais French Cancan a été, hors festival, le vrai fi lm de la journée.” Le parisien libéré ;;67 (May 8, 6:AA).

“Au Festival de Cannes: Avec Une grande famille [Bolshaya semya] le cinéma soviétique montre les hommes tels qu’ils sont; le fi lm anglais Vivre un grand amour [' e End of the A- air] remporte un succès d’estime.” Le parisien libéré ;;66 (May 7, 6:AA).

“Au Festival de Cannes les cigognes font le printemps.” France-observateur 768 (May 9, 6:A9).

“Au Festival de Cannes: Le cinéma brésilien nous réveille mais le suédois nous endort [O’Canguaciero et Pour les ardentes amours de ma jeunesse (För min heta ungdoms skull)].” Le parisien libéré 4B87 (April 69, 6:A;).

“Au Festival de Cannes: Les controverses autour de Celui qui doit mourir [Le Christ re-crucifi é] font oublier les incidents du Tour du monde en $& jours [Around the World in $& Days].” Le parisien libéré ;:;; (May 7, 6:A8).

“Au Festival de Cannes: De bons fi lms italiens, espagnols, américains [Le signe de Vé-nus; Marcelin, pain et vin (Marcelino, pan y vino); East of Eden].” Le parisien libéré ;;6A (May :, 6:AA).

“Au Festival de Cannes: De la Dame de pique aux Frontières oubliées [Lost Boundaries].” Le parisien libéré 6AA8 (September 6A, 6:7:).

“Au Festival de Cannes: De Sica [Stazione Termini] n’a pas battu Clouzot, et Clemen-ceau a réveillé des passions inopportunes.” Le parisien libéré 4B94 (April 49, 6:A;).

“Au Festival de Cannes: En attendant les grosses productions américaines; L’enfant à la licorne [A Kid for Two Farthings] marque un point pour le cinéma anglais.” Le pari-sien libéré ;;6; (May B, 6:AA).

“Au Festival de Cannes: La France remporte un succès triomphal Les grands prix ont

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été décernés au Salaire de la peur pour les longs métrages et à Crin blanc pour les courts-métrages.” Le parisien libéré 4B97 (April ;5, 6:A;).

“Au Festival de Cannes: Un grand fi lm français, Les Maudits, et le meilleur Walt Disney: Dumbo.” Le parisien libéré :;4 (September 6B, 6:78).

“Au Festival de Cannes: La Norvège est entrée en lice avec des allumettes suédoises et l’Allemagne avec un fi lm pacifi ste mais à la mi-temps les pronostics demeurent très incertains [La Flamme et Ludwig II: Glanz und Elend eines Königs].” Le parisien li-béré ;;65 (May ;, 6:AA).

“Au Festival de Cannes: Notre capitale du cinéma ne veut pas concurrencer Venise.” Le parisien libéré :;5 (September 6;, 6:78).

“Au Festival de Cannes: On solde avant inventaire des chefs-d’oeuvres imprévus.” Le parisien libéré ;B48 (May :, 6:AB).

“Au Festival de Cannes trois nations, trois grands fi lms: La symphonie pastorale, La fl eur de pierre [Kamennyj cvetok], et ' e Lost Weekend.” Le parisien libéré BB5 (Septem-ber 48, 6:7B).

“Au Festival de Sao Paulo: Décimée par la grippe la délégation française soutiendra-t-elle l’assaut américain? Abel Gance contre-attaque.” Le parisien libéré 4:75 (Febru-ary 47, 6:A7).

“Au Festival de Venise [Les amants et En cas de malheur].” L’ éducation nationale 47 (Oc-tober 4, 6:A9).

“Au Festival de Venise: Le cinéma français part favori et Orson Welles joue les fan-tômes.” Le parisien libéré 6A;: (August 4A, 6:7:).

“Au Festival de Venise Hamlet et Oliver Twist triomphent.” Le parisien libéré 64;4 (Au-gust ;6, 6:79).

“Au VIIIe Festival de Cannes: Un palmarès sans grandes surprises.” Le parisien libéré ;;69 (May 64, 6:AA).

“Au Festival International de Cannes La symphonie pastorale et ' e Lost Weekend se par-tagent les faveurs des experts.” Le parisien libéré BA8 (September 47, 6:7B).

“Au loin une voile.” Le parisien libéré 668: (June ;5, 6:79).“Au palmarès de Cannes la production française aP rme ses qualités La bataille du

rail remporte le grand prix international du meilleur fi lm.” Le parisien libéré BB: (July 65, 6:7B).

“Au Palmarium: Continents perdus [Continent perdu (Continente perduto)].” Action, 79 (April 6B, 6:AB).

“Au petit bonheur.” Le parisien libéré AB; (June 8, 6:7B).“Au seuil de l’ inconnu [On the ' reshold of Space]: Science sans fi ction.” Le parisien li-

béré ;:B4 (June 8, 6:A8).“Au ‘sixième étage’: La télévision n’est ni du théâtre ni du cinéma.” Radio-cinéma-

télévision 449 (May ;5, 6:A7).“Au sixième jour [D-Day: ' e Sixth of June]: Consciencieux et ennuyeux.” Radio-

cinéma-télévision ;B; (December ;5, 6:AB).“Au troisième festival du fi lm à Berlin 75.555 allumettes illuminent une salle en plein

air [La jeune fi lle sur le toit; Manon des sources; Les aventures de Monsieur Pickwick (' e Pickwick Papers); Heureuse époque (Alti tempi); Les ensorceleuses; ' e Member of the Wedding].” Le parisien libéré 4849 (June 44, 6:A;).

“Une auberge espagnole [L’auberge rouge].” Le parisien libéré 446B (October 4:, 6:A6), in Le cinéma français de la libération à la nouvelle vague, !"#%– !"%$ (Éditions de l’Étoile [6:9;], 6::9), pp. 74– 7A.

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“L’auteur de la Grande illusion n’a pas perdu confi ance dans la liberté de création: Une interview exclusive de Jean Renoir.” L’ écran français 4;5 (November 49, 6:7:).

“Autour du palmarès de Cannes [Othello].” Radio-cinéma-télévision 64; (May 4A, 6:A4).“L’autre ‘Festival de Cannes’ [Festival of Amateur Film].” Cahiers du cinéma no. 75

(August 6:A7), pp. A6– A;.“Avant de partir les Indes tourner son prochain fi lm, le metteur en scène de La grande

illusion a retrouvé pour quelques heures son Paris.” Le parisien libéré 6B6B (Novem-ber 4;, 6:7:).

“L’avant-garde nouvelle.” Cahiers du cinéma no. 65 (March 6:A4), pp. 6B– 68. Partially re-printed in Plaquette Objectif 7: (January 6, 6:7:).

“Avec l’aL aire Weidmann Jean Prat réussit un tour de force.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 758 (November ;, 6:A8).

“Avec le fi lm italien de Castellani Les rêves dans le tiroir, un jeune ménage d’étudiants passe sans brio son examen de ‘néo-réalisme’.” Le parisien libéré 75;A (September 4, 6:A8).

“Avec Naufrage volontaire et Forêt sacrée le reportage fi lmé deviant une aventure spiri-tuelle.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 48A (April 6:AA), pp. 7– A.

“L’avenir du cinéma français.” Le parisien libéré 4B (September 68, 6:77).“L’avenir esthétique de la télévision; la TV est le plus humain des arts mécaniques.” Ré-

forme, September 68, 6:AA. Reprinted in Cahiers du cinéma no. B;6 (4559), p. 95.“L’aventure sans retour [Scott of the Antarctic]: Glace sans Esquimaux.” Le parisien libéré

4;9: (May 45, 6:A4).“Les aventures d’Arsène Lupin de Jacques Becker.” Le parisien libéré ;9:: (March 4A,

6:A8).“Les aventures de Till l’espiègle.” France-observateur ;75 (November 6A, 6:AB).“Les aventures de Till l’espiègle: Fanfan sans tulipe!” Le parisien libéré ;89A (Novem-

ber 64, 6:AB).“Les aventures du capitaine Wyatt [Distant Drums]: Un massacre.” Le parisien libéré 4A95

(December ;5, 6:A4).“Les aventures de Perri [Perri]: Walt Disney romancier et poète de la nature.” Le parisien

libéré 74;7 (April 44, 6:A9).“L’aveu [Summer Storm].” Le parisien libéré 66AA (June 4, 6:79).“Baby Doll et le nouveau style américain.” L’ éducation nationale A (January ;6, 6:A8).“Back Street.” Le parisien libéré B:6 (November 6, 6:7B).“La bagarre de Santa-Fé [Santa Fe]: À l’ouest rien de nouveau.” Le parisien libéré 4A46

(October 44, 6:A4).“La bagarre de Santa-Fé [Santa Fe]: l’ouest terne.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 67A (Octo-

ber 4B, 6:A4).“Le baiser de minuit [' at Midnight Kiss].” Le parisien libéré 47B8 (August 45, 6:A4).“Le baiser de minuit [' at Midnight Kiss]: On peut tirer sur le pianist.” Radio-cinéma-

télévision 6;8 (August ;6, 6:A4).“Le bal des cinglés [Operation Mad Ball]: Les gaietés de l’U.S. Army.” Radio-cinéma-

télévision 764 (December 9, 6:A8).“La balandra Isabel llegó esta tarde [L’amante creola]: Un mélo vénézuélien.” Le parisien

libéré 4A9A (January A, 6:A;).“Baleiniers du pôle sud et Le grand cirque de Moscou: Sur les pistes du monde!” Le pari-

sien libéré 4874 (July 9, 6:A;).

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“Le ballon rouge et Une fée pas comme les autres.” France-observateur ;;8 (October 4A, 6:AB).

“Bambi.” Le parisien libéré 66;6 (May A, 6:79).“Bancs d’essai: Au-dessous de la moyenne.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 7;; (May 7, 6:A9).“Le banni des îles et illusions [An Outcast of the Islands].” Le parisien libéré 4;44 (March 6,

6:A4).“Le banquet des fraudeurs: Menu inégal.” Le parisien libéré 47;B (July 8, 6:A4).“Barabbas et Le coeur du problème [' e Heart of the Matter].” Le parisien libéré 4B96

(April 48, 6:A;).“Barbe bleue: Bon teint.” Le parisien libéré 46:4 (October 6, 6:A6).“Barbe noire le pirate [Blackbeard the Pirate]: Du sang à la hune!” Le parisien libéré 49:8

(January A, 6:A7).“Barrage contre le Pacifi que [Diga sul Pacifi co].” Radio-cinéma-télévision 7;A (May 69,

6:A9).“Barrage contre le Pacifi que [Diga sul Pacifi co].” L’ éducation nationale 4; (June 6:, 6:A9).“Les bas-fonds: Un fi lm qui revient de loin.” Le parisien libéré 4;59 (February 67, 6:A4).“Bas les masques! [Deadline]: Les dernières heures du ‘Jour’.” Le parisien libéré 4BA9

(March ;6, 6:A;).“Bas les masques! [Deadline]: Le journaliste, la veuve et l’orphelin.” Radio-cinéma-

télévision 6B: (April 64, 6:A;).“Bataan.” Le parisien libéré A:4 (September 8, 6:7B).“La bataille de l’eau lourde.” Le parisien libéré 65B5 (February 66, 6:79).“La bataille du rail.” Gavroche, 8A (January ;6, 6:7B). Reprinted in Le cinéma de l’occu-

pation et la résistance. Paris: Union Générale d’Éditions, 6:8A.“La bataille du rail.” L’esprit 67, no. 646 (6:7B), in Le cinéma de l’occupation et de la résis-

tance (Union Générale d’éditions, 6:8A), and in Le cinéma français de la libération à la nouvelle vague, !"#%– !"%$ (Éditions de l’Étoile [6:9;], 6::9), pp. 67;– 67B.

“La bataille du rail.” Courrier de l’ étudiant 44 (February 6A, 6:7B).“La bataille du rail.” Le parisien libéré 78B (February 48, 6:7B).“Bataillon du ciel.” Le parisien libéré 8:6 (April 4, 6:78).“Les bateaux de l’enfer [Kanikôsen].” France-observateur ;A; (February 67, 6:A8).“Les bateaux de l’enfer [Kanikôsen]: Un Potemkine japonais.” Le parisien libéré ;985 (Feb-

ruary 6:, 6:A8).“Beau fi xe sur New York [It’s Always Fair Weather]: Pas de plaisir sans Gene . . . Kelly.”

Le parisien libéré ;B94 (July 64, 6:AB).“Le beau Serge favorablement accueilli au Festival de Locarno.” Le parisien libéré 7;44

(August 7, 6:A9).“Beauté du hasard: Le fi lm scientifi que.” L’ écran français 646 (October 46, 6:78), p. 65,

in Le cinéma français de la libération à la nouvelle vague, !"#%– !"%$ (Éditions de l’Étoile [6:9;], 6::9), p. ;68– ;46; partially reprinted in Qu’est-ce que le cinéma? Vol. 6, Ontologie et langage (Éditions du Cerf, 6:A9), pp. ;8– ;:, under the title “À propos de Jean Painlevé.”

“Beauté d’un western [L’homme de la plaine (' e Man from Laramie); Je suis un aventu-rier (' e Far Country); L’appât (' e Naked Spur)].” Cahiers du cinéma 65, no. AA (Jan-uary 6:AB), pp. ;;– ;B.

“Bel-Ami.” France-observateur 4A9 (April 46, 6:AA).“La belle aventure.” Le parisien libéré 668 (December ;6, 6:77).

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“La belle de Cadix.” Le parisien libéré 49:; (December ;6, 6:A;).“La belle de Cadix: Suite espagnole.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 459 (January 65, 6:A7).“La belle et la bête.” Le parisien libéré B:6 (November 6, 6:7B).“La belle et le clochard [Lady and the Tramp]: . . . et eurent beaucoup d’enfants.” Le pari-

sien libéré ;A69 (January 4, 6:AB).“La belle et le voleur.” France-observateur 4;4 (October 46, 6:A7).“La belle et le voleur: De kimono et de sabre.” Le parisien libéré ;6;: (October 6A, 6:A7).“La belle image: L’univers de Marcel Aymé à l’écran.” Le parisien libéré 459: (June 6,

6:A6).“Belle mentalité: Encore la sagesse paysanne.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 6:A (October 66,

6:A;).“Belle mentalité: Jean Richard; un point c’est tout!” Le parisien libéré 496; (Septem-

ber ;5, 6:A;).“La belle Meunière.” Le parisien libéré 6;57 (November 47, 6:79).“La belle romaine [La romana].” France-observateur 4B: (July 8, 6:AA).“La belle romaine [La romana]: La beauté ne fait pas le bohneur!” Le parisien libéré ;;B;

(July A, 6:AA).“Les belles de nuit.” France-observateur 6;4 (November 45, 6:A4).“Les belles de nuit: Une nuit très clair!” Le parisien libéré 4A76 (November 67, 6:A4).“La bergère et le producteur . . .” France-observateur 64A (October 4, 6:A4).“La bergère et le ramoneur: Un fi lm qui atteint le niveau de la grande poésie.” Radio-

cinéma-télévision 689 (June 67, 6:A;).“La bergère et le ramoneur et Crin blanc: Les bons contes font les bons amis!” Le parisien

libéré 4866 (June 6, 6:A;).“Biarritz: Maudit.” L’ écran français 467 (August 9, 6:7:).“Bibliothèque rose et fi lm noir [Deux sous de violettees et Le voyage en Amérique].” L’es-

prit 45, no. 69B (January 6:A6), pp. 85– 8A.“Il bidone: Après La strada.” Le parisien libéré ;A84 (March A, 6:AB).“Il bidone de Federico Fellini: Au niveau du salut.” Radio-cinéma-télévision ;44

(March 69, 6:AB).“Il bidone ou le salut en question.” France-observateur ;57 (March 9, 6:AB), in Qu’est-ce

que le cinéma? Vol. 7, Une esthétique de la réalité: Le néo-réalisme (Éditions du Cerf, 6:B4), pp. 64:– 6;;.

“Bien jugé!” Le parisien libéré 74AB (May 6:, 6:A9).“La biennale du cinéma à Venise: Une croisière à Torcello apaise les passions suscitées

par le fi lm d’Alexandre Astruc [Les mauvaises rencontres].” Le parisien libéré ;76A (September ;, 6:AA).

“Bienvenue M. Marshall [Bienvenido Mr. Marshall]: Humour espagñol.” Le parisien li-béré 48A7 (July 44, 6:A;).

“Les bijoutiers du clair de lune: Incroyable et sans intérêt.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 7;; (May 7, 6:A9).

“Les bijoutiers du clair de lune: Vadim victime du mythe Bardot.” Le parisien libéré 74;; (April 46, 6:A9).

“Bilan de deux festivals: Le cinéma français saura t-il saisir sa chance?” Le parisien libéré 479: (September 6A, 6:A4).

“Bilan de la saison ’7;– ’77.” L’ information universitaire no. 6454 (July 9, 6:77).“Bilan du festival.” France-observateur ;B8 (May 4;, 6:A8).

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“Bilan du Festival de Venise.” France-observateur 48: (September 6A, 6:AA).“Le bilan d’un festival.” L’ éducation nationale 46 (June B, 6:A8).“Bilan d’une semaine de festival.” Le parisien libéré 644: (August 48, 6:79).“Bilan provisoire du Festival de Cannes L’Amérique nous a déçus.” Le parisien libéré

BBB (March 65, 6:7B).“Le billet d’André Bazin: Sauvez nos illusions!” Radio-cinéma-télévision 759 (Novem-

ber 65, 6:A8).“Le billet d’André Bazin: < éâtre désenchanté [La belle et la bête].” Radio-cinéma-

télévision 7;6 (April 45, 6:A9).“Bio-fi lmographie de Jean Renoir.” Cahiers du cinéma no. 89 (December 6:A8), pp. A:–

9B. Reprinted in Jean Renoir. Paris: Éditions Champ Libre, 6:86.“Blanc comme neige.” Le parisien libéré 667: (May 4B, 6:79).“Blanches colombes et vilains messieurs [Guys and Dolls].” France-observateur ;AB (March 8,

6:A8).“Blanches colombes et vilains messieurs [Guys and Dolls].” Le parisien libéré ;999 (March 64,

6:A8).“Blanches colombes et vilains messieurs [Guys and Dolls]: Marlon Brando et le musical.”

Radio-cinéma-télévision ;87 (March 68, 6:A8).“Le blé en herbe: A poussé dru!” Le parisien libéré 4:6A (January 4A, 6:A7).“La blonde explosive [Will Success Spoil Rock Hunter?] et La maison de l’ange [La casa del

angel].” Le parisien libéré 75BB (October 9, 6:A8).“Boîte de nuit: Cabaret pour tous.” Le parisien libéré 46;A (July 4A, 6:A6).“Bon départ pour Du côté de chez vous.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 6:8 (October 4A, 6:A;).“Le bon Dieu sans confession: Pas de conscience.” Le parisien libéré 4949 (October 68,

6:A;).“Un bon ‘policier’: Non coupable.” Le parisien libéré :7A (October 6, 6:78).“Bongolo: Le monde noir en couleur.” Le parisien libéré 4B:6 (May :, 6:A;).“Bongolo, vedette surprise du festival; l’Amérique a perdu la première manche [La loi

du silence (I Confess); Les aventures de Peter Pan (Peter Pan)].” Le parisien libéré 4B8A (April 45, 6:A;).

“Boniface somnambule: À dormir debout.” Le parisien libéré 4678 (August 9, 6:A6).“Bonjour, cinéma d’animation.” Radio-cinéma-télévision ;;; (June ;, 6:AB).“Bonjour éléphant! [Buon giorno, elefante!].” France-observateur 69B (December ;, 6:A;).“Bonjour éléphant! [Buon giorno, elefante!]: On a souvent besoin d’un plus gros que soi.”

Le parisien libéré 49BB (December 6, 6:A;).“Bonjour éléphant! [Buon giorno, elefante!]: Le sourire de De Sica.” Radio-cinéma-

télévision 457 (Decembe 6;, 6:A;).“Bonjour Paris!: Les Paris stupides.” Le parisien libéré 4977 (November A, 6:A;).“Bonjour tristesse.” L’ éducation nationale 64 (March 45, 6:A9).“Bonne à tout faire [Sitting Pretty].” Le parisien libéré 6496 (October 48, 6:79).“La bonne combine [Mister $$&]: Passez la (fausse) monnaie.” Le parisien libéré 4586 (Oc-

tober A, 6:A6).“La bonne tisane.” France-observateur 758 (February 48, 6:A9).“Bonnes à tuer: La vie en noir.” Le parisien libéré ;6:9 (December 4;, 6:A7).“Les bonnes fi ns font les mauvais fi lms.” Le parisien libéré B8: (October 69, 6:7B).“Les bons meurent jeunes [' e Good Die Young].” Le parisien libéré ;44; (January 46,

6:AA).

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“Les bons sentiments ne font pas toujours du bon cinéma: Tom Brown, étudiant [Tom Brown’s School Days]; les mauvais non plus: La duchesse des bas-fonds [Kitty].” Le pa-risien libéré :B; (October 44, 6:78).

“Les bons sentiments sont-ils ‘maudits’ à l’écran? [L’amour d’une femme].” Radio- cinéma- télévision 44A (May :, 6:A7), in Le cinéma français de la libération à la nou-velle vague, !"#%– !"%$ (Éditions de l’Étoile [6:9;], 6::9), pp. 6:B– 6:9.

“Le bossu.” Le parisien libéré 65A (December 69, 6:77).“Le bouclier du crime [Shield for Murder]: Trop policier pour être honnête!” Le parisien

libéré ;4:: (April 6:, 6:AA).“Le boulanger de Valorgue: Un pain rassis.” Le parisien libéré 4B;: (March :, 6:A;).“Boule de feu [Ball of Fire/' e Professor and the Burlesque Queen].” Le parisien libéré 645;

(July 49, 6:79).“Boulevard du crépuscule [Sunset Boulevard]: Le crépuscule des stars.” Le parisien libéré

45AB (April 4;, 6:A6), p. 4.“Le bout de la route: La fi n de tout.” Le parisien libéré 6B;; (December 67, 6:7:).“Bouts de chandelle.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 749 (March ;5, 6:A9).“Branquignol.” Le parisien libéré 6B;8 (December 6:, 6:7:).“Bravo, Annick Morice!” Radio-cinéma-télévision 6B7 (March 9, 6:A;).“Bravo pour la Bravade [Les Bravadeurs].” Radio-cinéma-télévision 7;: (June 6A, 6:A9).“Brelan d’as: Partie perdue malgré les ‘dix des der’.” Le parisien libéré 4A4; (October 47,

6:A4).“Brève rencontre [Brief Encounter].” Le parisien libéré 865 (November 44, 6:7B).“La brigade du suicide [T-Men]: Les ‘mouches’ américaines ne prennent pas les gangsters

avec du vinaigre.” Le parisien libéré 6A;A (August 45, 6:7:).“La brigade du suicide [T-Men]: Les policiers sont de trop fi nes mouches.” L’ écran fran-

çais 46B (August 44, 6:7:).“Le brigand bien-aimé [' e True Story of Jesse James]: La clef du western où Nicholas Ray

ne s’exprime guère.” Radio-cinéma-télévision ;:6 (July 67, 6:A8).“Le brigand bien-aimé [' e True Story of Jesse James]: La vérité sur les frères James.” Le

parisien libéré ;:99 (July 9, 6:A8).“Brisants humains [Away All Boats].” Radio-cinéma-télévision ;B6 (December 6B, 6:AB).“Brisants humains [Away All Boats]: Les gars de la marine!” Le parisien libéré ;958 (De-

cember 8, 6:AB).“Bronco Apache [Apache].” France-observateur 4A5 (February 47, 6:AA).“Bronco Apache [Apache]: Du nouveau à l’Ouest.” Le parisien libéré ;4A6 (February 4;,

6:AA).“Bruxelles 6:A9: Le festival mondial du fi lm.” Cahiers du cinéma XV, no. 9A (July 6:A9),

pp. AA– A:.“Bruxelles fait un accueil assez froid aux Portes de la nuit.” Le parisien libéré 9B5

(June 44, 6:78).“Bus Stop: Arrêtez-vous!” Le parisien libéré ;88: (November ;, 6:AB).“Bus Stop de Joshua Logan.” France-observateur ;;9 (November 6, 6:AB).“Bus Stop: Grand fi lm ou simple comédie?” Radio-cinéma-télévision ;AB (November 66,

6:AB).“Ça va barder [Give ’Em Hell]: Hors série noire!” Le parisien libéré ;49B (April A, 6:AA).“Cabiria [Le notti di Cabiria] ou le voyage au bout du néo-réalisme.” Cahiers du cinéma

no. 8B (November 6:A8), pp. 4– 8, in Qu’est-ce que le cinéma? Vol. 7, Une esthétique de

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la réalité: Le néo-réalisme (Éditions du Cerf, 6:B4), pp. 6;7– 674; in Qu’est-ce que le ci-néma? (Cerf, 6:8A, rpt. 4555; single-volume version), pp. ;;8– ;7A.

“Le cabotin et son compère [' e Stooge]: On a souvent besoin d’un plus drôle que soi.” Le parisien libéré 4BB; (April B, 6:A;).

“Le café du Cadran.” Le parisien libéré :48 (September 65, 6:78).“La cage aux fi lles/Le minorenni: L’honnêteté paye parfois.” Le parisien libéré 6BB6 (Jan-

uary 6B, 6:A5).“La cage d’or [Cage of Gold].” Le parisien libéré 44AA (December 67, 6:A6).“Le caïd [' e Big Shot]: Un fi lm à la gloire de Humphrey Bogart.” Le parisien libéré 67:;

(July 4, 6:7:).“Calcutta, ville cruelle [Deux hectares de terre]: Néo-réalisme hindou.” Radio-cinéma-

télévision 488 (May 9, 6:AA).“Le calice d’argent [' e Silver Chalice]: Que d’or, que d’or!” Le parisien libéré ;;B4

(July 7, 6:AA).“Californie en fl ammes [California Conquest]: Fumée sans feu.” Le parisien libéré 4A:;

(January 67, 6:A;).“Calme plat sur la Croisette: Ni La Provinciale (Italie) ni Awara (Indes) n’ont boulversé

le festival.” Le parisien libéré 4B95 (April 4A, 6:A;).“Camarade P./Elle défend sa patrie.” Le parisien libére, 88 (November 6B, 6:77).“La caméra explore le temps.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 74B (March 6B, 6:A9).“Le camion qui crache les images: Cinéma et culture.” L’ écran français 6;B (February ;,

6:79).“Le canard atomique [Mr. Drake’s Duck]: La poudre est mouill.” Le parisien libéré 4;4B

(March B, 6:A4).“Les candidats au bac devant le problème fi lm-roman [La symphonie pastorale, La fl euve,

et Le journal d’un curé de campagne]: Elève André Bazin, répondez.” Radio-cinéma-télévision ;;9 (July 9, 6:AB).

“Cannes: À défaut d’un bon festival, un bon palmarès.” France-observateur 76: (May 44, 6:A9).

“Cannes aura été le festival de l’amour conjugal.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 494 (June 64, 6:AA).

“Cannes: Conclusions.” France-observateur 4B4 (May 6:, 6:AA).“Cannes devient la capitale du cinéma: 4; nations sont représentées au festival inter-

national du fi lm.” Le parisien libéré BA; (September 6:, 6:7B).“Cannes Festival ’78: Psychanalyse de la plage.” L’esprit 6A, no. 6;: (November 6:78),

pp. 88;– 887.“Cannes: Gaby Morlay a pleuré sur Les amants du Pont Saint-Jean, mais le public n’a

pas marché . . . par contre Le diable au corps fait courir Paris.” Le parisien libéré :;: (September 47, 6:78).

“Cannes 6:A8.” Cahiers du cinéma XII, no. 84 (June 6:A8), p. 48.“Cannes 6:A9.” Cahiers du cinéma XIV, no. 97 (June 6:A9), p. 44. Reprinted in Cahiers

du cinéma no. B;7 (4559), p. ;7; Cahiers du cinéma no. B;A (4559), p. 47.“Cannes: L’or de Naples [L’oro di Napoli].” Radio-cinéma-télévision 488 (May 9, 6:AA).“Cannes va aussi au cinéma: Boomerang, Crossfi re, L’ évadée [' e Chase], Les jeux sont

faits [Second Chance], et Les maudits [' e Damned].” L’ écran français 668 (Septem-ber 4;, 6:78).

“Cape et poignard [Cloak and Dagger].” Le parisien libéré 654: (January 8, 6:79).

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“Capitaine sans loi [Plymouth Adventure]: Mais pas sans foi.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 4A9 (December 4B, 6:A7).

“Capitaine sans loi [Plymouth Adventure]: Tempête dans les coeurs.” Le parisien libéré ;6:; (December 68, 6:A7).

“Le Capitan.” Le parisien libéré A;7 (May B, 6:7B).“Un caprice de Caroline: Comme on connaît ses seins.” Le parisien libéré 4B77

(March 67, 6:A;).“La captive aux yeux clairs [' e Big Sky]: Du Missouri.” Le parisien libéré 494: (Octo-

ber 6:, 6:A;).“La caravane héroique [Virginia City]: Eternelle épopée.” L’ écran français 656 (June ;,

6:78).“La carcasse et le tord-cou.” Le parisien libéré 66;6 (May A, 6:79).“Carmen.” Le parisien libéré 6:B (April ;, 6:7A).“Carné et la désincarnation [Juliette ou la clé des songes].” L’esprit 6:, no. 694 (Septem-

ber 6:A6), pp. 755– 75A, in Le cinéma français de la libération à la nouvelle vague, !"#%– !"%$ (Éditions de l’Étoile [6:9;], 6::9), pp. 65B– 66;.

“Le carosse d’or: Le théâtre et la vie.” Le parisien libéré 4B;A (March 7, 6:A;).“Carrefour de la mort [Kiss of Death].” Le parisien libéré 645; (July 49, 6:79).“Carrefour du crime.” Le parisien libéré 668; (June 4;, 6:79).“Carrefour des passions [Gli uomini sono nemici].” Le parisien libéré 646A (August 66, 6:79).“Le cas Claude Darget.” Radio-cinéma-télévision ;;: (July 6A, 6:AB).“Le cas du docteur Laurent.” L’ éducation nationale 6B (May 4, 6:A8).“Le cas Pagnol [Les lettres de mon moulin].” France-observateur 4;B (November 69, 6:A7),

in Qu’est-ce que le cinéma? Vol. 4, Le cinéma et les autres arts (Éditions du Cerf, 6:A:), pp. 66:– 64A; in Qu’est-ce que le cinéma? (Cerf, 6:8A, rpt. 4555; single-volume ver-sion), pp. 68:– 69A.

“Casque d’or: 6:55 contre la belle epoque.” Le parisien libéré 4;B9 (April 47, 6:A4).“Cavalcanti à Paris.” Le parisien libéré ;5 (September 44, 6:77).“Les caves du Majestic.” Le parisien libéré ;9A (November 9, 6:7A).“Ce bon vieux Sam [Good Sam]: Une bonne vieille formule de fi lm.” Le parisien libéré

6B6; (November 6:, 6:7:).“Ce droit qu’à la porte on achète en entrant . . . Peut-on siQ er Les portes de la nuit?” Le

parisien libéré 8;A (December 45, 6:7B).“Ce joli monde.” Le parisien libéré 75BA (October 8, 6:A8).“Ce n’est qu’un au revoir [' e Long Gray Line]: Du souci pour les Cadets.” Le parisien li-

béré ;;95 (July 4A, 6:AA).“Ce n’est qu’un au revoir [' e Long Gray Line]: Espérons-le pour John Ford.” Radio-

cinéma-télévision 4:5 (August 8, 6:AA).“Ce pain était-il si dur? [Le pain vivant].” France-observateur ;66 (April 4B, 6:AB).“Ce que fut le télécinéma au Festival de Cannes [Soupe aux nids d’ hirondelle, Une île a

soif, et Ce serait e- rayant].” Radio-cinéma-télévision 7;9 (June 9, 6:A9).“Ce soir les jupons volent: Mannequins . . . mais pas en cire.” Le parisien libéré ;BB6

(June 69, 6:AB).“Cela s’appelle l’aurore: Lumière de Buñuel.” Le parisien libéré ;B;6 (May 67, 6:AB). Re-

printed in Le cinéma de la cruauté. Paris: Flammarion, 6:8A.“Cellule )#%% [Cell )#%% Death Row]: Mort en sursis.” Le parisien libéré ;;B8 (July :, 6:AA).“Les censeurs de la censure.” France-observateur 477 (January 6;, 6:AA).

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“Censeurs, sachez censurer.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 766 (December 6, 6:A8).“Censure et censures au cinéma.” Le parisien libéré 6:69 (December 66, 6:A5).“Le cercle infernal [' e Racers]: Le coureur et l’amour.” Le parisien libéré ;;8; (July 6B,

6:AA).“Certains fi lms sont meilleurs au télécinéma qu’au cinéma [La petite marchande d’allu-

mettes et Les parents terribles].” Radio-cinéma-télévision 469 (March 46, 6:A7).“Cesare Zavattini ou le néo-réalisme italien.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 9A (September 4,

6:A6).“C’est arrivé à Paris: Une américaine à Paris [An American in Paris].” Le parisien libéré

4B49 (February 47, 6:A;).“C’est arrivé demain [It Happened Tomorrow].” Le parisien libéré ;79 (September 48,

6:7A).“C’est la faute d’Adam.” Le parisien libéré 76:5 (March 6, 6:A9).“C’est la faute d’Adam: Rose bonbon.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 74B (March 6B, 6:A9).“C’étaient des hommes [' e Men]: C’est aussi un fi lm.” Le parisien libéré 446; (Octo-

ber 4A, 6:A6).“Cette Marianne: Avait rendez-vous avec Jacqueline.” Radio-cinéma-télévision ;5B (No-

vember 48, 6:AA), p. 7;.“Cette nuit-là.” France-observateur 7;8 (September 69, 6:A9).“Cette nuit-là.” Le parisien libéré 7;B6 (September 6:, 6:A9).“Chaînes conjugales [A Letter to ' ree Wives]: Mariez-vous donc!” Le parisien libéré 6B47

(December ;, 6:7:).“Les chaînes du destin: Du mauvais roman blème.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 8A (June 47,

6:A6).“Les chaînes du destin paraissent lourdes à porter.” Le parisien libéré 45:: (December B,

6:A6).“Champion du monde de l’angoisse à l’écran: Alfred Hitchcock est à Paris.” Le parisien

libéré 6BB6 (January 6B, 6:A5).“Chances du cinéma français.” Courrier de l’ étudiant 76 (March 6:, 6:78).“Chantons sous la pluie [Singin’ in the Rain]: De belles éclaircies.” Le parisien libéré 4954

(September 68, 6:A;).“La charge victorieuse [' e Red Badge of Courage]: Une victoire du cinéma!” Le parisien

libéré 48A9 (July 48, 6:A;).“Charlot puo’ morire? [Les feux de la rampe (Limelight)].” Cinema nuovo (Italy) 6, no. 6

(December 6A, 6:A4).“La chartreuse de Parme.” Le parisien libéré 667: (May 4B, 6:79).“Chasse à l’ homme [Man Hunt]: Un fi lm intéressant dans son invraisemblance.” Le pa-

risien libéré 6798 (June 4A, 6:7:).“Chasse tragique [Caccia tragica].” Le parisien libéré 6769 (April B, 6:7:).“Chasseurs, sachez chaser [Face aux fauves (Tembo)].” Radio-cinéma-télévision 674 (Oc-

tober A, 6:A4).“Les chaussons rouges [' e Red Shoes]: La caméra entre dans la danse.” Le parisien libéré

6789 (June 6A, 6:7:).“Le château de la dernière chance, Le fantôme de l’opéra [' e Phantom of the Opera], et

Angoisse [Experiment Perilous].” Le parisien libéré 99B (July 4;, 6:78).“Un chef d’oeuvre anachronique: Jour de colère [Vredens Dag].” L’ écran français :A

(April 44, 6:78). Reprinted in Le cinéma de la cruauté. Paris: Flammarion, 6:8A.

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“Les chefs-d’oeuvre.” Le parisien libéré 6:4B (November 44, 6:A5).“Le chemin de l’espérance [Il cammino della speranza].” France-observateur 6;8 (Decem-

ber 4A, 6:A4).“Le chemin de l’espérance [Il cammino della speranza], fi lm italien de Pietro Germi.” Ca-

hiers du cinéma no. 45 (February 6:A;), in Qu’est-ce que le cinéma? Vol. 7, Une esthé-tique de la réalité: Le néo-réalisme (Éditions du Cerf, 6:B4), pp. BA– B8.

“Le chemin de l’espérance [Il cammino della speranza]: Une odyssée de la misère.” Le pa-risien libéré 4A8B (December 4A, 6:A4).

“Le chemin de l’espérance [Il cammino della speranza]: Une odyssée de la misère.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 6A7 (December 49, 6:A4).

“Le chemin des étoiles [' e Way to the Stars].” Le parisien libéré AA8 (June 6, 6:7B).“Chercheurs d’or [Go West]: Retour des Marx Brothers.” Le parisien libéré 84: (Decem-

ber 6;, 6:7B).“Chéri-Bibi: Fatalitas . . . hélas!” Le parisien libéré ;;7A (June 67, 6:AA).“Chéri, ne fais pas le zouave [' e Lieutenant Wore Skirts].” Le parisien libéré ;B8; (July 4,

6:AB).“Chéri, ne fais pas le zouave [' e Lieutenant Wore Skirts]: Tom Ewell toujours aussi

drôle.” Radio-cinéma-télévision ;;9 (July 9, 6:AB).“Le cheval et l’enfant [Maboroshi Nouma]: La plus belle conquête de l’enfant.” Radio-

cinéma-télévision ;76 (July 4:, 6:AB).“Le cheval et l’enfant [Maboroshi Nouma]: Le Poney . . . jaune.” Le parisien libéré ;B:4

(July 47, 6:AB).“Le chevalier à l’ étoile d’or [Kavalier Zolotoi zvezdy]: Idylle au Kouban.” Le parisien li-

béré 4B;8 (March B, 6:A;).“Le chevalier à l’ étoile d’or [Kavalier Zolotoi zvezdy]: Reconnaissez l’amour.” Radio-

cinéma-télévision 6B7 (March 9, 6:A;).“Les chi- onniers d’Emmaüs: Bonne action ou bon fi lm?” Le parisien libéré ;4AB (March 6,

6:AA).“Le choc des mondes [When Worlds Collide]: L’arche de Noé atomique.” Le parisien libéré

4747 (June ;5, 6:A4).“Un choix discutable.” Le parisien libéré ;:7A (May 69, 6:A8).“La chose d’un autre monde [' e ' ing ( from Another World)].” France-observateur :5

(January ;6, 6:A4).“La chose d’un autre monde [' e ' ing ( from Another World)]: Frankenstein et la sou-

coupe volante.” Le parisien libéré 44:6 (January 4A, 6:A4).“Chotard et cie.” Cahiers du cinéma no. 89 (December 6:A8). Reprinted in Jean Renoir.

Paris: Éditions Champ Libre, 6:86.“Le Christ interdit [Il Cristo proibito]: Un fi lm d’une beauté insolite.” Le parisien libéré

45:A (July B, 6:A6).“Christ interdit [Il Cristo proibito]: Opéra ou tragédie cinématographique.” Radio-

cinéma-télévision 8A (June 47, 6:A6).“Christian Marker: Giraudoux par lui-même.” L’esprit 45, no. 6:4 (July 6:A4),

pp. 6B4– 6B;.“Christmas in July.” Le parisien libéré ;77 (September 44, 6:7A).“La chronique des pauvres amants [Cronache di poveri amanti].” France-observateur ;:9

(December 4B, 6:A8).“La chronique des pauvres amants [Cronache di poveri amanti].” Le parisien libéré 767;

(January B, 6:A9).

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46A ) Bibliography

“Chronique d’un amour [Cronaca di un amore].” Le parisien libéré 46B; (August 49, 6:A6).“La chute de Berlin [Padenige Berlina]: Une fresque en couleur souvent grandiose.” Le

parisien libéré 466; (June 4:, 6:A6).“Chutes de reins et autres: Niagara.” France-observateur 68A (September 68, 6:A;), in

Qu’est-ce que le cinéma? Vol. ;, Cinéma et sociologie; Deuxième partie: Érotisme (Éditions du Cerf, 6:B6), pp. B5– B7.

“La cible humaine [' e Gunfi ghter]: Rien qu’un western.” Le parisien libéré 4;A7 (April 9, 6:A4).

“La cible humaine [' e Gunfi ghter]: Le western à l’état pur.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 669 (April 45, 6:A4).

“Le ciel de lit [' e Four Poster]: De bons entractes.” Le parisien libéré 48:B (Septem-ber 65, 6:A;).

“Le ciel est à vous.” L’ information universitaire no. 6694 (February 4B, 6:77), in Le cinéma de l’occupation et de la résistance (Union Générale d’éditions, 6:8A), and in Le cinéma français de la libération à la nouvelle vague, !"#%– !"%$ (Éditions de l’Étoile [6:9;], 6::9), pp. 6:7– 6:B.

“Le ciel . . . et l’enfer: Le chemin du ciel [Himlaspelet] et Le facteur sonne toujours deux fois [' e Postman Always Rings Twice].” Le parisien libéré :98 (November 6:, 6:78).

“Ciel sans étoiles [Himmel ohne Sterne]: Sombres amours.” Le parisien libéré ;B89 (July 8, 6:AB).

“La cigale: Un nouveau cinéma soviétique.” Le parisien libéré ;A88 (March 65, 6:AB).“Les cinéastes amateurs n’enverront-ils qu’une carte postale de Venise?” Radio-cinéma-

télévision 685 (April 6:, 6:A;).“Les cinéastes qui pensent.” L’ âge nouveau :; (July 6:AA).“Le cinéma.” Radio-cinéma-télévision ;:9 (September 6, 6:A8).“Cinéma amateur, deux domaines privilégiés pour les amateurs: Le document et la

nouvelle.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 47B (October ;, 6:A7).“Le cinéma américain et la dignité d’être [' e Man in the Gray Flannel Suit].” Radio-

cinéma-télévision ;A4 (October 67, 6:AB).“Cinema Clubs: < e French Outlook.” Impact (England), December 6:79, pp. 4A– 49.“Le cinéma d’animation revit [Neighbors et Gerald McBoing-Boing].” Le parisien libéré

;BB4 (June 6:, 6:AB).“Un cinéma de la violence: O’Cangaceiro.” France-observateur 68B (September 47, 6:A;).“Il cinema dello spazio.” Cinema nuovo (Italy), A, no. 96 (April 4A, 6:AB).“Cinéma emprunté ou ‘tripatouillage’.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 76A (December 4:,

6:A8).“Le cinéma en cour d’appel: Le passé du cinéma garantie de son avenir.” Le parisien li-

béré 467: (August 65, 6:A6).“Le cinéma en cour d’appel; une révolution dans l’exploitation cinématographique: les

‘reprises’.” Le parisien libéré 4679 (August :, 6:A6).“Le cinéma en gondole: Films vus à Venise.” L’ écran français 66A (September :, 6:78).“Le cinéma en relief et en couleurs: Surprenant!” Le parisien libéré 47;4 (August 8,

6:A4).“Le cinéma est-il mortel?” France-observateur 685 (August 6;, 6:A;).“Le cinéma et l’art populaire.” L’ information universitaire no. 66:A (June ;, 6:77).“Cinéma et capitalism.” France-observateur 458 (April 4:, 6:A7).“Cinéma et engagement [Elena et les hommes; Le crime de Monsieur Lange; Lola Mon-

tès].” L’esprit 4A, no. 47: (April 6:A8), pp. B96– B97.

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46B ) Bibliography

“Le cinéma et l’exploration,” from two articles appearing in France-observateur in April 6:A; and January 6:A7, in Qu’est-ce que le cinéma? Vol. 6, Ontologie et langage (Édi-tions du Cerf, 6:A9), pp. 7A– A7; in Qu’est-ce que le cinéma? (Cerf, 6:8A, rpt. 4555; single-volume version), pp. 4A– ;7.

“Le cinéma et la peinture [Van Gogh].” Revue du cinéma 6:– 45 (October 6:7:).“Le cinéma et les grands hommes: Docteur Laënnec.” Le parisien libéré 6795 (June 68,

6:7:).“Cinéma et roman, éléments d’appréciation: Défense de l’adaptation; position critique

défense de l’adaptation; pour un cinéma impur; le cinéma comme digeste.” Revue des lettres modernes no. ;B– ;9 (Summer 6:A9).

“Cinéma et sociologie.” France-observateur 6A5 (March 4B, 6:A;).“Cinéma et sorcellerie: Jour de colère [Vredens Dag].” Le parisien libéré 95; (April 6B,

6:78).“Cinéma et télévision: Entretien de André Bazin avec Jean Renoir et Roberto Rossel-

lini.” France-observateur no. 774 (October 4;, 6:A9), anthologized in Roberto Ros-sellini, Le cinéma révélé, ed. Alain Bergala (Éditions de l’Étoile [6:97, 6:99 (Flam-marion)], 455B).

“Cinéma et théologie [Dieu a besoin des hommes].” L’esprit 6:, no. 68B (February 6:A6), pp. 4;8– 47A.

“Cinéma français: demain la crise?” Carrefour, B;4 (October 47, 6:AB).“Le cinéma français à l’honneur en Uruguay.” Radio-cinéma-télévision ;4A (April 9,

6:AB).“Cinéma français 6:A8: Les valeurs.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 76A (December 4:, 6:A8).“Le cinéma italien va-t-il se renier? [Giuletta e Roméo].” Radio-cinéma-télévision 4AB

(December 64, 6:A7), in Qu’est-ce que le cinéma? Vol. 7, Une esthétique de la réalité: Le néo-réalisme (Éditions du Cerf 6:B4), pp. 655– 65;.

“Cinéma: Louisiana Story; Le troisième homme [' e ' ird Man].” L’esprit 68, no. 6B4 (December 6:7:), pp. :8B– :88.

“Le cinéma nous livre-t-il la vie des hommes?” Radio-cinéma-télévision ;:6 (July 67, 6:A8).

“Le cinéma pur [La bataille du rail et Ivan le terrible (Ivan Groznyi)].” L’esprit 67, no. 646 (April 6:7B), pp. BB8– B84.

“Le cinéma soviétique et le mythe de Staline.” L’esprit 69, no. 685 (August 6:A5), pp. 465– 4;A; reprinted in modifi ed form in Qu’est-ce que le cinéma? Vol. 6, Ontologie et langage (Éditions du Cerf, 6:A9), pp. 8A– 9:, and reprinted with a 6:A9 appended note; in Le cinéma français de la libération à la nouvelle vague, !"#%– !"%$ (Éditions de l’Étoile [6:9;], 6::9), pp. ;;8– ;AB.

“Le cinéma soviétique marque un point avec Quand passent les cigognes [Letjat zuravli].” Le parisien libéré 7477 (May A, 6:A9).

“Le cinéma: Les trois mariages de Laurel et Hardy.” Le parisien libéré 8;8 (Decem-ber 44, 6:7B).

“Le Cinémascope: Fin du montage.” Cahiers du cinéma no. ;6 (January 6:A7), p. 7;.“Le Cinémascope: Sauvera-t-il le cinéma?” L’esprit 46, no. 458– 459 (October–Novem-

ber 6:A;), pp. B84– B9;.“La cinémascope va-t-il assurer le succès du style télévision au cinéma?” Radio-cinéma-

télévision ;66 (January 6, 6:AB).“Ciné-Panorama.” Radio-cinéma-télévision ;44 (March 69, 6:AB).“Ciné-Panorama: ‘Public’ et intelligent.” Radio-cinéma-télévision ;;9 (July 9, 6:AB).

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468 ) Bibliography

“Le cinérama.” France-observateur 4B; (May 4B, 6:AA).“Le cinérama [Continent perdu (Continente perduto)].” Radio-cinéma-télévision 495

(May 4:, 6:AA).“Les %&&& doigts du Docteur T. [' e %,&&& Fingers of Dr. T.].” France-observateur 4;4 (Oc-

tober 46, 6:A7).“Les %&&& doigts du Docteur T. [' e %,&&& Fingers of Dr. T.]: Poésie musique, et fantaisie.”

Le parisien libéré ;67B (October 4;, 6:A7).“La cinquième victime [While the City Sleeps].” France-observateur ;48 (August 6B, 6:AB).“La cinquième victime [While the City Sleeps]: N’ayez pas peur!” Le parisien libéré ;857

(August 8, 6:AB).“La cinquième victime [While the City Sleeps]: Un os à moelle.” Radio-cinéma-télévision

;77 (August 6:, 6:AB).“La cité sans voiles [Naked City].” Le parisien libéré 67A7 (May 69, 6:7:), p. 4.“Citizen Kane.” Le parisien libéré A99 (April 8, 6:7B).“Les clandestines: Série rose et noire.” Le parisien libéré ;4B7 (March 65, 6:AA).“Un classique du cinéma à la TV: Paisà.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 4B; (January ;5, 6:AA).“Claude Vermorel fait vivre à l’instituteur: La plus belle des vies.” Radio-cinéma-

télévision 48; (April 65, 6:AA).“La clé sous la porte [Key to the City]: L’art d’être grand maire.” Le parisien libéré 4466

(October 4;, 6:A6).“La clé sous la porte [Key to the City]: Ma femme est maire de Mamers.” Radio-cinéma-

télévision :7 (November 7, 6:A6).“Les clés du royaume [' e Keys of the Kingdom]: Un long sermon illustré.” L’ écran fran-

çais B; (October :, 6:7B).“Clochemerle.” Le parisien libéré 66B8 (June 6B, 6:79).“Coincée [Tight Spot]: Estival!” Le parisien libéré ;;8A (July 6:, 6:AA).“Coincée [Tight Spot]: Policier estival.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 49: (July ;6, 6:AA).“Le collier de la reine.” Le parisien libéré B79 (December :, 6:7B).“La colline )# ne répond plus [Hill )# Doesn’t Answer]: La fi erté d’Israël.” Le parisien li-

béré ;;AA (June 4A, 6:AA).“Le Colonel Blimp [' e Life and Death of Colonel Blimp]: De l’humour avant toute

chose.” Le parisien libéré 4BB: (April 6;, 6:A;).“La comédie française du cinéma va-t-elle être jetée à la rue?” Le parisien libéré ;444

(January 45, 6:AA).“Comicos.” France-observateur 49A (October 48, 6:AA).“Comicos: Un magnifi que témoignage sur le théâtre.” Radio-cinéma-télévision ;54 (Oc-

tober ;5, 6:AA).“Comicos ou le vrai paradoxe du comédien.” Le parisien libéré ;7AA (October 45, 6:AA).“Commando de la mort [A Walk in the Sun]: Le plus beau des fi lm de guerre.” Le parisien

libéré 4485 (January 6, 6:A4).“Commando sur saint [Glory at Sea/Gift Horse]: Nazaire objectif incertain.” Le parisien

libéré 4875 (July B, 6:A;).“Comment l’esprit vient aux femmes [Born Yesterday] . . . et aux fi lms.” Radio-cinéma-

télévision :6 (October 67, 6:A6).“Comment l’esprit vient aux femmes [Born Yesterday]: Une excellente comédie.” Le pari-

sien libéré 46:6 (September 4:, 6:A6).“Comment peut-on être Hitchcocko-hawksien?” Cahiers du cinéma VIII, no. 77 (Feb-

ruary 6:AA), pp. 68– 69.

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469 ) Bibliography

“Comment présenter et discuter un fi lm!” Ciné-club (April 6:A7). Extract from Regards neufs sur le cinéma, edited by Jacques Chevallier (Éditions du Seuil, 6:A;). Reprinted in Cahiers du cinéma no. B;4 (4559), p. B9.

“Comment sauver le cinéma, propos de Roberto Rossellini, recuellis par André Bazin et Jacques Rivette.” France-observateur no. 76; (April 65, 6:A9), anthologized in Ro-berto Rossellini, Le cinéma révélé, ed. Alain Bergala (Éditions de l’Étoile [6:97, 6:99 (Flammarion)], 455B).

“Le commissaire Belin doit-il faire les pieds au mur?” Radio-cinéma-télévision 6AA (Jan-uary 7, 6:A;).

“La comtesse aux pieds nus [' e Barefoot Contessa]: Un fi lm mystérieux.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 49A (July ;, 6:AA), p. ;8.

“La comtesse aux pieds nus [' e Barefoot Contessa]: Pour les plus de 6B ans!” Le parisien li-béré ;;A5 (June 45, 6:AA).

“Conclusion de Venise: Le cinéma s’endort.” Carrefour, September 65, 6:A;.“Conclusions d’un festival.” Le parisien libéré 9B9 (July 4, 6:78).“Conclusions sur Cannes.” France-observateur ;67 (May 68, 6:AB).“Un condamné à mort s’est échappé.” France-observateur ;75 (November 6A, 6:AB).“Un condamné à mort s’est échappé ou Le vent sou, e où il veut.” Le parisien libéré ;8:6

(November 6:, 6:AB).“Un condamné à mort s’est échappé.” L’ éducation nationale ;4 (November 44, 6:AB), p. 47.“Un condamné à mort s’est échappé.” Cahiers du cinéma no. 84 (June 6:A8), antholo-

gized in Robert Bresson, Éloge (Edizioni Gabriele Mazzota/Cinémathèque Française, 6::8).

“Condamné au silence [' e Court Martial of Billy Mitchell]: Après le silence . . . on tourne.” Le parisien libéré ;B:: (August 6, 6:AB).

“La confession d’un juré de Venise: Les décisions du festival expliquées par André Ba-zin.” Le parisien libéré ;8;7 (September 64, 6:AB).

“Le conquérant [' e Conqueror]: Gengis . . . Khan m’aime!” Le parisien libéré ;BA9 (June 67, 6:AB).

“Les conquérants [Dodge City] et Les gueux au paradis.” Le parisien libéré 7:: (March 4B, 6:7B).

“Les conquérants solitaires: L’Afrique sans elephants.” Le parisien libéré 4A64 (October 66, 6:A4).

“La conquête de l’espace [Conquest of Space]: Cosmique!” Le parisien libéré ;;87 (July 69, 6:AA).

“La conquête de l’espace [Conquest of Space]: Record bêtise battu.” Radio-cinéma- télévision 49: (July ;6, 6:AA).

“Conseils aux animateurs de ciné-clubs: Comment on prépare les débats au ciné-club d’Annecy (; notes d’André Bazin).” D.O.C. éducation populaire 79, no. 8 (January 6:78).

“Le conte de Cendrillon.” Le parisien libéré 6666 (April 65, 6:79).“Les contes d’Ho- mann [' e Tales of Ho- mann] . . . Eh bien! dansez maintenant.” Le pa-

risien libéré 4665 (June 4B, 6:A6).“Les contes d’Ho- mann [' e Tales of Ho- mann]: L’opéra libéré.” Radio-cinéma-télévision

88 (July 8, 6:A6).“Continent perdu [Continente perduto].” France-observateur 4:B (January 64, 6:AB).“Continent perdu [Continente perduto]: Des hommes qu’on appelle sauvages!” Le pari-

sien libéré ;A65 (December 4;, 6:AA).

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46: ) Bibliography

“Convoi de femmes [Westward the Women]: Epopée matrimoniale.” Le parisien libéré 4B66 (February 7, 6:A;).

“Convoi vers la Russie [Action in the North Atlantic].” Le parisien libéré :5 (December 6, 6:77).

“Coquelin nous voici! [Cyrano de Bergerac].” Cahiers du cinéma 4, no. 8 (December 6:A6), pp. B6– B4.

“La corrida de la peur [' e Brave Bulls]: De la peur, mais des reproches.” Le parisien li-béré 4;A4 (April A, 6:A4).

“La côte américaine remonte avec Les frères Karamazov [' e Brothers Karamazov].” Le parisien libéré 74A5 (May 64, 6:A9).

“Côte #+% [Men in War]: Un western Coréen.” Le parisien libéré ;:86 (June 69, 6:A8).“Coup de théâtre cinématographique à Venise: Orson Welles abandonné! [Macbeth].”

Le parisien libéré 64;8 (September A, 6:79).“Le couple invisible [Topper] au Cinéma d’Essai.” France-observateur 6;7 (December 7,

6:A4).“Coups de feu au matin [Assignment: Paris]: Beaucoup d’artifi ces.” Le parisien libéré 48A5

(July 68, 6:A;).“Le courrier des lecteurs.” Cahiers du cinéma IX, no. A5 (August– September 6:AA),

pp. AA– A8.“Courrier diplomatique: Il court très vite.” Le parisien libéré 4B4: (February 4A, 6:A;).“Courrier du coeur.” France-observateur 49; (October 6;, 6:AA).“Courrier du coeur.” Le parisien libéré ;7A4 (October 68, 6:AA).“Les courses de taureaux: Quatre vingt dix minutes de Vérité.” Le parisien libéré 46:A

(October 7, 6:A6).“Le court métrage est un spectacle: La preuve!” Le parisien libéré ;899 (November 6A,

6:AB).“Court métrage: Succès français.” France-observateur 76: (May 44, 6:A9).“Courte-tête.” France-observateur ;A8 (March 67, 6:A8).“Courte-tête: Carbonnaux favori.” Le parisien libéré ;99B (March :, 6:A8).“Courts métrages et dessins animés [La Joconde].” L’ éducation nationale ;B (Decem-

ber 6:, 6:A8).“Les crabes de la colère [Les bateaux de l’enfer].” Cahiers du cinéma no. B: (March 6:A8),

pp. A5– A6.“Cran d’arrêt [' e Turning Point]: Du cran sans arrêt!” Le parisien libéré 4944 (Octo-

ber 65, 6:A;).“Créer un public.” L’ information universitaire no. 669A (March 69, 6:77).“Le crime de Giovanni Episcopo [Il delitto di Giovanni Episcopo]: Un ‘ange bleu’ italien.”

Le parisien libéré 444B (November :, 6:A6).“Le crime de M. Lange.” France-observateur 77; (October ;5, 6:A9).“Le crime de M. Lange.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 7B4 (November 4;, 6:A9).“Le crime de Mme Lexton [Ivy].” Le parisien libéré 6576 (January 46, 6:79).“Le crime de Mme Lexton [Ivy]: Trop de psychologie pour rien.” L’ écran français 6;A

(January 48, 6:79).“Crime et châtiment [Crime and Punishment]: L’adaptation ne paie pas!” Le parisien li-

béré ;967 (December 6A, 6:AB).“Le crime était presque parfait [Dial M for Murder]: Le fi lm aussi.” Le parisien libéré ;475

(February 65, 6:AA).“Le crime était presque parfait [Dial M for Murder]: < éâtre policier.” France- observateur

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479 (February 65, 6:AA). Reprinted in Le cinéma de la cruauté. Paris: Flammarion, 6:8A.

“Le crime était presque parfait [Dial M for Murder]: < éâtre policier.” Radio-cinéma- télévision 4BA (February 6;, 6:AA).

“Crime passionnel [Fallen Angel].” Le parisien libéré 6;7B (January 64, 6:7:).“Crime sans châtiment [Kings Row].” Le parisien libéré 986 (July A, 6:78).“Le criminel [' e Stranger].” Le parisien libéré 6667 (April 67, 6:79).“Crin blanc.” Le parisien libéré 4B;5 (February 4B, 6:A;).“Crin blanc.” France-observateur 6B5 (June 7, 6:A;).“Crise du cinéma français?” Le parisien libéré ;886 (October 4A, 6:AB).“Crise du cinéma français, ou Scarface et le fi lm de gangster.” L’esprit 67, no. 644 (May

6:7B), pp. 976– 977.“Les critiques doivent pouvoir s’en tenir aux émissions.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 6BB

(March 44, 6:A;).“La croisée des destins [Bhowani Junction]: À l’est un peu de nouveau.” Radio-cinéma-

télévision ;A7 (October 49, 6:AB).“La croisée des destins [Bhowani Junction]: L’Inde sans elephant.” Le parisien libéré ;889

(November 4, 6:AB).“Croquis basques.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 7A4 (September 67, 6:A9).“Crossfi re: Enfi n un très bon fi lm américain à Cannes!” Le parisien libéré :;A (Septem-

ber 6:, 6:78).“Le cuirassé Potemkine [Bronenosec Potemkin].” France-observateur 67: (March 6:, 6:A;).“Le cuirassé Potemkine [Bronenosec Potemkin] et Le manteau [Il cappotto].” Le parisien li-

béré 4B7B (May 68, 6:A;).“Le cuirassé Potemkine [Bronenosec Potemkin], une reprise qui est une grande première.”

Radio-cinéma-télévision 6B8 (March 4:, 6:A;).“La cuisine des anges [We’re No Angels]: Succulente.” Le parisien libéré ;788 (Novem-

ber 6A, 6:AA).“La cybernétique d’André Cayatte [Avant le déluge, Nous sommes tous des assassins, et

Justice est faîte].” Cahiers du cinéma no. ;B, (June 6:A7), pp. 44– 48, in Qu’est-ce que le cinéma? Vol. ;, Cinéma et sociologie; Cinquième partie: Un univers d’automates (Éditions du Cerf, 6:B6), pp. 6B:– 68B; in Le cinéma français de la libération à la nou-velle vague, !"#%– !"%$ (Éditions de l’Étoile [6:9;], 6::9), pp. 668– 64A.

“Les cyclones.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 7B4 (November 4;, 6:A9).“Cyrano de Bergerac: M. Bergerac n’est pas assassiné.” Le parisien libéré 444: (Novem-

ber 6;, 6:A6).“D’abord provoquer et retenir l’attention du spectateur!” Radio-cinéma-télévision 6B7

(March 9, 6:A;).“D’abord respecter l’esprit du théâtre!” Radio-cinéma-télévision ;6B (February A, 6:AB).“Le dahlia bleu [' e Blue Dahlia].” Le parisien libéré 66AA (June 4, 6:79).“La dame au manteau d’ hermine [' at Lady in Ermine]: Un agréable prétexte.” Le pari-

sien libéré 6A96 (October 6;, 6:7:).“La dame aux camélias.” Cahiers du cinéma no. 4: (December 6:A;), p. B5.“La dame aux camélias: Une tragédie bourgeoise.” Le parisien libéré 49A7 (November 68,

6:A;).“La dame aux camélias: Une tragédie bourgeoise tirée vers la comédie.” Radio-cinéma-

télévision 456 (November 44, 6:A;).

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“La dame de Shangai [' e Lady from Shanghai].” L’ écran français 6;6 (December ;5, 6:78).

“La dame de Shangai [' e Lady from Shanghai].” Le parisien libéré 654B (January ;, 6:79).

“La dame du lac [' e Lady in the Lake].” Le parisien libéré 6645 (April 46, 6:79).“La dame du vendredi [His Girl Friday].” Le parisien libéré 67B (February ;, 6:7A).“La dame en bleu.” Le parisien libéré 65B8 (February 6:, 6:79).“Les dames du bois de Boulogne.” Le parisien libéré ;A5 (September 4:, 6:7A).“Dans le cadre futuriste de l’Expo A9 Jules Verne triomphe grâce au cinéma tchèque.”

Le parisien libéré 7488 (June 64, 6:A9).“Dans La Marie du port de Marcel Carné: Un Gabin à cheveux gris va créer un nou-

veau personnage.” Le parisien libéré 6A;4 (August 68, 6:7:).“Dans l’ombre de San-Francisco [Woman on the Run]: Pour avoir peur sans danger.” Le

parisien libéré 46AB (August 45, 6:A6).“Dans l’ombre de San-Francisco [Woman on the Run]: Solde de série noire.” Radio-

cinéma-télévision 97 (August 4B, 6:A6).“Dans son plan de redressement, le ministre de l’industrie n’oublie pas que le cinéma

est aussi un art.” Le parisien libéré 4;58 (February 6;, 6:A4).“Dans le Troisième homme, Orson Welles trafi que la pénicilline et joue les morts-

vivants.” Le parisien libéré 6AAB (September 67, 6:7:).“Dans la vie tout s’arrange: Un mauvais arrangement.” Le parisien libéré 4787 (Au-

gust 49, 6:A4).“Dans la vie tout s’arrange: Pas toujours, hélas!” Radio-cinéma-télévision 6;9 (Septem-

ber 8, 6:A4).“Dans le western toutes les femmes sont bonnes, c’est l’homme qui est méchant.”

Radio- cinéma-télévision 7; (November 66, 6:A5).“Dans les studios de Madrid: Un nouveau fi lm de Bardem, La vengeance [La ven-

ganza].” Radio-cinéma-télévision 756 (September 44, 6:A8).“La danse de mort.” Le parisien libéré 6;6B (December 9, 6:79).“La danse de mort: Le vrai Stroheim retrouvé.” L’ écran français 696 (December 67,

6:79). Reprinted in Spanish as “Sobre La danza macabra de Strindberg.” Cinévoz (Mexico), 4 (May 6A, 6:7:), pp. B– 8.

“D’autres livres sur le cinéma.” Le parisien libéré ;9:4 (March 6B, 6:A8).“David et Bethsabée [David and Bathsheba].” France-observateur 658 (May 4:, 6:A4),

in Qu’est-ce que le cinéma? Vol. ;, Cinéma et sociologie; Deuxième partie: Érotisme (Éditions du Cerf, 6:B6), pp. BA– B8.

“David et Bethsabée [David and Bathsheba]: Bible rose et Bible noire.” Le parisien libéré 4;:7 (May 4B, 6:A4).

“David et Bethsabée [David and Bathsheba]: La Bible selon la tradition anglo-saxonne.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 647 (June 6, 6:A4).

“Davy Crockett et les pirates de la rivière [Davy Crockett and the River Pirates]: Roland du Tennessee.” Le parisien libéré ;94A (December 49, 6:AB).

“De l’ambiguité [La charge victorieuse (' e Red Badge of Courage)].” Cahiers du cinéma no. 48 (October 6:A;), pp. 7:– A7.

“De l’art de ne pas voir les fi lms.” L’ information universitaire no. 66:6 (May B, 6:77).“De la carolinisation de France [Caroline Chérie].” L’esprit 44, no. 466 (February 6:A7),

pp. 4:9– ;57.

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“De la diP culté d’être Coco: Histoire vécue par André Bazin.” Carrefour (March 68, 6:A7), reprinted in Cahiers du cinéma no. :6 (January 6:A:), p. A4.

“De l’échelle de soie à la grosse fi celle [Les amants de Vérone].” L’ écran français 6:7 (March 6A, 6:7:), in Le cinéma français de la libération à la nouvelle vague, !"#%– !"%$ (Éditions de l’Étoile [6:9;], 6::9), pp. 667– 668.

“De l’exceptionnel . . . au quotidien: Monsieur Vincent et Antoine et Antoinette.” Le pari-sien libéré :8A (November A, 6:78).

“De la forme et du fond ou la ‘crise’ du cinéma.” Almanach du théâtre et du cinéma (6:A6), in Le cinéma français de la libération à la nouvelle vague, !"#%– !"%$ (Éditions de l’Étoile [6:9;], 6::9), pp. ;A8– ;BB.

“De Méliès à Orson Welles: Il neige sur le cinéma.” L’ écran français 675 (March 4, 6:79), in Le cinéma français de la libération à la nouvelle vague, !"#%– !"%$ (Éditions de l’Étoile [6:9;], 6::9), pp. ;44– ;47.

“De l’or en barres [' e Lavender Hill Mob]: Une autre bonne comédie britannique.” Radio- cinéma-télévision 65; (January B, 6:A4).

“De l’or en barres [' e Lavender Hill Mob]: La comédie anglaise.” France-observateur 9B (January ;, 6:A4).

“De Paris plein ciel à Pacifi c )(!.” L’ écran français 45: (June 48, 6:7:).“De la politique des auteurs.” Cahiers du cinéma XII, no. 85 (April 6:A8), pp. 4– 65.“De quelle aide à la qualité s’agit-il.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 665 (February 47, 6:A4).“De Sica et Rossellini.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 4:A (September 66, 6:AA), in Qu’est-ce

que le cinéma? Vol. 7, Une esthétique de la réalité: Le néo-réalisme (Éditions du Cerf, 6:B4), pp. 664– 66B.

“De Sica, metteur en scène [Miracle à Milan (Miracolo a Milano), Voleur de bicyclette (Ladri di biciclette), Umberto D., et Sciuscià],” from an article originally published in Italian (Parma: Edizione Guanda, 6:A;) as “De Sica regista,” in Qu’est-ce que le ci-néma? Vol. 7, Une esthétique de la réalité: Le néo-réalisme (Éditions du Cerf, 6:B4), pp. 8;– :6; in Qu’est-ce que le cinéma? (Cerf, 6:8A, rpt. 4555; single-volume version), pp. ;66– ;4:. First published in French as “Note sur De Sica.” Cahiers du cinéma no. ;; (March 6:A7), pp. ;B– ;:.

“De Symphonie nuptiale [' e Wedding March] à La danse de mort: Stroheim perdu et retrouvé.” L’ écran français 6AA (June 6A, 6:79). Partially reprinted in Le cinéma de la cruauté. Paris: Flammarion, 6:8A.

“De Venise à la Côte d’Azur: Hier soir grand gala à Cannes pour l’ouverture du festi-val.” Le parisien libéré :4: (September 64, 6:78).

“Le découpage et son evolution [Octobre (Oktyabr); La fi n de St Petersbourg (Konets Sankt-Peterburga); Fury].” L’ âge nouveau :; (July 6:AA); reprinted in modifi ed form in Qu’est-ce que le cinéma? Vol. 6, Ontologie et langage (Éditions du Cerf, 6:A9).

“Découverte du cinéma: Défense de l’avant-garde.” L’ écran français 694 (December 46, 6:79), in Le cinéma français de la libération à la nouvelle vague, !"#%– !"%$ (Éditions de l’Étoile [6:9;], 6::9), pp. ;4A– ;4:.

“La déesse [' e Goddess]: L’obsession de Hollywood.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 7A; (Sep-tember 46, 6:A9).

“La déesse [' e Goddess]: Le portrait d’une idole.” Le parisien libéré 7;A8 (September 6A, 6:A9).

“Défendre le cinéma mais tout le cinéma!” Le parisien libéré 6B79 (December ;6, 6:7:).“Défense de Monsieur Verdoux.” Les temps modernes ;, no. 48 (December 6:78),

pp. 6667– 6644. Reprinted in Charlie Chaplin. Paris: Éditions du Cerf, 6:8;.

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44; ) Bibliography

“Défense de Rossellini,” a letter to the editor of Cinema nuovo, originally published as “Difesa di Rossellini” in Cinema nuovo (Italy) 7, no. BA (August 4A, 6:AA); in Qu’est-ce que le cinéma? Vol. 7, Une esthétique de la réalité: Le néo-réalisme (Éditions du Cerf, 6:B4), pp. 6A5– 6B5; in Qu’est-ce que le cinéma? (Cerf, 6:8A, rpt. 4555; single- volume version), pp. ;78– ;A8.

“Le défunt récalcitrant [Here Comes Mr. Jordan].” Le parisien libéré 64B (January 64, 6:7A).

“Déjà un grand prix celui du télécinéma.” Le parisien libéré 74A; (May 6A, 6:A9).“Demain viendra toujours [Tomorrow Is Forever].” Le parisien libéré 6;8B (February 6B,

6:7:).“Démarrage incertain au Festival de Cannes [Marie Antoinette et Le christ en bronze].”

France-observateur ;66 (April 4B, 6:AB).“Un demi-douzaine de festivals.” L’esprit 69, no. 6B6 (November 6:7:), pp. 958– 965.“Les demi-sel: Après le deluge.” Le parisien libéré ;97; (January 69, 6:A8).“Le démon des eaux troubles [Hell and High Water]: Océaniques!” Le parisien libéré ;6:A

(December 45, 6:A7).“Le démon doré: Surprenant Japon!” Le parisien libéré ;4B5 (March A, 6:AA).“Le démon s’ éveille la nuit [Clash by Night]: Une Bovary américaine.” Le parisien libéré

4AAA (December 6, 6:A4).“Les démons de la liberté [Brute Force].” Le parisien libéré 64A8 (September 4:, 6:79).“Les démons de la liberté [Brute Force]: Une satire dramatique du régime policier.”

L’ écran français 685 (September 49, 6:79).“Les démons de l’aube.” Le parisien libéré A;: (May 64, 6:7B). Reprinted in Le cinéma de

l’occupation et la résistance. Paris: Union Générale d’Éditions, 6:8A.“Les dents longues: Autocritique.” Le parisien libéré 4B78 (March 69, 6:A;).“Départ en fl èche au Festival de Cannes: Jour et nuit les grands fi lms internationaux se

succèdent sur l’écran.” Le parisien libéré :;6 (September 67, 6:78), pp. 6– 4.“Le dernier fi lm de René Clair: Porte des lilas.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 756 (Septem-

ber 44, 6:A8).“Le dernier pont [Die letzte Brücke]: Une oeuvre forte et humaine.” Le parisien libéré ;466

(January 8, 6:AA).“Dernier regard sur Sao Paulo.” France-observateur 455 (March 66, 6:A7).“Le dernier René Clair, Porte des Lilas: André Bazin juge le fi lm.” Le parisien libéré 75AB

(September 4B, 6:A8).“La dernière chance.” Le parisien libéré 749 (December 48, 6:7A).“La dernière chasse [' e Last Hunt]: Un grand western.” Le parisien libéré ;::4 (July 64,

6:A8).“Dernière étape [Ostatni etap].” Le parisien libéré 64A8 (September 4:, 6:79).“La dernière révélation d’Hollywood [' e Big Knife]: Robert Aldrich.” Radio-cinéma-

télévision ;6A (January 4:, 6:AB).“Les dernières vacances.” Le parisien libéré 65:B (March 47, 6:79).“Les dernières vacances”; original title, “Le style c’est l’homme même.” Revue du cinéma

67 (June 6:79), pp. B4– B9, and L’esprit 67B (July 6:79), pp. 66A– 646, in Qu’est-ce que le cinéma? Vol. ;, Cinéma et sociologie; Première partie: L’enfance sans mythes (Édi-tions du Cerf, 6:B6), pp. ;;– 76; in Le cinéma français de la libération à la nouvelle vague, !"#%– !"%$ (Éditions de l’Étoile [6:9;], 6::9), pp. 46A– 447.

“Derrière le miroir [Bigger than Life].” Le parisien libéré ;9B: (February 69, 6:A8).“Derrière le miroir [Bigger than Life].” France-observateur ;AA (February 49, 6:A8).

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“Derrière le miroir [Bigger than Life]: Seulement intelligent.” Radio-cinéma-télévision ;84 (March ;, 6:A8).

“Des cailloux du petit poucet au Chemin de la vie: L’enfance et le cinéma.” L’ écran fran-çais 4;; (December 6:, 6:7:).

“Des caractères: Le rouge et le noir.” Cahiers du cinéma no. 76 (December 6:A7), pp. ;9– 75, in Le cinéma français de la libération à la nouvelle vague, !"#%– !"%$ (Éditions de l’Étoile [6:9;], 6::9), pp. A7– A9.

“Des comédies pour tous les goûts: La folle ingénue [Cluny Brown] et En route pour le Maroc [Road to Morocco].” Le parisien libéré 9A5 (June 66, 6:78).

“Des égouts et des couleurs: Les misérables.” France-observateur 766 (March 48, 6:A9).“Des gens sans importance: Mais non sans soucis!” Le parisien libéré ;AB5 (February 45,

6:AB).“Des idées et des hommes.” France-observateur 7;9 (September 4A, 6:A9).“Des monstres attaquent la ville [' em].” Radio-cinéma-télévision 497 (June 4B, 6:AA),

p. ;8.“Des monstres attaquent la ville [' em]: Fourmi . . . dable.” Le parisien libéré ;;74

(June 65, 6:AA).“Des Visiteurs du soir à L’eternel retour.” L’ information universitaire no. 6685 (Novem-

ber 45, 6:7;).“Le désert de la peur [Along the Great Divide]: Le désert de la loi.” Radio-cinéma-

télévision 6;6 (July 45, 6:A4).“Le désert de la peur [Along the Great Divide]: Un western policier.” Le parisien libéré

47;5 (June 8, 6:A4).“Désir d’amour [Easy to Love].” Le parisien libéré ;4;; (February 4, 6:AA).“Désirs humains [Human Desire]: La bête humaine vue par Fritz Lang.” Le parisien libéré

;;B: (July 64, 6:AA).“D’est ou d’ouest: Le cinéma allemand n’apporte rien de nouveau.” Le parisien libéré

;:;B (May 9, 6:A8).“Le destin exécrable de Guillemette Babin.” Le parisien libéré 6747 (April 6;, 6:7:).“Destination Gobi: La marine mène à tout.” Le parisien libéré ;4B9 (March 6A, 6:AA).“Destination Lune [Destination Moon].” Le parisien libéré 45B5 (April 48, 6:A6).“La destinée de Marina: L’ambitieux puni.” Le parisien libéré ;6B: (November 6:, 6:A7).“Destinées: Des hauts et des bas.” Le parisien libéré 4:4; (February 7, 6:A7).“Deux comédies américaines révèlent le héros malgré lui Eddie Bracken: L’escadre est

au port [' e Fleet’s In] et Le héros malgré lui [' e Great McGinty].” Le parisien libéré 6A97 (October 68, 6:7:).

“Deux crimes de l’amour: Mina de Vanghel et Le rideau cramoisi.” Le parisien libéré 4B74 (March 64, 6:A;).

“Les deux époques de Jean Renoir [Le fl euve et La règle du jeu].” L’esprit 45, no. 699 (March 6:A4), pp. A55– A64.

“Deux fi lms à sujets sociaux [' e Man with the Golden Arm and I’ ll Cry Tomorrow].” L’ éducation nationale 4; (June 46, 6:AB).

“Deux fi lms américains: Courrier diplomatique [Diplomatic Courier] et Chérie je me sens rajeunir [Monkey Business].” France-observateur 67B (February 4B, 6:A;).

“Deux fi lms de marine: Ceux qui servent sur mer, Plongée à l’aube [In Which We Serve, We Dive at Dawn].” Le parisien libéré A; (October 6:, 6:77).

“Deux fi lms de Rudolf Maté: La fl amme qui s’ éteint [No Sad Song For Me] et Gare cen-trale [Union Station].” France-observateur 9; (December 6;, 6:A6).

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“Deux fi lms en couleur: Liliamfi et Roméo et Juliette ont été le muguet du Festival de Cannes.” Le parisien libéré ;;5: (May 4, 6:AA).

“Deux fi lms: La kermesse rouge et Deux lettres anonymes [Due lettere anonime].” Le pari-sien libéré 944 (May :, 6:78).

“Deux fi lms pour enfants [Une fée pas comme les autres et Le ballon rouge].” L’ éducation nationale 4: (November 6, 6:AB).

“Deux fi lms produits en Allemagne de l’est [Le moulin du diable et Plus fort que la nuit].” Radio-cinéma-télévision 495 (May 4:, 6:AA).

“Deux grands cinéastes vont faire leurs débuts à la télévision: Rossellini et Renoir.” Radio- cinéma-télévision 7A9 (October 4B, 6:A9).

“Deux grands fi lms étrangers: Deux bons fi lms français.” Le parisien libéré 898 (March 49, 6:78).

“Deux grands fi lms français [Les sorcières de Salem et Celui qui doit mourir].” L’ éduca-tion nationale 6: (May 4;, 6:A8).

“Deux livres utiles.” France-observateur 6:6 (January 8, 6:A7).“Deux nigauds aviateurs [Keep ’Em Flying].” Le parisien libéré 645; (July 49, 6:79).“Deux nigauds en Afrique [Africa Screams]: Une Afrique sans danger.” Le parisien libéré

6B55 (November 7, 6:7:).“Deux recrues de choix pour la télévision: Renoir et Rossellini [Le testament du Docteur

Cordelier et India].” Le parisien libéré 7;99 (October 46, 6:A9).“Deux Renoir: La grande illusion et Le crime de M. Lange.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 7A9

(October 4B, 6:A9).“Deux sous de violettes: Du parfum, mais pas de tige.” Le parisien libéré 4445 (Novem-

ber 4, 6:A6).“Deux sous de violettes: Plus noir que rose.” Radio-cinéma-télévision :A (November 66,

6:A6).“Deux sous d’espoir [Due soldi di speranza].” France-observateur 66A (July 47, 6:A4), in

Qu’est-ce que le cinéma? Vol. 7, Une esthétique de la réalité: Le néo-réalisme (Éditions du Cerf, 6:B4), pp. B9– 84.

“Deux sous d’espoir [Due soldi di speranza]: Mais un trésor de poésie.” Radio-cinéma- télévision 6;; (February 9, 6:A4).

“Les deux vérités [Le due verità].” Le parisien libéré 474A (July 6, 6:A4).“Deux voyages bien diL érents: La caravane héroïque [Virginia City] et Voyage surprise.”

Le parisien libéré 977 (June 7, 6:78).“Deuxième bureau contre l’ inconnu: Air connu!” Le parisien libéré 7559 (July ;6,

6:A8).“4ème congrès international de fi lmologie, symposium. Techniques nouvelles du ci-

néma: Intervention de M. André Bazin.” Revue Internationale de Filmologie B, nos. 45– 47 (6:AA), pp. :A– :8.

“Le Xème Festival de Cannes: Journées des bonnes surprises grâce aux américains et aux russes.” Le parisien libéré ;:;7 (May B, 6:A8).

“D’homme à hommes.” Le parisien libéré 64B; (October B, 6:79).“Le diable fait le troisième [' e Devil Makes ' ree]: Gene Kelly chez les nazis.” Le pari-

sien libéré 4AB4 (December :, 6:A4).“Le Diable n’est pas américain [Shadow of a Doubt].” Radio-cinéma-télévision 485

(March 45, 6:AA), p. ;B.“Diables au soleil [Kings Go Forth]: Sous le ciel de Provence.” Le parisien libéré 74:5

(June 48, 6:A9).

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“Les diables de Guadalcanal [Flying Leathernecks]: Les diables ont des ailes.” Le parisien libéré 47:6 (September 68, 6:A4).

“Les diaboliques: Clouzot plus fort que le diable.” Le parisien libéré ;4;4 (January ;6, 6:AA).

“Dialogue sur Venise.” L’ écran français 685 (September 49, 6:79).“' e Diary of a Chambermaid [Le journal d’une femme de chambre].” Cahiers du cinéma

no. 89 (December 6:A8). Reprinted in Jean Renoir. Paris: Éditions Champ Libre, 6:86.

“Dieu a besoin des hommes: C’est un fi lm important par sa nouveauté.” Radio-cinéma- télévision 76 (October 4:, 6:A5).

“Dieu est mort [' e Fugitive].” Le parisien libéré 6498 (November ;, 6:79).“Dieu seul le sait: Saint Robinson Crusoe [Heaven Knows Mr. Allison, Moby Dick, and

' e African Queen].” Le parisien libéré ;::: (July 45, 6:A8).“Dimanche à Pékin: Un fi lm modèle.” Radio-cinéma-télévision ;9: (June ;5, 6:A8).“Dimanche à Pékin: Grand prix du court métrage.” France-observateur ;7; (Decem-

ber B, 6:AB).“Direct en télécinéma.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 7B6 (November 6B, 6:A9).“Le disque rouge [Il ferroviere].” Le parisien libéré 76:4 (March 7, 6:A9).“Le disque rouge [Il ferroviere].” France-observateur 759 (March B, 6:A9).“Les dix meilleurs fi lms de l’année.” Cahiers du cinéma no. 7; (January 6:A7).“Les dix meilleurs fi lms de 6:A7.” Cahiers du cinéma no. 7; (January 6:AA), p A.“Les dix meilleurs fi lms de 6:AA.” Cahiers du cinéma no. AA (January 6:AB), p. 8.“Les dix meilleurs fi lms de 6:AB.” Cahiers du cinéma no. B8 (January 6:A8), p. 4.“Les dix meilleurs fi lms de 6:A8.” Cahiers du cinéma no. 8: (January 6:A9), p. ;.“Dix petits indiens [And ' en ' ere Were None].” Le parisien libéré 88A (February 64,

6:78).“Dix, rue Frederick [Ten North Frederick].” France-observateur 7;B (September 66, 6:A9).“Un documentaire en simili: Continent perdu [Continente perduto].” Lettres et médecins

(August 6:AB).“Le doigt sur la gachette mauvais tireur . . . d’élite.” Le parisien libéré ;::6 (July 66,

6:A8).“Dommage que tu sois une canaille [Peccato che sia una canaglia (Too Bad She’s Bad)]:

Dommage que tu sois une vedette!” Radio-cinéma-télévision 49B (July 65, 6:AA).“Dommage que tu sois une canaille [Peccato che sia una canaglia (Too Bad She’s Bad)]:

Vol, amour et fantaisie.” Le parisien libéré ;;B5 (July 6, 6:AA).“Don Juan: La réputation fait l’homme.” Le parisien libéré ;B;; (May 6B, 6:AB).“Le dos au mur.” Le parisien libéré 7454 (March 6A, 6:A9).“Le dossier noir (Les dangers de l’instruction!) d’André Cayatte.” Le parisien libéré ;;4B

(May 46, 6:AA).“Dossier secret [Confi dential Report]: Orson Welles ou la volonté de puissance.” Radio-

cinéma-télévision ;;A (June 68, 6:AB).“Dossier secret [Confi dential Report]: Le secret de M. Arkadin.” Le parisien libéré ;BA8

(June 6;, 6:AB).“Double destin: Comptabilité en partie double.” Le parisien libéré ;448 (January 4B,

6:AA).“Double destin . . . ou double production.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 4B7 (February B,

6:AA).

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“Doublé or not doublé.” Radio-cinéma-télévision A5 (December ;6, 6:A5).“La douce illusion [It’s a Date].” Le parisien libéré 44B (May 9, 6:7A).“Drame au Vél’ d’Hiv’: Plus de Vél’ d’Hiv’ que de drame!” Le parisien libéré 6B69 (No-

vember 4B, 6:7:).“Un drame de la vengeance fi lm de Juan Bardem s’achève à Madrid [La vengeance (La

venganza)].” Le parisien libéré 757B (September 67, 6:A8).“Drame et radiophonie.” Le parisien libéré 4555 (February 6B, 6:A6).“Le drame était derrière les cameras.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 765 (November 47, 6:A8).“Drôles de bobines . . . De pellicules et autres.” Le parisien libéré ;467 (January 66, 6:AA).“Du Barry était une dame [Du Barry Was a Lady].” Le parisien libéré 654B (January ;,

6:79).“Du festival considéré comme un ordre.” Cahiers du cinéma VIII, no. 79 (June 6:AA),

pp. B– 9, in Qu’est-ce que le cinéma? Vol. ;, Cinéma et sociologie (Éditions du Cerf, 6:B6), pp. 8– 66. Reprinted in Cahiers du cinéma no. ;78 (May 6:9;), pp. A7– AB.

“Du Guesclin: Le héros breton n’est pas trahi par le cinéma.” Le parisien libéré 678; (June :, 6:7:).

“Du nouveau dans la comédie fi lmée américaine [Hail the Conquering Hero]: Le héros malgré lui triomphe du canular et de la parodie.” Le parisien libéré 67B4 (May 48, 6:7:).

“Du petit au grand écran [La nuit des maris (Bachelor Party) et Douze hommes en colère (Twelve Angry Men)].” L’ éducation nationale ;; (November 49, 6:A8).

“Du rifi fi chez les hommes [Rifi fi ]: Un fi lm d’hommes, un fi lm humain!” Le parisien li-béré ;4:A (April 6A, 6:AA).

“Du sang dans le desert [' e Tin Star].” France-observateur 75B (February 45, 6:A9).“Du style au cinéma [L’espoir].” Poésie #% no. 4B/48 (August-September 6:7A), published

with a letter from André Malraux, in Le cinéma de l’occupation et la résistance (Pa-ris: Union Générale d’Éditions, 6:8A), and in Le cinéma français de la libération à la nouvelle vague, !"#%– !"%$ (Éditions de l’Étoile [6:9;], 6::9), pp. 44A– 475.

“Du théâtre transformé par la magie blanche et noire en pur cinéma [Les parents ter-ribles].” L’ écran français no. 695 (December 8, 6:79), in Le cinéma français de la libé-ration à la nouvelle vague, !"#%– !"%$ (Éditions de l’Étoile [6:9;], 6::9), pp. 699– 6:;. Reprinted in Cinevoz (Mexico), in Spanish, on June 64, 6:7:.

“Duel au soleil [Duel in the Sun].” Le parisien libéré 6;75 (January A, 6:7:).“Duel avec la mort [Side Street].” Le parisien libéré 4467 (October 4B, 6:A6).“Duel sous la mer [Submarine Command]: En plongée dans le subconscient.” Le parisien

libéré 4754 (June 7, 6:A4).“L’eau danse [Images pour Debussy].” Cahiers du cinéma no. 8 (December 6:A6),

pp. A9– A:.“L’ échappé de la chaise électrique [Man Made Monster].” Le parisien libéré 4BAB

(March 49, 6:A;).“Échec français (ni dramatique ni injuste) au Festival de Venise.” Carrefour, Septem-

ber 67, 6:AA.“L’ école Buissonnière.” Le parisien libéré 6769 (April B, 6:7:).“L’ école Buissonnière de Le Chanois.” D.O.C. éducation populaire 7:, no. ;A (6:7:).“École, culture et cinéma.” Cahiers pédagogiques (June 6A, 6:7:), p. 475.“L’écran démoniaque.” France-observateur 6;4 (November 45, 6:A4).“L’écran parisien.” Le parisien libéré 6: (September 65, 6:77).

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449 ) Bibliography

“Écrit dans le ciel [' e High and Mighty].” France-observateur 4;; (October 49, 6:A7).“Écrit dans le ciel [' e High and Mighty]: Bien écrit mais mal pensé.” Radio-cinéma-

télévision 4A6 (November 8, 6:A7), p. ;:.“Écrit dans le ciel [' e High and Mighty]: Un fi lm qui voit grand.” Le parisien libéré ;6A;

(November 6, 6:A7).“Écrit sur le vent [Written on the Wind]: Pourquoi on manque de pétrole!” Le parisien li-

béré ;98; (February 44, 6:A8).“Les écumeurs des Monts Apaches [Stage to Tucson].” Le parisien libéré 44:5 (January 47,

6:A4).“Édition speciale.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 7A9 (October 4B, 6:A9).“Édition spéciale: Le coup du 4 décembre.” Radio-cinéma-télévision ;5: (December 69,

6:AA).“Les églises romanes de Saintogne.” Cahiers du cinéma no. 655 (December 6:A:), p. AA.“El et Luis.” France-observateur 46; (June 65, 6:A7). Reprinted in Le cinéma de la cruauté.

Paris: Flammarion, 6:8A.“Elena et les hommes.” France-observateur ;;; (September 48, 6:AB).“Émeutes à Berlin.” L’esprit (August 6:A;), p. 44;L .“Émile l’africain.” Le parisien libéré 6679 (May 4A, 6:79).“Émile et les détectives: À la poursuite de notre jeunesse!” Le parisien libéré ;BBA (June 44,

6:AB).“Les émissions dramatiques.” France-observateur ;5A (March 6A, 6:AB).“Emotion à Venise où le commissaire à failli procéder à l’arrestation de La bergère et du

ramoneur.” Le parisien libéré 4797 (August :, 6:A4).“L’empire du soleil [L’ impero del sole].” France-observateur ;B6 (April 66, 6:A8).“En abordant le théâtre à B5 ans, Jean Renoir a voulu recommencer à zero.” Arts A59

(March 4;, 6:AA).“En attendant de les voir.” Courrier de l’ étudiant 7 (February 6, 6:7A). Reprinted in Le

cinéma de l’occupation et la résistance. Paris: Union Générale d’Éditions, 6:8A.“En cas de malheur.” Le parisien libéré 7;B; (September 44, 6:A9).“En conclusion du festival: Un dernier mot sur Venise [Manon; Jour de fête].” Le pari-

sien libéré 6A79 (September A, 6:7:).“En e- euillant la marguerite . . . Un peu.” Le parisien libéré ;8B; (October 6B, 6:AB).“En Italie,” chapter by André Bazin in A. Bazin, J.-L. Tallenay, J. Doniol-Valcroze,

G. Lambert, C. Marker, J. Queval, Cinéma %( à travers le monde (Éditions du Cerf, 6:A7), pp. 9A– 655.

“En Légitime defense: Acquittement sans surprise.” Le parisien libéré 749A (June 46, 6:A9).“En liberté sur les routes de l’U.R.S.S.: Compromis par le commentaire.” Radio-cinéma-

télévision ;9: (June ;5, 6:A8).“En liberté sur les routes de l’U.R.S.S. et Dimanche à Pékin.” France-observateur ;84

(June 48, 6:A8).“En marge de ‘l’érotisme au cinéma’.” Cahiers du cinéma XII, no. 85 (April 6:A8),

pp. 48– ;6, in Qu’est-ce que le cinéma? Vol. ;, Cinéma et sociologie; Deuxième partie: Erotisme (Éditions du Cerf, 6:B6); in Qu’est-ce que le cinéma? (Cerf, 6:8A, rpt. 4555; single-volume version), pp. 47:– 4AB.

“En marge du Festival de Cannes: Complainte de celui qui n’était pas Tarzan.” Le pari-sien libéré :;B (September 45, 6:78).

“En quelques mots: Une nuit à Casablanca [A Night in Casablanca], Swing Romance, et Le droit d’aimer [My Reputation].” Le parisien libéré 95: (April 4;, 6:78).

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“En quelques mots: !(, rue de la Madeleine [!( Rue Madeleine] et Deux mains dans la nuit [' e Spiral Staircase].” Le parisien libéré 945 (May 8, 6:78).

“En route vers Zanzibar [' e Road to Zanzibar].” Le parisien libéré 6;:7 (March :, 6:7:).“En votre âme et conscience.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 7A; (September 46, 6:A9).“Enamorada.” Le parisien libéré 66;8 (May 64, 6:79).“Les enchaînés [Notorious]: Marthe Richard à l’âge atomique.” L’ écran français 674

(March 6B, 6:79).“Les enchaînés [Notorious].” Le parisien libéré 65:5 (March 68, 6:79).“Encore la censure les fi lms meurent aussi [Les statues meurent aussi].” France-

observateur ;7: (January 68, 6:A8).“Encore El.” France-observateur 467 (June 68, 6:A7). Reprinted in Le cinéma de la

cruauté. Paris: Flammarion, 6:8A.“Encore Les mauvaises rencontres.” France-observateur 498 (November 65, 6:AA).“Encore: Pourquoi pas?” Le parisien libéré 4;:B (May 49, 6:A4).“Encore ‘Si c’était vous’.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 75B (October 48, 6:A8).“L’enfance de Maxime Gorki [Dtstvo Gorkogo].” Le parisien libéré 6659 (April 8, 6:79).“Les enfants de l’amour.” France-observateur 69A (November 4B, 6:A;).“Les enfants de l’amour . . . Si je t’aime prends garde à toi.” Le parisien libéré 49A8 (No-

vember 45, 6:A;).“Les enfants d’Hiroshima [Gembaku no ko]: Pélerinage de l’apocalypse, néo-réalisme ja-

ponais.” Le parisien libéré 4:A4 (March 65, 6:A7), p. B.“Les enfants du paradis et Le long voyage [' e Long Voyage Home].” Le parisien libéré 6:;

(March ;5, 6:7A).“Les enfants nous regardent [I bambini ci guardano]: Toute la poésie et le réalisme du ci-

néma italien.” Le parisien libéré 67:7 (July 7, 6:7:).“L’enfer des bonnes intentions: Marguerite de la nuit.” Radio-cinéma-télévision ;6A (Jan-

uary 4:, 6:AB), in Le cinéma français de la libération à la nouvelle vague, !"#%– !"%$ (Éditions de l’Étoile [6:9;], 6::9), pp. A9– B6.

“Enfi n des fi lms sensationnels sur nos écrans!” Le parisien libéré 896 (March 46, 6:78).“L’enigmatique Monsieur D. [Foreign Intrigue]: Inventaire après décès.” Le parisien libéré

;B:7 (July 4B, 6:AB).“L’ énigme du Chicago-Express [' e Narrow Margin]: Express train surprise.” Le parisien

libéré 4858 (May 49, 6:A;).“L’ énigme du Chicago-Express [' e Narrow Margin] et Le compagnon secret [' e Secret

Sharer]: Deux bonnes nouvelles!” Radio-cinéma-télévision 68: (June 46, 6:A;).“L’enjeu [State of the Union]: Mr. Deeds, disciple de Garry Davis.” Le parisien libéré 6A4A

(August :, 6:7:).“L’ennemi public no. !.” France-observateur 6:; (January 46, 6:A7).“L’ennemi public no. ! mais l’ami du public.” Le parisien libéré 4:56 (January :, 6:A7).“L’enquête est close: Un américain en Ecosse.” Le parisien libéré 484A (June 69, 6:A;).“L’enseignement primaire supérieur, suivi de Péguy et les instituteurs.” Rencontres, no. ;

(July 45, 6:76).“Entomologie de la pin-up girl.” L’ écran français 88 (December 68, 6:7B), pp. 6A– 68,

in Qu’est-ce que le cinéma? Vol. ;, Cinéma et sociologie; Deuxième partie: Érotisme (Éditions du Cerf, 6:B6), pp. 7A– A5.

“Entretien avec Jacques Flaud.” Cahiers du cinéma XII, no. 86 (May 6:A8), pp. 7– 6B.“Entretien avec Jacques Tati.” Cahiers du cinéma XIV, no. 9; (May 6:A9), pp. 4– 45.“Entretien avec Luis Buñuel.” Cahiers du cinéma no. ;B (June 6:A7), anthologized in La

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politique des auteurs: Entretiens avec dix cineastes (6:84; Éditions de l’Étoile, 6:97). Reprinted in Le cinéma de la cruauté. Paris: Flammarion, 6:8A.

“Entretien avec Orson Welles.” Cahiers du cinéma part 6 in 67, no. 97 (June 6:A9), pp. 6– 6;; part 4 in 6A, no. 98 (September 6:A9), pp. 4– 48, partially anthologized in La po-litique des auteurs: Entretiens avec dix cineastes (6:84; Éditions de l’Étoile, 6:97), pp. 64A– 679; completely anthologized in Bazin’s Orson Welles (Paris: Éditions du Cerf, 6:84), pp. 6;A– 6:5.

“Ephémèrides cannois (Cannes 6:AA) [Blinkity Blank; La pêche au thon; L’or de Naples (Oro di Napoli); Madame de . . .; Umberto D.; Les amants crucifi és (Chikamatzu monogatari); Le dossier noir; Bel ami]. Cahiers du cinéma VIII, no. 79 (June 6:AA), pp. :– 44.

“L’ épreuve.” L’ écran français B8 (October :, 6:7B).“L’ équipage fantôme [Sealed Cargo]: L’aventure est sur la mer.” Le parisien libéré 4;;5

(March 66, 6:A4).“L’ équipage fantôme [Sealed Cargo]: Un navire abordable.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 66;

(March 6B, 6:A4).“Eric Johnston à Paris.” Le parisien libéré 995 (July 6B, 6:78).“Eric von Stroheim: La forme, l’uniforme et la cruauté [Folies de femmes (Foolish Wives)

et Les rapaces (Greed)].” Ciné-club 8, no. 4 (April 6:7:). Reprinted in Le cinéma de la cruauté. Paris: Flammarion, 6:8A.

“L’escadron blanc: Trois hommes et le désert.” Le parisien libéré 67:9 (July 9, 6:7:).“L’escalier de service: Attention aux paliers.” Le parisien libéré ;687 (November 4A, 6:A7).“L’esclave: Un document!” Le parisien libéré 495; (September 69, 6:A;).“L’espion [' e ' ief ]: Le silence est d’uranium.” Le parisien libéré 4AA9 (December 7,

6:A4).“Les espions.” France-observateur ;99 (October 68, 6:A8), in Le cinéma français de la libé-

ration à la nouvelle vague, !"#%– !"%$ (Éditions de l’Étoile [6:9;], 6::9), pp. 694– 698.“L’espoir.” Le parisien libéré 4B5 (June 6B, 6:7A).“L’esprit s’amuse [Blithe Spirit].” Le parisien libéré 7B4 (February 65, 6:7B).“Essais, études et biographies [Un roi à New-York (A King in New York)].” L’ éducation

nationale ; (January 6B, 6:A9).“. . . et le dernier Fellini.” France-observateur ;BB (May 6B, 6:A8).“Et Dieu créa la femme: En eL euillant la mariée.” Le parisien libéré ;957 (December 7,

6:AB).“Et tournent les chevaux de bois [Ride the Pink Horse]: Enfourchez ces chevaux de bois!”

Le parisien libéré 6A:: (November ;, 6:7:).“Et tournent les chevaux de bois [Ride the Pink Horse]: Humour noir et rose.” L’ écran

français 448 (November 8, 6:7:).“Et voici le cinérama! Le monde sort de l’écran.” Le parisien libéré ;;44 (May 68, 6:AA).“L’ étang tragique [Swamp Water].” Le parisien libéré 664B (April 49, 6:79).“Un été prodigieux: Beau fi xe.” Le parisien libéré 4A9; (January 4, 6:A;).“L’eternel mirage [Un bâteau pour les Indes (Skeepp till Indialand)].” L’ écran français 669

(September ;5, 6:78), p. 7.“Eternelle chevauchée immortel: John Ford, La poursuite infernale [My Darling Cle-

mentine].” Le parisien libéré 945 (May 8, 6:78).“L’ étoile du destin [Lone Star]: Ava Gardner et l’histoire.” Le parisien libéré 4A:5 (Janu-

ary 65, 6:A;).“L’ étrange aventurière [I See a Dark Stranger].” Le parisien libéré 65A7 (February 7, 6:79).

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“L’ étrange désir de Monsieur Bard; plus qu’étrange: bizarre!” Le parisien libéré 4:44 (February ;, 6:A7).

“Étrange destin.” Le parisien libéré ABB (June 66, 6:7B).“Étrange incident [' e Ox-Bow Incident].” Le parisien libéré 647A (September 6A, 6:79).“L’ étrange Monsieur Steve: Pigeon vole.” Le parisien libéré ;:9A (July 7, 6:A8).“L’ étranger dans la cité [Walk Softly, Stranger]: N’est pas assez étrange.” Le parisien li-

béré 4657 (June 6:, 6:A6).“L’ étranger dans la cité [Walk Softly, Stranger]: On n’est bien que chez soi.” Radio-

cinéma-télévision 8B (July 6, 6:A6).“Eugénie Grandet [Eugenia Grandet].” Le parisien libéré 6496 (October 48, 6:79).“Europe ’%! [Europa ’%!].” Radio-cinéma-télévision 676 (September 49, 6:A4), in Qu’est-

ce que le cinéma? (Éditions du Cerf, 6:8A, rpt. 4555; single-volume version), pp. ;A:– ;B6.

“Europe ’%! [Europa ’%!]: Un chef d’oeuvre maudit!” Le parisien libéré 48;7 (June 4:, 6:A;).

“L’ évadé du bagne [Caccia all’uomo]: Victor Hugo à l’italienne.” Le parisien libéré 4769 (June 4;, 6:A4).

“L’ évadée [' e Chase].” Le parisien libéré 6589 (March ;, 6:79).“Les évadés.” France-observateur 4B8 (June 4;, 6:AA).“Les évadés: Liberté chérie.” Le parisien libéré ;;A; (June 4;, 6:AA).“Les évadés: Ou la petite illusion.” Action, ;8 (January ;5, 6:AB).“Èvasion.” Le parisien libéré ;;54 (April 4;, 6:AA).“Ève a commencé [It Started with Eve].” Le parisien libéré AB (October 44, 6:77).“Ève [All about Eve] fait triompher la psychologie au cinéma.” Le parisien libéré 45B7

(February A, 6:A6).“L’événement du mois.” Cinéma %%, 7 (February 6:AA).“Èvolution du cinéma français.” Images, 7– B (June 6:AB).“L’evolution du cinema d’eploration.” Cahiers du cinéma no. B;: (4559): :B; no. B75

(4559): 97.“L’évolution du fi lm d’exploration.” Monde nouveau May 6:AA.“L’évolution du langage cinématographique,” from three articles, the fi rst for the book

Vingt ans de cinéma à Venise (6:A4); the second, “Le découpage et son évolution,” from L’ âge nouveau no. :; (July 6:AA); and the third from Cahiers du cinéma no. 6 (6:A5), in Qu’est-ce que le cinéma? Vol. 6, Ontologie et langage (Éditions du Cerf, 6:A9), pp. 6;6– 679; in Qu’est-ce que le cinéma? (Cerf, 6:8A, rpt. 4555; single-volume version), pp. B;– 95.

“Évolution du western.” Cahiers du cinéma no. A7 (December 6:AA), pp. 44– 48, in Qu’est-ce que le cinéma? Vol. ;, Cinéma et sociologie; Quatrième partie: Le western (Éditions du Cerf 6:B6), pp. 67B– 6AB; in Qu’est-ce que le cinéma? (Cerf , 6:8A; single-volume version), pp. 44:– 4;:.

“Examen de conscience ou réfl exions pour une veillée d’armes.” Poésie 45 (July 6:77).“L’expédition du Fort-King [Seminole]: L’ouest est aussi au sud.” Radio-cinéma-télévision

46: (March 49, 6:A7).“L’expédition du Fort-King [Seminole]: Vivent les indiens!” Le parisien libéré 4:AA

(March 6;, 6:A7).“L’extravagant Capitaine Smith: En direct de chez M. Bontemp.” Radio-cinéma-

télévision ;:7 (August 7, 6:A8).“Fabiola: Un fi lm grandiose et . . . ennuyeux.” Le parisien libéré 6785 (June B, 6:7:).

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“Face au crime [Crime in the Streets]: Petite graine de violence!” Le parisien libéré ;::8 (July 69, 6:A8).

“Le faiseur de pluie [' e Rainmaker]: Adorable Katharine.” Le parisien libéré ;:BB (June 64, 6:A8).

“Le faiseur de pluie [' e Rainmaker]: Marchand d’espoir.” Radio-cinéma-télévision ;99 (June 4;, 6:A8).

“Un fait divers qui a la grandeur d’une tragédie antique Voleur de bicyclette [Ladri di bi-ciclette].” Le parisien libéré 6A75 (August 4B, 6:7:).

“Falbalas, Félicie Nanteuil, et Dernier métro.” Le parisien libéré 496 (July 66, 6:7A).“Les fanatiques.” Le parisien libéré 75:A (November 66, 6:A8).“Les fanatiques.” France-observateur ;:4 (November 67, 6:A8).“Les fanatiques: Suspense contre néo-réalisme.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 765 (Novem-

ber 47, 6:A8).“Fanfan la tulipe: Un fi lm de printemps.” Le parisien libéré 4;7; (March 4B, 6:A4).“Fanfan la tulipe: Gérard Philipe irrésistible.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 66B (April B,

6:A4).“Fantasia.” Le parisien libéré B:8 (November 9, 6:7B).“Fantomas contre fantomas.” Le parisien libéré 6764 (March ;5, 6:7:).“Le fantôme de la rue Morgue [Phantom of the Rue Morgue]: Invisible sans lunettes!” Le

parisien libéré ;44A (January 47, 6:AA).“Farrebique a été présenté à Cannes . . . mais oP cieusement.” Le parisien libéré BB7

(January 65, 6:7B).“Farrebique ou le parodoxe du réalisme.” L’esprit 6A, no. 6;4 (April 6:78), pp. B8B– B95.“Fausse improvisation et trou de mémoire.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 487 (April 68, 6:AA).“Faut-il brûler les livres de cinéma?” Cahiers du cinéma no. : (February 6:A4), pp. B9– 86.“Faut-il croire en Hitchcock?” France-observateur 99 (January 68, 6:A4), pp. 4;– 47. Re-

printed in Le cinéma de la cruauté. Paris: Flammarion, 6:8A.“Faut-il des feuilletons à la télévision? Intoxication et crétinisme!” Radio-cinéma-

télévision 7;5 (April 6;, 6:A9).“Faut-il renoncer à critiquer Limelight? Le premier classique du cinéma.” Radio-cinéma-

télévision 679 (November 6B, 6:A4).“Le faux coupable [' e Wrong Man].” France-observateur ;BB (May 6B, 6:A8).“Une fée pas comme les autres et Le ballon rouge: Pas si bêtes!” Le parisien libéré ;8B:

(October 4;, 6:AB).“La femme aux deux visages [Two-Faced Woman] et La maison des sept péchés [Seven Sin-

ners].” Le parisien libéré 8:8 (April :, 6:78).“La femme de l’année [Woman of the Year].” Le parisien libéré 6B59 (November 67, 6:7:).“Femme de feu [Ramrod]: Western et psychologie féminine.” Le parisien libéré 4676 (Au-

gust 6, 6:A6).“Une femme disparaît [' e Lady Vanishes]: Qualité d’avant-guerre.” Le parisien libéré

4;7: (April 4, 6:A4).“La femme du planteur [' e Planter’s Wife]: Malaise en Malaisie.” Le parisien libéré 4A99

(January 9, 6:A;).“La femme du planteur [' e Planter’s Wife].” Cahiers du cinéma no. 45 (February 6:A;),

p. B6.“La femme et le rôdeur [' e Unholy Wife].” Le parisien libéré 765; (November 45, 6:A8).“Une femme par jour.” Le parisien libéré 6;94 (February 4;, 6:7:).“La femme sur la plage [' e Woman on the Beach].” Le parisien libéré 668: (June ;5, 6:79).

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4;; ) Bibliography

“Femmes en cages [Caged].” Cahiers du cinéma no. 4A (July 6:A;), p. A8.“Fenêtre sur cour [Rear Window].” France-observateur 4AB (April 8, 6:AA). Reprinted in Le

cinéma de la cruauté. Paris: Flammarion, 6:8A.“Fenêtre sur cour [Rear Window]: Il s’en passe des choses.” Le parisien libéré ;4:5

(April 65, 6:AA).“Festival clandestino TV.” Cinema nuovo (Italy), 8, no. 6;; (June 6A, 6:A9).“Le Festival de Berlin.” France-observateur 6B7 (July 4, 6:A;).“Le Festival de Biarritz s’est terminé cette nuit [Le deuil sied à Electre (Mourning Be-

comes Electra); !$+& (I mille di Garibaldi)].” Le parisien libéré 6A4; (August B, 6:7:).“Le Festival de Bruxelles.” France-observateur 74; (June 69, 6:A9).“Le Festival de Bruxelles.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 776 (June 4:, 6:A9).“Le Festival de Cannes.” Le parisien libéré 6AB5 (September 6:, 6:7:).“Le Festival de Cannes.” France-observateur 6AB (May 8, 6:A;).“Le Festival de Cannes a ouvert hier soir Le dossier noir d’André Cayatte.” Le parisien li-

béré ;;6B (May 65, 6:AA).“Le Festival de Cannes: Awara.” France-observateur 6AA (April ;5, 6:A;).“Le Festival de Cannes, 7 mai [Fanfan la tulipe, An American in Paris, La légende de

Genji, Trois femmes, Umberto D., Deux sous d’espoir, Elle n’a dansé qu’un seul été, Le rideau cramoisi, Detective Story, and ' e Medium]: Notes de projection.” France- observateur 657 (May 9, 6:A4).

“Un festival de la culture cinématographique (Sao-Paulo 6:A7).” Cahiers du cinéma no. ;7 (April 6:A7), pp. 4;– 4:.

“Le Festival de Punta del Este aura bien servi le cinéma français.” Le parisien libéré ;A9: (March 47, 6:AB).

“Un Festival de René Clair à Varsovie [Les grandes manoeuvres].” Radio-cinéma- télévision ;B5 (December :, 6:AB).

“Le Festival de Sao Paulo a cédé la place au carnaval Bilan d’une belle manifestation où les fi lms français furent les meilleurs [Le blé en herbe].” Le parisien libéré 4:79 (March A, 6:A7).

“Le Festival de Venise.” France-observateur 687 (September 65, 6:A;).“Le Festival de Venise.” L’ éducation nationale 47 (September 4B, 6:A8).“Le Festival de Venise 6:AA: Commentaires sur le palmarès.” Cahiers du cinéma IX,

no. A6 (October 6:AA), p. 65.“Le Festival de Venise est retombé dans la somnolence: Les vedettes y sont rares et les

réceptions moroses.” Le parisien libéré ;76B (September A, 6:AA).“Un festival international au Studio 49.” Le parisien libéré 75A: (September ;5, 6:A8).“Festival international du fi lm de Cannes.” L’ écran français 445 (September 6:, 6:7:).“Un festival sérieux: Sao-Paulo.” France-observateur 6:9 (February 4A, 6:A7).“La fête à Henriette: Un fi lm à l’envers.” Le parisien libéré 4A8A (December 47, 6:A4).“Le feu aux poudres: Et que ça saute!” Le parisien libéré ;997 (March 8, 6:A8).“Le feu dans la peau: À trop juste titre!” Le parisien libéré ;698 (December 65, 6:A7).“Feux croisés: À propos de Crossfi re.” L’ écran français 64A (November 69, 6:78).“Les feux de la rampe [Limelight].” L’esprit 6:: (February 6:A;).“Les feux de la rampe [Limelight]: Nouveau fi lm de Chaplin, sont un bouleversant

poème.” Le parisien libéré 4A4: (October ;6, 6:A4).“Feux du music-hall [Luci del Varietà].” France-observateur ;77 (December 6;, 6:AB).“Feux du music-hall [Luci del varietà]: Lumière et illusion!” Le parisien libéré ;965 (De-

cember 66, 6:AB).

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SN4;7

4;7 ) Bibliography

“Fiche du Le jour se lève de Marcel Carné.” D.O.C. éducation populaire 7 (January 6:79), in Regards neufs sur le cinéma, edited by Jacques Chevallier (Éditions du Seuil, 6:A;); and in Le cinéma français de la libération à la nouvelle vague, !"#%– !"%$ (Éditions de l’Étoile [6:9;], 6::9), pp. 8B– 654. Partially reprinted in Ciné-club no. 6 (December 6:7:).

“La fi ère créole [' e Foxes of Harrow].” Le parisien libéré 645: (August 7, 6:79).“La fi gure de proue.” Le parisien libéré 6686 (June 45, 6:79).“Le fi l à la patte: Aimable lien!” Le parisien libéré ;469 (January 6A, 6:AA).“‘Le fi l de la vie’: Nous laisse sur notre faim.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 4A; (Novem-

ber 46, 6:A7).“Le fi let [La red]: Quelle sirène!” Le parisien libéré 497B (November 8, 6:A;).“Fille dangereuse.” Le parisien libéré 486: (June 66, 6:A;).“Une fi lle dans le soleil: Rendez vous avec la lune.” Le parisien libéré 4A:9 (January 45,

6:A;).“La fi lle de Hambourg.” Le parisien libéré 7;;B (August 46, 6:A9).“La fi lle de Hambourg.” France-observateur 7;7 (August 49, 6:A9).“La fi lle de Hambourg: Noirceur de pacotille.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 7A5 (August ;6,

6:A9).“La fi lle de Mata-Hari [La fi glia de Mata-Hari] ou l’espionnage en javanais.” Le parisien

libéré ;;4: (May 4A, 6:AA).“La fi lle de Mata-Hari [La fi glia de Mata-Hari]: Tout un programme.” Radio-cinéma-

télévision 495 (May 4:, 6:AA).“Une fi lle de la province [' e Country Girl] . . . à Paris.” Le parisien libéré ;;4A (May 45,

6:AA).“La fi lle des marais [Cielo sulla palude]: Un fait divers de la sainteté.” Radio-cinéma-

télévision B9 (May A, 6:A6).“La fi lle des marais . . . ou la saintet [Cielo sulla palude].” Le parisien libéré 45B4 (April ;5,

6:A6).“La fi lle du capitaine [Figlia del capitano].” Le parisien libéré 664B (April 49, 6:79).“La fi lle du diable.” Le parisien libéré A4; (April 4;, 6:7B).“Une fi lle du tonnerre [Die Dritte von rechts]: Beaucoup de bruit pour rien.” Le parisien

libéré 4;;4 (March 6;, 6:A4).“La fi lle en noir [To koritsi me ta mavra].” France-observateur ;7B (December 48,

6:AB).“La fi lle en noir [To koritsi me ta mavra]: Très noir et très blanc.” Le parisien libéré ;96:

(December 46, 6:AB).“Une fi lle nommée Madeleine [Maddalena].” France-observateur 44A (September 4, 6:A7).“Filles des îles [Song of the Islands].” Le parisien libéré 645: (August 7, 6:79).“Les fi llettes doivent-elles se méfi er des censeurs [Méfi ez-vous fi llettes].” France-observa-

teur ;87 (July 66, 6:A8).“Un fi lm au téléobjectif [Le petit fugitif (' e Little Fugitive)].” Cahiers du cinéma no. ;6

(January 6:A7), pp. 7:– A4.“Un fi lm Bergsonien: Le mystére Picasso [' e Picasso Mystery].” Cahiers du cinéma 65,

no. B5 (June 6:AB), pp. 4A– 49, in Qu’est-ce que le cinéma? Vol. 4, Le cinéma et les autres arts (Éditions du Cerf, 6:A:), pp. 6;;– 674; in Qu’est-ce que le cinéma? (Cerf, 6:8A, rpt. 4555; single-volume version), pp. 6:;– 454.

“Il fi lm che voremmo vedere.” Cinema nuovo, 4, no. 68 (August 6A, 6:A;).“Film A5.” D.O.C. éducation populaire (German), ;8– ;: (6:A5).

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SN4;A

4;A ) Bibliography

“Le fi lm d’art: est-t-il un documentaire comme les autres?” Radio-cinéma-télévision 8A (June 47, 6:A6).

“Un fi lm de De Sica: Miracle à Milan [Miracolo a Milano].” France-observateur 94 (De-cember B, 6:A6).

“Un fi lm de Marianne Oswald sur l’Université de la Sarre.” Radio-cinéma-télévision ;4; (March 4A, 6:AB).

“Un fi lm de scénariste-metteur en scène, Le mystère Barton: Une histoire policière so-lide et bien classique.” Le parisien libéré 6A;; (August 69, 6:7:).

“Le fi lm du cinquantenaire [Naissance du cinéma].” Le parisien libéré A99 (April 8, 6:7B).“Le fi lm en fi ligrane: L’art et la manière [Le gros lot (Christmas in July); Antoine et Anto-

ninette; Le million].” L’ écran français 648– 649 (December :, 6:78), p. 67.“Le fi lm en fi ligrane: Le jour se lève.” L’ écran français 6;4 (January 5B, 6:79).“Un fi lm extraordinaire de Carlos Velo: Torero [Toro].” Le parisien libéré 759; (Octo-

ber 49, 6:A8).“Un fi lm hors série: La nuit porte conseil [Roma, città libera].” Le parisien libéré 6AB8

(September 48, 6:7:).“Un fi lm japonais décevant [Le christ en bronze] et un Othello soviétique très attendu

ont marqué la seconde journée.” Le parisien libéré ;B6B (April 4A, 6:AB).“Un fi lm japonais: Rashomon.” France-observateur 654 (April 47, 6:A4). Reprinted in Le

cinéma de la cruauté. Paris: Flammarion, 6:8A.“Un fi lm libre et pur, d’Agnès Varda [La pointe courte].” Le parisien libéré ;A4; (Janu-

ary 8, 6:AB), in Le cinéma français de la libération à la nouvelle vague, !"#%– !"%$ (Édi-tions de l’Étoile [6:9;], 6::9), pp. 488– 48:.

“Un fi lm miraculeux: Miracle à Milan [Miracolo a Milano].” Le parisien libéré 44;9 (November 47, 6:A6).

“Un fi lm plat: La tunique [' e Robe].” France-observateur 699 (December 68, 6:A;).“Le fi lm policier: Grandeur et décadence du gangster.” Radio-cinéma-télévision :4 (Oc-

tober 46, 6:A6).“Le fi lm policier n’est pas un genre mais obéit à une loi: La logique.” Radio-cinéma-

télévision :6 (October 67, 6:A6).“Un fi lm sovietique: La vie passionnée de Moussorgsky [Musorgskiy].” France-observateur

667 (July 68, 6:A4).“Un fi lm sur Marianne Oswald.” France-observateur ;86 (June 45, 6:A8).“Un fi lm sur Robespierre.” France-observateur ;69 (June 67, 6:AB).“Un fi lm vrai: Leclerc.” Le parisien libéré 6797 (June 44, 6:7:).“Les fi lms changent, la censure demeure [Chronique d’un amour (Cronaca di un

amore)].” Cahiers du cinéma no. 6: (January 6:A;), pp. 4B– 4:.“Les fi lms d’animaux nous révèlent le cinéma.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 49A (July ;,

6:AA), pp. 4– ;, 9.“Films d’art.” Le parisien libéré 45:8 (October B, 6:A6).“Films d’art: Quand Rubens et Van Gogh font du cinéma.” Le parisien libéré 6787

(June 65, 6:7:).“Films d’enfants: Quelque part en Europe [Valahol Europaban] et Allemagne année zero

[Germania anno zero].” L’esprit 68, no. 6AB (May 6:7:), pp. B97– B9:.“Films de gangsters [Scarface: ' e Shame of a Nation; La fi lle du diable (' e Devil’s

Daughter)].” Courrier de l’ étudiant 49 (May 6A, 6:7B).“Films de guerre [Between Heaven and Hell and Men in War].” France-observateur ;86

(June 45, 6:A8), pp. 69– 6:.

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SN4;B

4;B ) Bibliography

“Films de Résistance [Jéricho].” Gavroche, 94 (March 46, 6:7B). Reprinted in Le cinéma de l’occupation et la résistance. Paris: Union Générale d’Éditions, 6:8A.

“Les fi lms de Venise.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 4:B (September 69, 6:AA).“Les fi lms des mousquetaires.” Le parisien libéré 47:4 (September 69, 6:A4).“Les fi lms français ont sorti le Festival de Venise de sa somnolence [Mandy et L’enfer

vert (Green Hell)].” Le parisien libéré 4796 (September A, 6:A4).“Les fi lms meurent aussi.” France Observateur ;7: (68 January 6:A8), pp. 6:– 45.“Films ‘noirs’.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 7A4 (September 67, 6:A9).“Les fi lms que nous voyons sont-ils amputés?” France-observateur ;B9 (May ;5, 6:A8).“Le fi ls de d’Artagnan [Il Figlio di d’Artagnan]: Bon sang ne peut mentir.” Le parisien li-

béré 465A (June 45, 6:A6).“Le fi ls de d’Artagnan [Il Figlio di d’Artagnan]: Un western italien.” Radio-cinéma-

télévision 8B (July 6, 6:A6).“Le fi ls de Caroline chérie.” Le parisien libéré ;484 (March 6:, 6:AA).“Le fi ls de Caroline chérie: Ajoute l’ennui au libertinage.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 486

(March 48, 6:AA).“Le fi ls de Monte-Cristo [' e Son of Monte Cristo] et La folle alouette [Skylark].” Le pari-

sien libéré B;B (August ;5, 6:7B).“Les fi ls des mousquetaires [At Sword’s Point]: Si cette histoire vous amuse . . .” Le pari-

sien libéré 47:4 (September 69, 6:A4).“Fin de l’écran, avenir du cinéma: La révolution par le relief n’a pas eu lieu.” Radio-

cinéma-télévision ;47 (April 6, 6:AB).“Fin du montage.” Cahiers du cinéma no. ;6 (January 6:A;).“Fini de rire [His Kind of Woman]: Mi-fi gue mi-raisin.” Le parisien libéré 4BA4

(March 47, 6:A;).“Flamenco: Rien que la danse.” Le parisien libéré 4B:; (May 64, 6:A;).“La fl amme du passé [Goodbye, My Fancy]: Fumée sans feu.” Le parisien libéré 47;9

(July 6B, 6:A4).“Les fl êches brulées [Flaming Feathers]: Technicolor et fi l blanc.” Radio-cinéma-télévision

688 (June 8, 6:A;).“Le fl euve: Jean Renoir, un réalisateur mystique.” France-observateur 9A (December 48,

6:A6).“Florence est folie.” Le parisien libéré 87 (November 64, 6:77).“La foi qui sauve [Cannes 6:A4].” Cahiers du cinéma no. 6; (June 6:A4), pp. 68– 6:.“‘Les folies amoureuses’ de Regnard.” Radio-cinéma-télévision ;:; (July 49, 6:A8).“La folle ingénue [Cluny Brown]: Lubitsch égal à lui même.” L’ écran français 654

(June 65, 6:78).“Le fond de la bouteille [' e Bottom of the Bottle].” France-observateur ;4; (July 6:, 6:AB).“Le fond de la bouteille [' e Bottom of the Bottle]: Western 6:AA!” Le parisien libéré ;B97

(July 67, 6:AB).“Le fond du problème [' e Heart of the Matter]: La fi délité trahit parfois.” Le parisien li-

béré 4:6: (January ;5, 6:A7).“Les forçats de la gloire [' e Story of G.I. Joe].” Le parisien libéré 6755 (March 6B, 6:7:).“Forêt sacrée.” France-observateur 4AB (April 8, 6:AA).“Forêt sacrée: Un vrai fi lm ‘noir’.” Le parisien libéré ;499 (April 8, 6:AA).“Fortune carrée.” France-observateur 4A7 (March 47, 6:AA).“Fortune carrée: Mais écran large.” Le parisien libéré ;48A (March 4;, 6:AA).“Fortunella.” Le parisien libéré 7;88 (October 9, 6:A9).

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SN4;8

4;8 ) Bibliography

“Fortunella: Fellini sauvé par la commedia dell’arte.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 7AB (Oc-tober 64, 6:A9).

“Un fou au volant [Excuse My Dust]: Ne reste pas en place.” Le parisien libéré 44;; (No-vember 68, 6:A6).

“La France a gagné la bataille de Cannes: Grâce à Antoine et Antoinette.” Le parisien li-béré :76 (September 4B, 6:78).

“La France à Punta del Este.” France-observateur ;5: (April 64, 6:AB).“Francis aux courses [Francis Goes to the Races]: Pas si bête.” Le parisien libéré 47;A (No-

vember 8, 6:A4).“François Villon.” Le parisien libéré ;7; (September 46, 6:7A).“Les frères Bouquinquant.” Le parisien libéré 6584 (February 4A, 6:79).“Les frères Bouquinquant: Le meilleur fi lm de Louis Daquin.” L’ écran français 6;: (Feb-

ruary 47, 6:79).“Les frères Karamazov [' e Brothers Karamazov]: Une adaptation digne d’estime.” Le

parisien libéré 74B4 (May 4B, 6:A9).“Une fresque saisissante: Le bal des maudits [' e Young Lions].” Le parisien libéré 744B

(April 64, 6:A9).“Fric-Frac en dentelles.” Le parisien libéré 7558 (July ;5, 6:A8), p. 4.“Les fruits de l’ été.” Le parisien libéré ;47A (February 6B, 6:AA).“Les fruits sauvages: Imparfait mais attachant.” Le parisien libéré 4:4A (February B, 6:A7).“La fugue de monsieur Perle: Mineure!” Le parisien libéré 4A85 (December 69, 6:A4).“La fureur de vivre [Rebel Without a Cause].” France-observateur ;59 (April A, 6:AB).“La fureur de vivre [Rebel Without a Cause].” Radio-cinéma-télévision ;4B (April 6A, 6:AB).“La fureur de vivre [Rebel Without a Cause].” L’ éducation nationale 69 (May 68, 6:AB).“La fureur de vivre [Rebel Without a Cause]: Beau comme la jeunesse et la mort.” Le pa-

risien libéré ;A:A (March ;6, 6:AB).“Fureur sur la ville [' e Sound of Fury]: Un fi lm dur et vrai.” Le parisien libéré 4A78 (No-

vember 46, 6:A4).“Fureur sur la ville [' e Sound of Fury]: Toute la ville tue.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 6A6

(December 8, 6:A4).“Furie et Victoire sur la nuit [Fury and Dark Victory].” Le parisien libéré 649 (January 6;,

6:7A).“Futurs vedettes: Trouver sa voix . . .” Le parisien libéré ;;A7 (June 47, 6:AA).“Les gaietés de l’escadron: Courteline malgré tout.” Le parisien libéré ;;7B (June 6A, 6:AA).“Le gala du dessin animé.” L’ information universitaire no. 668A (January 9, 6:77).“Le gala du rire: Charlie Chaplin, Buster Keaton et Harold Lloyd.” L’ écran français 459

(June 45, 6:7:).“Le gala du rire: Immortel Charlot! [Une vie de chien (A Dog’s Life); Charlot soldat

(Shoulder Arms)].” Le parisien libéré 679; (June 46, 6:7:).“Le gala de Senso à la salle Playel.” Le parisien libéré ;A76 (January 49, 6:AB).“Le gala du G.A.E.L.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 76: (January 4B, 6:A9).“Un gala Louis Jouvet: Copie conforme.” Le parisien libéré 8:8 (April :, 6:78).“Le gang des tueurs [Brighton Rock].” Le parisien libéré 6;94 (February 4;, 6:7:).“Le gantelet vert [' e Gauntlet/' e Green Glove]: Le gant qui tue.” Le parisien libéré 4;;9

(March 45, 6:A4).“Gare terminus [Stazione Termini]: Un train manqué.” Le parisien libéré 4B:7 (May 6;,

6:A;).“Gaslight.” L’ écran français B8 (August 65, 6:7B).

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SN4;9

4;9 ) Bibliography

“Gas-oil: Bonne route!” Le parisien libéré ;78: (November 68, 6:AA).“Géant [Giant].” L’ éducation nationale 6; (March 49, 6:A8).“Géant [Giant]: Aux pieds d’argile?” Radio-cinéma-télévision ;8B (March ;6, 6:A8).“Géant [Giant] de Georges Stevens.” France-observateur ;A9 (March 46, 6:A8).“Géant [Giant]: Une si grande famille . . .” Le parisien libéré ;9:; (March 69, 6:A8).“Gendarmes et voleurs [Guardie e ladri]: Le gendarme n’est pas sans pitié.” Le parisien li-

béré 4A6B (October 6B, 6:A4).“Le général du diable [Des Teufels General], ou du particulier au general.” Le parisien li-

béré ;A78 (February 7, 6:AB).“Un genre nouveau? [Agence matrimoniale (Matrimonial Agency) and Nous sommes tous

des assassins (We Are All Murderers)].” L’esprit 45, no. 6:4 (July 6:A4), pp. 658– 65:.“Les gens de la nuit [Night People]: Espionnage en cinémascope.” Le parisien libéré ;489

(March 4B, 6:AA).“Le gentilhomme de la Louisiane [Mississippi Gambler]: Noblesse oblige.” Le parisien li-

béré 49:5 (December 49, 6:A;).“Georges Sadoul, victime de sa passion.” France-observateur 44; (August 6:, 6:A7).“Gervaise de René Clément.” L’ éducation nationale 4A (October 7, 6:AB), in Le cinéma

français de la libération à la nouvelle vague, !"#%– !"%$ (Éditions de l’Étoile [6:9;], 6::9), pp. 686– 68;.

“Le ghetto concentrationnaire [Ghetto Terezín (Daleká cesta)].” Cahiers du cinéma II, no. : (February 6:A4), pp. A9– B5.

“Ghetto Terezín [Daleká cesta].” France-observateur 98 (January 65, 6:A4).“Ghetto Terezín [Daleká cesta]: L’univers concentrationnaire.” Le parisien libéré 448;

(January 7, 6:A4).“Le gorille vous salue bien: Au plaisir de vous revoir!” Le parisien libéré 7;A; (September

65, 6:A9).“Gotoma le Bouddha, maladroit; Le septième sceau [Det sjunde inseglet], impression-

nant; Princesse Sissi [Sissi die junge Kaiserin], consternant.” France-observateur ;B8 (May 4;, 6:A8).

“Le gou- re aux chimères [' e Big Carnival]: Forage et reportage.” Le parisien libéré 4;B5 (April 6A, 6:A4).

“Grâce à la télévision: On peut maintenant ‘descendre en soi-même’.” Radio-cinéma- télévision ;64 (January 9, 6:AB).

“Grâce aux Lectures pour tous: Tous les spectateurs ont envie de devenir lecteurs.” Radio- cinéma-télévision 697 (July 4B, 6:A;).

“Un grain de folie [Knock on Wood].” France-observateur 4;; (October 49, 6:A7).“Un grain de folie [Knock on Wood]: Du bon Danny Kaye.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 4A5

(October ;6, 6:A7).“Un grain de folie [Knock on Wood]: Fou rire.” Le parisien libéré ;678 (October 4A, 6:A7).“Graine de violence [Blackboard Jungle].” L’ éducation nationale 4 (January 64, 6:AB).“Graine de violence [Blackboard Jungle]: Quand la jeunesse est sans pitié.” Le parisien li-

béré ;79: (November 4:, 6:AA).“Le grand assaut [Breakthrough] . . . Assaut d’honneur.” Le parisien libéré 467; (Au-

gust ;, 6:A6).“Le grand chef [Chief Crazy Horse]: Un sioux est un sioux!” Le parisien libéré ;A68 (De-

cember ;6, 6:AA).“Le grand concert [Bolshoy kontsert]: Les kolkhoziens à l’opéra.” Le parisien libéré 4A89

(December 48, 6:A4).

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“Le grand couteau [' e Big Knife].” Cahiers du cinéma no. 8B (November 6:A8).“Le grand couteau [' e Big Knife]: Un scalpel!” Le parisien libéré ;798 (November 4B,

6:AA).“Un grand fi lm: Louisiana Story; la critique.” Le parisien libéré 6A:A (October 4:, 6:7:).“Un grand fi lm: Louisiana Story; le réalisateur.” Le parisien libéré 6A:A (October 4:,

6:7:).“Un grand fi lm de René Clément, Au delà des grilles; Jean Gabin et Isa Miranda: Le

couple idéal du malheur.” Le parisien libéré 6B65 (November 6B, 6:7:), p. 4.“Un grand fi lm français, Le point du jour: Jamais encore, le cinéma n’avait si bien com-

pris la mine et ses hommes.” Le parisien libéré 67A9 (May 4;, 6:7:).“Grand gala: La danse ou l’amour.” Le parisien libéré 4844 (June 6A, 6:A;).“Le grand jeu: La condamnation du ‘remake’.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 44B (May 6B,

6:A7).“Le grand passage [Northwest Passage]: Spencer Tracy sans cheveux blancs.” Le parisien

libéré ;AAB (February 6A, 6:AB).“Le grand passage [Northwest Passage]: Un western sans chevaux.” Le parisien libéré 67BB

(May 6, 6:7:).“Le grand vaincu: Le cinémascope.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 44; (April 4A, 6:A7).“La grande aventure [Det stora äventyret].” France-observateur 4B: (July 8, 6:AA).“La grande aventure [Det stora äventyret]: L’aventure est au coin du bois!” Le parisien li-

béré ;;A8 (June 49, 6:AA).“La grande bagarre de Don Camillo: Troisième round.” Le parisien libéré ;79B (Novem-

ber 4A, 6:AA).“Une grande famille [Bolshaya semya]: Comme si vous y étiez!” Le parisien libéré ;7A6

(October 6A, 6:AA).“La grande horloge [' e Big Clock]: Un mécanisme soigné.” Le parisien libéré 679:

(June 49, 6:7:).“La grande illusion.” France-observateur 775 (October :, 6:A9).“La grande illusion.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 7A: (November 4, 6:A9).“La grande illusion.” L’ éducation nationale 4: (November B, 6:A9).“La grande illusion et Les clés du royaume [' e Keys of the Kingdom].” Le parisien libéré

B74 (September B, 6:7B).“La grande meute et La boîte aux rêves.” Le parisien libéré 4:9 (July ;6, 6:7A).“Un grande œuvre: Umberto D.” France-observateur 649 (October 4;, 6:A4), in Qu’est-ce

que le cinéma? (Éditions du Cerf, 6:8A, rpt. 4555; single-volume version), pp. ;;6– ;;A.“La grande parade de Charlot [courts métrages de Chaplin].” Le parisien libéré 66B6

(June :, 6:79).“Les grandes manoeuvres.” Le parisien libéré ;7B4 (October 49, 6:AA).“Grandeur de Limelight.” L’esprit 46, no. 456 (April 6:A;), pp. B47– B;;, in Qu’est-ce que

le cinéma? Vol. ;, Cinéma et sociologie; Troisième partie: Mythes et société (Éditions du Cerf, 6:B6), pp. 66:– 6;4. Reprinted in Charlie Chaplin. Paris: Éditions du Cerf, 6:8;.

“Il grido [Le cri].” Cahiers du cinéma no. 8A (October 6:A8).“Grosses fi celles [Le médecin de Stalingrad (Der Arzt von Stalingrad)].” Cahiers du ci-

néma no. 99 (October 6:A9), p. A7.“Le guérisseur: Guérit-il?” Le parisien libéré 4:A; (March 66, 6:A7).“La guerre des trois dimensions aura-t-elle lieu? Partie I.” France-observateur 6A6

(April 4, 6:A;).

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475 ) Bibliography

“La guerre des trois dimensions aura-t-elle lieu? Partie II.” France-observateur 6A4 (April :, 6:A;).

“La guerre des trois dimensions aura-t-elle lieu? Partie III.” France-observateur 6A; (April 6B, 6:A;).

“La guerre des valses [Wiener Walzer]: Guerilla en dentelles.” Le parisien libéré 4786 (Au-gust 4A, 6:A4).

“Guerre et paix [War and Peace]: Vistavision d’histoire.” Le parisien libéré ;969 (Decem-ber 45, 6:AB).

“La guerre privée du Major Benson [' e Private War of Major Benson].” Le parisien libéré ;779 (October 64, 6:AA).

“La hache sanglante [' e Yellow Tomahawk].” Le parisien libéré ;;8B (July 45, 6:AA).“Haines [' e Lawless]: L’enfant chargé de haine.” Le parisien libéré 4;85 (April 4B, 6:A4).“Hallelujah [Alleluia].” France-observateur 499 (November 68, 6:AA).“Hallelujah [Alleluia]: Gloire au cinéma!” Le parisien libéré ;78; (November 66, 6:AA).“Hallelujah [Alleluia]: Gloire au cinéma!” Radio-cinéma-télévision ;5A (November 45,

6:AA).“Hamlet.” Le parisien libéré 64B: (October 6;, 6:79), p. 4.“Hamlet: Une date pour l’histoire future du théâtre cinématographique.” L’ écran fran-

çais 68; (October 6:, 6:79).“Hangover Square.” Le parisien libéré 6;8B (February 6B, 6:7:).“Hans le marin: Voyage au bout de l’ennui.” L’ écran français 44: (November 46, 6:7:).“Hans le marin, le roman d’Édouard Peisson, n’a pas gagné à être porté à l’écran.” Le

parisien libéré 6B64 (November 69, 6:7:).“Hantise [Gaslight].” Le parisien libéré 878 (January 65, 6:78).“Hantise [Gaslight]: Beaucoup de talent pour rien.” L’ écran français 8: (December ;6,

6:7B).“Harvey . . . un fameux lapin!” Le parisien libéré 46A6 (August 6;, 6:A6).“Haute infi délité [' e Bridge on the River Kwai].” Cahiers du cinéma 67, no. 95 (Febru-

ary 6:A9), pp. A5– A;.“Hélas, Notre-Dame de Paris.” Cahiers du cinéma no. B8 (January 6:A8), p. AA.“Hemingway a-t-il infuencé le cinéma?” Radio-cinéma-télévision 4A; (November 46,

6:A7).“Henry V.” Le parisien libéré :;; (September 68, 6:78).“Héros d’occasion [Hail the Conquering Hero]: Une parabole d’occasion.” L’ écran français

45A (May ;6, 6:7:). Reprinted in Le cinéma de la cruauté. Paris: Flammarion, 6:8A.“Les héros sont fatigues: En noir et blanc.” Le parisien libéré ;7BB (November 4, 6:AA).“Les héros sont fatigues: Un sujet bien noir; un cadre qui ne l’est pas assez.” Radio-

cinéma-télévision ;5; (November B, 6:AA).“Heureuse époque [Altri tempi]: Un fi lm agreeable.” Le parisien libéré 4B:: (May 6:,

6:A;).“Heureuse époque [Altri tempi]: Varié, agréable mais très ‘galant’.” Radio-cinéma-

télévision 68B (May ;6, 6:A;).“Heureux mortels [' is Happy Breed].” Le parisien libéré 6576 (January 46, 6:79).“Hier soir à Cannes: Devant un parterre de vedettes, la France pour inaugurer le festi-

val, à joué son atout maître: Le salaire de la peur.” Le parisien libéré 4B84 (April 6B, 6:A;).

“Histoire de détective [Detective Story]: Grandeurs et servitudes policières.” Le parisien li-béré 4AB6 (December 9, 6:A4).

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“L’histoire du soldat ou du théâtre ‘au carré’ [Histoire du soldat de Ramuz].” Radio- cinéma-télévision 7A6 (September 8, 6:A9).

“Histoires interdites [Ne storie prohbite]: La mort est dans l’escalier.” Le parisien libéré 4B44 (February 68, 6:A;).

“Hitchcock à la TV.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 7;5 (April 6;, 6:A9).“Hitchcock contre Hitchcock.” Cahiers du cinéma no. ;: (October 6:A7), pp. 4A– ;4; also

in Cahiers du cinéma in English, no. 4 (6:BB). Reprinted in Le cinéma de la cruauté. Paris: Flammarion, 6:8A.

“Hold-up en plein ciel [A Prize of Gold]: Enfer et bonnes intentions.” Le parisien libéré ;ABA (February 4A, 6:AB).

“Hollywood contre Hollywood?” Raccords 9 (June 46, 6:A6).“L’homme à l’a- ût [' e Sniper].” Le parisien libéré 4B6B (February 65, 6:A;).“L’homme à l’a- ût [' e Sniper].” Radio-cinéma-télévision 6B4 (February 44, 6:A;).“L’homme à l’ imperméable: Fernandel doit ‘se mouiller’!” Le parisien libéré ;995

(March 4, 6:A8).“L’homme au chapeau rond: Festival Charlot.” Le parisien libéré A89 (June 47, 6:7B).“L’homme au complet blanc [' e Man in the White Suit]: Humour noir.” Le parisien li-

béré 4;A5 (April ;, 6:A4).“L’homme au complet gris [' e Man in the Gray Flannel Suit].” Le parisien libéré ;8A5

(October 6, 6:AB).“L’homme au complet gris [' e Man in the Gray Flannel Suit].” France-observateur ;;7

(October 7, 6:AB).“L’homme au masque de cire [House of Wax]: Fais-moi peur . . . en relief!” Le parisien li-

béré 48;; (June 48, 6:A;).“L’ homme, burlesque, et existentialisme.” L’ écran français 88 (December 68, 6:7B), p. 9.“L’homme d’octobre [' e October Man].” Le parisien libéré 6;;7 (December 4:, 6:79).“L’homme de la plaine [' e Man from Laramie]: Cinémascope pour ‘montrer l’air’.”

Radio- cinéma-télévision ;5: (December 69, 6:AA).“L’homme de la plaine [' e Man from Laramie]: Western pas mort!” Le parisien libéré

;A5 (December 64, 6:AA).“L’homme de la rue [Meet John Doe]: On ne badine pas avec l’amour du prochain.”

L’ écran français 659– 65: (July 44, 6:78).“L’homme de mes rêves [It Had to Be You].” Le parisien libéré 64:; (November 65, 6:79).“L’homme des vallées perdues [Shane]: Un western pour grandes personnes.” Le parisien

libéré 49;A (October 4B, 6:A;).“Un homme est passé [Bad Day at Black Rock].” France-observateur 494 (October B,

6:AA).“L’homme imaginaire et la fonction magique du cinéma.” France-observateur ;;6 (Sep-

tember 6;, 6:AB), pp. 68– 69.“L’homme, Une partie de campagne, et Naissance du cinéma . . . Une formule nouvelle.”

Le parisien libéré 8;A (December 45, 6:7B).“Un homme perdu [Der Verlorene].” France-observateur 675 (January 6A, 6:A;).“Un homme perdu [Der Verlorene]: Le retour du maudit.” Le parisien libéré 4A:B (Janu-

ary 68, 6:A;).“L’homme qui en savait trop [' e Man Who Knew Too Much].” France-observateur ;;B

(October 69, 6:AB).“L’homme qui en savait trop [' e Man Who Knew Too Much]: Un piste à suivre Hitch-

cock maître du suspens.” Le parisien libéré ;8B6 (October 6;, 6:AB).

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“L’homme qui n’a jamais existé [' e Man Who Never Was]: ‘Histoire’ policière.” Le pari-sien libéré ;9B9 (February 6B, 6:A8).

“L’homme qui n’a pas d’ étoile [Man Without a Star]: Un fi lm de fer.” Le parisien libéré ;7B8 (November ;, 6:AA).

“Un homme traqué [A Man Alone]: Tu viens shériL ?” Le parisien libéré ;B95 (July 65, 6:AB).

“L’homme tranquille [' e Quiet Man]: Un fi lm homérique!” Le parisien libéré 4A;B (No-vember 9, 6:A4).

“Hommes et loups [Uomini e lupi]: Un loup chasse l’autre.” Le parisien libéré ;:5B (April 4, 6:A8).

“Les hommes grenouilles [' e Frogmen]: Danse de mort sous les fl ots.” Le parisien libéré 475: (November B, 6:A4).

“Les hommes grenouilles [' e Frogmen]: La guerre silencieuse.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 648 (June 44, 6:A4).

“Les hommes sans ailes [Muzi bez krídel].” L’ écran français B8 (August 65, 6:7B).“Honnête métier [Le gorille vous salue bien].” Cahiers du cinéma no. 99 (October 6:A9),

p. A7.“La horde sauvage [' e Maverick Queen]: Mais l’ordre triomphe!” Le parisien libéré ;97:

(January 4A, 6:A8).“Horizons sans fi n: Les bons sentiments font les bons fi lms.” Le parisien libéré 487B

(July 6;, 6:A;).“Hors des sentiers battus [' e Goddess].” Cahiers du cinéma XV, no. 99 (October 6:A9),

pp. A5– A4.“Hôtel des invalides.” France-observateur 6;7 (December 7, 6:A4), in Le cinéma fran-

çais de la libération à la nouvelle vague, !"#%– !"%$ (Éditions de l’Étoile [6:9;], 6::9), pp. 4A7– 4AB.

“Houdini le grand magician [Houdini]: Des illusions.” Le parisien libéré ;6B; (Novem-ber 64, 6:A7).

“Huis-clos.” France-observateur 474 (December ;5, 6:A7).“Huis-clos: L’enfer du décor.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 4B6 (January 6B, 6:AA).“Huis-clos: Un fi lm curieux.” Le parisien libéré ;454 (December 49, 6:A7).“Huit heures de sursis [Odd Man Out].” Le parisien libéré 646A (August 66, 6:79).“&$/!% [Null Acht Fünfzehn].” France-observateur 4BA (June :, 6:AA).“&$/!% [Null Acht Fünfzehn]: Les tristesses de l’escadron.” Le parisien libéré ;;;9 (June B,

6:AA).“La huitième femme de Barbe-Bleue.” Radio-cinéma-télévision ;9: (June ;5, 6:A8).“Les Hussards: Une tragédie drôle.” Le parisien libéré ;A58 (December 45, 6:AA).“Iawa de Bertrand Flornoy.” France-observateur 6:4 (January 67, 6:A7).“Iawa: Les hommes, ces inconnus.” Le parisien libéré 4:54 (January 66, 6:A7).“L’ idiot.” Le parisien libéré A8B (June 44, 6:7B).“L’ idole.” Le parisien libéré 65BB (February 69, 6:79).“Il est minuit docteur Schweitzer: L’Afrique ne vous parle pas!” Le parisien libéré 4AA4

(November 48, 6:A4).“Il était une petite fi lle.” L’ écran français AB (July 47, 6:7B).“Il était une petite fi lle.” Le parisien libéré B5B (July 4B, 6:7B).“Il faut sauver le cinéma français: Avant deux ans notre production pourrait redevenir

prospère.”Le parisien libéré 657; (January 4;, 6:79).

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“Il faut sauver le cinéma français: D’abord de l’ordre dans la maison.” Le parisien libéré 6574 (January 44, 6:79).

“Il faut sauver le cinéma français: Notre production nationale ne doit pas être écrasée par l’etat; la crise du cinéma français et responsabilités françaises.” Le parisien libéré 65;: (January 69, 6:79), pp. 6– 4.

“Il piu’ dopoguerra dei registi francesi.” Cinema nuovo (Italy), 4. no. 4 (January 6, 6:A;).“Il pleut toujours le dimanche [Once Upon a Dream]: Le cinéma anglais est au beau fi xe.”

Le parisien libéré 67:: (July :, 6:7:).“Il y a un an mourait Louis Salou.” Le parisien libéré 6A9: (October 44, 6:7:).“L’ île sans nom: La sévère beauté du nord.” Le parisien libéré 4597 (May 4B, 6:A6).“Ils aiment la vie [Kanal].” Cahiers du cinéma no. 84 (June 6:A8), p. ;5.“Ils aiment la vie [Kanal].” Le parisien libéré 745B (March 45, 6:A9).“Ils aiment la vie [Kanal].” France-observateur 765 (March 45, 6:A9).“Ils aiment la vie [Kanal]: L’héroïsme, l’amour et la mort!” Radio-cinéma-télévision 749

(March ;5, 6:A9).“Ils étaient cinq: Ils sont beaucoup.” Le parisien libéré 44:; (January 49, 6:A4).“Ils ne voudront pas me croire [' ey Won’t Believe Me]: Nous non plus.” L’ écran français

4;6 (December A, 6:7:).“Ils ne voudront pas me croire [' ey Won’t Believe Me]: Nous n’y croyons pas non plus.”

Le parisien libéré 6B46 (November ;5, 6:7:).“Impasse maudite [One Way Street]: La coïncidence ne fait pas le destin.” Radio-cinéma-

télévision 94 (August 64, 6:A6).“Impasse maudite [One Way Street]: Destin et passage clouté.” Le parisien libéré 46;9

(July 49, 6:A6).“Les implacables [' e Tall Men]: De l’amour et des vaches!” Le parisien libéré ;A;9 (Jan-

uary 4A, 6:AB).“Les implacables [' e Tall Men]: Le coeur n’y est pas.” Radio-cinéma-télévision ;6B (Feb-

ruary A, 6:AB).“Il importe d’ être constant [' e Importance of Being Earnest]: L’esprit en rose.” Le parisien

libéré 4A97 (January ;, 6:A;).“In memoriam: Jaubert et le cinéma français.” Courrier de l’ étudiant 65 (May 6, 6:7A).

Reprinted in Le cinéma de l’occupation et la résistance. Paris: Union Générale d’Édi-tions, 6:8A.

“Les incertitudes de la fi délité: Le blé en herbe.” Cahiers du cinéma no. ;4 (February 6:A7), pp. ;8– 74, in Le cinéma français de la libération à la nouvelle vague, !"#%– !"%$ (Éditions de l’Étoile [6:9;], 6::9), pp. 7A– A7.

“L’incident Claude Mauriac.” France-observateur 4A (September 49, 6:A5).“L’ inconnu du Nord-Express [Strangers on a Train]: Un train d’enfer.” Le parisien libéré

4489 (January 65, 6:A4). Reprinted in Le cinéma de la cruauté. Paris: Flammarion, 6:8A.

“Les inconnus dans la ville [Violent Saturday]: Équation à plusieurs inconnues.” Le pari-sien libéré ;AB; (February 4;, 6:AB).

“Une incroyable histoire [' e Window]: Incroyable, mais impressionnante.” Le parisien libéré 6B6A (November 44, 6:7:).

“L’Inde remporte le lion d’or avec L’ invaincu [Aparajito].” Le parisien libéré 7576 (Sep-tember :, 6:A8).

“L’ inexorable enquête [Scandal Sheet]: L’assassin était dans la maison.” Le parisien libéré 4B5A (January 49, 6:A;).

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“Information ou nécrophagie.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 759 (November 65, 6:A8).“Initiation au cinéma . . . égyptien.” Le parisien libéré B55 (July 6:, 6:7B).“Insieme fanno meglio.” Cinema nuovo (Italy), ;, no. 78 (December 6, 6:A7).“Les insurgés [We Were Strangers]: Un fi lm insuP sant mais intéressant.” Le parisien li-

béré 6A:9 (November 4, 6:7:).“L’intelligence des objets: La conquête de l’espace [Conquest of Space] and Le cercle infer-

nal [' e Racers].” France-observateur 486 (July 46, 6:AA).“Une interview exclusive de Jean Renoir avant de partir pour les Indes tourner son pro-

chain fi lm.” Le parisien libéré 6B6B (November 4;, 6:7:).“Une interview exclusive; Orson Welles l’ogre des journalistes m’a dit: ‘Macbeth est

mon premier fi lm, les autres n’étaient que des expériences’.” Le parisien libéré 64;7 (September 4, 6:79).

“Intimate Relations, fi lm anglais, n’a pas fait sensation.” Le parisien libéré 4B8; (April 68, 6:A;).

“Intrigues en orient [Background to Danger]: Espions en surplus.” Le parisien libéré 6A;8 (August 4;, 6:7:).

“Introduction à une fi lmologie de la fi lmologie.” Cahiers du cinéma no. A (September 6:A6), pp. ;;– ;:.

“L’ invaincu [Aparajito]: Le premier chef d’oeuvre indien.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 767 (December 44, 6:A8).

“Investigations criminelles [Vice Squad]: La police au jour le jour.” Le parisien libéré 497; (November 7, 6:A;).

“L’ invraisemblable vérité [Beyond a Reasonable Doubt].” Le parisien libéré 75B: (Octo-ber 66, 6:A8).

“L’ invraisemblable vérité [Beyond a Reasonable Doubt]: Un incroyable fi lm.” Radio- cinéma-télévision 75A (October 45, 6:A8).

“Israël et Egypte.” L’esprit 4;, no. 4;; (December 6:AA), p. 6:66L .“Ivan le terrible [Ivan Groznyi] et Jéricho.” Le parisien libéré 7:4 (March 68, 6:7B).“Ivanhoé [Ivanhoe]: Taylorisation de Walter Scott.” Le parisien libéré 4A96 (December ;6,

6:A4).“L’ ivresse et l’amour [Something to Live For]: Qui a bu . . . ne boira plus.” Le parisien li-

béré 4A;; (November A, 6:A4).“Jack l’eventreur [' e Lodger].” Le parisien libéré 8BA (January ;6, 6:78).“J’ai chassé le requin entre deux projections à la semaine du cinéma français de Punta

del Este.” Le parisien libéré ;A9B (March 46, 6:9B).“J’ai vu Fantasia . . .” Le parisien libéré B59 (July 49, 6:7B).“James Dean en question.” France-observateur ;B5 (April 7, 6:A8), pp. 6:– 45.“Jane Eyre.” Le parisien libéré BA7 (September 45, 6:7B).“Le jardin du diable [Garden of Evil]: Cherchez l’or ou cherchez la femme.” Le parisien

libéré ;6BA (November 6A, 6:A7).“Jaubert et le cinéma français.” Courrier de l’ étudiant (May 6:7A), in Le cinéma français

de l’occupation et de la résistance (Union Générale d’éditions, 6:8A), and in Le cinéma français de la libération à la nouvelle vague, !"#%– !"%$ (Éditions de l’Étoile [6:9;], 6::9), pp. ;6;– ;6B.

“Je cherche un criminel [Take My Life]: Honorable mais indiL érent.” L’ écran français 6A: (July 6;, 6:79).

“Je dois tuer [Suddenly]: L’assasin parle trop.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 4BA (February 6;, 6:AA).

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47A ) Bibliography

“Je dois tuer [Suddenly]: Du charme à la mitraillette.” Le parisien libéré ;4;9 (Febru-ary B, 6:AA).

“Je l’ai été trois fois: Appellation contrôlée.” Le parisien libéré 4A;6 (November ;, 6:A4), in Le cinéma français de la libération à la nouvelle vague, !"#%– !"%$ (Éditions de l’Étoile [6:9;], 6::9), pp. 455– 456.

“Je plaide pour Orson Welles [Citizen Kane].” L’ écran français 6;7 (January 45, 6:79).“Je retourne chez maman [' e Marrying Kind].” Le parisien libéré ;975 (January 6A,

6:A8).“Je retourne chez maman [' e Marrying Kind]: :5 minutes de vérité.” Le parisien libéré

4AB9 (December 6B, 6:A4).“Je reviendrai à Kandara.” France-observateur ;A6 (January ;6, 6:A8).“Je reviendrai à Kandara . . . D’accord!” Le parisien libéré ;9A; (January ;5, 6:A8).“Je reviendrai à Kandara: Un policier ambitieux.” Radio-cinéma-télévision ;B: (Febru-

ary 65, 6:A8).“Je sais où je vais [I Know Where I’m Going].” Le parisien libéré 4;4; (March ;, 6:A4).“Je suis un aventurier [' e Far Country]: Le western en or.” Le parisien libéré ;49;

(April 6, 6:AA).“Je suis un évadé [I Am a Fugitive from a Chain Gang].” France-observateur 6:B (Febru-

ary 66, 6:A7), p. 4;.“Je suis un sentimental: Mais encore bagarreur!” Le parisien libéré ;7A9 (October 47,

6:AA).“Je suis un sentimental: Série noire pour rire.” Radio-cinéma-télévision ;56 (October 4;,

6:AA).“Je voudrais bien vous y voir (Cannes).” Cahiers du cinéma no. ;A (May 6:A7), pp. ;9– 74.“Jean de la lune.” Le parisien libéré 6;B7 (February 4, 6:7:).“Jean de la lune: Un très honorable échec qui ne fait pas oublier la première version.”

L’ écran français 699 (February 6, 6:7:).“Jean Gabin et son destin.” Radio-cinéma-télévision ;8 (October 6, 6:A5), in Qu’est-ce

que le cinéma? Vol. ;, Cinéma et sociologie; Troisième partie: Mythes et société (Édi-tions du Cerf, 6:B6), pp. 8:– 94; in Le cinéma français de la libération à la nouvelle vague, !"#%– !"%$ (Éditions de l’Étoile [6:9;], 6::9), pp. 654– 65A.

“Jean Gabin, héros de la tragédie moderne.” Ciné-digest, 6 (April 48, 6:7:), pp. ;8– 76.“Jean-Marc Tennberg.” Radio-cinéma-télévision ;BA (January 6;, 6:A8).“Jean Nohain est-il un humoriste noir?” Radio-cinéma-télévision 6A9 (January 4A, 6:A;).“Jean-Paul Sartre: Vedette du jour au Festival de Cannes.” Le parisien libéré :;7 (Sep-

tember 69, 6:78).“Jean Renoir.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 765 (November 47, 6:A8).“Jean Renoir: Le cinéma sort de l’enfance; il existe désormais un public pour la qua-

lité.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 97 (August 4B, 6:A6).“Jean Renoir a triomphé dans les arènes d’Arles.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 4;B (July 4A,

6:A7).“Jean Renoir prépare un Van Gogh et déclare: J’ai senti monter en moi le désir de

toucher du doigt mon prochain.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 454 (November 4:, 6:A;), pp. 7– A, ;:.

“Jean Renoir retrouvé.” Radio Cinéma Télévision, 84 (February B, 6:A6).“Jean Tourane et ses animaux.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 75; (October B, 6:A8).“Jeanne d’Arc [Joan of Arc]: Fidèle, honnête, émouvant.” Le parisien libéré 6A:6 (Octo-

ber 4A, 6:7:).

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47B ) Bibliography

“Jeannot l’ intrépide: Dessin animé français.” Le parisien libéré 44;: (November 4B, 6:A6).

“Le jeu des pronostics a commence.” Le parisien libéré ;:77 (May 68, 6:A8).“Jeu des pronostics à Knokke prix du meilleur acteur; Jean Marais prix du meilleur

spectateur: Gérard Philipe [La course aux illusions (Molti sogni per le strade); Une in-croyable histoire (' e Window); Voleur de bicyclette (Ladri di biciclette)].” Le parisien libéré 67:9 (July 9, 6:7:).

“Le jeu et la règle.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 74A (March :, 6:A9).“La jeune folle révèle: Une tragedienne.” Le parisien libéré 4A59 (October 8, 6:A4).“Un jeune suédois [Rune Hagberg] qui ne voyage qu’en camionnette a réalisé un fi lm

d’avant-garde avec A55.555Frs.” L’ écran français 67: (May 7, 6:79).“Les jeunes dans le cocotier.” France-observateur :4 (February 67, 6:A4).“Les jeunes ont pris l’ascenseur [Ascenseur pour l’ écha- aud].” L’ éducation nationale 8

(February 6;, 6:A9).“La jeunesse de Chopin: Si jeunesse pouvait . . .” Le parisien libéré 4B4B (February 46,

6:A;).“La jeunesse de Gorki [Moi universitety].” Le parisien libéré 4699 (September 4B, 6:A6).“Jeunesse d’un chef-d’oeuvre [La grande illusion].” Le parisien libéré 7;94 (October 67,

6:A9).“Les jeux étaient faits [Le grand jeu].” France-observateur 45: (May 6;, 6:A7).“Jeux interdits: L’enfance sans mythes.” L’esprit 45, no. 6:8 (December 6:A4), pp. :86–

:8A, in Qu’est-ce que le cinéma? Vol. ;, Cinéma et sociologie; Première partie: L’en-fance sans mythes (Éditions du Cerf, 6:B6), pp. 6A– 46; in Qu’est-ce que le cinéma? (Cerf, 6:8A, rpt. 4555; single-volume version), pp. 458– 46A; in Le cinéma français de la libération à la nouvelle vague, !"#%– !"%$ (Éditions de l’Étoile [6:9;], 6::9), pp. 6A6– 6A9.

“Jeux interdits: Un fi lm admirable où s’allient le réalisme et la poésie.” Le parisien libéré 4;97 (May 67, 6:A4).

“Les Jeux Olympiques de Londres !"#$ [' e Olympic Games of !"#$/XIV Olympiad: ' e Glory of Sport].” Le parisien libéré 6;6B (December 9, 6:79).

“Les jeux sont faits.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 76: (January 4B, 6:A9).“Jezebel [Another Man’s Poison]: La poison.” Le parisien libéré 487: (July 6B, 6:A;).“Jo la romance.” Le parisien libéré 6;99 (March 4, 6:7:).“Jocelyn ou les ennuis de la fi délité.” France-observateur :8 (March 45, 6:A4).“La Joconde: Grand prix du festival du court métrage de Tours.” Le parisien libéré 7658

(November 4A, 6:A8).“Jody et le faon [' e Yearling].” Le parisien libéré 6;A9 (January 4B, 6:7:).“Johnny Belinda.” L’ écran français 454 (May 65, 6:7:).“Johnny Belinda.” Le parisien libéré 67A7 (May 69, 6:7:).“Johnny Guitare: Variation brillante sur quelques notes connues.” Le parisien libéré ;478

(February 69, 6:AA), p. B.“Johnny, roi des gangsters [Johnny Eager].” Le parisien libéré 669A (July 8, 6:79).“Johnny, roi des gangsters [Johnny Eager]: Un bon fi lm de gangsters dans la saine tradi-

tion.” L’ écran français 6A9 (July B, 6:79).“Le jongleur [' e Juggler]: Bien joué.” Le parisien libéré 48;: (July 7, 6:A;).“Le jongleur [' e Juggler]: Bien joué.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 694 (July 64, 6:A;).“Un jour au cirque [At the Circus].” Le parisien libéré 6;A4 (January 6:, 6:7:).“Journal à plusieurs voix.” L’esprit (January 6:78), p. 687.

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478 ) Bibliography

“Journal à plusieurs voix (Signes de la peur).” L’esprit (January 6:A6), p. 88.“Le journal d’un curé de campagne et la stylistique de Robert Bresson.” Cahiers du ci-

néma no. ; (June 6:A6), pp. 8– 46, in Qu’est-ce que le cinéma? Vol. 4, Le cinéma et les autres arts (Éditions du Cerf, 6:A:), pp. ;;– A;; in Qu’est-ce que le cinéma? (Cerf, 6:8A, rpt. 4555; single-volume version), pp. 658– 648.

“Le journal d’une femme de chambre [Diary of a Chambermaid].” Le parisien libéré 66B6 (June :, 6:79).

“Le journal d’une femme de chambre [Diary of a Chambermaid]: Une suite manquée à la Règle du jeu.” L’ écran français 6AA (June 6A, 6:79).

“Le journal télévisé et la pêche au thon en Californie.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 6:A (Oc-tober 66, 6:A;).

“Journée géographique au Festival de Cannes: Avec des fi lms égyptien, australien, hin-dou et bréilien [Vie ou mort, Jedda, et Le petit cireur de souliers].” Le parisien libéré ;;64 (May A, 6:AA).

“Une journée: Jean Renoir au Festival de Venise.” Le parisien libéré :44 (September 7, 6:78).

“Jours d’amour [Giorni d’amore].” France-observateur 4:; (December 44, 6:AA).“La joyeuse prison: Sans barreaux!” Le parisien libéré ;B8B (July A, 6:AB).“Le joyeux barber [Monsieur Beaucaire].” Le parisien libéré 6;75 (January A, 6:7:).“Joyeux débarquement [All Ashore]: Trois de la marine.” Le parisien libéré 49B7 (Novem-

ber 49, 6:A;).“Le jugement dernier.” Le parisien libéré 7;4 (January 6, 6:7A). Reprinted in Le Cinéma de

l’occupation et la résistance. Paris: Union Générale d’Éditions, 6:8A.“Jules César [Julius Caesar]: Rendez à César . . .” Le parisien libéré 49;4 (October 44,

6:A;).“Jules Verne l’emporte avec son Invention diabolique.” Le parisien libéré 7495 (June 6B,

6:A9).“Julietta: Aimable marivaudage.” Le parisien libéré 498B (December 64, 6:A;).“Julietta: La jeune fi lle dans le grenier.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 45A– 45B (December 48,

6:A;).“Juliette ou la clef des songes: Un grand fi lm quand meme.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 84

(February B, 6:A6).“La jungle en folie: Un fi lm comique maudit et clandestine.” Radio-cinéma-télévision

;BB (January 45, 6:A8).“Jupiter [' underhead, Son of Flicka].” Le parisien libéré 6;;7 (December 4:, 6:79).“Jupiter [Jupiter/Douze heures de bonheur].” France-observateur 646 (September 7, 6:A4).“Jupiter [Jupiter/Douze heures de bonheur]: Voyage de la scène à l’écran.” Le parisien li-

béré 4789 (September 4, 6:A4).“La justice des hommes [Talk of the Town] et Un Revenant.” Le parisien libéré B8: (Octo-

ber 69, 6:7B).“Justice est faite.” France-observateur 45A (April 6A, 6:A7).“Key Largo: Une histoire originale de gangsters.” Le parisien libéré 6A;5 (August 6A, 6:7:).“' e Killing de Stanley Kubrick.” France-observateur 756 (January 6B, 6:A9).“Kim: Chevauchées aux Indes.” Le parisien libéré 44A4 (December 66, 6:A6).“Kitty Foyle et On ne meurt pas comme ça.” Le parisien libéré A:7 (November 8, 6:7B).“Koenigsmark: En coproduction!” Le parisien libéré 48A; (July 46, 6:A;).“Kon-Tiki: Le cinéma et l’aventure.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 645 (May 7, 6:A4).“Kon-Tiki, Groënland poésie, et aventure.” Le parisien libéré 4;86 (April 49, 6:A4).

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479 ) Bibliography

“Le Kon-Tiki ou grandeur et servitudes du reportage fi lme.” France-observateur 65; (April ;5, 6:A4).

“Lady Hamilton [' at Hamilton Woman].” Le parisien libéré 7A7 (January 6, 6:7B).“Le laitier de Brooklyn [' e Kid from Brooklyn]: Un fi lm drôle remarquablement réa-

lisé.” Le parisien libéré 6A69 (July ;6, 6:7:).“Le laitier de Brooklyn [' e Kid from Brooklyn]: Le meilleur fi lm de Danny Kaye ou ce

qu’on a vu de plus drôle depuis Helzapoppin’.” L’ écran français 467– 46A (August 9, 6:7:).

“La lance brisée [Broken Lance].” France-observateur 4A6 (March ;, 6:AA).“La lance brisée [Broken Lance]: Un western cornélien.” Le parisien libéré ;4B4 (March 9,

6:AA).“La lance brisée [Broken Lance]: Un western intelligent.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 4B:

(March 6;, 6:AA).“La leçon de style du cinéma japonais.” Arts A57 (March :, 6:AA). Reprinted in Le ci-

néma de la cruauté. Paris: Flammarion, 6:8A.“Leçon japonaise.” Journées de Sens, : (March 6:, 6:AA).“Leonardo da Vinci et Tabu: Cinéma de la grandeur.” Le parisien libéré 4B46 (Febru-

ary 6B, 6:A;).“La lettre [' e Letter] . . . N’est pas recommand.” L’ écran français :9 (May 6;, 6:78).“Lettre de Sibérie.” Le parisien libéré 7;:: (November ;, 6:A9).“Lettre de Sibérie: Chris Marker.” France-observateur 77; (October ;5, 6:A9), in Le ci-

néma français de la libération à la nouvelle vague, !"#%– !"%$ (Éditions de l’Étoile [6:9;], 6::9), pp. 4A8– 4B5.

“Lettre de Sibérie: Un style nouveau; l’essai documenté.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 7B6 (November 6B, 6:A9).

“Liberté surveillée . . . le scénario aussi.” Le parisien libéré 74B8 (May ;6, 6:A9).“Lifeboat: Des hommes dans un bateau.” Radio-cinéma-télévision ;;A (June 68, 6:AB).“Lili: Trois jolis petits tours.” Le parisien libéré 4998 (December 47, 6:A;).“Limelight ou la mort de Molière.” France-observateur no. 6;5 (November 6:A4), in

Qu’est-ce que le cinéma? Vol. ;, Cinéma et sociologie; Troisième partie: Mythes et so-ciété (Éditions du Cerf, 6:B6), pp. 667– 669.

“Un lion d’or aux enchères [Deux sous d’espoir (Due soldi di sperenza) and Oeil pour oeil].” France-observateur ;94 (September A, 6:A8).

“La littérature est-elle un piège pour le cinéma?” Actualité littéraire, ;7 (April 6:A8).“Livre de cinéma [Dieux au cinéma, by Amédée Ayfré].” Cahiers du cinéma no. 4A (July

6:A;), pp. B5– B6.“Livre de cinéma [Hitchcock, by Éric Rohmer and Claude Chabrol].” Cahiers du cinéma

no. 9B (August 6:A9), pp. A:– B4.“Livre de cinéma: Orson Welles chez les Jivaros [Orson Welles le Magnifi que, by Peter

Noble].” Cahiers du cinéma XV, no. 99 (October 6:A9), pp. A8– B6.“Livre de cinéma [Raimu].” Cahiers du cinéma no. : (February 6:A4), p. 84.“Le livre de la jungle [' e Jungle Book].” Le parisien libéré 774 (January 64, 6:7B).“Livres de cinéma.” Le parisien libéré A99 (April 8, 6:7B).“Livres de cinéma.” Le parisien libéré 65A7 (February 7, 6:79).“Livres de cinéma [books by Sammy Berach and by Pierre Artis].” Le parisien libéré

65BB (February 69, 6:79).“Livres de cinéma.” Le parisien libéré 66B6 (June :, 6:79).

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47: ) Bibliography

“Livres de cinéma.” Le parisien libéré 47A7 (March 9, 6:A4).“Livres de cinéma.” France-observateur 6BB (July 6B, 6:A;).“Livres de cinéma.” Le parisien libéré 7564 (August A, 6:A8).“Livres de cinéma.” Le parisien libéré 75;6 (August 49, 6:A8).“Livres de cinéma: La collection septième art.” France-observateur 664 (July 8, 6:A4).“Livres de cinéma: Vittorio de Sica.” Le parisien libéré ;764 (August ;6, 6:AA).“La loi des bagnards [Convicted]: Les mauvais sujets.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 69;

(July 6:, 6:A;).“La loi des bagnards [Convicted]: Travail forcé de la pellicule.” Le parisien libéré 4877

(July 65, 6:A;).“La loi des gangs [' e Steel Jungle]: Dure loi.” Le parisien libéré ;::A (July 6B, 6:A8).“La loi du fouet [Kangaroo]: Un ‘western’ australien.” Le parisien libéré 48A4 (July 45,

6:A;).“La loi du fouet [Kangaroo].” France-observateur 6B9 (July ;5, 6:A;).“La loi du sang [Legge di sangue]: Un mauvais scénario que rachète la vérité des détails.”

Le parisien libéré 6A6A (July 49, 6:7:).“La loi du seigneur [Friendly Persuasion]: Dieu seul reconnaîtra les siens!” Le parisien li-

béré ;:87 (June 46, 6:A8).“La loi du seigneur [Friendly Persuasion]: Grand sujet et pauvres astuces commerciales.”

Radio-cinéma-télévision ;9: (June ;5, 6:A8).“La loi du silence [I Confess]: Une mécanique implacable.” Le parisien libéré 48;8 (July 4,

6:A;). Reprinted in Le cinéma de la cruauté. Paris: Flammarion, 6:8A.“Lola Montès.” L’ éducation nationale 7 (January 4B, 6:AB), pp. 4B– 48.“Lola Montès: Du rococo chez les femmes.” Le parisien libéré ;A66 (December 47, 6:AA).“Le long des trottoirs.” Le parisien libéré ;B7A (May ;5, 6:AB).“La longue misère du court-métrage.” Arts A55 (January 4B, 6:AA).“Longueur d’ondes secrète pour le télécinéma.” Le parisien libéré 74A4 (May 67, 6:A9).“' e Lost Weekend [Le poison].” L’ écran français BB (January 65, 6:7B).“' e Lost Weekend [Le poison]: Le drame de l’alcool.” L’ écran français 9B (February 69,

6:78).“Louis Capet.” France-observateur 4:: (February 4, 6:AB).“Louis Delluc, saint patron de la critique de fi lm.” Le parisien libéré 675B (March 4;,

6:7:).“Louisiana Story aura été la dernière histoire de Robert Flaherty.” Le parisien libéré 46;A

(July 4A, 6:A6).“Les loups chassent la nuit . . . braconnage.” Le parisien libéré 4;57 (February :, 6:A4).“Lourdes et Hollywood: Le chant de Bernadette [' e Song of Bernadette].” Le parisien li-

béré 95: (April 4;, 6:78).“Lourdes et ses miracles.” France-observateur 49: (November 47, 6:AA).“Lourdes et ses miracles: Un fi lm de Georges Rouquier.” Le parisien libéré ;79; (Novem-

ber 44, 6:AA).“Luchino Visconti.” Le parisien libéré (September A, 6:AB).“Luchino Visconti [Ossessione].” Radio-cinéma-télévision 65B (January 48, 6:A4).“Lucrèce Borgia.” France-observateur 694 (November A, 6:A;).“Lucrèce Borgia: Lucrèce chérie.” Le parisien libéré 4975 (October ;6, 6:A;).“Le lys de Brooklyn [A Tree Grows in Brooklyn].” Le parisien libéré 6495 (October 4B,

6:79).

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4A5 ) Bibliography

“‘M.’ le maudit [M].” Radio-cinéma-télévision 665 (February 47, 6:A4).“‘M.’ le maudit [M]: ‘Remade’ in Hollywood.” Le parisien libéré 4;5: (February 6A,

6:A4).“Macadam.” Le parisien libéré 86B (November 4:, 6:7B).“Madame de . . .: Un fi lm à particule.” Le parisien libéré 4959 (September 47, 6:A;).“Madame Du Barry: La mère de Caroline Chérie.” Le parisien libéré ;679 (October 4B,

6:A7).“Mademoiselle gagne-tout [Pat and Mike]: ‘Des reliefs d’ortolans’.” Le parisien libéré

4B95 (April 4A, 6:A;).“Mademoiselle gagne-tout [Pat and Mike] et Métroscopix: Refl et creux et plat de résis-

tance.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 686 (April 4B, 6:A;).“Mademoiselle Julie [Fröken Julie]: Un fi lm étrange et bouleversant.” Le parisien libéré

4644 (September 8, 6:A6).“La madone gitane [Torch Song]: Festival Crawford.” Le parisien libéré ;;79 (June 68,

6:AA).“Le magicien d’Oz [' e Wizard of Oz].” Le parisien libéré A94 (June 49, 6:7B).“' e Magnifi cent Ambersons.” Le parisien libéré 85B (November 68, 6:7B).“La main au collet [To Catch a ' ief ].” France-observateur 4:7 (December 4:, 6:AA). Re-

printed in Le cinéma de la cruauté. Paris: Flammarion, 6:8A.“La main au collet [To Catch a ' ief ]: Chat! C’est toi!” Le parisien libéré ;A6; (Decem-

ber 48, 6:AA).“La main au collet [To Catch a ' ief ]: Ou la griL e du chat.” Radio-cinéma-télévision ;64

(January 9, 6:AB).“La maison Bonnadieu.” Cahiers du cinéma no. 9 (January 6:A4), p. 86.“La maison Bonnadieu: À quoi rêvent les scénaristes.” Le parisien libéré 447B (Decem-

ber 7, 6:A6).“La maison dans l’ombre [On Dangerous Ground]: Des lueurs!” Radio-cinéma-télévision

64: (May 8, 6:A4).“La maison dans l’ombre [On Dangerous Ground]: Police et complexes.” Le parisien li-

béré 476: (June 67, 6:A4).“La maison de l’ange [La casa del angel].” France-observateur ;98 (October 65, 6:A8).“Maison de bambou [House of Bamboo]: Al Capone à Tokyo.” Le parisien libéré ;AA4

(February 65, 6:AB).“Maison de bambou [House of Bamboo]: Le troisième homme à Tokio.” Radio-cinéma-

télévision ;69 (February 6:, 6:AB).“La maison de la ")ème rue [' e House on ")nd Street]: Une histoire d’espionnage quel-

conque mais un bon documentaire.” L’ écran français B: (October 4;, 6:7B).“La maison du Docteur Edwardes [Spellbound].” Le parisien libéré 6654 (March ;6,

6:79).“La maison du silence: Du bruit pour rien.” Le parisien libéré 4B:B (May 6A, 6:A;).“La maison rouge [' e Red House].” Le parisien libéré 9:: (August 8, 6:78).“La maison sur la colline [' e House on Telegraph Hill]: Dans le doute, abstiens-toi.”

Radio- cinéma-télévision 659 (February 65, 6:A4).“La maison sur la colline [' e House on Telegraph Hill]: Est une maison hantée.” Le pari-

sien libéré 44:B (January ;6, 6:A4).“La maison sur la plage [Female on the Beach]: Le martyre de Joan.” Le parisien libéré

;;9; (July 49, 6:AA).“Maîtres de ballets [' e Dancing Masters].” Le parisien libéré 6;;7 (December 4:, 6:79).

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4A6 ) Bibliography

“Maitre de l’humour plus que de l’angoisse: Alfred Hitchcock tourne en France avec Cary Grant.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 4;A (July 69, 6:A7).

“Le maître de la prairie [' e Sea of Grass].” Le parisien libéré 659; (March :, 6:79).“Les maîtres de la mer et À toi ma charmante [Rules of the Sea and You Were Never Love-

lier].” Le parisien libéré 4B; (June 45, 6:7A).“Les maîtres fous.” France-observateur ;9: (October 47, 6:A8), in Le cinéma français

de la libération à la nouvelle vague, !"#%– !"%$ (Éditions de l’Étoile [6:9;], 6::9), pp. 4B7– 4B8.

“Les maîtres fous: Les dieux que nous donnons aux noirs.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 758 (November 6, 6:A8).

“Le major galopant [' e Galloping Major]: Un bon cheval.” Le parisien libéré 44:A (Jan-uary ;5, 6:A4).

“Malombra.” Le parisien libéré 65BB (February 69, 6:79).“Malraux indésirable.” France-observateur 76B (May 4, 6:A9).“Malva.” Cahiers du cinéma no. 8A (October 6:A8).“Maman est à la plage [Let’s Dance]: Un mariage de raison.” Le parisien libéré 445A (Oc-

tober 6B, 6:A6).“Mam’zelle Mitraillette [' e Beautiful Blonde from Bashful Bend]: Une irrésistible paro-

die de Western.” Le parisien libéré 6B54 (November 8, 6:7:).“La mandragore: Une fi lle sans joie.” Le parisien libéré 4:5A (January 67, 6:A7).“Mandy, un fi lm par instants sublime.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 6B; (March 6, 6:A;).“Mandy: Lorsque l’enfant paraît.” Le parisien libéré 4B47 (February 6:, 6:A;).“Manon.” Le parisien libéré 6;:7 (March :, 6:7:).“Manon.” Le parisien libéré 6755 (March 6B, 6:7:).“Manon: Grand prix probable du Festival de Venise.” Le parisien libéré 6A7B (Septem-

ber 4, 6:7:).“Manon des sources.” France-observateur 674 (January 4:, 6:A;).“Manon des sources: Roman fl euve.” Le parisien libéré 4A:: (January 46, 6:A;).“Le manteau [Il cappotto].” France-observateur 45; (April 6, 6:A7).“Le manteau . . . Enfi n! [Il cappotto].” Le parisien libéré 4:B6 (March 45, 6:A7).“Marcel Armand: La consolation du voyageur.” L’esprit 45, no. 6:4 (July 6:A4).“Marcelin, pain et vin [Marcelino, pan y vino]: Miracle au couvent.” Le parisien libéré

;;;; (May ;6, 6:AA).“Margie.” Le parisien libéré 667; (May 6:, 6:79).“Marguerite de la nuit: Diable! Diable!” Le parisien libéré ;A;7 (January 45, 6:AB).“Le mariage est une a- aire privée [Marriage Is a Private A- air].” Le parisien libéré 6;49

(December 44, 6:79).“Marie Antoinette a ouvert le Festival de Cannes; le triste destin de la reine de France

n’a pas égayé la soirée inaugurale.” Le parisien libéré ;B6A (April 47, 6:AB).“La Marie du port.” L’ écran français 466 (July 66, 6:7:).“Marie la misère et Boule de suif.” Le parisien libéré ;85 (October 44, 6:7A). Reprinted

in Le cinéma de l’occupation et la résistance. Paris: Union Générale d’Éditions, 6:8A.“Marie-Louise.” Le parisien libéré 7:7 (March 45, 6:7B).“La mariée du dimanche [June Bride]: Retour à la comédie fi lmée classique.” Le parisien

libéré 6A9: (October 44, 6:7:).“La mariée est-elle trop belle? [Les belles de nuit]: Un grand fi lm de René Clair.” Radio-

cinéma-télévision 67: (November 4;, 6:A4), in Le cinéma français de la libération à la nouvelle vague, !"#%– !"%$ (Éditions de l’Étoile [6:9;], 6::9), pp. 6;5– 6;;.

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4A4 ) Bibliography

“La marionnette n’était pas belle.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 67B (November 4, 6:A4).“Martin Roumagnac.” Le parisien libéré 876 (December 48, 6:7B).“Le masque arraché [Sudden Fear]: Beaux masques!” Le parisien libéré 4B55 (January 4,

6:A;).“Le masque de Dimitrios [' e Mask of Dimitrios]: Retour au pays de la peur.” Le parisien

libéré 4A:7 (January 6A, 6:A;).“Massacre en cinémascope: L’escroquerie de l’écran panoramique.” Arts A4A (July 45,

6:AA).“Mauvaise Ann [La cage aux souris].” Radio-cinéma-télévision 49: (July ;6, 6:AA).“Les mauvaises rencontres: Au colisée.” Action, ;4 (December 4B, 6:AA).“Les mauvaises rencontres . . . mais de bonnes ambitions.” Le parisien libéré ;7BA (Octo-

ber ;6, 6:AA), in Le cinéma français de la libération à la nouvelle vague, !"#%– !"%$ (Édi-tions de l’Étoile [6:9;], 6::9), pp. 478– 47:.

“Les mauvaises rencontres: Mieux qu’un roman.” Radio-cinéma-télévision ;5; (Novem-ber B, 6:AA).

“Le médecin de Stalingrad [Der Arzt von Stalingrad].” Le parisien libéré 7;79 (Septem-ber 7, 6:A9).

“Méfi ez-vous fi llettes: Interdit aux petits garçons.” Le parisien libéré ;:9: (July :, 6:A8).“Le meilleur acteur du Festival de Venise sera-t-il un gamin de sept ans?” Le parisien li-

béré 48:6 (September 7, 6:A;).“Le meilleur fi lm: Italien Chronique des pauvres amants [Cronache di poveri amanti].”

Radio-cinéma-télévision 444 (April 69, 6:A7).“La meilleure part: Des fourmis et des hommes.” Le parisien libéré ;A:8 (April ;,

6:AB).“Mélo et choeur antique [La fi lle en noir (To Koritsi me ta maura)].” Cahiers du cinéma

no. B9 (February 6:A8), p. A6.“Un mélo musical: La chanson du passé [Penny Serenade].” Le parisien libéré 8A; (Janu-

ary 68, 6:78).“Mélodie du sud [Song of the South]: Un tour de force quelque fois ennuyeux.” Le pari-

sien libéré 6B7A (December 49, 6:7:).“Même les assassins tremblent [Split Second]: Fission et fi ction.” Le parisien libéré 494B

(October 6A, 6:A;).“Même les assassins tremblent [Split Second]: Il y a de quoi.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 6:8

(October 4A, 6:A;).“Le mendiant de minuit [Dios se lo pague]: ‘Mélo d’un autre hémisphère’.” Le parisien li-

béré 4766 (June B, 6:A4).“La mère du marié [' e Mating Season]: La fête des belles-mères.” Le parisien libéré 47;6

(July 8, 6:A4).“Il mestiero di critico Bruxelles.” Cinema nuovo (Italy), 8, no. 6;7 (July 6:A9).“Métroscopix.” France-observateur 6A7 (April 4;, 6:A;).“Le metteur en scène Max Ophüls est mort: Une perte cruelle pour le cinéma.” Le pari-

sien libéré ;:56 (March 48, 6:A8).“Meurtre à l’aube [A Window in London]: Un Mélo mais le vrai visage de Londres.”

L’ écran français :5 (March 69, 6:78).“Meurtre à crédit et La fl eur de pierre [Kamennyj cvetok].” Le parisien libéré 9AB (June 69,

6:78).“Meurtres à responsabilité limitée [Chicago Syndicate]: Et comptabilité en partie

double.” Le parisien libéré ;775 (October ;, 6:AA).

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“Meurtres sur la !&ème avenue [Slaughter on Tenth Avenue].” Le parisien libéré 7698 (Feb-ruary 4B, 6:A9).

“Meurtres sur la !&ème avenue [Slaughter on Tenth Avenue].” Radio-cinéma-télévision 74A (March :, 6:A9).

“Les meurtriers sont parmi nous/Les assassins sont parmi nous [Die Mörder sind unter uns].” Le parisien libéré 66B; (June 66, 6:79).

“Michel Strogo- : Toujours courrier du tsar!” Le parisien libéré ;94; (December 4B, 6:AB).“Midi gare centrale [Union Station]: Train de banlieue.” Le parisien libéré 44A5 (Decem-

ber 9, 6:A6).“Miettes.” Cahiers du cinéma no. 97 (June 6:A9), p. ;6.“Un million clefs en main [Mr. Blandings Builds His Dream House].” Le parisien libéré

6;99 (March 4, 6:7:).“Mina de Vanghel: Géométrie dramatique à trois dimensions.” Radio-cinéma-télévision

6BB (March 44, 6:A;).“Mina . . . trop Beyle [Mina de Vanghel].” Cahiers du cinéma no. 46 (March 6:A;),

pp. AA– A9.“Minuit . . . quai de Bercy: L’heure du crime.” Le parisien libéré 485A (May 4B, 6:A;).“Miracle à Milan [Miracolo a Milano]: Cinéma, poésie, justice et charité.” Radio-

cinéma-télévision :9 (December 4, 6:A6).“Miracle au village [' e Miracle of Morgan’s Creek].” Le parisien libéré 6;8B (February 6B,

6:7:).“Miracle au village [' e Miracle of Morgan’s Creek]: Preston Sturges ou l’anti-Capra.”

L’ écran français 6:6 (February 44, 6:7:). Reprinted in Le cinéma de la cruauté. Paris: Flammarion, 6:8A.

“Le miracle de la (#e rue [Miracle on (#th Street].” Le parisien libéré 6;5A (November 4A, 6:79).

“Les miracles n’ont lieu qu’une fois: Un beau fi lm désenchanté.” Le parisien libéré 4596 (May 4;, 6:A6).

“Les misérables.” Le parisien libéré 7456 (March 67, 6:A9).“Les misérables.” L’ éducation nationale 6; (March 48, 6:A9).“Misère, servitude et grandeur de la critique de fi lm.” Revue internationale du cinéma, 4

(January 6:79), pp. 68– 45.“Mises au point.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 75; (October B, 6:A8).“Mission à Tanger: Don Juan s’est fait espion.” Le parisien libéré 6A5B (July 69, 6:7:).“La mission du commandant Lex [Springfi eld Rifl e]: Western et contre-espionnage.” Le

parisien liberé, 49A4 (November 67, 6:A;).“Mission périlleuse [Dangerous Mission]: Quand les fauves sont en liberté.” Le parisien li-

béré ;474 (February 64, 6:AA).“Moby Dick.” L’ éducation nationale ;A (December 6;, 6:AB).“Une moderne épopée: ' e Overlanders.” Le parisien libéré :B: (October 4:, 6:78).“Moderne épopée: Le western refl ète un moment de l’histoire américaine.” Radio-

cinéma-télévision 45: (January 68, 6:A7).“Le moineau de la Tamise [' e Mudlark]: Petite cause et grands eL ets.” Le parisien libéré

4;5B (February 64, 6:A4).“Un mois Alfred Hitchcock [Lifeboat].” France-observateur ;69 (June 67, 6:AB). Partially

reprinted in Le cinéma de la cruauté. Paris: Flammarion, 6:8A.“Le môme boule de gömme [' e Lemon Drop Kid].” Le parisien libéré 4;77 (March 48,

6:A4).

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“Mon amour t’appelle: On peut répondre.” Le parisien libéré 48;9 (July ;, 6:A;).“Mon oncle a dégelé le festival.” France-observateur 769 (May 6A, 6:A9).“Mon oncle est-il réactionnaire?” Radio-cinéma-télévision 7;9 (June 9, 6:A9).“Mon passé défendu [My Forbidden Past]: Mauvais sang ne peut mentir.” Le parisien li-

béré 4757 (May B, 6:A4).“Mon père et nous [Life with Father]: Une délicieuse comédie fi lmée.” Le parisien libéré

6B5: (November 6A, 6:7:).“Mon propre bourreau [Mine Own Executioner].” Le parisien libéré 668; (June 4;, 6:79).“Le monde des animaux [' e Animal World]: Les bêtes restent quand même intelli-

gentes.” Radio-cinéma-télévision ;8; (March 65, 6:A8).“Le monde du silence.” France-observateur ;5; (March 6, 6:AB), in Qu’est-ce que le cinéma?

Vol. 6, Ontologie et langage (Éditions du Cerf, 6:A9), pp. A:– B7; in Qu’est-ce que le ci-néma? (Cerf, 6:8A, rpt. 4555; single-volume version), pp. ;A– 75.

“Le monde du silence: À quoi révent les poissons?” Le parisien libéré ;AA9 (February 68, 6:AB).

“Le monde du silence: Icare sous-marin.” Radio-cinéma-télévision ;6: (February 4B, 6:AB).

“Le monde est comme ça, De Sica [Il mondo vuole così]: Un Chaplin italien.” Le parisien libéré 6A48 (August 66, 6:7:).

“Le monde est comme ça [Il ondo vuole così]: un excellent scénario gâché par le metteur en scène et sauvé par l’acteur.” L’ écran français 46B (August 44, 6:7:).

“Le monde lui appartient [' e World in His Arms]: Façon de parler.” Le parisien libéré 4B6A (February :, 6:A;).

“Monseigneur: Bernard Blier, roi de France.” Le parisien libéré 6B75 (December 44, 6:7:).

“Monsieur Fabre: La fourmi trahie.” Le parisien libéré 46:9 (October 9, 6:A6).“Monsieur Henri.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 74B (March 6B, 6:A9).“Monsieur Puntila et son valet Matti [Herr Puntila und sein Knecht Matti].” France-

observateur ;:5 (October ;6, 6:A8).“Monsieur Puntila et son valet Matti [Herr Puntila und sein Knecht Matti].” Le parisien

libéré 7598 (November 6, 6:A8).“Monsieur Ripos avec ou sans Némésis [Monsieur Ripois]: Des romans et des fi lms.”

L’esprit 44, no. 468– 469 (August-September 6:A7), pp. ;6;– ;46, in Qu’est-ce que le ci-néma? Vol. 4, Le cinéma et les autres arts (Éditions du Cerf, 6:A:), pp. AA– B8; in Le cinéma français de la libération à la nouvelle vague, !"#%– !"%$ (Éditions de l’Étoile [6:9;], 6::9), pp. 6A9– 685.

“Monsieur Verdoux.” D.O.C. éducation populaire 79, no. B (6:79).“Monsieur Verdoux.” L’esprit 67; (February 6:79), p. 4:8.“Monsieur Verdoux: Le martyre de Charlot.” Le parisien libéré 65;A (January 67, 6:79).“Monsieur Verdoux, ou le martyre de Charlot.” L’ écran français 6;6 (December ;5, 6:78).

Reprinted in Charlie Chaplin. Paris: Éditions du Cerf, 6:8;.“Monsieur Vincent: Le paradis pour Anouilh et Fresnay, l’absolution pour Maurice

Cloche.” L’ écran français 64; (November 7, 6:78).“Le monstre vient de la mer [It Came from Beneath the Sea]: Qu’ il y retourne!” Le parisien

libéré ;B79 (June 4, 6:AB).“Montage interdit,” from Cahiers du cinéma articles in 6:A; and in 6:AB, in Qu’est-ce

que le cinéma? Vol. 6, Ontologie et langage (Éditions du Cerf, 6:A9), pp. 668– 64:; in Qu’est-ce que le cinéma? (Cerf, 6:8A, rpt. 4555; single-volume version), pp. 7:– B6.

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< e two articles referred to are “Le réel et l’imaginaire [Crin Blanc],” Cahiers du ci-néma no. 4A (July 6:A;), pp. A4– AA, and “Montage interdit [Le ballon rouge; Une fée pas comme les autres],” Cahiers du cinéma XI, no. BA (December 6:AB), pp. ;4– 76.

“La montagne rouge [Red Mountain]: Altitude moyenne.” Le parisien libéré 4B58 (Janu-ary 45, 6:A;).

“La montée au ciel [Subida al cielo]: Un admirable rêve.” France-observateur 645 (Au-gust 49, 6:A4). Reprinted in Le cinéma de la cruauté. Paris: Flammarion, 6:8A.

“La montée au ciel [Subida al cielo]: Quelques pas dans les nuages.” Le parisien libéré 4785 (August 4;, 6:A4).

“Montparnasse !".” Le parisien libéré 7444 (April 9, 6:A9), in Le cinéma français de la li-bération à la nouvelle vague, !"#%– !"%$ (Éditions de l’Étoile [6:9;], 6::9), pp. 8;– 8A.

“Montparnasse !".” France-observateur 76; (April 65, 6:A9).“Montparnasse !".” L’ éducation nationale 68 (May 9, 6:A9).“Morne veille de clôture au Festival de Cannes [Frontière invisible; ' e Hidden Room/

Obsession].” Le parisien libéré 6AA9 (September 6B, 6:7:).“La mort à l’écran.” L’esprit 68, no. 6A: (September 6:7:), pp. 776– 77;.“La mort accuse [Night Beat]: Mauvais réquisitoire.” Le parisien libéré 464: (July 69, 6:A6).“La mort d’un commis voyageur [Death of a Salesman]: Un fi lm bien sombre et parfois

bien lourd.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 6BA (March 6A, 6:A;).“Mort d’un cyclist [Muerte de un ciclista], Les Mauvaises rencontres, et French Cancan.”

L’esprit 4;, no. 4;; (December 6:AA), pp. 6:58– 6:65.“Mort d’Humphrey Bogart.” Cahiers du cinéma XII, no. B9 (February 6:A8), pp. 4– 9, in

Qu’est-ce que le cinéma? Vol. ;, Cinéma et sociologie; Troisième partie: Mythes et so-ciété (Éditions du Cerf, 6:B6), pp. 9;– 99.

“Mort d’un scénariste.” Le parisien libéré 746A (March ;6, 6:A9).“Mort du documentaire reconstitué: L’aventure sans retour [Scott of the Antarctic].”

France-observateur 65B (May 44, 6:A4).“La mort en ce jardin de Luis Buñuel.” Le parisien libéré ;878 (September 48, 6:AB). Re-

printed in Le cinéma de la cruauté. Paris: Flammarion, 6:8A.“Mort ou vif.” Le parisien libéré 6584 (February 4A, 6:79).“Mort tous les après-midi [La course aux taureaux].” Cahiers du cinéma no. 8 (Decem-

ber 6:A6), pp. B;– BA, in Qu’est-ce que le cinéma? Vol. 6, Ontologie et langage (Éditions du Cerf, 6:A9), pp. BA– 85; in Le cinéma français de la libération à la nouvelle vague, !"#%– !"%$ (Éditions de l’Étoile [6:9;], 6::9), pp. ;B8– ;8;.

“Mouche! [Trois femmes, trois âmes/Trois femmes].” Cahiers du cinéma no. 6A (Septem-ber 6:A4), pp. 6;– 6:.

“Le Moulin du Pô [Il Mulino del Pô].” Le parisien libéré 45;B (March ;5, 6:A6).“Moulin Rouge.” Le parisien libéré 4988 (December 67, 6:A;).“Le mouvement des ciné-clubs en France depuis la libération.” D.O.C. éducation popu-

laire 79, no. 8 (January 6:78).“Mr. Lucky.” Le parisien libéré 66;B (May 66, 6:79).“Mrs. Miniver et Rome, ville ouverte [Roma, città aperta].” Le parisien libéré 857 (No-

vember 6A, 6:7B).“Le mur invisible [Gentleman’s Agreement].” Le parisien libéré 64A8 (September 4:, 6:79).“La muraille d’or [Foxfi re]: Attention aux apaches!” Le parisien libéré ;A45 (January 7,

6:AB).“Un musée des ombres: Magie blanche, magie noire.” L’ écran français 694 (Decem-

ber 46, 6:79).

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“Mutinerie à bord [Mutiny]: Abordage diP cile.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 6A; (Decem-ber 46, 6:A4).

“Mutinerie à bord [Mutiny]: La mutinerie ne paie pas.” Le parisien libéré 4AB7 (Decem-ber 66, 6:A4).

“Le mystère Picasso [' e Picasso Mystery].” France-observateur ;6; (May 65, 6:AB), in Le cinéma français de la libération à la nouvelle vague, !"#%– !"%$ (Éditions de l’Étoile [6:9;], 6::9), pp. 695– 694.

“Le mystère Picasso [' e Picasso Mystery].” L’ éducation nationale 45 (May ;6, 6:AB).“Le mythe de M. Verdoux.” Revue du cinéma no. : (January 6:78), pp. ;– 4A, in Qu’est-ce

que le cinéma? Vol. ;, Cinéma et sociologie; Troisième partie: Mythes et société (Édi-tions du Cerf, 6:B6), pp. 9:– 66;. Reprinted in Charlie Chaplin. Paris: Éditions du Cerf, 6:8;.

“Le mythe du cinéma total et les origines du cinématographe.” Critique, B (November 6:7B), in Qu’est-ce que le cinéma? Vol. 6, Ontologie et langage (Éditions du Cerf, 6:A9), pp. 46– 4B; in Qu’est-ce que le cinéma? (Cerf, 6:8A, rpt. 4555; single-volume version), pp. 6:– 47.

“Naïs.” Le parisien libéré 75A (November ;5, 6:7A).“Naissance de la couleur: Le fl euve de Jean Renoir.” Le parisien libéré 44B4 (Decem-

ber 46, 6:A6).“Naples cruelle [L’or de Naples (L’oro di Napoli)].” Cahiers du cinéma VIII, no. 78 (May

6:AA), p. 76, and VIII, no. 79 (June 6:AA), pp. 78– A4, in Qu’est-ce que le cinéma? Vol. 7, Une esthétique de la réalité: Le néo-réalisme (Éditions du Cerf, 6:B4), pp. 657– 666.

“Naples millionnaire [Napoli milionaria].” Le parisien libéré 4646 (August 8, 6:A6).“Napoléon d’Abel Gance.” France-observateur 4A4 (March 65, 6:AA), p. ;5.“Napoléon de Sacha Guitry.” France-observateur 4AA (March ;6, 6:AA).“Napoléon . . . vous est conté.” Le parisien libéré ;48: (March 48, 6:AA), in Le cinéma

français de la libération à la nouvelle vague, !"#%– !"%$ (Éditions de l’Étoile [6:9;], 6::9), pp. 454– 457.

“Nathalie.” Le parisien libéré 764A (December 6B, 6:A8).“Naufrage sans espoir.” L’ information universitaire no. 668: (February A, 6:77).“Le navire en feu et Zéro de conduite.” Le parisien libéré ;:: (November 4;, 6:7A).“Ne poussez pas la boule S.V.P.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 6B9 (April A, 6:A;).“Ne tirez pas sur le critique.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 6A6 (December 8, 6:A4).“La neige en deuil [' e Mountain]: Neiges californiennes!” Le parisien libéré ;9AB (Feb-

ruary 4, 6:A8).“La neige était sale: Voyage au bout de la nuit.” Le parisien libéré 4:A5 (March 9, 6:A7).“Les neiges du Kilimandjaro [' e Snows of Kilimanjaro]: Mais où sont les neiges d’an-

tan?” Le parisien libéré 4B9: (May 8, 6:A;).“Neiges sanglantes [S.V.D.—Soyuz velikogo dela].” Le parisien libéré 64B; (October B,

6:79).“Néo-réalisme et ‘reportage à thèse’.” France-observateur 65: (November B, 6:A4).“Néo-réalisme, opéra et propagande [Le Christ interdit (Il Cristo proibito)].” Cahiers du

cinéma no. 7 (July– August 6:A6), pp. 7B– A6.“Le néo-réalisme se retourne [Amore in città].” Cahiers du cinéma XII, no. B: (March

6:A8), pp 77– 7B, in Qu’est-ce que le cinéma? Vol. 7, Une esthétique de la réalité: Le néo-réalisme (Éditions du Cerf, 6:B4).

“Nettoyage par le vide [' e Long Wait]: Meurtres en série noire.” Le parisien libéré ;6B9 (November 69, 6:A7).

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4A8 ) Bibliography

“New Mexico: Peaux rouges en couleurs.” Le parisien libéré 47B7 (August 6B, 6:A4).“New York Confi dential: Quand me tues-tu?” Le parisien libéré ;;8: (July 4;, 6:AA).“Niagara: Une belle chute.” Le parisien libéré 48:: (September 67, 6:A;).“Noblesse de Renoir [La règle du jeu].” L’esprit 4;B (March 6:AB).“Noces de sable.” Le parisien libéré 6779 (May 66, 6:7:).“Noël au camp !!" [Natale al campe !!"].” Le parisien libéré 6774 (May 7, 6:7:).“Nos enfants auront-ils leur cinéma?” Le parisien libéré 876 (December 48, 6:7B).“Nos metteurs en scène: Jacques Becker.” Le parisien libéré 886 (February 8, 6:78).“Nos metteurs en scène Jacques Feyder.” Le parisien libéré 8BA (January ;6, 6:78).“Nos metteurs en scène: Jean Renoir.” Le parisien libéré 8A: (January 47, 6:78).“Nos metteurs en scène: Marcel Carné.” Le parisien libéré 878 (January 65, 6:78).“Nos metteurs en scène: René Clair.” Le parisien libéré 8A; (January 68, 6:78).“Note [La maison Bonnadieu].” Cahiers du cinéma no. 9 (January 6:A6).“Notes en cours d’expérience.” Bulletin d’IDHEC, September 6:7B.“Notes sur Cannes 6:A7 [M. Ripois; Chronique des pauvres amants (Cronache di poveri

amanti); La porte de l’enfer (Jigoku-mon)].” Cahiers du cinéma no. ;7 (April 6:A7), pp. ;5– ;8.

“Notes sur d’autres fi lms: Les crabes de la colère [Les Bâteaux de l’enfer].” Cahiers du ci-néma no. B: (March 6:A8).

“Notes sur d’autres fi lms: Gags et fantaisie [Fortunella].” Cahiers du cinéma no. 9: (No-vember 6:A9), p. B4.

“Notes sur d’autres fi lms: Hélas! [Notre-Dame de Paris].” Cahiers du cinéma no. B8 (January 6:A8).

“Notes sur trois fi lms [Les demi-sel et ' e Solid Gold Cadillac].” France-observateur ;A5 (January 47, 6:A8).

“Notorious.” L’ écran français BB (January 65, 6:7B).“Notre-Dame de Paris: Une église sans pierre.” Radio-cinéma-télévision ;B7 (January B,

6:A8).“N’oubliez pas le texte S. V. P.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 44A (May :, 6:A7).“Nous autres chevaliers de l’avant-garde.” Combat, 6ABA (July 6B, 6:7:).“Nous avons gagné ce soir [' e Set-Up].” L’esprit 6B7 (February 6:A5).“Nous avons gagné ce soir [' e Set-Up]: Enfi n un vrai fi lm de boxe!” Le parisien libéré

6A94 (October 67, 6:7:).“Nous n’aimons plus le cinéma [Les vacances de M. Hulot].” Journées de Toulon, 7

(March 65, 6:A7).“Nous ne sommes pas seuls [We Are Not Alone].” Le parisien libéré A7B (May 6:, 6:7B).“Nous sommes tous des assassins: Où il est prouvé que la guillotine ne paie pas.” Le pari-

sien libéré 4;:4 (May 4;, 6:A4).“Le nouveau fi lm de Marcel Carné: ' érèse Raquin; des personnages et des mythes.”

France-observateur 69; (November 64, 6:A;).“Un nouveau metteur en scène: Roger Vadim.” L’ éducation nationale 4; (June 45,

6:A8).“Un nouveau stade du cinéma en relief: Le relief en equations.” Radio-cinéma-télévision

6;6 (July 45, 6:A4).“Le nouveau style américain: Le cinéma est il majeur? [L’ombre d’un doute (Shadow of a

Doubt); Et la vie continue (' e Human Comedy); Le gros lot (Christmas in July); La vi-père (' e Little Foxes)].” L’ écran français B5 (August 46, 6:7B). Reprinted in Cahiers du cinéma no. B;8 (4559), p. 87.

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4A9 ) Bibliography

“Un nouveau temps de l’art cinématographique.” L’ écran français 6;7 (January 45, 6:79).

“Une nuit à l’opéra [A Night at the Opera]: Une reprise qui se tient.” Le parisien libéré 466B (February 8, 6:A6).

“La nuit des forains [Gyclarnas Afton]: Méditation cruelle sur l’amour.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 758 (November 6, 6:A8).

“La nuit est mon royaume.” Le parisien libéré 4449 (November 64, 6:A6).“La nuit est mon royaume: Gabin fi dèle à lui-même et pourtant nouveau.” Radio-

cinéma-télévision :B (November 69, 6:A6).“Nuit et brouillard.” L’ éducation nationale B (February :, 6:AB), in Le cinéma fran-

çais de la libération à la nouvelle vague, !"#%– !"%$ (Éditions de l’Étoile [6:9;], 6::9), pp. 4B6– 4B;.

“La nuit fantastique.” L’ information universitaire no. 66:; (May 45, 6:77).“Les nuits de Cabiria [Le notti di Cabiria].” L’ éducation nationale 49 (October 47, 6:A8).“Les nuits de Cabiria [Le notti di Cabiria]: L’herbe folle de l’espérance.” Le parisien libéré

758; (October 6B, 6:A8).“Ô saisons! Ô châteaux!: Un très beau court-métrage d’Agnès Varda.” Le parisien libéré

7479 (May :, 6:A9).“Obsessions [Flesh and Fantasy/Six Destinies].” Le parisien libéré B;5 (August 4;, 6:7B).“O’cangaceiro: Un fi lm sauvage.” Le parisien libéré 495B (September 44, 6:A;).“O’cangaceiro: Original, violent, cruel.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 6:; (September 48,

6:A;).“Occupe-toi d’Amélie.” Le parisien libéré 6B;B (December 68, 6:7:).“L’odyssée du capitaine Stève [Walk into Paradise]: Bien du chemin pour rien.” Radio-

cinéma-télévision ;7; (August 64, 6:AB).“L’odyssée du capitaine Steve [Walk into Paradise]: Quelle histoire!” Le parisien libéré

;855 (August 4, 6:AB).“Oeil pour oeil.” France-observateur ;97 (September 6:, 6:A8), in Le cinéma français

de la libération à la nouvelle vague, !"#%– !"%$ (Éditions de l’Étoile [6:9;], 6::9), pp. 64A– 64:.

“Oeil pour oeil: L’éternel mari.” Le parisien libéré 7578 (September 6B, 6:A8).“Une oeuvre de valeur: La mort d’un cycliste [Muerte de un ciclista] de l’espagnol Bar-

dem.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 495 (May 4:, 6:AA).“L’oeuvre d’Orson Welles.” Cahiers du cinéma XV, no. 98 (September 6:A9), pp. ;B– A6.“Un oeuvre magistrale [Le salaire de la peur].” Le parisien libéré 4B98 (May 7, 6:A;), in

Le cinéma français de la libération à la nouvelle vague, !"#%– !"%$ (Éditions de l’Étoile [6:9;], 6::9), pp. 687– 688.

“L’ogre en proie à l’enfance.” St. Cinéma des prés, ; (January 6:7:). Reprinted in Or-son Welles. Paris: Éditions du Cerf, 6:84. Reprinted again in L’Avant-Scène Cinéma, no. 494– 49; (February 6A– March 6, 6:94), pp. 98– 99.

“Oh! Quel mercredi [Mad Wednesday]: Un lion devenu vieux.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 86 (May 48, 6:A6).

“Oh! Quel mercredi [Mad Wednesday] . . . Mais oui! C’est ‘lui’.” Le parisien libéré 4587 (May 6A, 6:A6). Reprinted in Le cinéma de la cruauté. Paris: Flammarion, 6:8A.

“O.K. Néron [O.K. Nérone].” Le parisien libéré 4;8: (May 9, 6:A4).“Okasan [La Okasan-mère]: Le néo-réalisme japonais.” Le parisien libéré ;6:5 (Decem-

ber 67, 6:A7).“Oliveira [Manoel de].” Cahiers du cinéma no. 8A (October 6:A8).

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4A: ) Bibliography

“Oliver Twist.” Le parisien libéré 648A (October 45, 6:79).“Los olvidados.” L’esprit 45, no. 69B (January 6:A6), pp. 9A– 9:, in Qu’est-ce que le cinéma?

Vol. ;, Cinéma et sociologie; Première partie: L’enfance sans mythes (Éditions du Cerf, 6:B6), pp. 44– 49. Reprinted in Le cinéma de la cruauté. Paris: Flammarion, 6:8A.

“Los olvidados: Un chef d’oeuvre.” Le parisien libéré 44;B (November 44, 6:A6).“L’ombre de l’ introuvable [Shadow of the ' in Man]: Un couple classique dans une co-

médie traditionnelle.” Le parisien libéré 6A6; (July 4B, 6:7:).“L’ombre d’un doute [Shadow of a Doubt].” L’ écran français 67 (October ;, 6:7A). Reprin-

ted in Le cinéma de la cruauté. Paris: Flammarion, 6:8A.“L’ombre d’un doute [Shadow of a Doubt].” Le parisien libéré ;B8 (October 6:, 6:7A). Par-

tially reprinted in Le cinéma de la cruauté. Paris: Flammarion, 6:8A.“L’ombre d’un homme [' e Browning Version]: Cet âge est sans pitié.” Le parisien libéré

46B7 (August 4:, 6:A6).“L’ombre d’un homme [' e Browning Version]: L’irremplaçable cinéma anglais.” Radio-

cinéma-télévision 9A (September 4, 6:A6).“Ombres sur le cinéma italien.” France-observateur 48A (August 69, 6:AA).“On a volé une dimension.” France-observateur 448 (September 6B, 6:A7).“On demande un assassin: Trop de Fernandel.” Le parisien libéré 6A:4 (October 4B, 6:7:).“On ne meurt pas comme ça.” L’ écran français A7 (September 8, 6:7B).“Ontologie de l’image photographique.” Problèmes de la peinture (6:7A), in Qu’est-ce que

le cinéma? Vol. 6, Ontologie et langage (Éditions du Cerf, 6:A9), pp. 66– 6:; in Qu’est-ce que le cinéma? (Cerf, 6:8A, rpt. 4555; single-volume version), pp. :– 68.

“Ontologie de l’image photographique.” Confl uences, January 6, 6:7A.“Onze heures sonnaient [Roma ore undici].” France-observateur 64: (October ;5, 6:A4).“Onze heures sonnaient [Roma ore undici].” Radio-cinéma-télévision 67B (November 4,

6:A4).“Onze heures sonnaient [Roma ore undici]: Faits divers à Rome.” Le parisien libéré 4A4B

(October 49, 6:A4).“L’opinione di Bazin [L’ invaincu (Aparajito)].” Cinema nuovo (Italy), B, no. 667– 66A

(September 6A, 6:A8).“L’or de Naples [L’oro di Napoli].” France-observateur 4B7 (June 4, 6:AA).“L’or de Naples [L’oro di Napoli]: 69 carats!” Le parisien libéré ;;47 (May 6:, 6:AA).“L’orchidée blanche [' e Other Love].” Le parisien libéré 66:: (July 4;, 6:79).“Ordet [La parole].” L’ éducation nationale 68 (May 65, 6:AB).“Ordet [La parole] de Carl Dreyer.” France-observateur 4:A (January A, 6:AB).“Ordet [La parole]: Un grand fi lm de Carl-< eodor Dreyer; sublime!” Radio-cinéma-

télévision ;6; (January 6A, 6:AB).“Ordet [La parole]: Sublime!” Le parisien libéré ;A6A (December 4:, 6:AA).“Orgueil et passion [' e Pride and the Passion].” Le parisien libéré 7669 (December 8,

6:A8).“Orgueil et passion [' e Pride and the Passion].” France-observateur ;:8 (December 6:,

6:A8).“Les orgueilleux: Des beautés incertaines.” Le parisien libéré 49B8 (December 4, 6:A;).“Ornières de la sociologie [Ten North Frederick].” Cahiers du cinéma XV, no. 99 (Octo-

ber 6:A9), pp. A4– A7.“Orson Welles: Un ogre en proie à l’enfance.” Ciné-digest, : (January :, 6:A5). Re-

printed in Orson Welles. Paris: Éditions du Cerf, 6:84.

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4B5 ) Bibliography

“Othello: Welles pas maure!” Le parisien libéré 47:A (September 44, 6:A4).“Où en est le cinéma français? Ce sont les fi lms de qualité qu’il convient d’aider en

priorité.” Le parisien libéré ;6B8 (November 68, 6:A7).“Où en est le cinéma français? Censure et précensure.” Le parisien libéré ;6B6 (Novem-

ber 65, 6:A7).“Où l’acteur vaut mieux que son fi lm: Miroir et La lettre [' e Letter].” Le parisien libéré

94B (May 67, 6:78).“Où en sont les ciné-clubs?” Le parisien libéré A99 (April 8, 6:7B).“Un oubli regrettable: Un petit carrousel de fête; une autre révélation: Pather Panchali;

un fi lm intéressant: Othello.” Radio-cinéma-télévision ;;6 (May 45, 6:AB).“Ouragan sur le ‘Caine’ [' e Caine Mutiny]: Un navire et des hommes.” Le parisien li-

béré ;649 (October ;, 6:A7).“Ouragan sur le ‘Caine’ [' e Caine Mutiny], ou tempête dans une conscience.” France-

observateur 4;6 (October 67, 6:A7).“' e Outlaw [Le banni]: La meilleure femme ne vaut pas un bon cheval.” Revue du ci-

néma 6B (August 6:79), pp. BB– 86, in Qu’est-ce que le cinéma? Vol. ;, Cinéma et so-ciologie; Deuxième partie: Erotisme (Éditions du Cerf, 6:B6), pp. A6– AB. Reprinted in Plaquette de l’Écran du Séminaire des Arts (Bruxelles: Palais des Beaux-Arts, No-vember 6, 6:B5).

“Pages galantes de Boccace [Decameron Nights]: Une gageure.” Le parisien libéré ;6A9 (No-vember B, 6:A7).

“Pain, amour et jalousie [Pane, amore e gelosia].” France-observateur 4A; (March 68, 6:AA).“Pain, amour et jalousie [Pane, amore e gelosia]: Mangeons de ce pain-là?” Le parisien li-

béré ;4B8 (March 67, 6:AA).“Pain, amour et jalousie [Pane, amore e gelosia], on en remangerait!” Radio-cinéma-

télévision 485 (March 45, 6:AA).“Le pain vivant.” France-observateur 478 (February ;, 6:AA).“Le pain vivant: Nous laisse sur notre faim.” Le parisien libéré ;4;B (February A, 6:AA).“Paisà de Rossellini.” D.O.C. éducation populaire 78, no. 4– ; (6:78).“Le palmarès du Festival de Cannes.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 48: (May 44, 6:AA).“Un palmarès ridicule conclut un festival excellent.” Radio-cinéma-télévision ;9A

(June 4, 6:A8).“Palmarès triomphal pour la France au Festival de Cannes.” Le parisien libéré ;B4:

(May 66, 6:AB).“Palmarès venitiens.” Cahiers du cinéma XI, no. B; (October 6:AB), pp. 4– 7.“Palmarès venitiens.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 756 (September 44, 6:A8).“Paméla et À toi ma charmante [You Were Never Lovelier].” Le parisien libéré 476

(May 4A, 6:7A).“Pan dans la lune [El moderno Barba Azul]: Le fantôme du génie de Buster Keaton.”

L’ écran français 6:8 (April A, 6:7:).“Pandora [Pandora and the Flying Dutchman]: Assez beau pour être vrai.” Le parisien li-

béré 469B (September 47, 6:A6).“Panique: Rentrée de Julien Duvivier.” Le parisien libéré 8AB (January 46, 6:78).“Panorama de la saison passée.” L’ information universitaire no. 66B7 (October 4;,

6:7;).“Panorama du nouveau cinéma d’animation.” France-observateur ;68 (June 8, 6:AB).“Panoramique sur Alfred Hitchcock.” L’ écran français 4;9 (January 4;, 6:A5). Reprinted

in Le cinéma de la cruauté. Paris: Flammarion, 6:8A.

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4B6 ) Bibliography

“Panoramique sur le festival: Après la victoire de Hamlet et de l’Angleterre à Venise.” Le parisien libéré 64;9 (September 8, 6:79).

“Papa, maman, ma femme et moi; quatre et quatre: huit!” Le parisien libéré ;A48 (Janu-ary 64, 6:AB).

“Pâques sanglantes [Non c’ é pace tra gli ulivi]: Le berger et le loup.” Le parisien libéré 486B (June 9, 6:A;).

“Par la fenêtre.” Le parisien libéré 65A7 (February 7, 6:79).“Parade du temps perdu/Les casse-pieds.” Le parisien libéré 6;66 (December 4, 6:79).“Le paradis des hommes [L’ultimo paradiso].” France-observateur 75B (February 45, 6:A9),

in Qu’est-ce que le cinéma? Vol. 6, Ontologie et langage (Éditions du Cerf, 6:A9), pp. AA– A8.

“Le paradis des hommes [L’ultimo paradiso].” L’ éducation nationale : (February 4A, 6:A9).“Le paradis des mauvais garçons [Macao]: Purgatoire d’un metteur en scène.” Le parisien

libéré 47:B (September 4;, 6:A4).“Les parents terribles.” Le parisien libéré 6;65 (December 6, 6:79). Reprinted in Cahiers

du cinéma no. ;78 (May 6:9;), pp. AB– A9.“Le parfum de la dame en noir: Un fi lm agréable et capiteux.” Le parisien libéré 6A8:

(October 66, 6:7:).“Paris est toujours Paris [Parigi è sempre Parigi]: Un italien à Paris.” Radio-cinéma-

télévision 6A4 (December 67, 6:A4).“Paris !"&&.” Le parisien libéré 6589 (March ;, 6:79).“Paris possède le plus beau musée de cinéma du monde.” Le parisien libéré 6;;5 (De-

cember 47, 6:79).“Le parisien libéré (Inchiesta a Parigi sul fi lm italiano).” Cinema nuovo, A, no. 95

(April 65, 6:AB).“La parole du rire: Que la sauce est mauvaise.” L’ écran français 677 (March ;5, 6:79).“La parole est aux animaux: Réfl exions sur le commentaire à la télévision.” Radio-

cinéma-télévision ;:4 (July 46, 6:A8).“La part de l’ombre.” Le parisien libéré 769 (December 6A, 6:7A).“La participation soviétique a donné le ton à la première semaine du Festival de Venise

mais Les orgueilleux de Yves Allégret ont été bien accueillis.” Le parisien libéré 4898 (August ;6, 6:A;).

“Pas de fossé entre un cinéma de l’élite et un cinéma populaire.” Radio-cinéma- télévision 645 (May 7, 6:A4), and 647 (June 6, 6:A4).

“Pas d’orchidées pour Miss Blandish [No Orchids for Miss Blandish].” Le parisien libéré 6;A9 (January 4B, 6:7:).

“Pas de scénario pour M. Hulot [Les vacances de Monsieur Hulot].” L’esprit 457 (July 6:A;),

in Qu’est-ce que le cinéma? Vol. 6, Ontologie et langage (Éditions du Cerf, 6:A9), pp. 65:– 66B; in Qu’est-ce que le cinéma? (Cerf, 6:8A, rpt. 4555; single-volume version), pp. 76– 79.

“Pas de surprise à Cannes: Un fi lm estimable mais lent La mère d’après Gorky.” Le pa-risien libéré ;B4A (May 8, 6:AB).

“La passagère: Du roman feuilleton mais un couple ideal.” Le parisien libéré 6B5; (No-vember 9, 6:7:).

“Les passagers de la nuit [Dark Passage].” Le parisien libéré 66:6 (July 67, 6:79).“Passeport pour Pimlico [Passport to Pimlico]: Un chef-d’oeuvre.” L’ écran français 4;4

(December 64, 6:7:).

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4B4 ) Bibliography

“La passion de Jeanne d’Arc: Ames et visages.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 664 (March :, 6:A4). Reprinted in Le cinéma de la cruauté. Paris: Flammarion, 6:8A.

“Passion immortelle [Song of Love].” Le parisien libéré 66:8 (July 46, 6:79).“Passions juvéniles: Japonais.” Le parisien libéré 74;A (April 4;, 6:A9).“Pastiche et postiche ou le néant pour une moustache [sur Le dictateur (' e Great Dic-

tator)].” L’esprit 66B (November 6:7A); reprinted in modifi ed form in Qu’est-ce que le cinéma? Vol. 6, Ontologie et langage (Éditions du Cerf, 6:A9), pp. :6– :A.

“Pastiches ou grossières parodies?” Radio-cinéma-télévision 67: (November 4;, 6:A4).“Patrie.” Le parisien libéré B9A (October 4A, 6:7B). Reprinted in Le cinéma de l’occupation

et la résistance. Paris: Union Générale d’Éditions, 6:8A.“Pattes blanches.” Le parisien libéré 6747 (April 6;, 6:7:).“Pavé de bonnes intentions: L’ évadé de l’enfer [Angel on My Shoulder].” Le parisien libéré

:B: (October 4:, 6:78).“Le pays de la haine [Drango].” Le parisien libéré ;:98 (July B, 6:A8).“Le pays de la haine [Drango]: Bonnes intentions.” Radio-cinéma-télévision ;:6 (July 67,

6:A8).“Le pays d’où je viens.” Radio-cinéma-télévision ;AA (November 7, 6:AB).“Le pays d’où je viens: Carné . . . de notes!” Le parisien libéré ;884 (October 4B, 6:AB).“Le pays sans étoiles.” Le parisien libéré A6: (April 69, 6:7B).“Le paysage au cinéma.” D.O.C. éducation populaire 7:, no. ;B (6:7:).“Les paysans noirs.” Le parisien libéré 6779 (May 66, 6:7:).“La peau d’un autre [Pete Kelly’s Blues].” France-observateur ;45 (June 49, 6:AB).“La peau d’un autre [Pete Kelly’s Blues]: L’infl uence d’Orson Welles.” Radio-cinéma-

télévision ;;8 (July 6, 6:AB).“La peau d’un autre [Pete Kelly’s Blues]: Trompette et racket.” Le parisien libéré ;BB8

(June 4A, 6:AB).“Peinture et cinéma,” in Qu’est-ce que le cinéma? Vol. 4, Le cinéma et les autres arts (Édi-

tions du Cerf, 6:A:), pp. 648– 6;4; in Qu’est-ce que le cinéma? (Cerf, 6:8A, rpt. 4555; single-volume version), pp. 698– 6:4.

“La peinture par un trou de serrure.” Arts ;75 (January 7, 6:A4); as part of “Peinture et cinéma,” in Qu’est-ce que le cinéma? Vol. 4, Le cinéma et les autres arts (Éditions du Cerf, 6:A:); in Qu’est-ce que le cinéma? (Cerf, 6:8A, rpt. 4555; single-volume version), pp. 698– 6:4.

“Pendant quatre jours Tours sera la Mecque du fi lm de court métrage.” Le parisien li-béré 7657 (November 46, 6:A8).

“Pendant que la marine anglaise prête main forte au cinéma britannique un fi lm in-dien surprend agréablement la critique.” Le parisien libéré ;76B (September A, 6:AA).

“Le père de mademoiselle.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 69A (August 4, 6:A;).“Le père de mademoiselle: Drôle de famille!” Le parisien libéré 48A8 (July 4A, 6:A;).“Le père Serge.” Le parisien libéré 794 (March B, 6:7B).“Le père tranquille.” Le parisien libéré B88 (October 6B, 6:7B).“La perfi de [Harriet Craig]: Méfi ez-vous des femmes et du fi lm.” Radio-cinéma- télévision

65A (January 45, 6:A4).“La perfi de [Harriet Craig]: Supplément à l’éternel féminin.” Le parisien libéré 448A

(January 8, 6:A4).“Les périls de Perri [Perri].” Cahiers du cinéma XIV, no. 9; (May 6:A9), pp. A5– A;.“La perla.” Le parisien libéré 67;5 (April 45, 6:7:).“Peter Pan: Laissez venir à moi . . .” Le parisien libéré 49:6 (December 4:, 6:A;).

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4B; ) Bibliography

“Petit bilan de Télé-Paris.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 75: (November 68, 6:A8).“Petit bilan optimiste à la mi-temps du festival.” Le parisien libéré 6AAA (September 6;,

6:7:).“Un petit carrousel de fête.” Le parisien libéré ;B68 (April 4B, 6:AB).“Un petit carrousel de fête: Entrez dans la ronde.” Le parisien libéré ;8A7 (October A,

6:AB).“Petit compliment à la télévision française.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 769 (January 6:,

6:A9).“Petit dictionnaire pour Venise 6:A;: Généralités marges; néo-réalisme.” Cahiers du ci-

néma no. 48 (October 6:A;), pp. 65– 6;, 69– 45.“Petit écran deviendra grand?” Radio-cinéma-télévision 455 (November 6A, 6:A;).“Le petit fugitive [' e Little Fugitive].” France-observateur 6:5 (December ;6, 6:A;).“Le petit fugitive [' e Little Fugitive]: Ira loin.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 458 (January ;,

6:A7).“Le petit fugitive [' e Little Fugitive]: Lorsque l’enfant paraît.” Le parisien libéré 499A

(December 44, 6:A;).“Le petit garçon perdu [Little Boy Lost]: Attendrissant.” Le parisien libéré ;6;9 (Octo-

ber 67, 6:A7).“Petit journal de cinéma.” Cahiers du cinéma IX, A5 (August-September 6:AA).“Petit journal de cinéma.” Cahiers du cinéma X, no. AB (February 6:AB), p. ;7.“Petit journal du cinéma.” Cahiers du cinéma no. 8A (September 6:A8), p. 78.“Petit journal du cinéma.” Cahiers du cinéma no. 8B (October 6:A8), p. 75.“Petit journal du cinéma: Cinémathèque Française.” Cahiers du cinéma no. 88 (No-

vember 6:A8), p. 7;.“Petit journal du cinéma: Mort de Max Dalban.” Cahiers du cinéma no. 9; (May 6:A9),

p. ;:.“Petit journal du cinéma: Perles américaines.” Cahiers du cinéma no. 9; (May 6:A9),

p. ;:.“Petit journal du cinéma: Les potins du compère.” Cahiers du cinéma no. 9; (May 6:A9),

p. 76.“Petit journal du cinéma: La vente des collettes.” Cahiers du cinéma no. 98 (September

6:A9), p. A5.“Petit journal du cinéma: Vivre [Ikiru].” Cahiers du cinéma no. B: (March 6:A8). Re-

printed in Le cinéma de la cruauté. Paris: Flammarion, 6:8A.“Petit journal intime du cinéma.” Cahiers du cinéma IX, no. 7: (July 6:AA), p. ;A.“Petit journal intime du cinéma.” Cahiers du cinéma IX, no. A5 (July– August 6:AA),

pp. ;A– ;9.“Petit journal intime du cinéma.” Cahiers du cinéma IX, no. A6 (October 6:AA), p. ;B.“Petit journal intime du cinéma.” Cahiers du cinéma XII, no. B: (March 6:A8),

pp. ;B– ;8.“Petit journal intime du cinéma: À propos de la réponse de Robert Bresson.” Cahiers du

cinéma no. B9 (February 6:A8), p. ;B.“Petit journal intime du cinéma (vu de Tourrettes-sur Loup): Le fl euve et Les dernières

vacances.” Cahiers du cinéma no. ;9 (August 6:A7), pp. ;B– 75.“Petit journal intime du cinéma: Un préjugé qui me coûtait cher [Le journal d’une

femme de chambre].” Cahiers du cinéma no. B4 (August 6:AB), p. ;A.“Le petit monde de Don Camillo [Don Camillo]: Il faut de tout pour faire un monde.” Le

parisien libéré 475B (August B, 6:A4).

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“Petite alerte au journal télévise.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 6A7 (December 49, 6:A4).“Petite cause, grands eL ets: La pratique du permanent est-elle cause de l’évolution du

fi lm policier américain?” Radio-cinéma-télévision 4B8 (February 48, 6:AA).“Petite école du spectateur.” Le parisien libéré B;5 (August 4;, 6:7B).“Petite école du spectateur: L’acteur.” Le parisien libéré 86B (November 4:, 6:7B).“Petite école du spectateur: L’acteur.” Le parisien libéré 844 (December B, 6:7B).“Petite école du spectateur: Actualité le scandale de La dernière chance.” Le parisien li-

béré 857 (November 6A, 6:7B).“Petite école du spectateur; conclusion: Quel est l’auteur du fi lm?” Le parisien libéré 84:

(December 6;, 6:7B).“Petite école du spectateur: Le décorateur.” Le parisien libéré 865 (November 44, 6:7B).“Petite école du spectateur: Le metteur en scène . . . dans son bureau.” Le parisien libéré

B9A (October 4A, 6:7B).“Petite école du spectateur: Le metteur en scène dans les studios.” Le parisien libéré B:6

(November 6, 6:7B).“Petite école du spectateur: L’opérateur.” Le parisien libéré B:8 (November 9, 6:7B).“Petite école du spectateur: Le producteur.” Le parisien libéré B;B (August ;5, 6:7B).“Petite école du spectateur: Scénario et adaptation de . . .” Le parisien libéré B79 (De-

cember :, 6:7B).“Petite école du spectateur: Zoologie du producteur.” Le parisien libéré B74 (Septem-

ber B, 6:7B).“La p’tite Lili.” Cahiers du cinéma no. 89 (December 6:A8). Reprinted in Jean Renoir. Pa-

ris: Éditions Champ Libre, 6:86.“La petite maison de thé [Teahouse of the August Moon].” Le parisien libéré 75AA (Septem-

ber 4A, 6:A8).“La petite marchande d’allumettes.” Cahiers du cinéma no. 89 (December 6:A8). Re-

printed in Jean Renoir. Paris: Éditions Champ Libre, 6:86. Reprinted again in Ca-hiers du cinéma no. 794 (July– August 6::7), p. 79.

“Petite revue des fi lms.” Cahiers du cinéma no. 6; (June 6:A4).“Un peu tard (place de Cinérama).” Cahiers du cinéma VIII, no. 79 (June 6:AA),

pp. 7A– 78.“La peur [La paura]: Lucidité cruelle.” Radio-cinéma-télévision ;75 (July 44, 6:AB).“La peur [La paura] de Roberto Rossellini.” France-observateur ;44 (July 64, 6:AB).“Peur en tout genre: Fantomas et L’a- aire Macomber [' e Macomber A- air].” Le parisien

libéré :96 (November 64, 6:78).“Peut-on être policier?” France-observateur 666 (June 4B, 6:74).“Peut-on s’intéresser au cinéma?” Bulletin intérieur de la Maison des Lettres (Decem-

ber 6:74).“Picasso, Clouzot et la metamorphose [Le mystère Picasso (' e Picasso Mystery)].” France-

observateur ;6A (May 47, 6:AB).“Le Picasso de Clouzot et un fi lm suédois sont favoris: Grâce à Clouzot il n’y a plus de

Mystère Picasso [' e Picasso Mystery].” Le parisien libéré ;B44 (May ;, 6:AB).“Une pièce d’Oscar Wilde à l’écran: ' e Importance of Being Earnest.” France-

observateur 6;: (January 9, 6:A;).“Piédalu à Paris: Le ‘français’ tel qu’on le parle.” Le parisien libéré 4458 (October 69,

6:A6).“Les pieds Nickelés.” Le parisien libéré 668: (June ;5, 6:79).

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4BA ) Bibliography

“Pieds-plats [Un homme change son destin (' e Stratton Story)].” Le parisien libéré 6774 (May 7, 6:7:).

“Les Pieds-plats [Un homme change son destin (' e Stratton Story)]: Quand les dieux du dimanche jouent au base-ball.” L’ écran français 456 (May ;, 6:7:).

“Le piège.” France-observateur 74B (July ;, 6:A9).“Le piège: Un mécanisme éprouvé.” Le parisien libéré 7;56 (July 65, 6:A9).“Pierre le grand [Pyotr Pervyy].” France-observateur 67; (February A, 6:A;).“Pierre le grand [Pyotr Pervyy]: Un grand fi lm.” Le parisien libéré 4B5: (February 4,

6:A;).“Pierre le grand [Pyotr Pervyy]: Toujours aussi grand.” Le parisien libéré 48:9 (Septem-

ber 64, 6:A;).“La pierre philosophale [Parash Pather]: Un fi lm indien déraciné.” Le parisien libéré 7478

(May 9, 6:A9).“Pinocchio.” Le parisien libéré AAA (May ;5, 6:7B).“Le pire n’est pas toujours sûr: L’amour mène la danse et Fanfan la Tulipe.” France-

observateur :9 (March 48, 6:A4).“Pitié pour les animaux.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 447 (May 4, 6:A7).“Un pitre au pensionnat [You’re Never Too Young]: Pile ou face.” Le parisien libéré ;9;4

(January A, 6:A8).“Pittsburgh, l’ange bleu en ange gardien.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 8; (September B,

6:A6).“Pittsburgh: Bonne et mauvaise mine.” Le parisien libéré 459B (May 4:, 6:A6).“Une place au soleil [A Place in the Sun]: Soleil noir.” Le parisien libéré 4;B7 (April 6:,

6:A4).“Place au théâtre: Surtout quand il convient admirablement à la télévision.” Radio-

cinéma-télévision 6:: (November 9, 6:A;).“Plaidoyer pour un festival.” Le parisien libéré 744; (April :, 6:A9).“Plaidoyer pour Orvet.” France-observateur 4AA (March ;6, 6:AA).“Plaidoyer pour les vedettes: Les portes de la nuit.” Radio-cinéma-télévision ;A (Septem-

ber 68, 6:A5).“Le plaisir de Max Ophüls.” France-observateur :A (March B, 6:A4).“Le plaisir . . . Pas trop n’en faut.” Le parisien libéré 4;49 (March 9, 6:A4).“Les plaisirs de l’enfer” [Peyton Place].” Le parisien libéré 76:8 (March 65, 6:A9).“Les plaisirs de l’enfer” [Peyton Place].” France-observateur 75: (March 6;, 6:A9).“Les plaisirs de l’enfer” [Peyton Place].” Radio-cinéma-télévision 748 (March 4;, 6:A9).“Plan américain.” Le parisien libéré 9;9 (May 49, 6:78).“Le plan de Mr. Louvel.” France-observateur :; (February 46, 6:A4).“La plus belle des vies: L’Afrique nous parle!” Le parisien libéré ;8:7 (November 44, 6:AB).“Les plus belles années de notre vie [' e Best Years of Our Lives]: Appasionata.” Le parisien

libéré :A6 (October 9, 6:78).“Les plus belles années de notre vie [' e Best Years of Our Lives] et le fi lm social améri-

cain.” L’ écran français 66: (October 8, 6:78), pp. 8, 64.“Le plus grand fi lm de résistance du monde: Paisà.” Le parisien libéré :7A (October 6,

6:78).“La plus jolie fi lle du monde: Pourrait donner davantage!” Le parisien libéré 444A (No-

vember 9, 6:A6).“La pocharde: Arsenic et vieilles fi celles.” Le parisien libéré 4857 (May 4A, 6:A;).

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4BB ) Bibliography

“Une poignée de neige [A Hatful of Rain].” Le parisien libéré 766: (December :, 6:A8).“Le point de vue du juré.” Radio-cinéma-télévision ;7: (September 4;, 6:AB).“Le point de vue du juré.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 76; (December 6A, 6:A8).“La pointe courte recompense.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 4:5 (August 8, 6:AA).“La poison: Un nouveau Guitry?” Le parisien libéré 4479 (December B, 6:A6), in Le ci-

néma français de la libération à la nouvelle vague, !"#%– !"%$ (Éditions de l’Étoile [6:9;], 6::9), pp. 6::– 455.

“La poison, Sacha sans lui.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 655 (December 6B, 6:A6).“La police est photog [La dernière rafale (' e Street with No Name)].” Le parisien libéré

6A5: (July 46, 6:7:).“Police internationale [Pickup Alley]: Stupéfi ant et touristique.” Le parisien libéré ;:B9

(June 67, 6:A8).“Le ‘policier’ mène à tout: Crossfi re et Quai des orfèvres.” Le parisien libéré :A8 (Octo-

ber 6A, 6:78).“Port Afrique: Qui a tué?” Le parisien libéré 7554 (July 47, 6:A8).“La porte de l’enfer [Jigoku-mon].” France-observateur 46B (July 6, 6:A7).“La porte de l’enfer [Jigoku-mon].” L’esprit 44, no. 468– 469 (August– September 6:A7),

pp. 48B– 489.“Porte des lilas.” France-observateur ;9B (October ;, 6:A8), in Le cinéma français de la li-

bération à la nouvelle vague, !"#%– !"%$ (Éditions de l’Étoile [6:9;], 6::9), pp. 6;9– 674.“Porte des lilas.” L’ éducation nationale 4B (October 65, 6:A8).“Une porte entr’ouverte: Les Secrets de Walt Disney [' e Reluctant Dragon].” L’ écran

français 665– 666 (August A, 6:78).“Les portes de la nuit . . . ou la nuit ne porte pas conseil.” Le parisien libéré 844 (Decem-

ber B, 6:7B).“Portrait d’un assassin: Un bon cadre.” L’ écran français 4;5 (November 49, 6:7:).“Portrait d’un assassin: La vie du cirque.” Le parisien libéré 6B6: (November 49, 6:7:).“Portrait d’Auguste Renoir [French Can-Can; Une partie de campagne; Le crime de

Monsieur Lange; Moulin Rouge; Le carrosse d’or].” Cahiers du cinéma VIII, no. 78 (May 6:AA), pp. ;A– ;9.

“Le portrait de son père: Trop ressemblant!” Le parisien libéré 4:65 (January 6:, 6:A7).“Position critique: Défense de l’adaptation,” a one-page introduction by Bazin to two

articles, “Pour un cinéma impur,” noted below, and “Le cinéma comme digeste,” noted above, in the collection of essays “Cinéma et roman: éléments d’apprécia-tion,” Revue des lettres modernes no. ;B– ;9 (Summer 6:A9), p. 6:A.

“Les possédées: La vérité est au fond du puits.” Le parisien libéré ;BA; (June 9, 6:AB).“Postface au Festival de Knokke.” L’ écran français 464 (July 69, 6:7:), pp. ;, 64.“La poupée de chair [Baby Doll]: Un feu dans le cotton.” Le parisien libéré ;9;5 (Janu-

ary ;, 6:A8), p. B.“Pour les amateurs de western: Le passage du canyon [Canyon Passage].” Le parisien libéré

6A:8 (November 6, 6:7:).“Pour les ardentes amours de ma jeunesse [För min heta ungdoms skull]: Eh bien! Déchan-

tez maintenant!” Radio-cinéma-télévision 6:: (November 9, 6:A;).“Pour les ardentes amours de ma jeunesse [För min heta ungdoms skull]: Etre et avoir . . .”

Le parisien libéré 49;8 (October 49, 6:A;).“Pour bien servir le théâtre, la télévision doit apprendre la modestie.” Radio-cinéma-

télévision 466 (January ;6, 6:A7).“Pour un bilan.” Cinéma %*, 69 (May 6:A8).

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4B8 ) Bibliography

“Pour un cinéma impur: Défense de l’adaptation,” extract from Cinéma: un oeil ouvert sur le monde (Lausanne: Guilde du Livre, 6:A4), in Qu’est-ce que le cinéma? Vol. 4, Le cinéma et les autres arts (Éditions du Cerf, 6:A:), pp. 8– ;4; in Qu’est-ce que le ci-néma? (Cerf, 6:8A, rpt. 4555; single-volume version), pp. 96– 65B. A portion of this piece, representing approximately more than a third of the text, appears in the col-lection of essays “Cinéma et roman: elements d’appréciation,” Revue des lettres mo-dernes no. ;B– ;9 (Summer 6:A9), pp. 6:B– 456.

“Pour contribuer à une érotologie de la télévision.” Cahiers du cinéma no. 74 (Decem-ber 6:A7), pp. 4;– 4B, 87– 8B.

“Pour une critique cinématographique.” L’Écho des étudiants, no. 6A6 (December 69, 6:7;), in Le cinéma de l’occupation et de la résistance (Union Générale d’éditions, 6:8A), and in Le cinéma français de la libération à la nouvelle vague, !"#%– !"%$ (Édi-tions de l’Étoile [6:9;], 6::9), pp. 49;– 4:B.

“Pour une critique cinématographique (suite et fi n).” L’ écho des étudiants, no. 6A4 (Janu-ary 6:77). Reprinted in Le cinéma de l’occupation et de la résistance. Paris: Union Gé-nérale d’éditions, 6:8A.

“Pour en fi nir avec la profondeur de champ.” Cahiers du cinéma no. 6 (April 6:A6), pp. 68– 4;. Reprinted in in Qu’est-ce que le cinéma? Vol. 6, Ontologie et langage (Édi-tions du Cerf, 6:A9).

“Pour une esthétique réaliste.” L’ information universitaire no. 66B9 (November B, 6:7;).“Le pour et le contre (Orson Welles).” Cahiers du cinéma no. 7 (July– August 6:A6),

pp. 7B– A6.“Pour favoriser les fi lms de qualité il faut modifi er la loi d’aide au cinéma.” Radio-

cinéma-télévision B7 (July 7, 6:A6).“Pour un festival de l’intelligence.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 687 (May 68, 6:A;).“Pour un festival à trois dimensions [Cannes 6:A;].” Cahiers du cinéma no. 4; (May

6:A;), pp. A– 6A.“Pour le meilleur et pour le pire ou le sot l’y laisse.” Radio-cinéma-télévision ;5B (No-

vember 48, 6:AA), pp. 74– 7;.“Le pour ou contre: Dix minutes de cinéma.” Cahiers du cinéma no. 7 (July 6:A6).“Le pour ou contre: Orson Welles.” Cahiers du cinéma no. 7 (July 6:A6).“Pour plaire à sa belle [To Please a Lady].” Le parisien libéré 4496 (January 67, 6:A4).“Pour plaire à sa belle [To Please a Lady]: Déplaisant mais intéressant.” Radio-cinéma-

télévision 65B (January 48, 6:A4).“Pour le roi de Prusse [Der Untertan]: Un bon ‘sujet’.” Le parisien libéré ;8A9 (October 65,

6:AB).“Pour ses débuts de metteur en scène de théâtre Jean Renoir révèle un nouveau César à

65 555 Arlésiens.” Arts 788 (July 67, 6:A7).“Pour vous mon amour: La critique est < ésée!” Le parisien libéré 4BA6 (March 4;, 6:A;).“Pourquoi Michelangelo Antonioni a porté à l’écran L’aL aire des ‘J;’ [Les vaincus (I

vinti)].” Radio-cinéma-télévision 674 (October A, 6:A4).“La poursuite fantastique [Dragoon Wells Massacre] . . . sur sentiers battus.” Le parisien

libéré 748A (June 65, 6:A9).“Précieux Stakhanov: Un été prodigieux [Chtchedroe leto].” L’esprit 46, no. 455 (March

6:A;), pp. 777– 77A.“Premier fi lm français de la compétition Les mauvaises rencontres de Alexandre Astruc

vont peut-être ranimer le festivel de Venise.” Le parisien libéré ;767 (September 4, 6:AA).

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4B9 ) Bibliography

“Premier fi lm français présenté (applaudi par les uns, siQ é par les autres): L’eau vive a partagé l’opinion.” Le parisien libéré 747A (May B, 6:A9).

“Le premier grand succès à Venise est pour la France grâce à Jeux interdits de René Clement.”

Le parisien libéré 4789 (September 4, 6:A4).“La première des causes célèbres: Une cause gagnée.” Radio-cinéma-télévision ;5; (No-

vember B, 6:AA).“Première désillusion [' e Fallen Idol].” Le parisien libéré 67:4 (July 6, 6:7:).“La première légion [' e First Legion]: Miracles à Hollywood.” Le parisien libéré 45B9

(July A, 6:A6).“Première parisienne, hier soir: Un roi à New-York [A King in New York].” Le parisien li-

béré 7596 (October 4A, 6:A8).“Premières impressions (critique à plusieurs voix) [Le fi l du rasoir (' e Razor’s Edge) et

L’elisir d’amore (Elixir of Love)].” L’ écran français 65; (June 68, 6:78).“Premières impressions sur Limelight de Charles Chaplin.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 678

(November :, 6:A4).“Les premiers outrages mais pas les derniers . . .” Le parisien libéré ;786 (November 9,

6:AA).“Présence de Jean Vigo.” France-observateur ;95 (August 44, 6:A8), in Le cinéma fran-

çais de la libération à la nouvelle vague, !"#%– !"%$ (Éditions de l’Étoile [6:9;], 6::9), pp. ;87– ;8B.

“Le ‘présentateur’ et son public.” L’ écran français 84 (November 64, 6:7B).“Présentation à un jury du fi lm Silence de la mer.” Le parisien libéré 6;5: (November ;5,

6:79).“Présentation de Tales of Manhattan [Six destins].” Le parisien libéré 76 (October A, 6:77).“Présentation des Portes de la nuit.” L’esprit 64: (January 6:7B).“Présentation par la fédération des ciné-clubs, de Paisà.” L’esprit 64: (January 6:7B).“Presenza della guerra [La harp birmane (Biruma no tatego); La traversée de Paris].” Ci-

nema nuovo (Italy), A, no. :5– :6 (October 6, 6:AB).“Le président [' e Roosevelt Story].” Le parisien libéré 6;94 (February 4;, 6:7:).“La princesse Georges.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 76: (January 4B, 6:A9).“Princesse Sen.” France-observateur ;56 (February 6B, 6:AB).“Princesse Sen: Amour et samourais!” Le parisien libéré ;AA6 (February :, 6:AB).“Le prisonnier de Zenda [' e Prisoner of Zenda]: Deux rois, dont un as!” Le parisien li-

béré 49B4 (November 4B, 6:A;).“Prisonniers du marais [Lure of the Wilderness]: D’une prudente sauvagerie.” Le parisien

libéré 4:68 (January 49, 6:A7).“Le prix Canudo.” Cahiers du cinéma no. 45 (February 6:A;).“Le prix Delluc.” France-observateur ;:B (December 64, 6:A8).“Le prix Louis Delluc et la qualité.” France-observateur 97 (December 45, 6:A6).“Le problème pour toute la télévision: Vulgariser sans ennuyer ni trahir.” Radio-

cinéma-télévision 467 (February 46, 6:A7).“Le procès [Der Prozess].” Le parisien libéré 6;66 (December 4, 6:79).“Procès de famille.” Radio-cinéma-télévision ;:4 (July 46, 6:A8).“Procès du Cinémascope: Il n’a pas tué le gros plan.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 4A6 (No-

vember 8, 6:A7), pp. A, ;9.Le procès Paradine [' e Fallen Idol]: Une belle machine qui manque d’âme.” Le parisien

libéré 6B76 (December 4;, 6:7:).

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4B: ) Bibliography

“Le professeur Cincinnatus Maladoli, un extraordinaire personage . . . dont la T.V. a fait un clown incomprehensible.” Radio-cinéma-télévision ;7; (August 64, 6:AB).

“Il profeta del neorealismo [Toni].” Cinema nuovo (Italy), A, no. 98 (July 4A, 6:AB).“La profonde originalité des Vitelloni [I vitelloni].” Radio-cinéma-télévision 75; (Octo-

ber B, 6:A8), in Qu’est-ce que le cinéma? Vol. 7, Une esthétique de la réalité: Le néo- réalisme (Éditions du Cerf, 6:B4), pp. 67;– 67A.

“Propos du spectateur grincheux.” Le parisien libéré BA7 (September 45, 6:7B).“Propos sur la télévision.” Cahiers du cinéma no. :5 (December 6:A9), pp. 46– 4A.“Propre à rien [Fancy Pants].” Le parisien libéré 44B8 (December 49, 6:A6).“Psychanalyse et cinéma: Tortilla Flat et Le septième voile [' e Seventh Veil].” Le pari-

sien libéré 8A: (January 47, 6:78).“Psychologie du Gros lot [Christmas in July].” Radio-cinéma-télévision 7AB (October 64,

6:A9).“Publicité et avant-garde.” France-observateur :A (March B, 6:A4).“Le purgatoire a précedé: Une femme en enfer [I’ ll Cry Tomorrow].” Le parisien libéré

;B6: (April 49, 6:AB).“La putain respectueuse.” Cahiers du cinéma no. 6B (October 6:A4).“La putain respectueuse.” France-observateur 648 (October 6B, 6:A4).“La putain respectueuse: La publicaine et les pharisiens.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 677

(October 6:, 6:A4).“La putain respectueuse, et respectable.” Le parisien libéré 4A6A (October 6A, 6:A4).“Quand le cinéma fait attention à la peinture [Watteau et l’a- aire Monet, Les désastres

de la guerre et les charmes de l’existence, et Recherche].” Le parisien libéré 44A8 (De-cember 68, 6:A6).

“Quand le cinéma se penche sur son passé.” Le parisien libéré 69:B (October 69, 6:A5).“Quand le clairon sonnera [' e Last Command].” France-observateur ;6B (May ;6,

6:AB).“Quand le clairon sonnera [' e Last Command]: Résistance au Texas!” Le parisien libéré

;B7; (May 49, 6:AB).“Quand le jour viendra [Watch on the Rhine].” Le parisien libéré 448 (May :, 6:7A).“Quand le théâtre est mal fi lmé: Le cocu magnifi que.” Le parisien libéré 96A (April ;5,

6:78).“Quand les enfants font eux-mêmes leurs dessins animés [Le Voyage de Badabou, Mar-

tin et Gaston, et Gitanos et papillons].” L’ éducation nationale (January A, 6:AB).“Quand les microbes jouent les vedettes: Un festival méconnu, celui du fi lm scienti-

fi que.” Le parisien libéré :A; (October 65, 6:78).“Quand les tambours s’arrêteront [Apache Drums]: Un western intéressant.” Le parisien

libéré 44B: (December ;6, 6:A6).“Quand tu liras cette letter: Georges Ohnet.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 454 (Novem-

ber 4:, 6:A;), p. ;:.“Quand tu liras cette lettre: Trop poli pour être Onhet.” Le parisien libéré 49AB (Novem-

ber 6:, 6:A;).“#"è parallèle [#"th Parallel]: Mieux vaut tard que jamais.” Le parisien libéré 4;A9

(April 64, 6:A4).“Quartier interdit [Víctimas del pecado]: La respectueuse respectable.” Le parisien libéré

4484 (January ;, 6:A4).“Quatorze heures [Fourteen Hours]: Le mythe est au coin de la rue.” France-observateur

9: (January 47, 6:A4).

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“Quatorze heures [Fourteen Hours]: Rendez-vous avec la mort.” Le parisien libéré 4498 (January 46, 6:A4).

“Quatre pas dans les nuages [Quattro passi tra le nuvole]: Nouveau triomphe de l’école italienne.” Le parisien libéré 8:6 (April 4, 6:78).

“Les Quatre Plumes blanches [' e Four Feathers]: Il n’est jamais trop tard pour bien faire.” Le parisien libéré ;B:; (July 4A, 6:AB).

“Quatre romans, quatre fi lms: I. Dostoievski et Tolstoï [Crime et Châtiment (Crime and Punishment); Guerre et Paix (War and Peace)].” L’ éducation nationale 6 (Janu-ary ;, 6:A8).

“Quatre romans, quatre fi lms: II. Victor Hugo et Jules Verne [Notre-Dame de Paris; Michel Strogo- ].” L’ éducation nationale 4 (January 65, 6:A8).

“Le XIVème Festival de Venise s’est terminé dans la confusion d’un palmarès très di-plomatique.” Le parisien libéré 48:; (September B, 6:A;).

“Le quatrième homme [Kansas City Confi dential]: Et le cinquième larron.” Le parisien li-béré 4864 (June ;, 6:A;).

“Qu’elle était verte ma vallée! [How Green Was My Valley].” Le parisien libéré B64 (Janu-ary 9, 6:7B).

“Que faut-il penser des émissions enfantines de la télévision française?” Radio-cinéma-télévision 45A– 45B (December 48, 6:A;).

“Quelque part en Europe [Valahol Europaban].” Le parisien libéré 6;B7 (February 4, 6:7:).“Quelques pas dans la vie [Tempi nostri]: Six petits tours et puis . . .” Le parisien libéré

;7B: (November A, 6:AA).“Quelqu’un crie: C’est Marianne Oswald.” Radio-cinéma-télévision ;9: (June ;5, 6:A8).“Question de vie ou de mort: De l’humour noir au technicolor.” L’ écran français 66B

(September 6B, 6:78).“Qui est le véritable auteur du fi lm?” Arts 79: (November 65, 6:A7).“Quinze ans de cinéma français,” from a November 6:A8 conference in Warsaw, Po-

land, in Le cinéma français de la libération à la nouvelle vague, !"#%– !"%$ (Éditions de l’Étoile [6:9;], 6::9), pp. 4;– 76.

“Qu’on nous laisse le cinéma!” Radio-cinéma-télévision 4;; (July 7, 6:A7).“Quo Vadis?: Où vas-tu cinéma?” Le parisien libéré 496: (October 8, 6:A;).“Quo Vadis et le père Ubu.” France-observateur 689 (October 9, 6:A;).“Qu’on nous laisse le cinéma!” Radio-cinéma-télévision 4;; (July 7, 6:A7).“Racket: Trop de police pour être honnête.” Le parisien libéré 4747 (June 69, 6:A4).“Radouga [L’arc en ciel].” Le parisien libéré B4 (October 4:, 6:77).“Les raisins de la colère [' e Grapes of Wrath].” Le parisien libéré 654: (January 8, 6:79).“Les raisins de la colère [' e Grapes of Wrath].” L’esprit 67; (February 6:79), pp. 4:9– ;55.“La rançon [Ransom]: Un ‘suspense’ cornélien.” Le parisien libéré ;97B (January 44,

6:A8).“La rapace [Decoy].” Le parisien libéré 6667 (April 67, 6:79).“Rapide Extrême-Orient [Poezd idët na vostok].” Le parisien libéré 678A (June 66, 6:7:).“Rashomon, une merveilleuse surprise.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 645 (May 7, 6:A4).“Rashomon: Une révélation!” Le parisien libéré 4;BB (April 44, 6:A4).“Les rats du desert [' e Desert Rats]: La guerre sans dentelles.” Le parisien libéré ;6;6 (Oc-

tober B, 6:A7).“Les rats du desert [' e Desert Rats]: Des rats et des hommes.” Radio-cinéma-télévision

479 (October 68, 6:A7).“Rayé des vivants.” Le parisien libéré 4A;7 (November B, 6:A4).

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“Razzia sur le chnouf: Grisbi ou le héros et l’héroïne.” France-observateur 4A9 (April 46, 6:AA).

“Razzia sur la chnouf: Stupéfi ant!” Le parisien libéré ;4:; (April 6;, 6:AA).“Le réalisme cinématographique et l’école italienne de la libération.” L’esprit 676 (Jan-

uary 6:78), in Qu’est-ce que le cinéma? Vol. 7, Une esthétique de la réalité: Le néo-réalisme (Éditions du Cerf, 6:B4), pp. :– ;8; in Qu’est-ce que le cinéma? (Cerf, 6:8A, rpt. 4555; single-volume version), pp. 4A8– 496.

“Realismo ‘romanzesco’.” Cinema nuovo (Italy), A, no. 88 (February 4A, 6:AB).“Réalité et realisme dans les fi lms américains [Bigger than Life and Guys and Dolls].”

L’ éducation nationale 66 (March 67, 6:A8).“Rebecca et Jeux dangereux [To Be or Not to Be].” Le parisien libéré 9;9 (May 49, 6:78).“Les rebelles du Missouri [' e Great Missouri Raid].” Radio-cinéma-télévision :4 (Octo-

ber 46, 6:A6).“Les rebelles du Missouri [' e Great Missouri Raid]: Technicolor et bibliothèque rose.”

Le parisien libéré 4456 (October 66, 6:A6).“Le récital J.-M. Tennberg.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 7A8 (October 6:, 6:A9).“Récitation épique [Les lettres de mon Moulin].” Cahiers du cinéma no. 76 (December

6:A7), pp. 77– 7A.“Rectifi cation à propos d’Hemingway et le cinéma.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 4AB (De-

cember 64, 6:A7).“La red [Le fi let].” France-observateur 697 (November 6:, 6:A;), in Qu’est-ce que le ci-

néma? Vol. ;, Cinéma et sociologie; Deuxième partie: Erotisme (Éditions du Cerf, 6:B6), pp. A8– B5.

“Redécouvrons le cinéma.” L’ information universitaire no. 667A (June 4B, 6:7;).“Refl ets de la vie américaine [' e Man in the Gray Flannel Suit, Attack, and Picnic].”

L’ éducation nationale 49 (October 4A, 6:AB).“Réfl exions après le Festival de Cannes.” L’esprit 67, no. 649 (December 6:7B),

pp. :59– :6;.“Réfl exions parallèles sur les cinémas de France et d’Amérique.” Motorama, April 6:A9.“Réfl exions pour un entr’acte.” France-observateur 665 (June 6:, 6:A4).“Réfl exions pour une veillée d’armes.” Poésie 77 (July-October 6:77).“Réfl exions sur la critique.” Cinéma %$, no. ;4 (December 6:A9), in Le cinéma fran-

çais de la libération à la nouvelle vague, !"#%– !"%$ (Éditions de l’Étoile [6:9;], 6::9), pp, 4:8– ;5:.

“Réfl exions sur un festival.” France-observateur 65A (May 6A, 6:A4).“Regards sur la télévision.” France-observateur ;96 (August 4:, 6:A8), p. 6A.“Réglement de comptes [' e Big Heat]: Le compte y est.” Le parisien libéré 4995 (Decem-

ber 68, 6:A;).“La reine Christine [Queen Christina].” France-observateur 47: (February 68, 6:AA).“La reine de Saba: La Bible à l’italienne.” Le parisien libéré 4BA7 (March 4B, 6:A;).“La reine Margot: Un fi lm vert et gallant.” Le parisien libéré ;68B (November 48, 6:A7).“La reine morte.” Le parisien libéré 6589 (March ;, 6:79).“Remade in U.S.A. [M le Maudit (M)].” Cahiers du cinéma II, no. 66 (April 6:A4),

pp. A7– A:.“Renaissance du rail.” Le parisien libéré 6579 (January 49, 6:79).“La renarde [Gone to Earth]: Technique . . . et couleur.” Le parisien libéré 46;4 (July 46,

6:A6).“Les rencontres internationales de Genève.” L’esprit 6A5 (November 6:79), pp. 86:– 846.

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“Rendez-moi ma femme! [As Young as You Feel]: Une agréable comédie.” Le parisien li-béré 4;B6 (April 6B, 6:A4).

“Rendez-moi ma femme! [As Young as You Feel]: N’enterrons pas Capra.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 66: (April 48, 6:A4).

“Rendez-vous de Juillet: Un bon spectacle de Noël.” Le parisien libéré 6B7; (Decem-ber 4A, 6:7:).

“Rendons à César [Bel ami].” France-observateur ;7: (January 68, 6:A8).“René Clair reçoit un accueil triomphal à Varsovie [Sous les toits de Paris].” Le parisien

libéré ;89: (November 6B, 6:AB).“René Clément et la mise en scène: En marge de Au delà des grilles.” L’ écran français 44A

(October 4A, 6:7:), in Le cinéma français de la libération à la nouvelle vague, !"#%– !"%$ (Éditions de l’Étoile [6:9;], 6::9), pp. 67B– 6A6.

“René Lucot a mis en scène le village des miracles avec intelligence.” Radio-cinéma- télévision 6B5 (February 9, 6:A;).

“Le renne blanc: Neige sanglante.” Le parisien libéré 485: (May ;5, 6:A;).“Renoir français.” Cahiers du cinéma no. 9 (January 6:A6), pp, :– 4:.“Renoir nell’arena.” Cinema nuovo (Italy), ;, no. 74 (September 6, 6:A7). Reprinted in

French in Jean Renoir. Paris: Éditions Champ Libre, 6:86.“Renoir vu par André Bazin à travers Le crime de Monsieur Lange et Le journal d’une

femme de chambre.” Cinéma %+, 64 (October 6:AB).“Le renouvellement des accords de Paris.” France-observateur 66; (September 8, 6:A4).“Réponse à un lecteur.” France-observateur 48; (August 7, 6:AA).“Réponses à L’ âge du cinéma et à Refl ets du cinéma.” Cahiers du cinéma no. 8 (Decem-

ber 6:A6), pp. B9– B:.“Réponses à Georges Sadoul.” France-observateur 4;6 (October 67, 6:A7).“Réponses: Cet âge est sans pitié.” Cahiers du cinéma no. 8 (December 6:A6).“Réponses: De qui se moque-t-on?” Cahiers du cinéma no. 8 (December 6:A6).“Un reportage sur l’éternité: La visite au Musée Rodin.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 679

(November 6B, 6:A4).“Reportages sportifs au journal télévise.” France-observateur 659 (April B, 6:A4).“Repos à mi-course: Réfl exions et pronostics sur dix jours du Festival de Bruxelles.” Le

parisien libéré 9AB (June 69, 6:78).“Repris de justice [Avanzi di galera]: Liberté sans . . . Caution.” Le parisien libéré ;;BB

(July 9, 6:AA).“Une Reprise: Quai des brumes.” Le parisien libéré 95 (November 6:, 6:77). Reprinted

in Le cinéma de l’occupation et la résistance. Paris: Union Générale d’Éditions, 6:8A.“Reprises [La fi lle du diable/La vie d’un autre et d’autres].” Le parisien libéré A57

(March ;6, 6:7B).“Reproduction interdite: Faux et usage de faux!” Le parisien libéré ;9BB (February 67,

6:A8).“Reproduction interdite: Faux fi lm sur les faux tableaux.” Radio-cinéma-télévision ;86

(February 47, 6:A8).“Résistance du chef-d’oeuvre [Limelight].” L’esprit 46, no. 6:: (February 6:A;),

pp. 47B– 479.“Responsabilités françaises, une aide à la qualité pour défendre la poule aux oeufs d’or.”

Radio-cinéma-télévision :9 (December 4, 6:A6).“Le Retour [Homecoming]: Un grand sujet . . .” Le parisien libéré 6A59 (July 45, 6:7:).

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“Le retour de Bulldog Drummond [Calling Bulldog Drummond]: Retour à une tradi-tion.” Le parisien libéré 4A;9 (November 66, 6:A4).

“Le retour de Don Camillo [Il ritorno di Don Camillo]: Le rouge et le noir.” Le parisien li-béré 4847 (June 68, 6:A;).

“Le retour de Frank James [' e Return of Frank James].” Le parisien libéré 65:B (March 47, 6:79).

“Retour de Manivelle.” Le parisien libéré 75A7 (September 47, 6:A8).“Retours en arrière: Limelight.” France-observateur 6;6 (November 6;, 6:A4).“Révélation du Festival de Biarritz: Robert Montgomery sera-t-il un nouvel Orson

Welles? [Et tournent les chevaux de bois (Ride the Pink Horse)].” Le parisien libéré 6A45 (August ;, 6:7:).

“Je reviens de l’enfer [Towards the Unknown]: Montée au ciel!” Le parisien libéré ;:84 (June 6:, 6:A8).

“Reviens petite Sheba [Come Back, Little Sheba]: Une vie de chien.” Le parisien libéré 4B99 (May B, 6:A;).

“Revoir Limelight.” France-observateur 6;5 (November B, 6:A4).“Révolte au crépuscule: Ce Crépuscule [Sundown] serait il celui de Hollywood?” L’ écran

français 648– 649 (December :, 6:78).“La révolte des dieux rouges [Rocky Mountain]: L’ouest terne.” Le parisien libéré 444; (No-

vember B, 6:A6).“La révoltée [San Quentin].” Le parisien libéré 64:; (November 65, 6:79).“La revue des revues.” Cahiers du cinéma no. 48 (September 6:A;), p. B;.“La revue des revues: France; Médium, mai A;.” Cahiers du cinéma no. 47 (June 6:A;).“La revue des revues: France; Positif, no. B.” Cahiers du cinéma no. 47 (June 6:A;),

pp. A:– B5.“La revue des revues: France; Télé-Ciné, no. 48– 49, mars-avril 6:A;.” Cahiers du cinéma

no. 47 (June 6:A;).“La revue des revues: Italie; Bianco e Nero no. 9– :.” Cahiers du cinéma no. 48 (Octo-

ber 6:A;).“La revue des revues: Jean Vigo nombre spécial de Positif.” Cahiers du cinéma no. 4B

(August 6:A;), pp. B;– B7.“Rhythme éthique ou la preuve par le neuf.” Cahiers du cinéma no. B4 (August 6:AB),

p. ;4.“Richard III: Shakespeare et . . . Laurence Olivier.” Le parisien libéré ;8:: (Novem-

ber 49, 6:AB).“Le rideau rouge: Le sang de la rampe.” Le parisien libéré 4A7B (November 45, 6:A4).“Rien que la terre.” France-observateur ;8; (July 7, 6:A8).“Rio Grande: Chevauchées sans fantastique.” Le parisien libéré 46A9 (August 44, 6:A6).“Rira bien . . .” Radio-cinéma-télévision :; (October 49, 6:A6).“Rires au paradis [Laughter in Paradise]: Humour britannique.” Radio-cinéma-télévision

:9 (December 4, 6:A6).“Rires au paradis [Laughter in Paradise]: Sourires au fauteuil d’orchestre.” Le parisien li-

béré 4474 (November 4:, 6:A6).“Rires et ovations ont salué Mon oncle: Un grand fi lm de Jacques Tati.” Le parisien li-

béré 747: (May 65, 6:A9).“Rivière Rouge [Red River]: Un super Western.” Le parisien libéré 6A4: (August 6;, 6:7:).“Le rôdeur [' e Prowler].” France-observateur :5 (January ;6, 6:A4).

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“Le rôdeur [' e Prowler]: De père trop connu.” Le parisien libéré 4497 (January 68, 6:A4).“Roger Leenhardt à fi lmé le roman qu’il n’a pas écrit [Les dernières vacances].” L’ écran

français 6;A (January 48, 6:79), p. B.“Un roi à New-York [A King in New York].” France-observateur ;:5 (October ;6, 6:A8),

p. 44. Reprinted in Charlie Chaplin. Paris: Éditions du Cerf, 6:8;.“Un roi à New-York [A King in New York].” L’ éducation nationale ;5 (November 8, 6:A8).“Un roi à New-York [A King in New York]: Scénario faible style sublime.” Radio-cinéma-

télévision 759 (November 65, 6:A8).“Le roi de la pagaille [Trouble in Store]: Rire ou ne pas rire?” Le parisien libéré 4:AB

(March 6A, 6:A7).“Le roi des resquilleurs.” Le parisien libéré 7;9 (January 9, 6:7B).“Les rois de la couture [Lovely to Look At]: Des américains à Paris.” Le parisien libéré 48B6

(July ;5, 6:A;).“Un rôle en or pour Doris Day: Pique-nique en pyjama [' e Pajama Game].” Le parisien

libéré 74BA (May 4:, 6:A9).“Le roman de Genji.” France-observateur 657 (May 9, 6:A4).“Le roman de Mildred Pierce.” Le parisien libéré 886 (February 8, 6:78).“Roman et cinéma.” Le parisien libéré B64 (January 9, 6:7B).“Un roman russe donne à l’Italie des chances sérieuses pour le Lion d’Or [Les nuits

blanches].” Le parisien libéré 7575 (September 8, 6:A8).“Romance inachevée [' e Glenn Miller Story]: Une musique, une époque.” Le parisien li-

béré ;674 (October 6:, 6:A7).“Roméo et Juliette [Giuletta e Roméo]: La beauté et la froideur d’un monument.” Le pari-

sien libéré ;695 (December 4, 6:A7).“La ronde de l’aube [Tarnished Angels]: Faulkner à l’écran.” Le parisien libéré 7;75 (Au-

gust 46, 6:A9).“La rose du crime [Moss Rose].” Le parisien libéré 6;B7 (February 4, 6:7:).“La rose et le reseda.” Le parisien libéré 664; (April 47, 6:79).“Le rouge et le noir: Des goûts et des couleurs.” Le parisien libéré ;6AB (November 7,

6:A7).“La route au tabac [Tobacco Road].” Le parisien libéré 6764 (March ;5, 6:7:).“La route de l’ ivoire [Golden Ivory/' e White Huntress]: Un western africain.” Le pari-

sien libéré ;;B6 (July 4, 6:AA).“Rue de l’estrapade de Jacques Becker.” France-observateur 6A8 (May 67, 6:A;), in Le ci-

néma français de la libération à la nouvelle vague, !"#%– !"%$ (Éditions de l’Étoile [6:9;], 6::9), pp. B7– B9.

“Rue de la gaité [Wabash Avenue]: Fréquentable.” Le parisien libéré 4;;: (March 46, 6:A4).“La rue de la honte [Akasen Chitai].” Le parisien libéré 75:5 (November A, 6:A8).“La ruée vers l’or [' e Gold Rush].” Le parisien libéré 65; (December 6B, 6:77).“La ruée vers l’or [' e Gold Rush].” France-observateur ;46 (July A, 6:AB), p. 69.“Ruy Blas.” Le parisien libéré 65B9 (February 45, 6:79).“Rythme ethique ou la preuve par le neuf [Rythmetic].” Cahiers du cinéma XI, no. B4

(September 6:AB), p. ;4.“Sables de mort: Un admirable documentaire.” L’ écran français AB (July 47, 6:7B), p. 67.“Sabotage à Berlin [Desperate Journey]: Robin des bois contre Gestapo.” Le parisien li-

béré 6B4B (December B, 6:7:).“Le sabre et la fl èche [' e Last of the Comanches]: Du bon et du mauvais (indien)!” Le pa-

risien libéré 4:6; (January 4;, 6:A7).

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48A ) Bibliography

“Sacha Guitry a fait confi ance à la télévision comme il a fait confi ance au cinéma en 6:67.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 6AB (January 66, 6:A;).

“Les sacrifi és [' ey Were Expendable].” Le parisien libéré 67;B (April 48, 6:7:).“Les sacrifi és [' ey Were Expendable]: Des ‘vedettes’ (qui ne sont pas de Hollywood)

dans un John Ford qui vient un peu tard.” L’ écran français 455 (April 4B, 6:7:).“Sadko: Féérie et gentillesse.” Le parisien libéré 498: (December 6B, 6:A;).“Sahara: Une technique excellente, de bons acteurs, un fi lm de guerre naïf.” L’ écran

français A6 (June 6:, 6:7B).“Un saint ne l’est qu’après: La fi lle des marais [Cielo sulla Palude].” Cahiers du cinéma

no. 4 (May 6:A6), pp. 7B– 79, in Qu’est-ce que le cinéma? Vol. 7, Une esthétique de la réalité: Le néo-réalisme (Éditions du Cerf, 6:B4), pp. B5– B7.

“Saint Raphaël.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 4;9 (August 9, 6:A7).“Le salaire du péché.” France-observateur ;78 (January ;, 6:A8).“Le salaire du péché: Le journalisme ne paie pas.” Le parisien libéré ;948 (December ;6,

6:AB).“Les salauds vont en enfer: Bien fait pour eux!” Le parisien libéré ;AB8 (February 49,

6:AB).“Salés Gomès: Jean Vigo; Éric Rohmer et Claude Chabrol: Hitchcock.” L’esprit 4BB (Oc-

tober 6:A9).“Salka Valka.” France-observateur 49: (November 47, 6:AA).“Saludos amigos: Walt Disney à la recherche de voies nouvelles.” L’ écran français 9B

(February 69, 6:78).“Sang et or [Body and Soul].” Le parisien libéré 6;6B (December 9, 6:79).“Sans pitié [Senza pietà], ou l’académisme de la réalité.” Le parisien libéré 6A65 (July 44,

6:7:).“Santiago: Jeanne d’Arc et les deux larrons!” Le parisien libéré ;9;A (January :, 6:A8).“Sao-Paulo a été surtout un festival de la culture cinématographique.” Ciné-club (April

6:A7).“La sarabande des pantins [(O’Henry’s) Full House]: Marionnettes pour tous les gouts.”

Le parisien libéré 4869 (June 65, 6:A;).“Sauf pour le Grand Prix décerné au Voleur de bicyclette [Ladri di biciclette], palmarès

de fantaisie à Knokke-le-Zoute.” Le parisien libéré 6A55 (October 8, 6:7:).“Savez-vous que.” Le parisien libéré A94 (June 49, 6:7B).“Sayonara.” Le parisien libéré 746A (March ;6, 6:A9).“Sayonara: Madame Butterfl y, 6:A6.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 7;5 (April 6;, 6:A9).“Scampolo scandale à la cour [A Royal Scandal].” Le parisien libéré 9:4 (July ;5, 6:78).“Scandale à Cannes? Il ne faut ‘juré’ de rien.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 44A (May :, 6:A7).“Scandale dans le cinéma français.” France-observateur 6B4 (June 69, 6:A;).“La scandaleuse de Berlin [A Foreign A- air].” Le parisien libéré 67;B (April 48, 6:7:).“La science-fi ction au cinéma doit faire appel au ‘fantastique mental’.” Radio-cinéma-

télévision 497 (June 4B, 6:AA), pp. ;B– ;8.“Sciences d’aujourd’hui.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 7A: (November 4, 6:A9).“Un second Festival de Cannes aura lieu l’an prochain.” Le parisien libéré BBB

(March 65, 6:7B).“Le secret de Mayerling.” Le parisien libéré 6779 (May 66, 6:7:).“Le secret des eaux mortes [Lure of the Swamp].” Le parisien libéré 75:7 (November :,

6:A8).“Le secret professionnel: < éâtre fi lmé.” Arts 7:: (January 6:, 6:AA).

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48B ) Bibliography

“Secrets de femmes [' ree Secrets]: Trois mères pour un enfant.” Le parisien libéré 46;; (July 4;, 6:A6.

“Les secrets d’Orson Welles: Interview exclusive [Macbeth and Citizen Kane].” L’ écran français 6B: (September 46, 6:79).

“Les secrets de Walt Disney [' e Reluctant Dragon] et Folie douce.” Le parisien libéré 997 (July 45, 6:78).

“La selezione francese vista da Bazin: Una sconfi tta giustifi cata.” Cinema nuovo (Italy), 7, no. B8 (September 4A, 6:AA).

“Une semaine à Cannes [L’or de Naples (L’oro di Napoli)].” France-observateur 4B5 (May A, 6:AA).

“Une semaine de télévision.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 686 (April 4B, 6:A;).“La semaine du cinéma soviétique: Sept nouveaux visages du cinéma russe.” Le parisien

libéré ;7:7 (December A, 6:AA).“La semaine du fi lm français à Punta del Este a pris un bon départ avec La sorcière.” Le

parisien libéré ;A8: (March 6;, 6:AB).“Une semaine vouée au western [' e Last Hunt, Shane, and Seven Men from Now].”

France-observateur ;8A (July 69, 6:A8).“Senso: Beau comme la mort!” Le parisien libéré ;A7: (February 8, 6:AB).“Senso de Luchino Visconti.” France-observateur ;55 (February :, 6:AB), in Qu’est-ce

que le cinéma? Vol. 7, Une esthétique de la réalité: Le néo-réalisme (Éditions du Cerf, 6:B4), pp. 668– 646.

“Sensualita: Blé amer.” Le parisien libéré 4AA5 (November 4A, 6:A4).“Les sentiers de la gloire [Paths of Glory].” L’esprit 4BB (October 6:A9).“Sept ans de réfl exion [' e Seven-Year Itch]: Attention à Marilyn.” Le parisien libéré ;A8;

(March B, 6:AB).“Les sept femmes de Barberousse [Seven Brides for Seven Brothers]: L’amour danse!” Le pa-

risien libéré ;;B9 (July 66, 6:AA).“Sept hommes à abattre [Seven Men from Now]: Bon vent d’ouest!” Le parisien libéré

;::B (July 68, 6:A8).“Sept hommes à abattre [Seven Men from Now]: Du beau, du bon, du vrai western.”

Radio- cinéma-télévision ;:; (July 49, 6:A8).“Sept jours du cinéma, quarante et une coproductions en 6:A;.” Radio-cinéma-télévision

465 (January 47, 6:A7).“8 jours de cinéma.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 484 (April ;, 6:AA).“Sept jours de Venise.” L’ écran français 468 (August 4:, 6:7:).“Les sept samourais [Shichinin no samurai].” France-observateur 4:6 (December 9, 6:AA).

Reprinted in Le cinéma de la cruauté. Paris: Flammarion, 6:8A.“Les sept samourais [Shichinin no samurai]: Un western japonais!” Le parisien libéré ;7:B

(December 8, 6:AA), p. B.“Le 8ème art tel qu’on l’écrit: Avant-garde et mysticisme au cinéma.” Le parisien libéré

4958 (September 4;, 6:A;).“Le 8ème art tel qu’on l’écrit: Quand le cinéma se penche sur son passé . . .” Le parisien

libéré 4956 (September 6B, 6:A;).“La septième croix [' e Seventh Cross].” Le parisien libéré 645; (July 49, 6:79).“Le VIIème Festival de Cannes aura été celui de la qualité international: Il aura consa-

cré le triomphe du sujet sur la nouveauté des techniques.” Le parisien libéré 4:8B (April 64, 6:A7).

“La septième porte.” Le parisien libéré 6579 (January 49, 6:79).

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488 ) Bibliography

[“Sergeant York.” Le parisien libéré 45B (April 67, 6:7A).“Série noire.” Le parisien libéré ;4BA (March 66, 6:AA).“Le serment [Klyatva]: Une image d’Epinal.” Le parisien libéré 6B4A (December A, 6:7:).“Servire il teatro.” Cinema nuovo (Italy), 7, no. A: (May 4A, 6:AA).“Ses trois amoureux [Tom, Dick, and Harry].” Le parisien libéré 6A6 (February :, 6:7A).“' e Set-Up.” L’esprit 68, no. 6B7 (6:A5), p. ;4:.“' e Set-Up a réveillé à coups de poing le festival ou régne la corvée du smoking.” Le

parisien libéré 6AA: (September 68, 6:7:).“Un seul amour.” L’ information universitaire no. 6684 (December 7, 6:7;).“Shane, de Georges Stevens.” France-observateur 695 (October 44, 6:A;).“Le sheri- [' e Proud Ones]: L’étoile ne meurt jamais!” Le parisien libéré ;:8: (June 48,

6:A8).“Si c’était vous.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 757 (October 6;, 6:A8).“Si c’était vous.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 76; (December 6A, 6:A8).“Si Charlot ne meure . . . [Limelight].” Cahiers du cinéma no. 68 (November 6:A4),

pp. 4– A. Reprinted in Charlie Chaplin. Paris: Éditions du Cerf, 6:8;.“Un si noble tueur [' e Gentle Gunman]: Erreur n’est pas compte.” Le parisien libéré

4:64 (January 44, 6:A7).“Si Paris l’avait su [So Long at the Fair]: Bon.” Le parisien libéré 4444 (November A,

6:A6).“Si Paris nous était conté.” Le parisien libéré ;A7; (January ;6, 6:AB).“Si Paris nous était conté.” L’ éducation nationale : (March 6, 6:AB), in Le cinéma fran-

çais de la libération à la nouvelle vague, !"#%– !"%$ (Éditions de l’Étoile [6:9;], 6::9), pp. 457– 458.

“Si tous les gars du monde: Les bons iront au paradis.” Le parisien libéré ;AB: (March 6, 6:AB).

“Le signe de Zorro [' e Sign of Zorro].” Le parisien libéré 869 (December 6, 6:7B).“Le signe du bélier [' e Sign of the Ram].” Le parisien libéré 6774 (May 7, 6:7:).“Le signe du pa [Sign of the Pagan].” Le parisien libéré ;4:7 (April 67, 6:AA).“Le silence de la mer.” Le parisien libéré 67;B (April 48, 6:7:).“Le silence est d’or est-il le chef-d’ . . .?” Le parisien libéré 9;5 (May 69, 6:78).“Le silence est d’or remporte le Grand Prix du Festival de Bruxelles.” Le parisien libéré

9B8 (July 6, 6:78).“Le silence est d’or sera le premier des fi lms français présentés au Festival de Bruxelles.”

Le parisien libéré 97: (June 65, 6:78).“Singapour [Singapore].” Le parisien libéré 65:7 (March 46, 6:79).“Sirena [Siréna].” Le parisien libéré 6747 (April 6;, 6:7:).“Situation économique du cinéma français.” France-observateur ;A4 (February 8, 6:A8).“Six destins [Tales of Manhattan].” Le parisien libéré A5 (October 6A, 6:77).“Six personnages en quête d’auteurs: Débat sur le cinéma français (avec André Bazin,

Jacques Doniol-Valcroze, Pierre Kast, Roger Leenhardt, Jacques Rivette, et Éric Rohmer).” Cahiers du cinéma XII, no. 86 (May 6:A8), pp. 6B– 4:.

“Le +ème continent vous réserve des surprises.” Le parisien libéré ;B98 (July 69, 6:AB).“Sociologie de la télévision.” France-observateur 4:9 (January 4B, 6:AB), p. 6A.“La soif du mal [Touch of Evil]: Un chef-d’oeuvre maudit?” Le parisien libéré 7486

(June A, 6:A9).“La soif du mal [Touch of Evil]: Noir et sadique . . . mais à double sens.” Radio-cinéma-

télévision 7;: (June 6A, 6:A9).

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489 ) Bibliography

“La soif du mal [Touch of Evil], ou Welles et les ambiguities.” France-observateur 746 (June 7, 6:A9).

“Soirs de Miami [Moon over Miami].” Le parisien libéré 666B (April 6B, 6:79).“Le soleil brille pour tout le monde [' e Sun Shines Bright] . . . Et à la gloire du drapeau

étoilé.” Le parisien libéré 4856 (May 46, 6:A;).“Le soleil est venu couronner l’Inde et le Japon.” Le parisien libéré 75;: (September B,

6:A8).“Le soleil se lèvera encore [Il sole sorge ancora].” Le parisien libéré 6;75 (January A, 6:7:).“Le sorcier du ciel: La vie du Curé d’Ars portée à l’écran.” Le parisien libéré 6A9A (Octo-

ber 69, 6:7:).“La sorcière.” France-observateur ;65 (April 6:, 6:AB).“La sorcière . . . et celui qui n’y croyait pas.” Le parisien libéré ;B59 (April 6B, 6:AB).“La sorcière [Flickan och djävulen]: Film typiquement du cinéma nordique.” Le parisien

libéré 67B9 (June ;, 6:7:).“Les sorcières de Salem [Les Parents terribles et L’Aigle à deux têtes].” France-observateur

;BA (May :, 6:A8).“Sortilèges.” Le parisien libéré 74B (December 47, 6:7A).“S.O.S. Norhona: Un suspense documentaire.” Le parisien libéré ;:88 (June 4A, 6:A8).“Soupçons [Suspicion]: La tragédie du doute escamotée.” L’ écran français 85 (Octo-

ber 4:, 6:7B). Reprinted in Le cinéma de la cruauté. Paris: Flammarion, 6:8A.“Les sources-Landru-Verdoux-Charlot [Monsieur Verdoux].” D.O.C. éducation popu-

laire B (January 6:78). Partially reprinted in Qu’est-ce que le cinéma? Vol. 6, Onto-logie et langage (Éditions du Cerf, 6:A9), pp. :8– 658, under the title “Introduction à une symbolique de Charlot”; wholly reprinted in Charlie Chaplin. Paris: Éditions du Cerf, 6:8;.

“Sourires d’une nuit d’ été [Sommarnattens Leende]: Un sourire ambigu!” Le parisien li-béré ;B85 (June 49, 6:AB).

“Sous le plus grand chapiteau du monde [' e Greatest Show on Earth]: Abondance de biens!” Le parisien libéré 4BB6 (April ;, 6:A;).

“Sous le soleil de Provence [Era di venerdi !*]: Quatre pas dans le souvenir!” Le parisien libéré ;98B (February 4B, 6:A8).

“Le souvenir d’un Chien andalou et d’une petite chienne nommée Sheba [Come Back, Little Sheba] a réveillé le festival.” Le parisien libéré 4B9; (April 4:, 6:A;).

“Soyez bons avec vos voisins: L’homme de la rue [Meet John Doe].” Le parisien libéré 995 (July 6B, 6:78).

“La splendeur des Ambersons [' e Magnifi cent Ambersons]: Un drame de l’orgueil; tou-jours Orson Welles.” L’ écran français 8; (November 6:, 6:7B).

“Stalag !*.” France-observateur 698 (December 65, 6:A;).“Stalag !*: Document vrai sur le mode comique.” Le parisien libéré 49B: (December 7,

6:A;).“Le ‘star-system’ est toujours vivant.” France-observateur ;88 (August 6, 6:A8), p. 6A.“Les statues meurent aussi: Toujours deux fois le prix Vigo.” France-observateur 6:A (Feb-

ruary 7, 6:A7).“Stella (Femme libre) [Stella, éleftéri yénéka].” Le parisien libéré 76A8 (January 44, 6:A9).“Stella (Femme libre) [Stella, éleftéri yénéka], une tragédie de l’érotisme.” France-

observateur 754 (January 4;, 6:A9).“La strada.” L’esprit 44B (May 6:AA), in Qu’est-ce que le cinéma? Vol. 7, Une esthétique de

la réalité: Le néo-réalisme (Éditions du Cerf, 6:B4), pp. 644– 649.

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48: ) Bibliography

“La strada: Le chemin de la poésie.” Le parisien libéré ;485 (March 68, 6:AA).“La strada, une preuve de l’existence de l’âme.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 486 (March 48,

6:AA).“Strategic Air Command: Cinéma en piqué.” Le parisien libéré ;778 (October 66, 6:AA).“Le style c’est le genre [Les diaboliques].” Cahiers du cinéma VIII, no. 7; (January 6:AA),

pp. 74– 7;, in Le cinéma français de la libération à la nouvelle vague, !"#%– !"%$ (Édi-tions de l’Étoile [6:9;], 6::9), pp. 688– 68:.

“Subida al cielo [La montée au ciel], Buñuel: Un grand poète.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 6;8 (August ;6, 6:A4).

“Succès français: Au fi l des fi lms.” L’ écran français 469 (September A, 6:7:).“Succès triomphal à Cannes d’Antoine et Antoinette de Jacques Becker.” Le parisien li-

béré :;8 (September 46, 6:78).“Il succesore di Max Linder.” Cinema nuovo (Italy), 4, no. 64 (June 6, 6:A;).“Suède.” Refl ets économiques et commerciaux (ESSEC: École Supérieure des Sciences

Économiques et Commerciales), spring 6:AA.“Suite au précédent.” L’ information universitaire no. 66:9 (June 47, 6:77).“Suite vénitienne.” France-observateur ;;4 (September 45, 6:AB).“Sul festival del tramonto.” Cinema nuovo (Italy), 8, no. 6;4 (August 6, 6:A9).“Sullo schermo del palais.” Cinema nuovo (Italy), 8, no. 6;6 (May 6A, 6:A9).“Superman et vamp . . . voici: Samson et Dalila [Samson and Delilah].” Le parisien libéré

4454 (October 64, 6:A6).“Supplément à Goupi-mains rouges.” France-observateur 697 (November 6:, 6:A;).“Sur le champ d’azur USA, 6:;9– 6:79.” Festival International de Cannes !"#" (January

6:79).“Sur la riviera [On the Riviera]: Danny Kaye contre Danny Kaye.” Le parisien libéré

44:9 (February 4, 6:A4).“Sur les bords de la lagune: La 65e Biennale de Venise commence demain.” Le parisien

libéré 6A4B (August 65, 6:7:).“Sur les écrans de Paris Bob Hope et Fernandel: À Paris tous les deux [Paris Holiday].”

Le parisien libéré 7479 (May :, 6:A9).“Sur les fi lms de peinture: Réponse à Bourniquer.” L’esprit 68, no. 6B6 (November 6:7:),

pp. 968– 945.“Sur les quais [On the Waterfront].” France-observateur 47A (January 45, 6:AA).“Sur les quais [On the Waterfront]: Avec le plus grand acteur du monde!” Le parisien li-

béré ;445 (January 69, 6:AA).“Sur quatre ‘notes’.” France-observateur 676 (January 44, 6:A;).“Sur les routes de l’U.R.S.S. et Dimanche à Pékin.” France-observateur no. ;84 (48 June

6:A8), p. 6:.“Les surprises d’une nuit de noces: Sans commentaire!” Radio-cinéma-télévision 6;: (Sep-

tember 67, 6:A4).“Les surprises d’une nuit de noces: Triste réveil.” Le parisien libéré 4788 (September 6,

6:A4).“Un sur-western: Le train si, era trois fois [High Noon].” France-observateur 64B (Octo-

ber :, 6:A4), pp. 46– 44.“Susana la perverse [Susana demonio y carne/Susana].” France-observateur 675 (Janu-

ary 6A, 6:A;). Reprinted in Le cinéma de la cruauté. Paris: Flammarion, 6:8A.“Susana la perverse [Susana demonio y carne/Susana]: Buñuel malgré lui.” Le parisien li-

béré 4A:4 (January 64, 6:A;).

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495 ) Bibliography

“Susana la perverse [Susana demonio y carne/Susana]: TartuL e femelle.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 6A8 (January 69, 6:A;).

“Sylvie et le fantôme.” Le parisien libéré 7B8 (February 6B, 6:7B).“Symphonie des brigands [' e Robber Symphony]: La mayonnaise n’a pas pris.” Radio-

cinéma-télévision 65: (February 68, 6:A4).“Symphonie en +,(% [Behave Yourself!]: Un ‘policier’ qui a du chien.” Le parisien libéré

4768 (June 46, 6:A4).“Symphonie loufoque [Crazy House].” Le parisien libéré 667; (May 6:, 6:79).“Symphonies cinématographiques: Symphonie des brigands [' e Robber Symphony].”

France-observateur :6 (February 8, 6:A4).“Symphonies cinématographiques: Symphonie des brigands [' e Robber Symphony].” Le

parisien libéré 4;54 (February 8, 6:A4).“La table aux crevés: Fernandel pas mort.” Le parisien libéré 44:: (February 7, 6:A4).“Tabu.” France-observateur 67A (February 6:, 6:A;).“Tambour battant: Trompettes bouchées.” Le parisien libéré 4B54 (January 47, 6:A;).“Tapage nocturne: Pas de quoi nous éveiller.” Le parisien libéré 4;4: (March 65, 6:A4).“Tarde de toros.” France-observateur ;;: (November 9, 6:AB).“Tarzan et la femme léopard [Tarzan and the Leopard Woman].” Le parisien libéré 67;5

(April 45, 6:7:).“Taxi, S.V.P.! [' e Yellow Cab Man]: En voiture!” Radio-cinéma-télévision 9; (Au-

gust 6:, 6:A6).“Taxi, S.V.P.! [' e Yellow Cab Man]: On marche . . .” Le parisien libéré 467A (August B,

6:A6).“Le technicolor fait la chasse au rouge [' e World in His Arms].” France-observateur 677

(February 64, 6:A;).“La technique de Citizen Kane.” Les temps modernes 4, no. 68 (February 6:78), pp. :7;–

:7:. Reprinted in Orson Welles. Paris: Éditions du Cerf, 6:84.“La ‘technique’ et le ‘sujet’ ne jouent pas au cinéma le même rôle que dans les autres

arts: La forme et le fond.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 7A (November 49, 6:A5).“Techniques Nouvelles.” Arts A69 (May 6, 6:AA).“Téléfi ction.” Radio-cinéma-télévision ;:5 (July 8, 6:A8).“Télé-match sans arbiter.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 496 (June A, 6:AA).“Teleobiettivo per Richie Andrusco [Le petit fugitif (' e Little Fugitive); Les vaincus (I

vinti)].” Cinema nuovo (Italy), 4, no. 6: (September 6A, 6:A;).“Télé-Paris et Voyons un peu.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 7B5 (November :, 6:A9).“La télévision: Culture.” France-observateur 4:8 (January 6:, 6:AB), p, 67.“Télévision: Des excuses S.V.P.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 67: (November 4;, 6:A4).“Télévision: Deux réussites du journal télévise.” France-observateur 4:B (January 64,

6:AB).“La télévision est-elle une déchéance pour les cinéastes?” Radio-cinéma-télévision ;98

(June 6B, 6:A8).“La télévision est imbattable dans le reportage ‘en direct’: Les invités clandestins du

bal des petits lits blancs de la princesse et de la lune.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 688 (June 8, 6:A;).

“Télévision et cinéma.” France-observateur ;6B (May ;6, 6:AB), p. 69.“La télévision et l’enfant.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 7A7 (September 49, 6:A9).“La télévision et la relance du cinéma.” France-observateur ;66 (April 4B, 6:AB), p. 67.“La TV fait un spectacle avec la science.” Radio-cinéma-télévision ;46 (March 66, 6:AB).

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“Télévision: le monde chez soi.” France-observateur 4:A (January A, 6:AB), p. 67.“La télévision moyen de culture.” France-observateur 4:8 (January 6:, 6:AB).“Télévision: Panorama des émissions de variétés.” France-observateur ;47 (July 4B,

6:AB).“Télévision: La qualité diminue.” France-observateur ;7; (December B, 6:AB).“Télévision: Un reportage sur l’éternité; la visite au Musée Rodin.” Radio-cinéma-

télévision 679 (November 6B, 6:A4).“Télévision, sincérité, liberté.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 7AA (October A, 6:A9).“La televisione: Sguardi nuovi in Francia.” Cinema nuovo (Italy), 8, no. 648 (March 6A,

6:A9).“Témoignages pour la liberté [Till l’espiègle et Le chant des fl euves].” Radio-cinéma-

télévision ;A8 (November 69, 6:AB).“Le témoin [Il Testimone]: Un fi lm fantastique de réalité.” Le parisien libéré 6A6B (July 4:,

6:7:).“Témoin à charge [Witness for the Prosecution].” Le parisien libéré 769A (February 47,

6:A9).“Témoin à charge [Witness for the Prosecution].” France-observateur 758 (February 48,

6:A9).“Tempête sous la mer [Beneath the Twelve-Mile Reef ]: L’éponge qui tue!” Le parisien li-

béré 4:94 (April 6:, 6:A7).“Le temps de la colère [Between Heaven and Hell].” Le parisien libéré ;:B7 (June 65, 6:A8).“Le temps des oeufs durs.” Le parisien libéré 7465 (March 4A, 6:A9).“Le temps des oeufs durs.” France-observateur 766 (March 48, 6:A9).“Les temps modernes [Modern Times]: À ne pas manquer.” Le parisien libéré ;6;B (Octo-

ber 64, 6:A7).“Le temps rend justice aux Temps modernes [Modern Times].” Arts 79A (October 6;– 6:,

6:A7), pp. 6– ;. Reprinted in Charlie Chaplin. Paris: Éditions du Cerf, 6:8;.“Tendresse [I Remember Mama].” Le parisien libéré 675B (March 4;, 6:7:).“Terminé en beauté le Festival de Cannes: À couronné Orson Welles et Castellani.” Le

parisien libéré 4;94 (May 64, 6:A4).“Terre de violence [Amore e sangue]: Méloréalisme.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 6;5 (De-

cember 8, 6:A4).“Terre de violence [Amore e sangue]: Naples et mourir.” Le parisien libéré 4748 (July ;,

6:A4).“La terre des pharaons [Land of the Pharoahs]: Pyramidal!” Le parisien libéré ;794 (No-

vember 46, 6:AA).“Terre sans pardon [' ree Angry People].” Le parisien libéré 7445 (April A, 6:A9).“La terre tremble [La terra trema].” From “Le Festival de Venise.” L’esprit 6B, no. 6A6 (De-

cember 6:79), pp. :56– :65, in Qu’est-ce que le cinéma? Vol. 7, Une esthétique de la réalité: Le néo-réalisme (Éditions du Cerf, 6:B4), pp. ;9– 77; in Qu’est-ce que le ci-néma? (Cerf, 6:8A, rpt. 4555; single-volume version), pp. 498– 4:;.

“La terre tremble [La terra trema]: Une admirable fresque.” Le parisien libéré 449B (Jan-uary 6:, 6:A4).

“La terre tremble [La terra trema]: L’éminente dignité des pauvres.” Radio-cinéma- télévision 65B (January 48, 6:A4).

“< éâtre et cinéma.” Le parisien libéré B69 (August 9, 6:7B).“< éâtre et cinéma.” L’esprit 6:, no. 68B, 695– 696 (June and July– August 6:A6), pp. 9:6–

:5A and 4;4– 4A;, in Qu’est-ce que le cinéma? Vol. 4, Le cinéma et les autres arts (Édi-

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tions du Cerf, 6:A:), pp. B:– 669; in Qu’est-ce que le cinéma? (Cerf, 6:8A, rpt. 4555; single-volume version), pp. 64:– 689.

“< éâtre fi lmé: Des souris et des hommes [Of Mice and Men].” Le parisien libéré 876 (De-cember 48, 6:7B).

“Le théâtre fi lmé (Où va le cinéma?).” Radio-cinéma-télévision :: (December :, 6:A6).“< éâtre, peinture, et cinéma.” Revue Belge du Cinéma, no. ;6 (6::4), p. 66.“' érèse Raquin: Magistral!” Le parisien libéré 4979 (November 65, 6:A;).“' érèse Raquin n’a pas changé la face du Festival de Venise.” Le parisien libéré 48:4

(September A, 6:A;).“(& secondes sur Tokio [' irty Seconds over Tokyo].” Le parisien libéré 764 (December 9,

6:7A).“Les (" marches [' e (" Steps]: Un fi lm comme on n’en fait plus!” Le parisien libéré 4654

(June 6B, 6:A6). Reprinted in Le cinéma de la cruauté. Paris: Flammarion, 6:8A.“Titres de qualité, réussites rares.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 76A (December 4:, 6:A8).“Le toit [Il tetto]: Une chaumière et du coeur!” Le parisien libéré ;955 (November 4:,

6:AB).“Le toit de Vittorio De Sica [Il tetto].” France-observateur ;7; (December B, 6:AB).“Tombé du ciel.” Le parisien libéré B69 (August 9, 6:7B).“Toni de Renoir.” France-observateur ;68 (June 8, 6:AB).“Torero [Toro].” France-observateur ;:6 (November 8, 6:A8).“Torero [Toro]: Une révolution dans le realism.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 759 (Novem-

ber 65, 6:A8).“Toubib or not Toubib [Doctor in the House]: Not!” Le parisien libéré ;6A5 (October 49,

6:A7).“Toujours à propos de télécinéma ou la fi n d’un ‘Malentendu’.” Radio-cinéma-télévision

49B (July 65, 6:AA).“Le tour de France du cinéma.” L’ écran français 45: (June 48, 6:7:), in Le cinéma fran-

çais de la libération à la nouvelle vague, !"#%– !"%$ (Éditions de l’Étoile [6:9;], 6::9), pp. ;;5– ;;B.

“La Tour de Nesle: Du vrai mélodrame.” Le parisien libéré ;488 (March 4A, 6:AA).“Tours, la Venise du court-métrage [Notre dame, Histoire d’une chaise, et Les Mistons].”

France-observateur ;:A (December A, 6:A8).“Tout fi lm est un documentaire social.” Les Lettres françaises, A, no. 6BB (July 4A, 6:78),

p. 64.“Tout ou rien [Go for Broke!]: En prendre et en laisser.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 667

(March 4;, 6:A4).“Le tout-Paris en joie a pris son Passeport pour Pimlico [Passport to Pimlico].” Le parisien

libéré 6B48 (December 8, 6:7:).“Toute à toi [Nice Girl?].” Le parisien libéré 65;A (January 67, 6:79).“Trafi c à Saigon [Saigon]: Orient de Pacotille.” Le parisien libéré 6B49 (December 9,

6:7:).“Tragique rendez-vous [Whistle Stop].” Le parisien libéré 646A (August 66, 6:79).“Tragique rendez-vous [Whistle Stop]: Pauvre.” L’ écran français 6B7– 6BA (August 68,

6:79).“Le train du dernier retour [' e View from Pompey’s Head]: Retour de fl amme!” Le pari-

sien libéré 7557 (July 4B, 6:A8).“Le train du dernier retour [' e View from Pompey’s Head]: Voie de garage.” Radio-

cinéma-télévision ;:A (August 66, 6:A8).

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49; ) Bibliography

“Un tramway nommé désir [A Streetcar Named Desire].” Le parisien libéré 4;A; (April 8, 6:A4).

“Traqués dans la ville [La città si difende]: Le néo-réalisme se defend.” Le parisien libéré 4B89 (April 4;, 6:A;).

“Le travail des hommes.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 75: (November 68, 6:A8).“Travail et culture: Ce public . . .” L’ écran français 645 (October 67, 6:78).“Travail et culture: Réactions inattendues [À nous la liberté (Freedom for Us)].” L’ écran

français 646 (October 46, 6:78), p. 66.“La traversée de Paris.” France-observateur ;;: (November 9, 6:AB).“La traversée de Paris: Drôle d’ ‘occupation’.” Le parisien libéré ;88B (October ;6, 6:AB),

in Le cinéma français de la libération à la nouvelle vague, !"#%– !"%$ (Éditions de l’Étoile [6:9;], 6::9), pp. B6– B;.

“Trente-six pays.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 75A (October 45, 6:A8).“Le trésor de Pancho Villa [' e Treasure of Pancho Villa]: Comme on écrit l’histoire!” Le

parisien libéré ;B9: (July 45, 6:AB).“Le trésor de Pancho Villa [' e Treasure of Pancho Villa]: Le vol ne paie pas.” Radio-

cinéma-télévision ;76 (July 4:, 6:AB).“Le trésor de la Sierra Madre [' e Treasure of the Sierra Madre].” Le parisien libéré 6;85

(February :, 6:7:).“Le trésor des Caraïbes [Carribean]: De toutes les couleurs.” Le parisien libéré 4:5B (Jan-

uary 6A, 6:A7).“La tribune des critiques doit continuer.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 6B; (March 6, 6:A;).“Triomphe de Fellini et de Giulietta Masina, avec Les nuits de Cabiria [Le notti di Cabi-

ria]: Candidat à la Palme d’Or.” Le parisien libéré ;:75 (May 6;, 6:A8).“Triomphe de la France à Bruxelles: Bilan d’un festival.” L’ écran français 65B (July 9,

6:78).“Triomphe des Belles de nuit qui ont placé la France en tête de la sélection internatio-

nal.” Le parisien libéré 479B (October :, 6:A4).“Le triporteur.” Le parisien libéré 76;4 (December 47, 6:A8).“Trois cas de meurtres [' ree Cases of Murder]: Assassinats à l’anglaise.” Le parisien libéré

;479 (February 6:, 6:AA).“Trois cas de meurtres [' ree Cases of Murder]: Feu le cinéma anglais.” Radio-cinéma-

télévision 4B8 (February 48, 6:AA).“;55 ans de cinéma au Musée d’Art Modern: Des ombres chinoises à la robe de Greta

Garbo.” Le parisien libéré ;;A: (June ;5, 6:AA).“Trois femmes, trois âmes/Trois femmes.” France-observateur 66: (August 46, 6:A4).“Trois femmes, trois âmes/Trois femmes: Un bon fi lm.” Le parisien libéré 47BA (August 69,

6:A4).“Trois fi lms: Les visiteurs du soir, L’eternel retour, et Les anges du péché.” Jeux et Poésie ;

(February 6:77).“Les trois font la paire [et Assassins et voleurs et La poison].” France-observateur ;85

(June 6;, 6:A8), in Le cinéma français de la libération à la nouvelle vague, !"#%– !"%$ (Éditions de l’Étoile [6:9;], 6::9), pp. 45:– 467.

“Les trois font la paire si Sacha m’était conté.” Le parisien libéré ;:A9 (June ;, 6:A8).“Les trois mousquetaires: Belle histoire!” Le parisien libéré 494; (October 64, 6:A;).“Trois soirées perdues.” Le parisien libéré B8 (November 7, 6:77).“Trois troupiers [' ree Soldiers]: Trois fantassins au Bengale.” Le parisien libéré 4;:5

(May 46, 6:A4).

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“Le XIIIème Festival de Venise est terminé; le cinéma français remporte un triomphe complet et éclatant; le grand prix du festival est décerné à Jeux interdits de René Clement.” Le parisien libéré 4799 (December :, 6:A4).

“Le ;ème Festival du Film de Berlin s’ouvre sous l’orage.” Le parisien libéré 4848 (June 45, 6:A;).

“Le troisième homme: Le Grand Prix du Festival International est beaucoup plus qu’un fi lm policier.” Le parisien libéré 6A99 (October 46, 6:7:).

“Le trompe l’oeil: Venise 6:A4.” Cahiers du cinéma no. 6B (October 6:A4), pp. B5– B4.“Le trône de sang/Le château de l’araignée [Kumonosu-jô].” Cahiers du cinéma no. 8A (Oc-

tober 6:A8).“Le trou normand: Un coin recommendable.” Le parisien libéré 4A;: (November 64,

6:A4).“Troublez-moi ce soir [Don’t Bother to Knock]: Etrange soirée!” Le parisien libéré 484B

(June 6:, 6:A;).“Tu seras mon mari [Sun Valley Serenade].” Le parisien libéré 9A (November 4A, 6:77).“Le tueur à gages [' is Gun for Hire].” Le parisien libéré 8B4 (January 49, 6:78).“Le tueur à gages [' is Gun for Hire]: L’assassin est trop sensible.” L’ écran français 94

(January 46, 6:78).“Les tueurs [' e Killers].” Le parisien libéré 94B (May 67, 6:78).“Ultimes espoirs et prognostics: Ordet [La parole] est favori à Venise.” Le parisien libéré

;746 (September 65, 6:AA).“Ultra secret [Top Secret]: Celui de l’humour.” Le parisien libéré 4BA5 (March 46, 6:A;).“Ultra secret [Top Secret]: Celui de l’ humour est inviolable.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 6B8

(March 4:, 6:A;).“Umberto D.: La vie au microscope.” Le parisien libéré 4A69 (October 69, 6:A4).“Une si jolie plage.” Le parisien libéré 6;A4 (January 6:, 6:7:).“L’universe de René Clair [Les grandes manoeuvres].” L’ éducation nationale (Novem-

ber 65, 6:AA), in Le cinéma français de la libération à la nouvelle vague, !"#%– !"%$ (Édi-tions de l’Étoile [6:9;], 6::9), pp. 6;;– 6;9.

“Untel père et fi ls.” Le parisien libéré ;86 (October 4;, 6:7A). Reprinted in Le cinéma de l’occupation et la résistance. Paris: Union Générale d’Éditions, 6:8A.

“U.R.S.S.: On voudrait rire.” France-observateur ;7: (January 68, 6:A8).“L’uva troppo verde.” Cinema nuovo (Italy), A, no. :8 (December ;6, 6:AB).“Va-t-on enseigner le cinéma sous les ponts?” Le parisien libéré 64B: (October 6;, 6:79).“Va-t-on supprimer la censure?” France-observateur 4BB (June 6B, 6:AA).“Vacances avec M. Hulot [Les vacances de M. Hulot].” France-observateur 489 (Septem-

ber 9, 6:AA).“Vadim et Bardem [La vengeance (La venganza), Mort d’un cyclist (Muerte de un ci-

clista), et Grand-rue].” Cahiers du cinéma 8A (October 6:A8).“Vadim, victime du succès [Les bijoutiers du clair de lune].” France-observateur 76A

(April 47, 6:A9), in Le cinéma français de la libération à la nouvelle vague, !"#%– !"%$ (Éditions de l’Étoile [6:9;], 6::9), pp. 4B9– 48B.

“Les vagabonds des mers [' e Master of Ballantrae]: L’épée sans la cape.” Le parisien libéré 49:: (January 8, 6:A7).

“La vallée de la paix.” Le parisien libéré 7;7B (September 4, 6:A9).“La vallée de la poudre [' e Sheepman].” France-observateur 7;7 (August 49, 6:A9), in

Qu’est-ce que le cinéma? Vol. ;, Cinéma et sociologie; Quatrième partie: Le western (Éditions du Cerf, 6:B6), pp. 6B7– 6BB.

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49A ) Bibliography

“La Valse de l’Empereur [' e Emperor Waltz]: Un divertissement spirituel.” Le parisien libéré 6B77 (December 48, 6:7:).

“Varsovie: Torero [Toro].” France-observateur ;:5 (October ;6, 6:A8).“Varsovie, ville indomptée [Robinson Warszawski]: Une résistance humaine.” Le parisien

libéré 4;64 (February 6:, 6:A4).“Le Vatican, l’humanité et la censure.” France-observateur ;54 (February 4;, 6:AB).“Les vedettes (et la pluie) inondent la croisette: Mais les bons fi lms sont toujours aussi

rares.” Le parisien libéré 4;8B (May A, 6:A4).“Vedettes italiennes et suédoises sont venues défendre leurs fi lms qui ne bouleverseront

probablement pas les pronostics établis.” Le parisien libéré 74A; (May 6A, 6:A9).“Veille de palmarès à Venise où (en marge du festival) Lady Diana Cooper se baigne

toute habillée.” Le parisien libéré 6A7A (August 6, 6:7:).“La vengeance [La venganza].” Cahiers du cinéma no. 97 (June 6:A9), pp. ;6– ;4.“La vengeance de Frank James [Gunfi re]: Un peu refroidie.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 6B7

(March 9, 6:A;).“La vengeance de Scarface [City Vengeance]: Sans rancune!” Le parisien libéré ;:96

(June 4:, 6:A8).“La Vengeance des Borgia [Bride of Vengeance]: Un plat qui ne laisse pas froid.” Le pari-

sien libéré 6A:7 (October 49, 6:7:).“Venise.” France-observateur 647 (September 4A, 6:A4).“Venise 6:A8: Moralité [Le Cri (Il Grido), Grand-papa l’automobile, Twelve Angry Men

(Douze hommes en colère), et La Lagune des désirs].” Cahiers du cinéma XIII, no. 8A (October 6:A8), pp. ;A– 77.

“Venise: Les Frères Bouquinquant; le meilleur fi lm de Louis Daquin.” Le parisien libéré :46 (September ;, 6:78).

“Venise: Grâce à la télévision; le festival est doué cette année d’ubiquité.” Le parisien li-béré 479A (September :, 6:A4).

“Venise: Un palmarès obligatoire [L’Invaincu (Aparajito), Malva, et Les nuits blanches].” France-observateur ;9; (September 64, 6:A8), p. 67.

“Vera Cruz: Un bon western . . . mexicain!” Le parisien libéré ;;46 (May 6B, 6:AA).“Verdict critiquable des critiques de télévision.” France-observateur ;:9 (December 4B,

6:A8), p. 46.“Verdict sévère pour la France mais équitable à Venise où Carl Dreyer triomphe avec

Ordet [La parole].” Le parisien libéré ;744 (September 64, 6:AA).“Le véritable crime de la rue Morgue [Phantom of the rue Morgue, Dial M for Murder,

and Hondo]: On a assassiné une dimension.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 4B; (January ;5, 6:AA).

“La vérité n’a pas de frontière [Ulica graniczna].” Le parisien libéré 6747 (April 6;, 6:7:).“La vérité sur Bébé Donge: A quoi rêvent les jeunes femmes.” Le parisien libéré 4;67 (Feb-

ruary 46, 6:A4).“Vers les prix.” France-observateur ;6; (May 65, 6:AB).“Les Vertes Années [' e Green Years].” Le parisien libéré 6597 (March 65, 6:79).“La Veuve noire [Black Widow]: L’araignée est trop fi ne mouche!” Le parisien libéré ;;;A

(June 4, 6:AA).“La Veuve noire [Black Widow]: Un policier moyen.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 494

(June 64, 6:AA).“Victoire sur l’Annapurna.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 685 (April 6:, 6:A;).“Victoire sur l’Annapurna.” France-observateur 6A7 (April 4;, 6:A;).

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49B ) Bibliography

“Une Vie, d’Alexandre Astruc.” L’ éducation nationale 4B (October 6B, 6:A9), in Le ci-néma français de la libération à la nouvelle vague, !"#%– !"%$ (Éditions de l’Étoile [6:9;], 6::9), pp. 4A5– 4A;.

“La Vie criminelle d’Archibald de la Cruz [Ensayo de un Crimen].” Le parisien libéré 75B6 (October 4, 6:A8).

“La Vie criminelle d’Archibald de la Cruz [Ensayo de un Crimen]: Une comédie inquié-tante et troublante.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 757 (October 6;, 6:A8). Reprinted in Le cinéma de la cruauté. Paris: Flammarion, 6:8A.

“La vie de bohème.” Le parisien libéré 6;B (January 4;, 6:7A).“La vie de Jésus: Et autres courts métrages.” Le parisien libéré 4;B; (April 69, 6:A4).“La vie de Oharu [Saikaku ichidai onna].” France-observateur 6:B (February 66, 6:A7),

pp. 44– 4;.“La vie de Oharu, femme galante [Saikaku ichidai onna].” Radio-cinéma-télévision 676

(September 49, 6:A4).“La vie de Oharu, femme galante [Saikaku ichidai onna].” Le parisien libéré 4:4: (Feb-

ruary 66, 6:A7).“La vie de Oharu, femme galante [Saikaku ichidai onna].” Le parisien libéré ;699 (Decem-

ber 66, 6:A7).“La vie d’un honnête homme: Honnête mais pauvre!” Le parisien libéré 4B;7 (March ;,

6:A;).“La vie de ' omas Edison [Edison, the Man].” Le parisien libéré ;:A (November 6:, 6:7A).“La Vie est belle [It’s a Wonderful Life].” Le parisien libéré 645: (August 7, 6:79).“La Vie est belle [It’s a Wonderful Life]: Condamnation de Capra?” L’ écran français 6B4–

6B; (August ;, 6:79).“Vie et mort de la surimpression I: À propos de Ses trois amoureux [Le Défunt recalci-

trant (Here Comes Mr. Jordan); Ses trois amoureux (Tom, Dick, and Harry); Une pe-tite ville sans histoire (Our Town)].” L’ écran français 9 (August 44, 6:7A), in Qu’est-ce que le cinéma? Vol. 6, Ontologie et langage (Éditions du Cerf, 6:A9), pp. 48– ;5.

“Vie et mort de la surimpression II: Les fantômes de Our Town [Une petite ville sans his-toire].” L’ écran français : (August 4:, 6:7A).

“La Vie passionnée de Clemenceau: Clemenceau par Clemenceau.” Le parisien libéré 487; (July :, 6:A;).

“La Vie passionnée de Moussorgsky [Musorgskiy]: Ennuyeux en musique.” Le parisien li-béré 47;8 (July 6A, 6:A4).

“La Vie passionnée de Vincent Van Gogh [Lust for Life].” L’ éducation nationale B (Febru-ary 8, 6:A8).

“La Vie passionnée de Vincent Van Gogh [Lust for Life]: La peinture à l’huile.” Le parisien libéré ;9AA (February 6, 6:A8).

“La vie recommence [La vita ricomincia]: Une bonne comédie de moeurs qui fi nit en mélo.” L’ écran français 655 (May 48, 6:78).

“Une vie sans joie ou Catherine.” Cahiers du cinéma no. 89 (December 6:A8). Reprinted in Jean Renoir. Paris: Éditions Champ Libre, 6:86.

“Viens avec moi [Come Live with Me] . . . Ne le suivez pas.” Le parisien libéré 6B44 (De-cember 6, 6:7:).

“Vient de paraître: Une satire féroce! Une interprétation brillante!” Le parisien libéré 6B56 (November A, 6:7:).

“Le village magique: Un habile tour de passe-passe.” Le parisien libéré ;4:4 (April 64, 6:AA).

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“Ville haute, ville basse [East Side, West Side]: Une interprétation exceptionnelle.” Le pa-risien libéré 46A5 (August 66, 6:A6).

“47 heures en quelques minutes.” Radio-cinéma-télévision ;7; (August 64, 6:AB).“Violettes imperials: Deux sous de violettes pour un Empire!” Le parisien libéré 4A84

(December 45, 6:A4).“La Vipère [' e Little Foxes] et Vivre libre [' is Land Is Mine].” Le parisien libéré B55

(July 6:, 6:7B).“Virgile: Drôle et de bon aloi.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 454 (November 4:, 6:A;), p. ;B.“Virgile: La foi qui sauve!” Le parisien libéré 49A9 (November 46, 6:A;).“Visages de bronze.” Cahiers du cinéma no. 97 (June 6:A9), p. 49.“Viva Zapata.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 6B5 (February 9, 6:A;).“Viva Zapata: D’une beauté trop sevère!” Le parisien libéré 4B5; (January 4B, 6:A;).“Vive la radio, à bas le 9ème Art; le cinéma, la radio et le péché d’angélisme: Paradoxe

d’un cinéaste sur la radio.” Radio-cinéma-télévision A9 (February 4A, 6:A6).“Vivre libre [' is Land Is Mine]: La résistance française à l’usage des Chinois.” L’ écran

français AA (July 68, 6:7B).“Vlamynck.” Radio-cinéma-télévision ;;9 (July 9, 6:AB).“Voici le burlesque, le genre qui fut majeur le premier se survit en se parodiant.” Radio-

cinéma-télévision 94 (August 64, 6:A6).“Voici la nouvelle B. B. telle que je l’ai vue à Madrid ou elle tourne sous la direction de

Vadim Les Bijoutiers du Clair de lune.” Le parisien libéré 7574 (September 65, 6:A8).“Voit-on correctement les fi lms dans les salles de quartier.” France-observateur ;B;

(April 4A, 6:A8).“Voiture 8, place 6A.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 748 (March 4;, 6:A9).“Volets clos [Persiane chiuse]: Les bas-fonds italiens.” Le parisien libéré 4758 (Septem-

ber B, 6:A4).“Voleur de bicyclette [Ladri di biciclette], ou l’épreuve victorieuse du néoréalisme italien.”

L’esprit 69, no. 6B6 (November 6:7:), pp. 945– 9;4, in Qu’est-ce que le cinéma? Vol. 7, Une esthétique de la réalité: Le néo-réalisme (Éditions du Cerf, 6:B4), pp. 7A– A:; in Qu’est-ce que le cinéma? (Cerf, 6:8A, rpt. 4555; single-volume version), pp. 4:A– ;5:.

“La Voleuse [A Stolen Life].” Le parisien libéré 64:9 (November 68, 6:79).“Voulez-vous jouer avec vous?” Radio-cinéma-télévision ;45 (March 7, 6:AB).“Vous pouvez voir ou revoir La Grande illusion de Jean Renoir grâce à la TV.” Radio-

cinéma-télévision 6:8 (October 4A, 6:A;).“Le voyage à Punta del Este.” Cahiers du cinéma no. A9 (April 6:AB), pp. 4A– 49.“Le voyage de la peur [' e Hitch-Hiker] et L’Assassin sans visage [Follow Me Quietly]:

Deux fi lms qui ne font pas le poids.” Le parisien libéré 49;6 (October 46, 6:A;).“Le voyage de la peur [' e Hitch-Hiker] et L’Assassin sans visage [Follow Me Quietly]: La

quantité n’est pas la qualité.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 6:9 (November 6, 6:A;).“Voyage en Italie [L’amour est plus fort (Viaggio in Italia)].” Monde Nouveau, Septem-

ber 6:AA.“Les voyages de Sullivan [Sullivan’s Travels].” Le parisien libéré 66;8 (May 64, 6:79).“Les voyages de Sullivan [Sullivan’s Travels]: Les aventures d’un scénariste qui s’est dé-

guisé en clochard; une révolution dans la comédie Américaine.” L’ écran français 6A5 (May 66, 6:79).

“Voyons un peu . . . où nous en sommes.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 767 (December 44, 6:A8).

“Le Vrai coupable.” Le parisien libéré 4647 (November 8, 6:A6).

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“Le Vrai coupable: Un bon fi lm sur de bons sentiments.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 8: (July 44, 6:A6).

“La vraie gloire [' e True Glory].” Le parisien libéré 795 (March ;, 6:7B).“Vu pour vous . . . cette semaine Les grandes espérances [Great Expectations] et Les jeux

sont faits [Second Chance].” Le parisien libéré 6566 (December 68, 6:78).“Vu pour vous . . . entre deux pannes: L’emprise du crime [' e Strange Love of Martha

Ivers], La couleur qui tue [Green for Danger], et Dernier amour.” Le parisien libéré 655A (December 65, 6:78).

“Vulgarisation et non conférence.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 6BB (March 44, 6:A;).“Vus à . . . Venise.” L’ écran français 6B8 (September 8, 6:79).“Wabash Avenue, on y peut fl âner.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 66A (March ;5, 6:A4).“Un western: La Ville abandonnée [Yellow Sky].” Le parisien libéré 6A5A (July 6B, 6:7:).“Un western exemplaire: Sept hommes à abattre/Seven Men from Now.” Cahiers du ci-

néma no. 87 (August-September 6:A8), p. 7A", in Qu’est-ce que le cinéma? Vol. ;, Ci-néma et sociologie; Quatrième partie: Le western (Éditions du Cerf, 6:B6), pp, 6A8– 6B;; in Qu’est-ce que le cinéma? (Cerf, 6:8A, rpt. 4555; single-volume version), pp. 476– 478.

“Le western ou le cinéma américain par excellence.” Preface to the book Le western ou le cinéma américain par excellence,” by J.-L. Rieupeyrout (8ème Art, Éditions du Cerf, 6:A;), in Qu’est-ce que le cinéma? Vol. ;, Cinéma et sociologie; Quatrième partie: Le western (Éditions du Cerf, 6:B6), pp. 6;A– 67A; in Qu’est-ce que le cinéma? (Cerf, 6:8A, rpt. 4555; single-volume version), pp. 468– 448.

“Western pas mort!” Radio-cinéma-télévision ;59 (December 66, 6:AA).“Le western refl ête un moment de l’histoire américaine.” Radio-cinéma-télévision 7;

(November 64, 6:A5).“Whisky, vodka et jupon de fer [' e Iron Petticoat].” Le parisien libéré 7555 (July 44,

6:A8).“William Wyler metteur en scène de Les plus belles années de notre vie [' e Best Years of

Our Lives] est arrivé au Festival de Bruxelles.” Le parisien libéré 9A8 (June 6:, 6:78).“William Wyler ou le janséniste de la mise en scène [Les plus belles années de notre

vie (' e Best Years of Our Lives)].” Part I, in Revue du cinéma 65 (February 6:79), pp. ;9– 79, and part II, in Revue du cinéma 66 (March 6:79), pp. A;– B;; both parts together in Qu’est-ce que le cinéma? Vol. 6, Ontologie et langage (Éditions du Cerf, 6:A9), pp. 67:– 68;.

“Winslow contre le roi [' e Winslow Boy].” Le parisien libéré 67;B (April 48, 6:7:).“Y a-t-il une crise du cinéma français?” Radio-cinéma-télévision ;AA (November 7, 6:AB).“Y a-t-il une crise du cinéma français?” Radio-cinéma-télévision ;AB (November 66, 6:AB).“Un yankee à la cour du Roi Arthur [A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court]: Chan-

son de geste pour chanteur de charme.” Le parisien libéré 6B;: (December 46, 6:7:).“Les yeux de la nuit.” Le parisien libéré 675B (March 4;, 6:7:).“< e Young < omas Edison.” Le parisien libéré 646 (January A, 6:7A).“Zola et le cinéma: Pour une nuit d’amour.” Le parisien libéré 9;4 (May 46, 6:78).

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André Bazin and Italian Neorealism. Edited by Bert Cardullo. New York: Continuum, 4566.

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Bazin at Work: Major Essays and Reviews From the Forties and Fifties. Edited by Bert Cardullo. New York: Routledge, 6::8.

' e Cinema of Cruelty: From Buñuel to Hitchcock. Translated by Sabine d’Estrée and TiL any Fliss. 6:94. New York: Arcade Publishing, 456;.

Essays on Chaplin. Translated by Jean Bodon. New Haven, Connecticut: University of New Haven Press, 6:9A.

French Cinema from the Liberation to the New Wave, !"#%– !"%$. Translated and ed-ited by Bert Cardullo. New Orleans, Louisiana: University of New Orleans Press, 4564.

French Cinema of the Occupation and Resistance: ' e Birth of a Critical Esthetic. Trans-lated by Stanley Hochman. Preface by François TruL aut. New York: Frederick Un-gar, 6:96.

Jean Renoir. Translated by W. W. Halsey II and William H. Simon. New York: Simon and Schuster, 6:8;.

Orson Welles. Translated by Jonathan Rosenbaum. New York: Harper and Row, 6:89. Los Angeles: Acrobat Books, 6::4.

What Is Cinema? Selected and translated by Timothy Barnard from the four volumes of Qu’est-ce que le cinéma? Montreal: Caboose Press, 455:.

What Is Cinema? Selected and translated by Hugh Gray from the fi rst two volumes of Qu’est-ce que le cinéma? Berkeley: University of Califomia Press, 6:B8.

What is Cinema? Volume II. Selected and translated by Hugh Gray from the last two volumes of Qu’est-ce que le cinéma? Berkeley: University of California Press, 6:86.

/33C ',D .,E* 3> E3'C* /0 /(=.) &' ()*+(&,- .)&3 ,)?+.*M

Of Bazin at Work—in Canadian Journal of Film Studies, B.4 (6::8): 99– :4; Sight and Sound, 8.9 (August 6::8): ;6; Film-Philosophy, ;.;4 (August 6:::); Film Quarterly, A;.6 (Autumn 6:::): 7A– 7B; Creative Screenwriting, 8.A (4555): 4;.

Of ' e Cinema of Cruelty—in Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism, ;B.4 (Winter 6:88): 4;6– 4;;; Library Journal, 658.: (May 6, 6:94): :54.

Of French Cinema of the Occupation and Resistance—in Library Journal, 65A.44 (De-cember 6A, 6:95): 4A9B; Film Quarterly, ;7.7 (6:96): ;7; Afterimage, : (January 6:94): 68; Films and Filming, no. ;4: (February 6:94): ;9; Film Criticism, B.4 (Winter 6:94): A9– BB; Wide Angle, A.4 (6:9;): 89– 8:; American Film, 9 (June 6:9;): BB– B8"; Mod-ern Language Journal, B:.7 (Winter 6:9A): 75:– 765.

Of Jean Renoir—in Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism, ;6.4 (Winter 6:84): 495; Vel-vet Light Trap, 84.7 (March 6:84): A4; New York Times, : September 6:8;: ;:;; Cin-ema Journal, 6;.4 (6:87): A9– B;; Film Heritage, :.; (6:87): ;8– 75; Film Quarterly, 48.; (6:87): A4; Focus on Film, no. 6: (Autumn 6:87): 6;; Sight and Sound, 77.6 (Winter 6:87– 8A): 6B– 69; Afterimage, 4 (April 6:8A): :; Film Comment, 64 (May– June 6:8B): B5– B6; Christian Century, 65; (June 69– 4A, 6:9B): A:5.

Of Orson Welles—in Cineaste, :.4 (6:89): A4– A;; Library Journal, 65;.7 (February 6A, 6:89): 78:; Critic, ;8.4 (July 6:89): 8; New York Times, 4; July 6:89: Sec. 8, pp. :"; American Film, 7 (October 6:89): 8A– 8B; Focus on Film, no. ;6 (November 6:89): A6– A4; Film Comment, 67.B (November 6:89): 47; American Scholar, 79.6 (Winter 6:89– 6:8:): 675– 677; Variety, no. 4:A (March/April 6:8:): 85– 86; Quarterly Review

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of Film Studies, A.; (6:95): ;88– ;94; Library Journal, 668.4 (February 6::4): 6;6; Sight and Sound, 66.6 (6::4): ;A.

Of What Is Cinema?—in New York Times, 65 September 6:B8: Sec. 8, p. 6; New States-man, 87 (July 6:B8): 885; Artforum, B.65 (6:B9): BB– 86; Journal of Aesthetic Edu-cation, ;.; (July 6:B:): 6A:– 6B6; New York Times, 6; February 6:84: BR48; Journal of Film Preservation, no. 96 (Fall 455:): 8;– 87; CiNéMAS, 45.6 (Fall 455:); Film Quarterly, B7.; (4566): ;8; Cinema Scope, no. 78 (Summer 4566): BB.

/.31' .&.1(+ E3'C* 3) /(=.) E'.&&,) .) 3' &' ()*+(&,- .)&3 ,)?+.*M

Aitken, Ian. “Physical Reality: < e Role of the Empirical in the Film < eory of Sief-gried Kracauer, John Grierson, Andre Bazin, and Georg Lukacs.” Studies in Docu-mentary Film, 6.4 (4558): 65A– 644.

———. “‘And what about the spiritual life itself?’: Distraction, Modernity, and Re-demption; < e Intuitionist Realist Tradition in the Work of John Grierson, André Bazin, and Siegfried Kracauer.” In Aitken’s Realist Film ' eory and Cinema, 6;8– 699. Manchester, UK: Manchester University Press, 455B.

Alemany-Galway, Mary. “Bazin: Phenomenology and Postmodernism.” In Alemany-Galway’s A Postmodern Cinema: ' e Voice of the Other in Canadian Film, 78– B5. Lanham, Maryland: Scarecrow Press, 4554.

Andrew, Dudley. “Malraux, Benjamin, Bazin: A Triangle of Hope for Cinema.” In Film, Art, New Media: Museum without Walls? Edited by Angela Dalle Vacche, 66A– 675. Basingstoke, UK: Palgrave Macmillan, 4564.

———, and Hervé Joubert-Laurencin, eds. Opening Bazin: Postwar Film ' eory and Its Afterlife. New York: Oxford University Press, 4566.

Andrew, Dudley. What Cinema Is! Bazin’s Quest and Its Charge. New York: John Wi-ley & Sons, 4565.

———. “André Bazin.” Film Comment 77.B (4559): ;9– 7;.———. “< e Ontology of a Fetish.” Film Quarterly B6.7 (4559): B4– B8.———. “André Bazin.” In Encyclopedia of Aesthetics, vol. 6, edited by Michael Kelly,

449– 4;4. New York: Oxford University Press, 6::9.———. “Bazin’s ‘Evolution’.” In Defi ning Cinema, edited by Peter Lehman, 8;– :7.

New Brunswick, New Jersey: Rutgers University Press, 6::8.———. “Cinematic Politics in Postwar France: Bazin before Cahiers.” Cineaste 64.6

(6:94): 64– 69.———. André Bazin. New York: Oxford University Press, 6:89; Columbia University

Press, 6::5; Oxford University Press, 456;.———. “André Bazin.” In Andrew’s ' e Major Film ' eories, 6;7– 689. New York: Ox-

ford University Press, 6:8B.———. “André Bazin.” Film Comment (March/April 6:8;): B7– B9.Armstrong, Richard. “André Bazin.” Metro Magazine: Media & Education Magazine

no. 677 (February 455A): 89– 8:.Aumont, Jacques. “André Bazin and the Cinema of Transparency” (6:9;). In Aesthetics

of Film, edited by Jacques Aumont, Alain Bergala, Michel Marie, and Marc Vernet, translated by Richard Neupert, A7– A:. Austin: University of Texas Press, 6::4.

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de Baecque, Antoine. “André Bazin in Combat.” Cineaste ;B.6 (Winter 4565): 65– 6A.Barr, Charles. “Rethinking Film History: Bazin’s Impact in England.” Paragraph ;B.6

(456;), 6;;– 6A4.Barthélémy, Amengual, and Wanli Shan. “A Brief Introduction to André Bazin.” Con-

temporary Cinema (China) 67A (April 6, 4559).Baumbach, Nico. “< e Question Remains: André Bazin.” Film Comment 78.4 (March/

April 4566): 89.Beasley-Murray, Jon. “Whatever Happened to Neorealism?—Bazin, Deleuze, and Tar-

kovsky’s Long Take.” Iris no. 4; (Spring 6::8): ;8– A4.Bordwell, David. “Against the Seventh Art: André Bazin and the Dialectical Program.”

In Bordwell’s On the History of Film Style, 7B– 94. Cambridge, Massachusetts: Har-vard University Press, 6::8.

Brubaker, David. “André Bazin on Automatically Made Images.” Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism, A6.6 (6::;): A:– B8.

Buchanan, Ian. “André Bazin.” In Buchanan’s A Dictionary of Critical ' eory, p. 7: New York: Oxford University Press, 4565.

Cadbury, William. “< e Cleavage Plane of André Bazin.” Journal of Modern Literature ;.4 (April 6:8;): 4A;– 4B9.

Callenbach, Ernest. “André Bazin.” Film Quarterly, 77.7 (6::6): ABL .Cardullo, Bert. “Cinema as ‘Social Documentary’: < e Film < eory of André Bazin,

Revisited.” Studies in French Cinema 6;.6 (456;): ;;– 7B.———. “Defi ning the Real: < e Film < eory and Criticism of André Bazin.” Midwest

Quarterly A6.4 (Winter 4565): 455– 46B.Carroll, Noël. “Cinematic Representation and Realism: André Bazin and the Aesthet-

ics of Sound Film.” In Carroll’s Philosophical Problems of Classical Film ' eory, :;– 686. Princeton, New Jersey: Princeton University Press, 6:99.

Carruthers, Lee. “André Bazin.” Screen A4.7 (December 4566): A75– A77.———. “M. Bazin et le temps: Reclaiming the Timeliness of Cinematic Time.” Screen

A4.6 (4566): 6;– 4:.Casebier, Allan. “Bazin’s Long-Take Style.” In Casebier’s Film Appreciation, 99– :4.

New York: Harcourt, Brace, Jovanovich, 6:8B.Champlin, Charles. “< e Best of Bazin’s Renoir.” Los Angeles Times, July 6;, 6:8;, C6.———. “Critic at Large: Second Tribute to André Bazin.” Los Angeles Times, Febru-

ary 69, 6:84, H6.———. “Bazin: Aristotle of Cinema Art.” Los Angeles Times, June 4A, 6:B8, C;4.Chen, Robert. “Bazin at Work: < e Concept of Realism in Chinese-Language Films.”

Journal of Chinese Cinemas 7.6 (4565): A8– B7.Chen, Xihe. “On Bazin’s Conception of Film Truth.” Contemporary Cinema (China)

6 (6:97).Choi, Won Jae. “< e Boundary Between Ideology and Realism in André Bazin’s Film

< eory.” Cineforum (Korea), 6A (4564): 8;– 65;.Cisneros, James R. “Imaginary of the End, End of the Imaginary: Bazin and Mal-

raux on the Limits of Painting and Photography.” Cinémas: Revue d’ études ciné-matographiques/Cinémas; Journal of Film Studies 6;.; (455;): 67:– 6B:.

Cooper, Sarah. “Montage, Militancy, Metaphysics: Chris Marker and André Bazin.” Online Magazine of the Visual Narrative 66.6 (4565).

Dalle Vacche, Angela. “Chiaroscuro: Caravaggio, Bazin, Storaro.” Senses of Cinema no. A; (December 455:).

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———. “André Bazin’s Film < eory and Olivier Assayas’s Summer Hours (4559).” Pre-della 64.;6 (August 4564).

Daney, Serge. “< e Screen of Fantasy: Bazin and Animals.” In Rites of Realism: Essays on Corporeal Cinema, edited by Ivone Margulies, ;4– 76. Durham, North Carolina: Duke University Press, 455;.

DiIorio, Sam. “Total Cinema: Chronique d’un été and the End of Bazinian Film < e-ory.” Screen 79.6 (4558): 4A– 7;.

During, Lisabeth. “Innocence and Ontology: < e Truthfulness of André Bazin.” In European Film ' eory. Ed. Temenuga Trifonova. New York: Routledge, 455:. 4A8– 485.

During, Lisabeth, and Lisa Trahair. “Belief in Cinema: Revisiting < emes from Ba-zin.” Angelaki 68.7 (December 4564): 6– 9.

Early, Michael. “André Bazin.” Performing Arts Journal ;.; (Winter 6:8:): 6;5– 6;6.Eberwein, Robert T. “André Bazin.” In Eberwein’s A Viewer’s Guide to Film ' eory and

Criticism, 86– 99. Metuchen, New Jersey: Scarecrow Press, 6:8:.Fay, Jennifer. “Seeing/Loving Animals: André Bazin’s Posthumanism.” Journal of Vi-

sual Culture 8.6 (4559): 76– B7.Film International no. ;5 (November/December 4558). Special issue devoted to Ba-

zin: “Editorial: André Bazin at :5,” by JeL rey Crouse. “Because We Need Him Now: Re-Enchanting Film Studies through Bazin,” by JeL rey Crouse. “What Is Criticism?” by Charles Warren. “Godard and Bazin,” by Diane Stevenson. “Cin-ema as an Art of Potential Metaphors: < e Rehabilitation of Metaphor in André Bazin’s Realist Film < eory,” by Mats Rohdin. “Bazin as a Cavellian Realist,” by William Rothman. “< e View across the Courtyard: Bazin and the Evolution of Depth Style,” by Tom Paulus. “André Bazin and the Preservation of Loss,” by Karla Oeler. “' e Best Years of Our Lives: Planes of Innocence and Experience,” by Rich-ard Armstrong.

France, Peter, ed. “André Bazin.” In ' e New Oxford Companion to Literature in French. New York: Oxford University Press, 6::A.

Friday, Jonathan. “André Bazin’s Ontology of Photographic and Film Imagery.” Jour-nal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism B;.7 (455A): ;;:– ;A5.

Galt, Rosalind. “‘It’s So Cold in Alaska’: Evoking Exploration between Bazin and the Forbidden Quest.” Discourse 49.6 (4559): A;– 86.

Gaycken, Oliver. “[Bazin’s] ‘Beauty of Chance’: Gustav Deutsch’s Film ist.” Journal of Visual Culture 66.; (December 4564): ;58– ;48.

Giovacchini, Saverio. “< e Gap: How André Bazin Became Captain America.” In Across the Atlantic: Cultural Exchanges between Europe and the United States, !$&&– )&&&, edited by Luisa Passerini, 698– 45B. Brussels: Presses Interuniversitaires Euro-péennes (P.I.E.)-Peter Lang, 4556.

Glenn, Lauren N. “André Bazin.” Post Script: Essays in Film and the Humanities ;5.6 (Fall 4565): 656– 654.

Gozlan, Gérard. “< e Delights of Ambiguity: In Praise of André Bazin” (6:B4). In ' e French New Wave: Critical Landmarks, edited by Ginette Vincendeau and Peter Graham, :6– 64:. 6:B9. Reprint. London: BFI/Palgrave Macmillan, 455:.

Grant, Michael. “< e Enduring Value of André Bazin.” Film Studies no. : (455B): B9– B:.

Gray, Hugh. “On Interpreting Bazin.” Film Quarterly 4B.; (6:8;): A9– A:.Greenhough, Alexander. “André Bazin.” Film Criticism ;B.6 (Winter 4564): :7– :B.

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4:; ) Bibliography

Grist, Leighton. “Whither Realism? Bazin Reconsidered.” In Realism and the Audio-visual Media, edited by Lúcia Nagib and Cecília Mello, 45– ;5. Basinstoke, UK: Palgrave Macmillan, 455:.

Grønstad, Absjørn. “Anatomy of a Murder: Bazin, Barthes, Blow-Up.” Film Journal 6.: (Summer 4557): n.p.

Grosoli, Marco. “Impure or Bastard? < e Actual Place of Heterogeneity in André Ba-zin’s Writings.” In In Praise of Cinematic Bastardy, edited by Sébastian Lefait and Philippe Ortoli, 46:– 44:. Newcastle-upon-Tyne, UK: Cambridge Scholars Publish-ing, 4564.

———. “< e Privileged Animal: < e Myth of Childhood and the Myth of Realism According to André Bazin.” Red Feather: An International Journal of Children’s Vi-sual Culture 4.4 (Fall 4566): A:– B8.

———. “Rohmer’s Les amours d’Astrée et de Celadon as a Systematical Synthesis for Bazin’s Space-Based Adaptation < eory.” Film and Performance ;.4 (4565): 66A– 649.

Guglielmetti, Mark. “Artifi cial Life, André Bazin, and Disney Nature.” Philosophy of Photography ;.6 (December 4564): 8;– 95.

Guiney, Martin. “[Bazin’s] ‘Total Cinema,’ Literature, and Testimonial in the Early Films of Alain Resnais.” Adaptation A.4 (4564): 6;8– 6A6.

Hao Jian. “André Bazin in China: Spoken of and Forgotten.” Contemporary Cinema (China) 67A (April 6, 4559).

Harcourt, Peter. “What, Indeed, Is Cinema?” Cinema Journal B.6 (Fall 6:B9): 44– 49.Hediger, Vinzenz. ' e Miracle of Realism: André Bazin and the Cosmology of Film. Am-

sterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 4564.Henderson, Brian. “Bazin Defended against His Devotees.” Film Quarterly ;4.7 (6:8:):

4B– ;8.———. “Reply to Hugh Gray.” Film Quarterly 4B.; (6:8;): A:– B6.———. “< e Structure of Bazin’s < ought.” 6:84. In Henderson’s A Critique of Film

' eory, ;4– 78. New York: E. P. Dutton, 6:95.Hoberman, J(ames). “< e Myth of [Bazin’s] ‘< e Myth of Total Cinema.’” In Hober-

man’s Film after Film: Or, What Became of )!st-Century Cinema?, ;– A. London: Verso, 4564.

Hock, Stephen. “‘Stories Told Sideways Out of the Big Mouth’: John Dos Passos’s Ba-zinian Camera Eye.” Literature/Film Quarterly ;;.6 (455A): 45– 48.

Horrigan, Bill. “André Bazin’s Destiny.” Jump Cut no. 6: (December 6:89).Horton, Justin. “Mental Landscapes: Bazin, Deleuze, and Neorealism (< en and

Now).” Cinema Journal A4.4 (456;): 4;– 7A.Hu, Ke. “André Bazin’s Infl uence and the Concept of Truth Film in China.” Contem-

porary Cinema (China) 67A (April 6, 4559).James, Nick. “A Priest and His Flock: < e Critic André Bazin, Father Figure for New

Wave Directors.” Sight and Sound 6:.A (May 455:): 6:– 46.Jeong, Seung-Hoon. “André Bazin’s Ontological Other: < e Animal in Adventure

Films.” Senses of Cinema no. A6 (July 455:).Jeong, Seung-Hoon, and Dudley Andrew. “Grizzly Ghost: Herzog, Bazin, and the

Cinematic Animal.” Screen 7:.6 (4559): 6– 64.Jin, Danyuan. “On the Philosophical Background of the [Bazinian] < eory of the

‘Long Take’ and Its Signifi cation Today.” Film and ' eater (China) B (4555).KauL mann, Stanley. “André Bazin.” In KauL mann’s Before My Eyes: Film Criticism

and Comment, ;9A– ;:6. New York: Harper & Row, 6:95.

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Keathley, Christian. “André Bazin and the Revelatory Potential of Cinema.” In Keath-ley’s Cinephilia and History, or, ' e Wind in the Trees, 86– :9. Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 455B.

Kelley, Kathleen. “Faithful Mechanisms: Bazin’s Modernism.” Angelaki 68.7 (Decem-ber 4564): 4;– ;8.

Kline, T. JeL erson. “< e Film < eories of Bazin and Epstein: Shadow Boxing in the Margins of the Real.” Paragraph ;B.6 (456;): B9– 9A.

Law, Jonathan. “Stasis and Statuary in Bazinian Cinema.” Critical Inquiry A;, Issue Supplement S6 (July 4566): 658– 644.

Le Fanu, Mark. “< e Metaphysics of the ‘Long Take’: Some Post-Bazinian Refl ec-tions.” P.O.V. no. 7 (December 6::8).

Lesses, Glenn. “Renoir, Bazin, and Film Realism.” In Purdue University’s Seventh An-nual Conference on Film, edited by Marshall Deutelbaum and < omas P. Adler, 678– 6A4. West Lafayette, Indiana: Department of English at Purdue University, 6:9;.

Liu, Yunzhou. “Philosophical Concepts in Bazin’s Film < eory.” Contemporary Cin-ema (China) ; (4555).

Lowenstein, Adam. “< e Surrealism of the Photographic Image: Bazin, Barthes, and the Digital Sweet Hereafter.” Cinema Journal 7B.; (4558): A7– 94.

Luo, Huisheng. “Analyzing ‘Total Realism’: On Bazin’s Understanding of Film Aes-thetics.” Research in Literature and Art (China) 6 (6:97).

MacCabe, Colin. “Bazinian Adaptation.” In True to the Spirit: Film Adaptation and the Question of Fidelity, edited by Colin MacCabe, Kathleen Murray, and Rick Warner, ;– 4A. New York: Oxford University Press, 4566.

MacCabe, Colin, and Sally Shafto. “‘< e cinema is not a bad school’: André Bazin and the Cahiers du cinéma.” In MacCabe and Shafto’s Godard: A Portrait of the Artist at Seventy, 74– :B. 455;. New York: Faber and Faber, 455A.

MacCabe, Colin. “Barthes and Bazin: < e Ontology of the Image.” In Writing the Im-age after Roland Barthes, edited by Jean-Michel Rabaté, 86– 8B. Philadelphia: Uni-versity of Pennsylvania Press, 6::8.

Marie, Laurent. “< e Oak < at Wished It Were a Reed: Georges Sadoul and André Bazin.” Paragraph ;B.6 (456;): 656– 668.

Mast, Gerald. “What Isn’t Cinema?” Critical Inquiry 6.4 (December 6:87): ;8;– ;:;.Matthews, Peter. “Divining the Real: André Bazin, Father of Film Studies.” Sight and

Sound :.9 (August 6:::): 44– 4A.McConnell, Frank. “< e Critic as Romantic Hero: André Bazin.” Quarterly Review of

Film Studies A.6 (6:95): 65:– 66;.McDonald, Neil. “Two Kinds of Artistry [Renoir and Bazin].” Quadrant, A5.66 (No-

vember 455B): 87– 8B.Michelson, Annette. “What Is Cinema?” Performing Arts Journal, 68.4– ; (May– Sep-

tember 6::A): 45– 4:.Monaco, James. “Mise en Scène: Neorealism, Bazin, and Godard.” In Monaco’s How

to Read a Film: Movies, Media, and Beyond, 7AB– 7B8. 6:88. Reprint. New York: Ox-ford University Press, 455:.

Morgan, Daniel. “Bazin’s Modernism.” Paragraph ;B.6 (456;): 65– ;5.———. “Rethinking Bazin: Ontology and Realist Aesthetics.” Critical Inquiry ;4.;

(455B): 77;– 796.Mullarkey, John. “< e Tragedy of the Object: Democracy of Vision and the Terror-

ism of < ings in Bazin’s Cinematic Realism.” Angelaki 68.7 (December 4564): ;:– A:.

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4:A ) Bibliography

Musser, Charles. “< e Clash between < eater and Film: Germaine Dulac, André Ba-zin, and La Souriante Madame Beudet.” New Review of Film and Television Studies A.4 (Summer 4558): 666– 6;7.

Nelson, < omas Allen. “André Bazin.” Film Criticism ;.6 (Fall 6:89): B6.Nettelbeck, Colin. “Bazin’s Rib? French Women Filmmakers and the Evolution of the

Auteur Concept.” Nottingham French Studies 76.4 (Autumn 4554): 65B– 64B.Ng, Jenna. “< e Myth of [Bazin’s] Total Cinephilia.” Cinema Journal 7:.4 (4565):

67B– 6A6.Nolan, Steve. “André Bazin: the Parameters of Cinematic Protestantism.” In Nolan’s

Film, Lacan, and the Subject of Religion: A Psychoanalytic Approach to Religious Film Analysis, 66– 64. New York: Continuum, 455:.

Nowell-Smith, GeoL rey. “André Bazin.” Film Quarterly BA.7 (Summer 4564): BA– B8.Oeler, Karla. “Murder outside the Poetics of Montage: André Bazin and Jean Renoir.”

In Oeler’s A Grammar of Murder: Violent Scenes and Film Form, :A– 6;4. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 455:.

OL screen.com 8.8 (July 455;): “Focus on André Bazin.”OL screen.com 6;.4 (February 455:). Special issue devoted to Bazin.Perkins, Victor F. “Minority Reports.” In Perkins’ Film as Film: Understanding and

Judging Movies, 49– ;:. London: Penguin, 6:84.Phillips, James. “< e Fates of Flesh: Cinematic Realism Following Bazin and Mizogu-

chi.” Angelaki 68.7 (December 4564): :– 44.Powrie, Phil, and Keith Reader. “6:7A– 6:B5: André Bazin and the Politique des Au-

teurs.” In Powrie and Reader’s French Cinema: A Student’s Guide, A9– B5. London: Bloomsbury, 4566.

Quigley, Paula. “Realism and Eroticism: Re-reading Bazin.” Paragraph ;B.6 (456;): ;6– 7:.

Reisz, Karel, and Gavin Millar. “André Bazin.” In Reisz and Millar’s ' e Technique of Film Editing, 4;9– 4;:. 6:A;. Reprint. Burlington: Elsevier Science, 455:.

Ricciardi, Alessia. “< e Italian Redemption of Cinema: Neorealism from Bazin to Go-dard.” Romanic Review :8.;– 7 (May 455B): 79;– A55.

Roberge, Gaston. “An Exercise in Film Appreciation or the Magnifi cent André Ba-zin.” In Roberge’s Another Cinema for Society. Calcutta, India: Seagull Books, 6:9A. ;8– 7:.

Rohmer, Éric. “André Bazin’s ‘Summa’.” 6:A:. In Rohmer’s ' e Taste for Beauty. Trans. Carol Volk. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 6:9:. :;– 657.

Rosen, Philip. “Subject, Ontology, and Historicity in Bazin.” In Rosen’s “Change Mummifi ed”: Cinema, Historicity, ' eory, ;– 76. Minneapolis: University of Minne-sota Press, 4556.

Rosenbaum, Jonathan. “André Bazin and the Politics of Sound in Touch of Evil.” In Rosenbaum’s Discovering Orson Welles, B4– BB. Berkeley: University of California Press, 4558.

———. “André Bazin.” Sight and Sound 79.6 (6:89): B4.Roud, Richard. “André Bazin: His Fall and Rise.” Sight and Sound ;8.4 (Spring 6:B9):

:7– :B.———. “Face to Face: André Bazin.” Sight and Sound 49.;– 7 (6:A:): 68B– 68:.Rushton, Richard. “Realism, Reality, and Authenticity [: André Bazin].” In Rushton’s

' e Reality of Film: ' eories of Filmic Reality, 74– 89. Manchester, UK: Manchester University Press, 4565.

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4:B ) Bibliography

Sarbiewska, J. “Motion and Stillness in the Image: Relations of Herzog’s Films and Ba-roque Painting in the Light of André Bazin’s < eory.” Kwartalnik Filmowy (Film Quarterly, Poland) A7– AA (455B): 7A– A6.

Sarris, Andrew. “< e Aesthetics of André Bazin.” In Sarris’s ' e Primal Screen, 98– :5. New York: Simon and Schuster, 6:8;.

Schoonover, Karl. “An Inevitably Obscene Cinema: Bazin and Neorealism.” In Schoonover’s Brutal Vision: ' e Neorealist Body in Postwar Italian Cinema, 6– B9. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 4564.

Sellier, Geneviève. “André Bazin, Film Critic for Le parisien libéré (6:77– 6:A9): An En-lightened Defender of French Cinema.” Paragraph ;B.6 (456;): 669– 6;4.

Sesonske, Alexander. “André Bazin.” Georgia Review ;4.7 (Winter 6:89): :;4– :;7.Sinnerbrink, Robert. “Cinematic Belief: Bazinian Cinephilia and Malick’s ' e Tree of

Life.” Angelaki 68.7 (December 4564): :A– 668.Smith, Douglas. “Revisiting André Bazin.” Paragraph ;B.6 (456;): 6– :.———. “Reading ' e Robe: Bazin and Widescreen.” Paragraph ;B.6 (456;): 9B– 655.———. “‘A World < at Accords with Our Desires?’: Realism, Desire, and Death in

André Bazin’s Film Criticism.” Studies in French Cinema 7.4 (4557): :;– 654.———. “Moving Pictures: < e Art Documentaries of Alain Resnais and Henri-

Georges Clouzot (Benjamin, Malraux, and Bazin).” Studies in European Cinema 6.; (4557): 6B;– 687.

Smith, Greg M. “Refl ecting on the Image: Sartrean Emotions in the Writings of André Bazin.” Film and Philosophy 65 (455B): 668– 6;;.

Song, Ze-shuang. “Criticism on André Bazin’s Film < eory.” Journal of Mianyang Nor-mal University (China) April 455:.

StaL ord, Andy. “Bazin and Photography in the Twenty-First Century: Poverty of On-tology?” Paragraph ;B.6 (456;): A5– B8.

Staiger, Janet. “< eorist, yes, but what of?: Bazin and History.” Iris (France) 4.4 (6:97): ::– 65:.

———. “André Bazin.” Wide Angle ;.; (6:8:): BB– B9.Stob, Jennifer. “Cut and Spark: Chris Marker, André Bazin, and the Metaphors of

Horizontal Montage.” Studies in French Cinema 64.6 (January 4564): ;A– 7B.< omas, Paul. “Sorcerer’s Apprentice: Bazin and TruL aut on Renoir.” Sight and Sound

77.6 (Winter 6:87– 6:8A): 6B– 69.Tian, Song. “Achievement and End of the [Bazinian] Myth of ‘Total Cinema’.” Con-

temporary Cinema (China) B (4555).Tincknell, Estella, and Ian Conrich. “Film Purity, the Neo-Bazinian Ideal, and Hu-

manism in Dogma :A.” P.O.V.: A Danish Journal of Film Studies no. 65 (December 4555): 686– 695.

Tredell, Nicolas. “Touching the Real: Bazin and Kracauer.” In Tredell’s Cinemas of the Mind: A Critical History of Film ' eory, B6– 656. 6::9. Reprint. Cambridge, UK: Icon Books, 4554.

Tudor, Andrew. “Aesthetics of Realism: Bazin and Kracauer.” In Tudor’s ' eories of Film, :9– 66A. London: Secker & Warburg, 6:87.

Turk, Edward Baron. “André Bazin.” French Review A4. 7 (March 6:8:): BA;– BA7.Valle, C. A. “A Tribute to André Bazin.” Media Development A5.7 (455;): 75– 74.Vaughan, Hunter. “André Bazin.” In Film, ' eory, and Philosophy: ' e Key ' inkers,

edited by Felicity Colman, 655– 659. Montreal: McGill-Queen’s University Press, 455:.

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4:8 ) Bibliography

Velvet Light Trap 46 (Summer 6:9A). Special issue devoted to Bazin.Verano, Lourdes Esqueda, and Efrén Cuevas Álvarez. “From between the Trace and

the Index: Contemporary Readings of André Bazin.” Área Abierta (Madrid) ;; (No-vember 4564): 6– 64.

Vest, James M. “Refl ections on the Making of To Catch a ' ief: André Bazin, Syl-vette Baudrot, Grace Kelly, Charles Vanel, and Brigitte Auber.” Hitchcock Annual 6B (4565): AA– 8B.

Wagner, Jon. “Lost Aura: Benjamin, Bazin, and the Realist Paradox.” USC Spectator :.6 (6:99): AB– B:.

Wang, Wei. “How to Interpret the Authenticity of Bazin’s Ontology of the Photo-graphic Image in the Digital Cinema Era?” Journal of Southwest Agricultural Uni-versity (China) April 455:.

Wang, Zhi-min, and Nan Xhao. “Re-reading A. Bazin: Realistic Aesthetics and the Ontology of the Photographic Image; Challenge of Digital Technology or Photo-graphic Technology.” Journal of Shanghai University (China) April 4559.

Warren, Charles. “André Bazin.” Screen A;.4 (Summer 4564): 694– 69A.Wharton, David, and Jeremy Grant. “Cahiers du cinéma: François TruL aut and André

Bazin.” In Wharton and Grant’s Teaching Auteur Study, 6:. London: British Film Institute, 455A.

White, Jerry. “Lumière, Astruc, Bazin.” CineAction no. 98 (4564): 7– :.———. “Bazin and His Afterlife.” Cinema Scope no. 78 (Summer 4566): B9– B:.Wide Angle :.7 (6:98). Special issue devoted to Bazin: Andrew, Dudley. “Preface,”

pp. 7– B. Belton, John. “Bazin Is Dead! Long Live Bazin!,” pp. 87– 96. Falkenberg, Pamela. “‘< e Text! < e Text!’: Bazin’s Mummy Complex, Psychoanalysis, and the Cinema,” pp. ;A– AA. Narboni, Jean. “André Bazin’s Style,” pp. AB– B5. Rosen, Philip. “History of Image, Image of History: Subject and Ontology in Bazin,” pp. 8– ;7. Tacchella, Jean-Charles. “André Bazin from 6:7A to 6:A5: < e Time of Struggles and Consecration,” pp. B6– 8;.

Williams, Christopher, ed. Realism and the Cinema, ;A– A7, 47B– 47:, et passim. Lon-don: Routledge and Kegan Paul, 6:95.

Williams, Christopher. “Bazin on Neorealism.” Screen 67.7 (Winter 6:8;– 6:87): B6– B9.

Wolf, Mark. “Eisenstein, Bazin, and Kracauer on HDTV.” USC Spectator 66.4 (6::6): 84– 88.

Wolfe, Charles. “Fictional Realism: Watt and Bazin on the Pleasures of Novels and Films.” Literature/Film Quarterly :.6 (6:96): 75– A5.

Wood, Michael. “André Bazin.” New Society 6:.7:5 (68 February 6:84): ;AAL .Xu, Zengjing. “A Question Elaborated by History: [Bazin’s] What Is Cinema?” Con-

temporary Cinema (China) 6 (6::5).Yao, Xiaomeng. “Interpreting Bazin.” Contemporary Cinema (China) A (6:9:).Zhang, Sun. “Bazin’s Ideal Aesthetics.” Film Art (China) A (6::4).

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Andrew, Dudley. “Realism and Reality in Cinema: < e Film < eory of André Ba-zin and Its Source in Recent French < ought.” PhD diss., University of Iowa, 6:84.

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4:9 ) Bibliography

Ballif, Mark, et al. “Responsibility and Art: Sartre, Bazin, Levinas, and Renoir.” A University Scholars’ Project, Brigham Young University, 6::6.

Bodon, Jean-Richard René. “André Bazin’s Charlie Chaplin: An Annotated Translation and Analysis of Text Based on Methods Derived from ‘De la politique des auteurs’.” PhD diss., Florida State University, 6:9A.

Brubaker, David Adam. “André Bazin’s Realism: < e Metaphysics of Film Reception.” PhD diss., University of Illinois-Chicago, 6::6.

Henderson, Brian Robert. “Classical Film < eory: Eisenstein, Bazin, Godard, and Metz.” PhD diss., University of California-Santa Cruz, 6:8A.

Hodgkinson, S. “Rapt in Plastic: Word and Image in the Criticism of André Bazin.” M.Phil. thesis, University of Kent at Canterbury, 6:::.

———. “André Bazin: Text, Context, and Reception.” PhD diss., University of East Anglia, 4565.

Jennings, Terry. “André Bazin and the politique des auteurs.” MA thesis, Flinders Uni-versity of South Australia, 6:8;.

Kor[i\, Igor. “Suspended Time: An Analysis of Bazin’s Notion of the Objectivity of the Film Image.” PhD diss., University of Stockholm, 6:99.

Nogales, Pamela C. “< e Problematic Legacy of André Bazin.” BA thesis, School of the Art Institute of Chicago, 4559.

Penley, Mary Constance. “< e Rhetoric of the Photograph in Film < eory: Kracauer, Bazin, Metz.” PhD diss., University of California, Berkeley, 6:9;.

Rifkin, Stephen J. “André Bazin’s ‘Ontology of the Photographic Image’: Representa-tion, Desire, and Presence.” PhD diss., Carleton University (Canada), 4566.

Schoonover, Karl. “Forms and Figures of Realism: Body as Example and Metaphor in the Writings of André Bazin.” In Schoonover’s “< e Visual Made Visible: Neo-realism and the Graphic Image.” PhD diss., Brown University, 4557. 6A– 8:.

Sokol, Robert A. “< e Failure of André Bazin’s Realist Film < eory to Address the Per-ceptual Realism of Painted Sets, Mattes, and Backgrounds in Orson Welles’s Citi-zen Kane: A Cognitive and Ecological Perceptual Study.” MA thesis, University of Kansas, 6:::.

Testa, Bart. “< e Development of a Realist Film < eory: André Bazin’s Pilgrimage from Technology to < eology.” MA thesis, St. Michael’s College, 6:8B.

Trope, Zipora Sharf. “A Critical Application of André Bazin’s Mise-en-Scène < eory in ' e Last Laugh, Grand Illusion, and ' e Magnifi cent Ambersons.” PhD diss., Univer-sity of Michigan, 6:87.

Wood, Naaman Keith. “Bazin’s Neorealism and Neorealistic Film Music Practices.” In Wood’s “Musical Ellipses: < eoretical and Critical Perspectives on Music and Film.” PhD diss., Regent University, 4554. 65– ;4.

Younger, James Prakash. “Bazin’s Ontological Argument.” MFA thesis, York Univer-sity (Canada), 6::6.

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4:: )

Film Credits

< e follwing list of fi lms is arranged chronologically.

Intolerance (!"!#)

Director: D. W. GriP thScreenplay: D. W. GriP th, Anita Loos, Tod Browning, Hettie Grey Baker, and

Mary H. O’ConnorCinematographer: G. W. BitzerEditors: D. W. GriP th, James Smith, Rose SmithMusic: Joseph Carl Breil, Carl Davis (6:9:)Production Designers: D. W. GriP th, Walter L. HallCostume Designer: D. W. GriP thRunning time: 6:8 minutesFormat: ;A mm, silent, and in black and whiteCast: Constance Talmadge (the mountain girl), Mae Marsh (the dear one), Fred Turner

(her father), Robert Harron (the boy), Alfred Paget (Prince Belshazzar), Sam De Grasse (Arthur Jenkins), Lillian Gish (woman who rocks the cradle), Frank Ben-nett (King Charles IX of France), Josephine Crowell (Catherine de Medici), Henry Lawrence (Henry of Navarre), Lawrence Lawlor (judge), Vera Lewis (Mary T. Jen-kins), Ralph Lewis (the governor), Margery Wilson (Brown Eyes), Elmer Clifton (the rhapsode), Miriam Cooper (the friendless one), Douglas Fairbanks (drunken soldier)

La roue (! e Wheel, !"$%)

Director: Abel GanceScreenplay: Abel GanceCinematographers: Gaston Brun, Marc Bujard, Léonce-Henri Burel, and Maurice

DuvergerEditor: Marguerite Beaugé, Abel GanceMusic: Arthur Honegger, Robert Israel (4559)Art Director: Robert BoudriozRunning time: 48; minutes

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SN;55

;55 ) Film Credits

Format: ;A mm, silent, and in black and whiteCast: Séverin-Mars (Sisif ), Ivy Close (Norma), Gabriel de Gravone (Elie), Pierre Ma-

gnier (Jacques de Hersan), Max Maxudian (the mineralogist Kalatikascopoulos), Georges Térof (Machefer), Gil Clary (Dalilah)

Un chien andalou (An Andalusian Dog, !"$")

Director: Luis BuñuelScreenplay: Salvador Dalí and Luis BuñuelCinematographers: Albert Duverger, Jimmy BerlietEditor: Luis BuñuelMusic: Luis Buñuel (6:B5; modern prints of the fi lm feature a soundtrack consist-

ing of excerpts from Richard Wagner’s “Prelude and Liebestod” from his opera Tristan und Isolde and a recording of two Argentinian tangos. < is is not the same soundtrack that Buñuel originally chose: the two tangos were recorded in the 6:A5s. < e tangos and excerpted “Prelude and Liebestod” were fi rst added to a print of the fi lm in 6:B5 under Buñuel’s supervision.)

Art Director: Pierre SchildRunning time: 6B minutesFormat: ;A mm, silent, and in black and whiteCast: Simone Mareuil (young girl), Pierre BatcheL (man), Luis Buñuel (man in pro-

logue), Salvador Dalí (seminarian), Robert Hommet (young man), Fano Messan (hermaphrodite)

À nous la liberté (Freedom for Us, !"%!)

Director: René ClairScreenplay: René ClairCinematographer: Georges PérinalEditor: René Le HénaL Music: Georges AuricArt Director: Lazare MeersonCostume Designer: René HubertRunning time: 657 minutesFormat: ;A mm, in black and whiteCast: Henri Marchand (Emile), Raymond Cordy (Louis), Rolla France (Jeanne), Paul

Ollivier (the uncle), Jacques Shelly (Paul), André Michaud (the foreman), Ger-maine Aussey (Maud, the wife of Louis), Léon Lorin (old Monsieur Sourd), Wil-liam Burke (old detainee), Vincent Hyspa (old orator)

M (!"%!)

Director: Fritz LangScreenplay: Fritz Lang, < ea von Harbou, Adolf Jansen, and Karl Vash, based on a

newspaper article by Egon JacobsonCinematographer: Fritz Arno WagnerEditor: Paul FalkenbergMusic: Edvard GriegArt Directors: Emil Hasler, Karl VollbrechtRunning time: 668 minutes

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Format: ;A mm, in black and whiteCast: Peter Lorre (Hans Beckert), Ellen Widmann (Mrs. Beckmann), Inge Landgut

(Elsie Beckmann), Otto Wernicke (Inspector Karl Lohmann), < eodor Loos (In-spector Groeber), Gustaf Gründgens (Schränker), Friedrich Gnass (Franz, the bur-glar), Fritz Odemar (cheater), Paul Kemp (pickpocket with multiple watches), < eo Lingen (Bauernfänger), Rudolf Blümner (Beckert’s defender), Georg John (blind balloon seller), Franz Stein (minister), Ernst Stahl-Nachbaur (police chief), Ger-hard Bienert (criminal secretary)

Drôle de drame (Bizarre, Bizarre, !"%&)

Director: Marcel CarnéScreenplay: Jacques Prévert, from the 69:; novel His First O- ence, by J. Storer CloustonCinematographer: Eugen SchüL tanEditor: Marthe PoncinMusic: Maurice JaubertProduction Designer: Alexandre TraunerCostume Designer: Lou BoninRunning time: :7 minutesFormat: ;A mm, in black and whiteCast: Louis Jouvet (Archibald Soper), Françoise Rosay (Margaret Molyneux), Michel

Simon (Irwin Molyneux), Jean-Pierre Aumont (Billy), Jean-Pierre Aumont (Wil-liam Kramps), Nadine Vogel (Eva), Henri Guisol (BuP ngton)

Pépé le Moko (Pepe, the Toulon Man, !"%&)

Director: Julien DuvivierScreenplay: Julien Duvivier, Jacques Constant, Henri Jeanson, and Henri La Barthe,

based on La Barthe’s novel of the same name and the same decade (6:;5s)Cinematographers: Marc Fossard, Jules KrugerEditor: Marguerite BeaugéMusic: Vincent Scotto, Mohamed YguerbuchenProduction Designer: Jacques KraussRunning time: :7 minutesFormat: ;A mm, in black and whiteCast: Jean Gabin (Pépé le Moko), Mireille Balin (Gaby Gould), Gabriel Gabrio (Car-

los), Saturnin Fabre (Grandfather), Fernand Charpin (Régis), Lucas Gridoux (In-spector Slimane), Gilbert Gil (Pierrot), Marcel Dalio (L’Arbi), Charles Granval (Maxime), Gaston Modot (Jimmy), René Bergeron (Inspector Meunier), Paul Es-coP er (Chief Inspector Louvain), Roger Legris (Max)

Detstvo Gorkogo (! e Childhood of Maxim Gorky, !"%')

Director: Mark DonskoiScreenplay: Mark Donskoi, Ilya Gruzdev, and Maxim Gorky, adapted from Gorky’s

autobiography (Part I, My Childhood: 6:6;– 67; Part II, In the World: 6:6B)Cinematographer: Pyotr YermolovMusic: Lev ShvartsProduction Designers: Ivan Stepanov, M. TorganchevaRunning time: :9 minutes

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Format: ;A mm, in black and whiteCast: Aleksei Lyarsky (Aleksei Peshkov, later Maxim Gorky), Varvara Massalitinova

(Gorky’s grandmother), Mikhail Troyanovsky (Gorky’s grandfather), Yelizaveta Alekseyeva (Gorky’s mother), Vasili Novikov (one of Gorky’s uncles), Aleksandr Zhukov (another of Gorky’s uncles), K. Zubkov (old Grigori), Daniil Sagal (Ivan, a.k.a. “Gypsy”)

Aleksandr Nevskiy (Alexander Nevsky, !"%')

Director: Sergei EisensteinScreenplay: Sergei Eisenstein and Pyotr PavlenkoCinematographer: Eduard TisseEditors: Sergei Eisenstein, Esfi r TobakMusic: Sergei Prokofi evProduction Designers: Iosif Shpinel, Nikolai SolovyovCostume Designer: Konstantin YeliseyevRunning time: 664 minutesFormat: ;A mm, in black and whiteCast: Nikolai Cherkasov (Alexander Nevsky), Nikolai Okhlopkov (Vasili Buslaev),

Andrei Abrikosov (Gavrilo Oleksich), Dmitri Orlov (Ignat, the master armorer), Vasili Novikov (Pavsha), Nikolai Arsky (Domash Tverdislavich), Varvara Massaliti-nova (Amelfa Timoferevna), Vera Ivashova (Olga Danilovna), Aleksandra Danilova (Vasilisa), Vladimir Yershov (Hermann von Balk, the grand master of the Teutonic Order), Sergei Blinnikov (Tverdilo), Ivan Lagutin (Anani, a monk), Lev Fenin (the archbishop), Naum Rogozhin (the black-hooded monk)

Quaie des brumes (Port of Shadows, !"%')

Director: Marcel CarnéScreenplay: Jacques Prévert, based on the 6:48 novel of the same name by Pierre Du-

marchais (a.k.a. Mac Orlan)Cinematographer: Eugen SchüL tanEditor: René Le HénaL Music: Maurice JaubertProduction Designer: Alexandre TraunerCostume Designer: Coco ChanelRunning time: :6 minutesFormat: ;A mm, in black and whiteCast: Jean Gabin (Jean), Michel Simon (Zabel), Michèle Morgan (Nelly), Pierre Bras-

seur (Lucien), Édouard Delmont (Panama), Raymond Aimos (Quart Vittel), Ro-bert Le Vigan (the painter), René Génin (the doctor), Marcel Pérès (the chauL eur), Jenny Burnay (Lucien’s lover), Roger Legris (hotel worker), Martial Rèbe (the cus-tomer), Léo Malet (the soldier)

La règle du jeu (! e Rules of the Game, !"%")

Director: Jean RenoirScreenplay: Jean Renoir, Camille François, and Carl KochCinematographer: Jean BacheletEditor: Marguerite Houlet-Renoir

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Music: Roger Desormières (arranger and conductor)Production Designer: Eugène LouriéCostume Designer: Coco ChanelRunning time: 665 minutesFormat: ;A mm, in black and whiteCast: Marcel Dalio (Robert de la Chesnaye), Nora Grégor (Christine de la Chesnaye),

Roland Toutain (André Jurieu), Jean Renoir (Octave), Mila Parély (Geneviève), Paulette Dubost (Lisette), Gaston Modot (Schmacher), Julien Carette (Marceau), Anne Mayen (Jackie), Pierre Nay (Saint-Aubin), Pierre Magnier (< e General), Odette Talazac (Charlotte), Roger Forster (the homosexual), Richard Francoeur (la Bruyère), Claire Gérard (Madame de la Bruyère)

Le jour se lève (Daybreak, !"%")

Director: Marcel CarnéScreenplay: Jacques Viot and Jacques PrévertCinematographers: Philippe Agostini, André Bac, Albert Viguier, Curt CourantEditor: René Le HénaL Music: Maurice JaubertProduction Designer: Alexandre TraunerCostume Designer: Boris BilinskyRunning time: :; minutesFormat: ;A mm, in black and whiteCast: Jean Gabin (François), Jules Berry (Valentin), Arletty (Clara), Mady Berry (con-

cierge), René Génin (concierge), Arthur Devère (Mr. Gerbois), Bernard Blier (Gas-ton), Marcel Pérès (Paulo), Jacqueline Laurent (Françoise)

! e Little Foxes (!"(!)

Director: William WylerScreenplay: Lillian Hellman, from her 6:;: play of the same nameCinematography: Gregg TolandEditor: Daniel MandellMusic: Meredith WillsonProduction Designer: Stephen GoossonCostume Designer: Orry-KellyRunning time: 66A minutesFormat: ;A mm, in black and whiteCast: Bette Davis (Regina Giddens), Herbert Marshall (Horace Giddens), Teresa

Wright (Alexandra Giddens), Richard Carlson (David Hewitt), Dan Duryea (Leo Hubbard), Patricia Collinge (Birdie Hubbard), Charles Dingle (Ben Hubbard), Carl Benton Reid (Oscar Hubbard), Jessica Grayson (Addie), John Marriott (Cal), Russell Hicks (William Marshall), Lucien Littlefi eld (Sam Manders), Virginia Bris-sac (Mrs. Lucy Hewitt), Terry Nibert (Julia Jordan), Henry < omas (Harold More)

Les dames du Bois de Boulogne (Ladies of the Park, !"())

Director: Robert BressonScreenplay: Robert Bresson and Jean Cocteau (based on the novel Jacques le fataliste

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et son maître, by Denis Diderot, which was fi nished in 6895 but not published in French until 68:B)

Cinematographer: Philippe AgostiniEditor: Jean FeyteMusic: Jean-Jacques GrünewaldArt Director: Max DouyRunning time: 97 minutesFormat: ;A mm, in black and whiteCast: Maria Casarès (Hélène), Élina Labourdette (Agnès), Paul Bernard (Jean), Lu-

cienne Bogaert (Agnès’s mother), Jean Marchat (Jacques)

La bataille du rail (Battle of the Rails, !"(#)

Director: René ClémentScreenplay: René Clément and Colette AudryCinematographer: Henri AlekanEditor: Jacques DesagneauxMusic: Yves BaudrierRunning time: 9A minutesFormat: ;A mm, in black and whiteCast: Jean Clarieux (Lampin), Jean Daurand (railway worker), Jacques Desagneaux

(Athos), François Joux (railway worker), Pierre Latour (railway worker), Tony Lau-rent (Camargue), Robert Le Ray (station chief), Pierre Lozach (railway worker), Pierre Mindaist (railway worker), Léon Pauléon (deputy station chief), Fernand Rauzéna (railway worker), Marcel Barnault (railway worker), Michel Salina (the German)

Mad Wednesday (a.k.a. ! e Sin of Harold Diddlebock, !"(&)

Director: Preston SturgesScreenplay: Preston SturgesCinematographer: Robert PittackEditors: < omas NeL , Stuart GilmoreMusic: Werner R. HeymannArt Director: Robert UsherRunning time: 9: minutesFormat: ;A mm, in black and whiteCast: Harold Lloyd (Harold Diddlebock), Jimmy Conlin (Wormy), Raymond Wal-

burn (E. J. Waggleberry), Rudy Vallee (Lynn Sargent), Edgar Kennedy (Jake), Franklin Pangborn (Formfi t Franklin), Lionel Stander (Max), Margaret Hamilton (Flora), Jack Norton (James R. Smoke), Robert Dudley (Robert McDuL y), Arthur Hoyt (J. P. Blackstone)

Ostatni etap (! e Last Stage, !"(&)

Director: Wanda JakubowskaScreenplay: Wanda Jakubowska, Gerda SchneiderCinematographer: Bentsion MonastyrskyEditor: Wanda JakubowskaMusic: Roman Palester

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Art Directors: Roman Mann, Czeslaw PiaskowskiRunning time: 665 minutesFormat: ;A mm, in black and whiteCast: Tatjana Gorecka (Eugenia, doctor-prisoner), Antonina Gordon-Gorecka (Anna,

nurse-prisoner), Barbara Drapinska (Marta Weiss), Aleksandra Slaska (super-intendent of the women’s block), Barbara Rachwalska (Elza), Wladyslaw Brochwicz (commandant of Auschwitz), Edward Dziewonski (Auschwitz medical oP cer), Ka-zimierz Pawlowski (Gestapo chief), Alina Janowska (Dessa, nurse-prisoner), Mariya Vinogradova (Nadja, a nursing aide), Stanislaw Zaczyk (Tadek), Stefan Sródka (Bronek), Janina Marisówna (deputy superintendent of the women’s block)

Gigi (!"(')

Director: Jacqueline AudryScreenplay: Pierre Laroche, from the 6:77 novella of the same name by (Sidonie-

Gabrielle) ColetteCinematographer: Gérard PerrinEditor: Nathalie Petit-RouxMusic: Marcel LandowskiProduction Designer: Raymond DruartRunning time: 9; minutesFormat: ;A mm, in black and whiteCast: Danièle Delorme (Gigi), Gaby Morlay (Alicia), Yvonne de Bray (Mamita), Franck

Villard (Gaston), Jean Tissier (Honoré)

Les dernières vacances (! e Last Vacation, !"(')

Director: Roger LeenhardtScreenplay: Roger Leenhardt, Maurice Junod, and Roger BreuilCinematographer: Philippe AgostiniEditor: Myriam BorsoutskyMusic: Guy BernardProduction Designer: Léon BarsacqCostume Designer: Yvonne GerberRunning time: :A minutesFormat: ;A mm, in black and whiteCast: Odile Versois (Juliette Lherminier), Michel François (Jacques Simonet), and Jean

Lara (Pierre Gabard), Renée Devillers (Cécile Simonet), Frédéric Munié (Édouard), Raymond Farge (Augustin), Jean d’Yd (Walter Lherminier)

Les parents terribles (! e Storm Within, !"(')

Director: Jean CocteauScreenplay: Jean Cocteau, adapted from his 6:;9 play of the same nameCinematographer: Michel KelberEditor: Jacqueline SadoulMusic: Georges AuricProduction Designer: Guy de GastyneCostume Designer: Marcel EscoP erRunning time: 65A minutes

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Format: ;A mm, in black and whiteCast: Jean Marais (Michel), Yvonne de Bray (Yvonne, a.k.a. Sophie), Gabrielle Dor-

ziat (Aunt Léo), Marcel André (Georges), and Josette Day (Madeleine), with narra-tion by Jean Cocteau

Tretiy udar (! e ! ird Blow, !"(')

Director: Igor SavchenkoScreenplay: Arkadi PerventsevCinematographer: Mikhai KirilovEditors: the Nikitchenko brothersMusic: Pyotr TchaikovskyRunning time: 659 minutesFormat: ;A mm, in black and whiteCast: Mikhail Astangov (General Erwin Jaenecke), Mark Bernes (sailor Chmega),

Aleksei Dikij (Joseph Stalin), Sergey Martinson (Adolf Hitler), Ivan Pereverzev (General Yakov Kreizer), Nikolay Bogolyubov (Kliment Voroshilov)

Macbeth (!"(')

Director: Orson WellesScreenplay: Orson Welles, from the 6B5B play of the same name by William Shake-

speareCinematographer: John L. RussellEditor: Louis LindsayMusic: Jacques IbertArt Director: Fred RitterCostume Designers: Adele Palmer, Fred RitterRunning time: 9: minutesFormat: ;A mm, in black and whiteCast: Orson Welles (Macbeth), Jeanette Nolan (Lady Macbeth), Dan O’Herlihy

(MacduL ), Roddy McDowall (Malcolm), Edgar Barrier (Banquo), Alan Na-pier (a holy father), Erskine Sanford (Duncan), John Dierkes (Ross), Keene Cur-tis (Lennox), Peggy Webber (Lady MacduL ), Lionel Braham (Siward), Jerry Far-ber (Fleance)

Hamlet (!"(')

Director: Laurence OlivierScreenplay: William Shakespeare (play, 6B54) and Laurence OlivierCinematographer: Desmond DickinsonEditor: Helga CranstonMusic: William WaltonArt Director: Carmen DillonCostume Designer: Elizabeth HenningsRunning time: 6AA minutesFormat: ;A mm, in black and whiteCast: John Laurie (Francisco), Esmond Knight (Bernardo), Anthony Quayle (Marcel-

lus), Peter Cushing (Osric), Stanley Holloway (gravedigger), Basil Sydney (Claudius, the King), Eileen Herlie (Gertrude, the Queen), Laurence Olivier (Hamlet, Prince

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of Denmark), Norman Wooland (Horatio), Felix Aylmer (Polonius, Lord Cham-berlain), Terence Morgan (Laertes), Jean Simmons (Ophelia)

Stalingradskaya bitva (! e Battle of Stalingrad, !"(")

Director: Vladimir PetrovScreenplay: Nikolai VirtaCinematographer: Yuri YekelchikMusic: Aram KhachaturyanArt Director: Leonide MamaladzeCostume Designer: Vasili KovriginRunning time: :9 minutesFormat: ;A mm, in black and whiteCast: Aleksandr Antonov (Colonel Popov), Mikhail Astangov (Adolf Hitler), Niko-

lai Cherkasov (Franklin Delano Roosevelt), Aleksei Dikij (Joseph Stalin), Vladimir Gajdarov (Field Marshall Friedrich Paulus), Nikolai Komissarov (Field Marshal Wilhelm Keitel), Boris Livanov (General Alfred Jodl), Nikolai Ryzhov (Lazar Ka-ganovich), Maxim Schtrauch (Vyacheslav Molotov), Viktor Khokhryachov (Georgi Malenkov), Viktor Stanitsyin (Winston Churchill), Konstantin Mikhailov (Aver-ell Harriman)

Le point du jour (! e Mark of the Day, !"(")

Director: Louis DaquinScreenplay: Louis Daquin and Vladimir PoznerCinematographer: André BacEditor: Claude NicoleMusic: Jean WienerProduction Designer: Paul BertrandRunning time: 656 minutesFormat: ;A mm, in black and whiteCast: Loleh Bellon (Marie Bréhard), Marie-Hélène Dasté (Madame Bréhard), Suzanne

Demars (Mother Gohelle) Jean Desailly (Larzac), Jean-Pierre Grenier (Marles), René Lefèvre (Dubard), Gaston Modot (Tiberghien), Catherine Monot (Louise), Michel Piccoli (Georges Gohelle), Paul Frankeur (Bac), Guy Sargis (Roger), Serge Grave (Corentin), Pierre Latour (Noël), Léon Larive (Vetusto), Lise Graf (Mother Marles), Hélène Gerber (Emma Marles)

Manèges (! e Cheat, !")*)

Director: Yves AllégretScreenplay: Jacques SigurdCinematographer: Jean BourgoinEditors: Suzanne Girardin, Maurice SereinProduction Designers: Auguste Capelier, Alexandre TraunerRunning time: :6 minutesFormat: ;A mm, in black and whiteCast: Bernard Blier (Robert), Simone Signoret (Dora), Jacques Baumer (Louis), Jean

Ozenne (Eric), Gabriel Gobin (Émile), Franck Villard (François)

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Sunset Boulevard (!")*)

Director: Billy WilderScreenplay: Charles Brackett, Billy Wilder, and D. M. Marshman Jr.Cinematographer: John F. SeitzEditors: Doane Harrison, Arthur P. SchmidtMusic: Franz WaxmanArt Directors: Hans Dreier, Hans MeehanCostume Designer: Edith HeadRunning time: 665 minutesFormat: ;A mm, in black and whiteCast: William Holden (Joe Gillis), Gloria Swanson (Norma Desmond), Erich von

Stroheim (Max von Mayerling), Nancy Olson (Betty Schaefer), Fred Clark (Shel-drake), Lloyd Gough (Morino), Jack Webb (Artie Green), with Cecil B. DeMille, Buster Keaton, and Hedda Hopper as themselves

Cyrano de Bergerac (!")*)

Director: Michael GordonScreenplay: Edmond Rostand (play, 69:8), Brian Hooker, and Carl ForemanCinematographer: Franz PlanerEditor: Harry W. GerstadMusic: Dimitri TiomkinProduction Designer: Rudolph SternadRunning time: 664 minutesFormat: ;A mm, in black and whiteCast: José Ferrer (Cyrano de Bergerac), Mala Powers (Roxanne), William Prince

(Christian de Neuvillette), Morris Carnovsky (Le Bret), Ralph Clanton (Antoine Comte de Guiche), Lloyd Corrigan (Ragueneau), Virginia Farmer (Duenna), Ed-gar Barrier (Cardinal Richelieu), Albert Cavens (Vicomte de Valvert), Arthur Blake (Montfl eury), Percy Helton (Bellerose), Virginia Christine (Sister Marthe)

Daleká cesta (! e Long Journey, !")*; a.k.a. Ghetto Terezín)

Director: Alfréd RadokScreenplay: Erik Kolár, Mojmir Drvota, and Alfréd RadokCinematographer: Josef StrechaEditor: Jirina LukesováMusic: Ji]í SternwaldArt Directors: Jan Pacák,Costume Designers: Jan Kropácek, Frantisek MádlRunning time: 659 minutesFormat: ;A mm, in black and whiteCast: Blanka Waleská (Dr. Hanna Kaufmanová), Otomar Krej\a (Dr. Antonín

Bures), Viktor O\ásek (Oskar Kaufmann, Hanna’s father), Zdenka Baldová (Hed-vika Kaufmannová, Hanna’s mother), Eduard Kohout (Professor Reiter), J. O. Martin (Karel Bures, Antonín’s father), Josef Chvalina (Pepa Bures, Antonín’s brother), Anna Vanková (Jewish wardress), Jirí Plach^ (Abrahamovic), Sasa Rasi-lov (Moseles), (Honzík Kaufmann, Hanna’s brother), Zdenek Hodr (Zdenek Klein, Hanna’s neighbor), Karel Jelínek (Docent Brych), Frantisek Vnoucek (Dr. Fried),

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Frantisek Kreuzmann (Janitor Santrucek), Josef Toman (Policeman Krejcík), Sona Sulcova (prisoner Ellen)

! e Gunfi ghter (!")*)

Director: Henry KingScreenplay: William Bowers, William Sellers, André De Toth, Roger Corman, and

Nunnally JohnsonCinematographer: Arthur C. MillerEditor: Barbara McLeanMusic: Alfred NewmanArt Directors: Richard Irvine, Lyle R. WheelerCostume Designer: William Jack TravillaRunning time: 9A minutesFormat: ;A mm, in black and whiteCast: Gregory Peck (Johnny Ringo), Helen Westcott (Peggy Walsh), Millard Mitch-

ell (Marshal Mark Strett), Jean Parker (Molly), Karl Malden (Mac), Skip Homeier (Hunt Bromley), Anthony Ross (Deputy Charlie Norris), Verna Felton (Mrs. Au-gust Pennyfeather), Ellen Corby (Mrs. Devlin), Richard Jaeckel (Eddie)

Caged (!")*)

Director: John CromwellScreenplay: Virginia Kellogg and Bernard C. SchoenfeldCinematographer: Carl E. GuthrieEditor: Owen MarksMusic: Max SteinerArt Director: Charles H. ClarkeRunning time: :B minutesFormat: ;A mm, in black and whiteCast: Eleanor Parker (Marie Allen), Agnes Moorehead (Ruth Benton), Ellen Corby

(Emma Barber), Hope Emerson (Evelyn Harper), Betty Garde (Kitty Stark), Jan Sterling (Jeta Kovsky), Lee Patrick (Elvira Powell), Olive Deering (June Roberts), Jane Darwell (isolation matron), Gertrude Michael (Georgia Harrison), Sheila MacRae (Helen)

Il cammino della speranza (! e Road to Hope, !")*)

Director: Pietro GermiScreenplay: Pietro Germi, Federico Fellini, and Tullio Pinelli, from the novel Hearts

on the Edge(Cuori sugli abissi), by Nino Di MariaCinematographer: Leonida BarboniEditor: Rolando BenedettiMusic: Carlo RustichelliProduction Designer: Luigi RicciRunning time: 65A minutesFormat: ;A mm, in black and whiteCast: Raf Vallone (Saro), Elena Varzi (Barbara), Saro Urzì (Ciccio), Saro Arcidiacono

(the accountant), Franco Navarra (Vanni), Liliana Lattanzi (Rosa), Mirella Ciotti

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(Lorenza), Carmela Trovato (Cirmena), Assunta Radico (Beatifi cata), Francesca Russella (the grandmother), Francesco Tomolillo (Misciu), Angelo Grasso (Anto-nio), Giuseppe Priolo (Luca), Paolo Reale (Brasi), Renato Terra (Mommino), Giu-seppe Cibardo (Turi), Nicolò Gibilaro (Nanno), Gino Caizzi, and the children: Ciccio Coluzzi (Buda), Luciana Coluzzi (Luciana), Angelina Scaldaferri (Diodata)

Non c’ è pace tra gli ulivi (No Peace under the Olive Trees; a.k.a. Bloody Easter, !")*)

Director: Giuseppe De SantisScreenplay: Giuseppe De Santis, Gianni Puccini, Libero De Libero, and Carlo LizzaniCinematographer: Piero PortalupiEditor: Gabriele VarrialeMusic: GoL redo PetrassiProduction Designer: Carlo EgidiRunning time: 655 minutesFormat: ;A mm, in black and whiteCast: Lucia Bosé (Laura), Raf Vallone (Francesco Dominici), Folco Lulli (Agostino

Bonfi glio), Maria Grazia Francia (Maria Grazia), Dante Maggio (Salvatore Ca-puano), Michele Riccardini (the police sergeant), Vincenzo Talarico (the lawyer)

Rashomon (Castle Gate, !")*)

Director: Akira KurosawaScreenplay: Akira Kurosawa and Shinobu Hashimoto, from the stories “Rashomon”

(6:6A) and “In a Grove” (6:46), by Ryûnosuke AkutagawaCinematographer: Kazuo MiyagawEditor: Akira KurosawaMusic: Fumio HayasakaProduction Designer: Takashi MaysuyamaRunning time: 99 minutesFormat: ;A mm, in black and whiteCast: Toshiro Mifune (Tajomar), Machiko Kyo (Masako Kanazawa), Masayuki Mori

(Takehiro Kanazawa), Takashi Shimura (woodcutter), Minoru Chiaki (priest), Kichijiro Udea (commoner), Noriko Honma (medium), Daisuke Kato (policeman)

Le fl euve (! e River, !")!)

Director: Jean RenoirScreenplay: Jean Renoir and Rumer Godden, from Godden’s 6:7B novel of the same

nameCinematographer: Claude RenoirEditor: George GaleMusic: M. A. Partha SarathyProduction Designer: Eugène LouriéRunning time: :: minutesFormat: ;A mm, in colorCast: Nora Swinburne (the mother), Esmond Knight (the father), Arthur Shields

(Mr. John), Suprova Mukerjee (Nan), < omas E. Breen (Capt. John), Patricia Wal-ters (Harriet), Radha Burnier (Melanie), Adrienne Corri (Valerie), June Hillman (voice-over narration)

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Journal d’un curé de campagne (Diary of a Country Priest, !")!)

Director: Robert BressonScreenplay: Robert Bresson (based on the 6:;B novel of the same name by Georges

Bernanos)Cinematographer: Léonce-Henri BurelMusic: Jean-Jacques GrünewaldArt director: Pierre CharbonnierEditor: Paulette RobertRunning time: 665 minutesFormat: ;A mm, in black and whiteCast: Claude Laydu (the curé d’Ambricourt), Jean Riveyre (the count), Armand Gui-

bert (the curé of Torcy), Nicole Ladmiral (Chantal), Martine Lemaire (Seraphita), Nicole Maurrey (Mlle. Louise), Marie-Minique Arkell (the countess), Antoine Balpêtré (Dr. Delbende), Léon Arvel (Fabregard), Jean Danet (Olivier)

Juliette ou la clef des songes (Juliet, or the Key to Dreams, !")!)

Director: Marcel CarnéScreenplay: Jacques Viot, Marcel Carné, and Georges Neveux (based on the latter’s

6:48 play)Cinematographer: Henri AlekanEditor: Léonide AzarMusic: Joseph KosmaProduction Designer: Alexandre TraunerCostume Designer: Mayo (a.k.a. Antoine Malliarakis)Running time: 655 minutesFormat: ;A mm, in black and whiteCast: Gérard Philipe (Michel Grandier), Suzanne Cloutier (Juliette), Jean-Roger

Caussimon (squire and Monsieur Bellanger), René Génin (Father Lajeunesse and the clerk), Roland LesaL re (the legionnaire), Gabrielle Fontan (owner of the confec-tionery), Pierre Vernier (young man selling keepsakes), Arthur Devère (merchant), Louise Fouquet (girlfriend of the legionnaire), Martial Rèbe (the employee), Ma-rion De_bo (the comely housewife), Marcelle Arnold (the nagging wife), Max De-jean (the policeman), Gustave Gallet (the notary), Jean Besnard (the cripple)

Édouard et Caroline (Edward and Caroline, !")!)

Director: Jacques BeckerScreenplay: Jacques Becker and Annette WademantCinematographer: Robert LefebvreEditor: Marguerite RenoirMusic: Jean-Jacques GrünenwaldProduction Designer: Jacques ColombierCostume Designers: Carven (a.k.a. Carmen de Tommasso), Marie-Rose Lebigot, Ro-

land MeyerRunning time: 99 minutesFormat: ;A mm, in black and whiteCast: Daniel Gélin (Edouard Mortier), Anne Vernon (Caroline Mortier), Elina La-

bourdette (Florence Borch de Martelie), Jacques François (Alain Beauchamp),

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Betty Stockfeld (Lucy Barville), Jean Galland (Claude Beauchamp), William Tubbs (Spencer Borch), Jean Toulout (Herbert Barville), Yette Lucas (Madame Leroy), Jean Riveyre (Julien), Grégoire GromoL (Igor), Jean-Pierre Vaguer (Ernest)

M (!")!)

Director: Joseph LoseyScreenplay: Leo Katcher, Fritz Lang, Norman Reilly Raine, Waldo Salt, and < ea von

HarbouCinematographer: Ernest LaszloEditor: Edward MannMusic: Michel MicheletArt Director: Martin ObzinaRunning time: 9B minutesFormat: ;A mm, in black and whiteCast: David Wayne (Martin W. Harrow), Howard Da Silva (Inspector Carney), Mar-

tin Gabel (Charlie Marshall, crime boss), Luther Adler (Dan Langley), Steve Bro-die (Lt. Becker), Raymond Burr (Pottsy), Glenn Anders (Riggert), Norman Lloyd (Sutro), Walter Burke (MacMahan), John Miljan (Blind Baloon Vendor), Roy Engel (Police Chief Regan), Janine Perreau (the last little girl), Leonard Bremen (Lemke), Benny Burt (Jansen), Bernard Szold (building watchman), Robin Fletcher (Elsie Coster), Karen Morley (Mrs. Coster), Jim Backus (the mayor), Jorja Curtright (Mrs. Stewart)

Along the Great Divide (!")!)

Director: Raoul WalshScreenplay: Walter Doniger and Lewis MeltzerCinematographer: Sidney HickoxEditor: < omas ReillyMusic: David ButtolphArt Director: Edward CarrereRunning time: 99 minutesFormat: ;A mm, in black and whiteCast: Kirk Douglas (Marshal Len Merrick), Virginia Mayo (Ann Keith), John Agar

(Billy Shear), Walter Brennan (Timothy “Pop” Keith), Ray Teal (Deputy Lou Gray), Hugh Sanders (Frank Newcombe), Morris Ankrum (Ed Roden), James An-derson (Dan Roden), Charles Meredith (Judge Marlowe)

! e Red Badge of Courage (!")!)

Director: John HustonScreenplay: Stephen Crane (novel, 69:A), John Huston, and Albert BandCinematographer: Harold RossonEditor: Ben LewisMusic: Bronislau KaperArt Directors: Cedric Gibbons, Hans PetersRunning time: B: minutesFormat: ;A mm, in black and whiteCast: Audie Murphy (the youth), Bill Mauldin (the loud soldier), Douglas Dick (the

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lieutenant), Royal Dano (the tattered man), John Dierkes (the tall soldier), Arthur Hunnicutt (Bill Porter), Tim Durant (the general), Andy Devine (the cheery sol-dier), Robert Easton (< ompson)

Guardie e ladri (Cops and Robbers, !")!)

Director: Mario Monicelli, StenoScreenplay: Vitaliano Brancati, Aldo Fabrizi, Ennio Flaiano, Ruggero Maccari, Mario

Monicelli, Steno, and Piero TelliniCinematographer: Mario BavaEditor: Adriana NovelliMusic: Alessandro CicogniniProduction Designer: Flavio MogheriniRunning time: 65: minutesFormat: ;A mm, in black and whiteCast: Totò (Ferdinando Esposito), Aldo Fabrizi (Brigadieri Bottoni), Pina Piovani

(Esposito’s wife), Ave Ninchi (Giovanna, Bottoni’s wife), Rossana Podestà (Bot-toni’s daughter), Ernesto Almirante (Esposito’s father), Carlo Delle Piane (Libero, Esposito’s son), Gino Leurini (Esposito’s brother-in-law), Aldo GiuL rè (Esposito’s partner), William Tubbs (Mr. Locuzzo, the tourist)

Parigi è sempre Parigi (Paris Is Always Paris, !")!)

Director: Luciano EmmerScreenplay: Sergio Amidei, Luciano Emmer, Jean Ferry, Ennio Flaiano, Giulio Mac-

chi, Francesco Rosi, and Jacques RémyCinematographer: Henri AlekanEditors: Jacques Poitrenaud, Gabriele VarrialeMusic: Joseph Kosma, Roman VladProduction Designer: Hugues LaurentCostume Designer: Hugues LaurentRunning time: 665 minutesFormat: ;A mm, in black and whiteCast: Aldo Fabrizi (Andrea De Angelis), Henri Guisol (Mr. Morand), Ave Ninchi (El-

vira de Angelis), Jeannette Batti (Claudia), Hélène Rémy (Christine), Henri Génès (Paul Gremier), Marcello Mastroianni (Marcello Venturi), Lucia Bosé (Mimi de Angelis), Carlo Sposito (Toto Mancuso), Giuseppe Porelli (RaL aele D’Amore), Ja-nine Marsay (Praline), Galeazzo Benti (Gianni Forlivesi), Paolo Panelli (Nicolino Percuoco), Franco Interlenghi (Franco Martini), Yves Montand (himself)

Umberto D. (!")$)

Director: Vittorio De SicaScreenplay: Cesare ZavattiniCinematographer: G. R. Aldo (a.k.a. Aldo Graziati)Editor: Eraldo Da RomaMusic: Alessandro CicogniniArt Director: Virgilio MarchiRunning time: 9: minutesFormat: ;A mm, in black and white

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Cast: Carlo Battisti (Umberto D., or Umberto Domenico Ferrari), Maria Pia Casi-lio (Maria), Lina Gennari (Antonia, the landlady), Alberto Albani Barbieri (Paolo, the landlady’s fi ancé), Ilena Simova (the lady in the park), Elena Rea (the nun at the hospital), Memmo Carotenuto (patient at the hospital)

Europa ’"# (Europe ’"#; a.k.a. ! e Greatest Love, !")$)

Director: Roberto RosselliniScreenplay: Roberto Rossellini, Sandro De Feo, Mario Pannunzio, Ivo Perilli, and

Brunello RondiCinematographer: Aldo TontiEditor: Jolanda BenvenutiMusic: Renzo RosselliniProduction Designer: Virgilio MarchiRunning time: 66; minutesFormat: ;A mm, in black and whiteCast: Ingrid Bergman (Irene Girard), Alexander Knox (George Girard), Ettore Gian-

nini (Andrea Casatti), Teresa Pellati (Ines), Giulietta Masina (Passerotto), Marcella Rovena (Mrs. Puglisi), Tina Perna (Cesira), Sandro Franchina (Michele Girard), Giancarlo Vigorelli (judge), Maria Zanoli (Mrs. Galli), William Tubbs (Professor Alessandrini), Alberto Plebani (Mr. Puglisi), Alfred Brown (hospital priest), Gianna Segale (nurse), Antonio Pietrangeli (psychiatrist)

I vinti (! e Vanquished; a.k.a. Youth and Perversion, !")$)

Director: Michelangelo AntonioniScreenplay: Michelangelo Antonioni, Suso Cecchi D’Amico, Diego Fabbri, Turi Vasile,

Giorgio Bassini, and Roger Nimier (French episode)Cinematographer: Enzo Serafi nEditor: Eraldo Da RomaMusic: Giovanni FuscoProduction Designers: Gianni Polidori, Roland BerthonRunning time: 665 minutesFormat: ;A mm, in black and whiteCast: Italian episode: Franco Interlenghi (Claudio), Anna-Maria Ferrero (Marina),

Evi Maltagliati (Claudio’s mother), Eduardo Cianelli (Claudio’s father), Um-berto Spadaro, Gastone Renzelli; French episode: Jean-Pierre Mocky (Pierre), Et-chika Choureau (Simone), Henri Poirier, André Jacques, Annie Noel, Guy de Meu-lan, Jacques Sempey; English episode: Peter Reynolds (Aubrey), Fay Compton (Mrs. Pinkerton), Patrick Barr (Ken Whatton)

La provinciale (! e Wayward Wife, !")$)

Director: Mario SoldatiScreenplay: Giorgio Bassani, Sandro De Feo, Jean Ferry, and Mario Soldati, from the

6:;8 novella by Alberto MoraviaCinematographer: G. R. Aldo (a.k.a. Aldo Graziati), Domenico ScalaEditor: Leo CattozzoMusic: Franco ManninoArt Director: Flavio Mogherini

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Costume Designer: Piero GherardiRunning time: :6 minutesFormat: ;A mm, in black and whiteCast: Gina Lollabrigida (Gemma Vagnuzzi), Gabriele Ferzetti (Professor Franco Va-

gnuzzi), Franco Interlenghi (Paolo Sartori), Nanda Primavera (Signora Foresi, Gemma’s mother), Marilyn Buferd (Anna Sartori), Barbara Berg (Vannina), Alda Mangini (Elvira Coceanu), Renato Baldini (Luciano Vittoni, Gemma’s lover)

Jeux interdits (Forbidden Games, !")$)

Director: René ClémentScreenplay: François Boyer, Jean Aurenche, Pierre Bost, and René Clément, from the

6:78 novel by François BoyerCinematographer: Robert JuillardEditor: Roger DwyreMusic: Narciso YepesProduction Designer: Paul BertrandCostume Designer: Majo BrandleyRunning time: 654 minutesFormat: ;A mm, in black and whiteCast: Brigitte Fossey (Paulette), Georges Poujouly (Michel Dollé), Lucien Herbert

(Dollé, the father), Suzanne Courtal (Dollé, the mother), Jacques Marin (Georges Dollé), Laurence Badie (Berthe Dollé), André Wasley (Gouard, the father), Ame-dée (Francis Gouard), Denise Péronne (Jeanne Gouard), Louis Saintève (the priest)

La carosse d’or (! e Golden Coach, !")$)

Director: Jean RenoirScreenplay: Jean Renoir, Jack Kirkland, Renzo Avanzo, Giulio Macchi, and Ginette

Doynel, based on the 694: one-act play Le carrosse du Saint-Sacrement, by Prosper Mérimée.

Cinematographers: Claude Renoir, Ronald HillEditor: David HawkinsMusic: Antonio VivaldiProduction Designer: Mario ChiariCostume Designer: Maria De MatteisRunning time: 65; minutesFormat: ;A mm, in colorCast: Anna Magnani (Camilla), Odoardo Spadaro (Don Antonio), Nada Fiorelli (Isa-

bella), Dante, a.k.a. Harry August Jensen (Arlequin), Duncan Lamont (Ferdinand, Le Viceroy), George Higgins (Martinez), Ralph Truman (Duc de Castro), Gisella Matthews (Marquise Irene Altamirano), Raf De La Torre (le procureur), Elena Al-tieri (Duchesse de Castro), Paul Campbell (Felipe), Riccardo Rioli (Ramon, le tore-ador), William Tubbs (Aubergiste), Jean Debucourt (Eveque de Carmol)

! e Tragedy of Othello: ! e Moor of Venice (!")$)

Director: Orson WellesScreenplay: William Shakespeare (play, 6B57), Jean Sacha, and Orson Welles

!"#$%&'()'*+,-&../$%01222)+'!"#$%&'()'*+,-&../$%01222)+' )34(3+5222'65(278)34(3+5222'65(278

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Cinematographers: G. R. Aldo (a.k.a. Aldo Graziati), Anchise Brizzi, George Fanto, Alberto Fusi, Oberdan Troiani

Editors: Jenö Csepreghy, Renzo Lucidi, William Morton, Jean SachaMusic: Alberto Barberis, Angelo Francesco LavagninoProduction Designers: Luigi Scaccianoce, Alexandre TraunerCostume Designer: Maria De MatteisRunning time: :5 minutesFormat: ;A mm, in black and whiteCast: Orson Welles (Othello), Micheál MacLiammóir (Iago), Robert Coote (Roderigo),

Suzanne Cloutier (Desdemona), Hilton Edwards (Brabantio), Nicholas Bruce (Lo-do vivo), Michael Laurence (Michael Cassio), Fay Compton (Emilia), Doris Dowl-ing (Bianca)

High Noon (!")$)

Director: Fred ZinnemannScreenplay: Carl Foreman and John W. CunninghamCinematographer: Floyd CrosbyEditor: Elmo WilliamsMusic: Dimitri TiomkinProduction Designer: Rudolph SternadRunning time: 9A minutesFormat: ;A mm, in black and whiteCast: Gary Cooper (Marshal Will Kane), < omas Mitchell (Mayor Jonas Henderson),

Lloyd Bridges (Deputy Marshal Harvey Pell), Katy Jurado (Helen Ramírez), Grace Kelly (Amy Fowler Kane), Otto Kruger (Judge Percy Mettrick), Lon Chaney Jr. (Martin Howe), Harry Morgan (Sam Fuller), Ian MacDonald (Frank Miller), Eve McVeagh (Mildred Fuller), Morgan Farley (Dr. Mahin, Minister), Harry Shannon (Cooper), Lee Van Cleef (Jack Colby), Robert J. Wilke (Jim Pierce), Sheb Wooley (Ben Miller)

Roma ore undici (Rome, Eleven O’Clock, !")$)

Director: Giuseppe De SantisScreenplay: Cesare Zavattini, Giuseppe De Santis, Basilio Franchina, Rodolfo Sonego,

and Gianni PucciniCinematographer: Otello MartelliEditor: Gabriele VarrialeMusic: Mario NascimbeneProduction Designer: Léon BarsacqRunning time: 658 minutesFormat: ;A mm, in black and whiteCast: Eva Vanicek (Gianna), Carla del Poggio (Lucinna), Massimo Girotti (Mando),

Lucia Bosé (Simona), Raf Vallone (Carlo), Elena Varzi (Adriana), Lea Padovani (Caterina), Delia Scala (Angelina), Irene Galter (Clara), Paolo Stoppa (Clara’s fa-ther), Maria Grazia Francia (Cornelia), Naudio Di Claudio (Mr. Ferrari), Armando Francioli (Romolo)

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Tre storie proibite (! ree Forbidden Tales, !")$)

Director: Augusto GeninaScreenplay: Augusto Genina, Vitaliano Brancati, Sandro De Feo, Nino Maccari, Er-

cole Patti, and Ivo PerilliCinematographer: G. R. Aldo (a.k.a. Aldo Graziati)Editor: Giancarlo CappelliMusic: Antonio VerettiProduction Designer: Oreste GarganoRunning time: 66; minutesFormat: ;A mm, in black and whiteCast: Lia Amanda (Renata), Isa Pola (Signora Pola, Renata’s mother), Eleonora Rossi

Drago (Gianna Aragona), Antonella Lualdi (Anna Maria), Frank Latimore (Wal-ter), Gabriele Ferzetti (Borsani), Roberto Risso (Bernardo), Charles Fawcett (Mot-taroni), Mariolina Bovo (Mimma), Enrico Luzi (Tommaso), Marcella Rovena (Gianna’s mother), Richard McNamara (Donato)

Altri tempi (Times Gone By, !")$)

Director: Alessanro BlasettiScreenplay: Alessando Blasetti, Suso Cecchi D’Amico, Oreste Biàncoli, Aldo de Bene-

detti, Vitaliano Brancati, Gaetano Carancini, Alessandro Continenza, Italo Drago-sei, Brunello Rondi, Vinicio Marinucci, Augusto Mazzetti, Filippo Mercanti, Turi Vasile, and Giueppe Zucca, from stories by Camillo Boito, Edmondo De Amicis, Renato Fucini, Guido Nobili, Luigi Pirandello, and Eduardo Scarfoglio

Cinematographer: Carlo Montuori, Gábor PogányEditor: Mario SerandreiMusic: Alessandro CicogniniArt Director: Veniero ColasantiCostume Designers: Dario Cecchi, Veniero ColasantiRunning time: 655 minutesFormat: ;A mm, in black and whiteCast: Gina Lollabrigida (Mariantonia), Vittorio De Sica (the defense lawyer), Andrea

Checchi (Camillo), Maurizio Di Nardo (Guido), Geraldina Parrinello (Filli), Paolo Stoppa (Guido’s father), Rina Morelli (Guido’s mother), Amedeo Nazzari (Andrea Fabbri), Elisa Cegani (Giulia Fabbri), Roldano Lupi (Antonio, Giulia’s lover), Anna Carena (Teresa), Jone Morino (Aunt Maddalena), Filippo Morucci (Alessandro Volta), Pina Piovani (Lucia), Goliarda Sapienza (Anna, the maid), Luciana D’Avack (signora del salotto), Lucrezia Cangemi (signora del pianoforte)

Lo sceicco bianco (! e White Sheik, !")$)

Director: Federico FelliniScreenplay: Federico Fellini, Tullio Pinelli, and Ennio FlaianoCinematographer: Arturo GalleaEditor: Rolando BenedettiMusic: Nino RotaProduction Designers: Federico Fellini, RaL aelo TolfoRunning time: 9; minutesFormat: ;A mm, in black and white

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Cast: Brunella Bovo (Wanda Cavalli), Leopoldo Trieste (Ivan Cavalli), Alberto Sordi (Fernando Rivoli), Giulietta Masina (Cabiria), Fanny Marchiò (Marilena Velardi), Ernesto Almirante ( fotoromanzo director), Ettore Margadonna (Ivan’s uncle)

Gembaku no ko (Children of Hiroshima, !")$)

Director: Kaneto ShindôScreenplay: Kaneto Shindô, from the 6:A6 novel by Arata OsadaCinematographer: Takeo ItoEditor: Zenju ImaizumiMusic: Akira IfukubeArt Director: Takashi MarumoRunning time: :8 minutesFormat: ;A mm, in black and whiteCast: Nobuko Otowa (Takako Ishikawa), Osamu Takizawa (Iwakichi), Niwa Saito

(Natsue Morikawa), Chikako Hosokawa (Setsu, Takako’s mother), Masao Shimizu (Toshiaki, Takako’s father), Yuriko Hanabusa (Oine), Tanie Kitabayashi (Otoyo), Tsutomu Shimomoto (Natsue’s husband), Taiji Tonoyama (Owner of a ship)

Ikiru (To Live, !")$)

Director: Akira KurosawaScreenplay: Akira Kurosawa, Shinobu Hashimoto, and Hideo OguniCinematographer: Asakazu NakaiEditor: Kôichi IwashitaMusic: Fumio HayasakaProduction Designer: Takashi MatsuyamaRunning time: 67; minutesFormat: ;A mm, in black and whiteCast: Takashi Shimura (Kanji Watanabe), Shin’ichi Himori (Kimura), Haruo Tanaka

(Sakai), Minoru Chiaki (Noguchi), Miki Odagiri (Toyo Odagiri), Bokuzen Hidari (Ohara)

Kanikôsen (! e Cannery Boat, !")%)

Director: Satoru YamamuraScreenplay: Satoru Yamamura, from the 6:4: novel by Takiji KobayashiCinematographers: Yoshio Miyajima, Hanjirô NakazawaEditor: Satoru YamamuraMusic: Akira IfukubeArt Director: Motoshi KijimaRunning time: 664 minutesFormat: ;A mm, in black and whiteCast: Satoru Yamamura (Matsuki), Masayuki Mori (doctor), Sumiko Hidaka (whore),

Akitake Kôno (Shibaura), Sanae Nakahara (Natsu)

! e Little Fugitive (!")%)

Director: Ray Ashley, Morris Engel, and Ruth OrkinScreenplay: Ray Ashley, Morris Engel, and Ruth Orkin

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Cinematographer: Morris EngelEditor: Ruth Orkin, Lester TroobMusic: Eddy Lawrence MansonRunning time: 95 minutesFormat: ;A mm, in black and whiteCast: Richard Brewster (Lennie), Winifred Cushing (Mother), Jay Williams (pony-ride

man), Will Lee (photographer), Charlie Moss (Harry), Tommy DeCanio (Charley), Richie Andrusco (Joey)

Stazione Termini (Terminal Station; a.k.a. Indiscretion of an American Wife, !")%)

Director: Vittorio De SicaScreenplay: Cesare Zavattini, Luigi Chiarini, and Giorgio Prosperi, with English dia-

logue by Truman CapoteCinematographer: G. R. Aldo (a.k.a. Aldo Graziati)Editors: Eraldo da Roma, Jean BarkerMusic: Alessandro CicogniniArt Director: Virgilio MarchiCostume Designers: Alessandro Antonelli, with Jennifer Jones’s wardrobe designed by

Christian DiorRunning time: :5 minutesFormat: ;A mm, in black and whiteCast: Jennifer Jones (Mary Forbes), Montgomery Clift (Giovanni Doria), Gino Cervi

(police commissioner), Dick Beymer (Paul), Paolo Stoppa (railroad oP cial), Nando Bruno (employee)

Salt of the Earth (!")()

Director: Herbert J. BibermanScreenplay: Michael Wilson, Michael BibermanCinematographers: Stanley Meredith and Leonard StarkEditors: Joan Laird, Ed SpiegelMusic: Sol KaplanRunning time: :7 minutesFormat: ;A mm, in black and whiteCast: Rosaura Revueltas (Esperanza Quintero), Will Geer (sheriL ), David Wolf (Bar-

ton), Mervin Williams (Hartwell), David Sarvis (Alexander), Juan Chacón (Ra-mon Quintero), Henrietta Williams (Teresa Vidal), Ernesto Velázquez (Charley Vidal), Ángela Sánchez (Consuelo Ruiz), Joe T. Morales (Sal Ruiz), Clorinda Al-derette (Luz Morales), Charles Coleman (Antonio Morales), Virginia Jencks (Ruth Barnes), Clinton Jencks (Frank Barnes), Víctor Torres (Sebasatian Prieto), E. A. Rockwell (Vance), William Rockwell (Kimbrough), Floyd Bostick (Jenkins)

Johnny Guitar (!")()

Director: Nicholas RayScreenplay: Philip Yordan (a.k.a. Ben Maddow), Roy Chanslor, Ben Maddow, and

Nicholas RayCinematographer: Harry StradlingEditor: Richard L. Van Enger

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Music: Victor YoungArt Director: James W. SullivanCostume Designer: Sheila O’BrienRunning time: 665 minutesFormat: ;A mm, in colorCast: Joan Crawford (Vienna), Sterling Hayden (Johnny “Guitar” Logan), Mercedes

McCambridge (Emma Small), Scott Brady (< e Dancin’ Kid), Ward Bond (John McIvers), Ben Cooper (Turkey Ralston), Ernest Borgnine (Bart Lonergan), John Carradine (Old Tom), Royal Dano (Corey), Frank Ferguson (Marshal Williams), Paul Fix (Eddie), Rhys Williams (Mr. Andrews), Ian MacDonald (Pete)

Shichinin no samurai (! e Seven Samurai, !")()

Director: Akira KurosawaScreenplay: Akira Kurosawa, Shinobu Hashimoto, and Hideo OguniCinematographer: Asakazu NakaiEditor: Akira KurosawaMusic: Fumio HayasakaProduction Designer: Takashi MatsuyamaCostume Designers: Kôhei Ezaki, Mieko YamaguchiRunning time: 458 minutesFormat: ;A mm, in black and whiteCast: Toshiro Mifune (Kikuchiyo), Takashi Shimura (Kanbe Shimada), Keiko Tsu-

shima (Shino), Yukiko Shimazaki (Rikichi’s wife), Kamatari Fujiwara (Manzo, father of Shino), Daisuke Katô (Shichiroji), Isao Kimura (Katsushiro Okamoto), Minoru Chiaki (Heihachi Hayashida), Seiji Miyaguchi (Kyuzo), Yoshio Kosugi (Mo suke), Bokuzen Hidari (Yohei), Yoshio Inaba (Gorobê Katayama), Yoshio Tsu-chiya (Rikichi), Kokuten Kôdô (Gisaku, the old man), Eijirô Tôno (kidnapper), Ki chi jirô Ueda (captured bandit scout), Keiji Sakakida (Gosaku), Shinpei Takagi (bandit chief), Shin Ôtomo (bandit second-in-command), Hiroshi Sugi (tea shop owner)

Lola Montès (!")))

Director: Max OphülsScreenplay: Annette Wademant and Max Ophüls, based on the (never completed)

novel La vie extraordinaire de Lola Montès, by Cécil Saint-Laurent (a.k.a. Jacques Laurent)

Cinematographer: Christian MatrasEditor: Madeleine GugMusic: Georges AuricProduction Designer: Jean d’EaubonneCostume Designer: Georges AnnenkovRunning time: 66B minutesFormat: ;A mm, in colorCast: Martine Carol (Lola Montès), Peter Ustinov (circus master), Anton Walbrook

(Ludwig I, King of Bavaria), Henri Guisol (horseman Maurice), Lise Delamare (Mrs. Craigie, Lola’s mother), Paulette Dubost (Josephine, the maid), Will Quad-

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fl ieg (Franz Liszt), Werner Finck (Wisböck, the artist), Ivan Desny (Lieutenant < omas James), Héléna Manson (Lieutenant James’s sister)

East of Eden (!")))

Director: Elia KazanScreenplay: Paul Osborn, from the 6:A4 novel by John SteinbeckCinematographer: Ted D. McCordEditor: Own MarksMusic: Leonard RosenmanArt Directors: James Basevi, Malcolm C. BertCostume Designer: Anna Hill JohnstoneRunning time: 66A minutesFormat: ;A mm, in colorCast: Julie Harris (Abra), James Dean (Cal Trask), Raymond Massey (Adam Trask),

Burl Ives (Sam the SheriL ), Richard Davalos (Aron Trask), Jo Van Fleet (Kate), Albert Dekker (Will Hamilton), Lois Smith (Anne), Harold Gordon (Gustav Al-brecht), Nick Dennis (Rantani)

Pather Panchali (Song of the Road, !")))

Director: Satyajit RayScreenplay: Satyajit Ray, from the 6:4: novel of the same name by Bibhutibhushan

BandopadhayaCinematographer: Subrata MitraEditor: Dulal DuttaMusic: Ravi ShankarProduction Designer: Bansi ChandraguptaRunning time: 66: minutesFormat: ;A mm, in black and whiteCast: Kanu Bannerjee (Harihar Ray), Karuna Bannerjee (Sarbojaya Ray), Subir Baner-

jee (Apu), Uma Das Gupta (Durga), Chunibala Devi (Indir < akrun), Runki Ba-nerjee (Little Durga), Reba Devi (Seja < akrun), Aparna Devi (Nilmoni’s wife), Haren Banerjee (Chinibas, sweet-seller), Tulsi Chakraborty (Prasanna, school-teacher), Nibhanani Devi (Dasi < akurun), Rama Gangopadhaya (Ranu Mooker-jee), Roma Ganguli (Roma), Binoy Mukherjee (Baidyanath Majumdar)

Gervaise (!")#)

Director: René ClémentScreenplay: Jean Aurenche and Pierre Bost, based on the 6988 novel L’assommoir, by

Émile ZolaCinematographer: Robert JuillardEditor: Henri RustMusic: Georges AuricProduction Designer: Paul BertrandCostume Designers: Mayo (Antoine Malliarakis), Lucilla MussiniRunning time: 664 minutesFormat: ;A mm, in black and white

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Cast: Maria Schell (Gervaise Macquart Coupeau), François Périer (Henri Coupeau), Jany Holt (Mme Lorilleux), Mathilde Casadesus (Mme Boche), Florelle (Maman Coupeau)

Elena et les hommes (Paris Does Strange ! ings, !")#)

Director: Jean RenoirScreenplay: Jean Renoir and Jean SergeCinematographer: Claude RenoirEditor: Borys LewinMusic: Joseph KosmaProduction Designer: Jean AndréCostume Designers: Rosine Delamare, Monique PlotinRunning time: :A minutesFormat: ;A mm, in colorCast: Ingrid Bergman (Elena Sokorowska), Jean Marais (Général François Rollan),

Mel Ferrer (Le Comte Henri de Chevincourt), Jean Richard (Hector), Juliette Gréco (Miarka), Pierre Bertin (Martin-Michaud), Frédéric Duvallès (Gaudin), Re-naud Mary (Fleury), Jacques Morel (Duchêne), Albert Rémy (Buchez)

Giant (!")#)

Director: George StevensScreenplay: Fred Guiol and Ivan MoL at, from the 6:A4 novel of the same name by

Edna FerberCinematographer: William C. MellorEditors: William Hornbeck, Robert LawrenceMusic: Dmitri TiomkinProduction Designer: Boris LevenCostume Designer: Marjorie BestRunning time: 456 minutesFormat: ;A mm, in colorCast: Elizabeth Taylor (Leslie Benedict), Rock Hudson (Jordan Benedict Jr.), James

Dean (Jett Rink), Carroll Baker (Luz Benedict II), Jane Withers (Vashti Snythe), Chill Wills (Uncle Bawley), Mercedes McCambridge (Luz Benedict), Dennis Hop-per (Jordan Benedict III), Sal Mineo (Angel Obregón II), Rod Taylor (Sir David Karfrey), Earl Holliman (Bob Dace)

Baby Doll (!")#)

Director: Elia KazanScreenplay: Tennessee Williams, based on two of his one-act plays: Twenty-Seven Wag-

ons Full of Cotton (6:7B) and ' e Unsatisfactory Supper (written before 6:7A)Cinematographer: Boris KaufmanEditor: Gene MilfordMusic: Kenyon HopkinsArt Director: Richard SylbertCostume Designer: Anna Hill JohnstoneRunning time: 667 minutes

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;4; ) Film Credits

Format: ;A mm, in black and whiteCast: Karl Malden (Archie Lee Meighan), Carroll Baker (Baby Doll Meighan), Eli

Wallach (Silva Vacarro), Mildred Dunnock (Aunt Rose Comfort), Lonny Chap-man (Rock), Eades Hogue (town marshal), Noah Williamson (deputy)

Between Heaven and Hell (!")#)

Director: Richard FleischerScreenplay: Harry Brown and Francis GwaltneyCinematographer: Leo ToverEditor: James B. ClarkMusic: Hugo FriedhoferArt Directors: Addison Hehr, Lyle R. WheelerCostume Designer: Mary WillsRunning time: :7 minutesFormat: ;A mm, in colorCast: Robert Wagner (Sgt. First Class Sam Francis GiL ord), Terry Moore (Jenny

GiL ord), Broderick Crawford (Capt. “Waco” Grimes), Buddy Ebsen (Pvt. Willie Crawford), Robert Keith (Col. Cousins), Brad Dexter (Lt. Joe “Little Joe” John-son), Mark Damon (Pvt. Terry), Ken Clark (Morgan), Harvey Lembeck (Pvt. Ber-nard “Bernie” Meleski), Skip Homeier (Pvt. Swanson), L. Q. Jones (Pvt. Kenny), Tod Andrews (Lt. Ray Mosby), BiL Elliot (Tom < umb), Bart Burns (Pvt. Raker)

Aparajito (! e Unvanquished, !")#)

Director: Satyajit RayScreenplay: Satyajit Ray, from the 6:;4 novel of the same name by Bibhutibhushan

BandopadhayaCinematographer: Subrata MitraEditor: Dulal DuttaMusic: Ravi ShankarProduction Designer: Bansi ChandraguptaRunning time: 665 minutesFormat: ;A mm, in black and whiteCast: Kanu Bannerjee (Harihar Ray), Karuna Bannerjee (Sarbojaya Ray), Pinaki Sen-

gupta (young Apu), Smaran Ghosal (adolescent Apu), Santi Gupta (Ginnima), Ra-mani Sengupta (Bhabataran), Ranibala (Teliginni), Sudipta Roy (Nirupama), Ajay Mitra (Anil), Charuprakash Ghosh (Nanda), Kali Bannerjee (Kathak)

Men in War (!")&)

Director: Anthony MannScreenplay: Van Van Praag and Philip Yordan (a.k.a. Ben Maddow)Cinematographer: Ernest HallerEditor: Richard C. MeyerMusic: Elmer BernsteinProduction Designer: Lewis JacobsRunning time: 654 minutesFormat: ;A mm, in black and white

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Cast: Robert Ryan (Lt. Benson), Aldo Ray (Sgt. “Montana,” Joseph R. Willomet), Rob-ert Keith (< e Colonel), Phillip Pine (Sgt. Riordan, radio man), Nehemiah PersoL (Sgt. First Class Nate Lewis), Vic Morrow (Cpl. James Zwickley), James Edwards (Sgt. Killian), L. Q. Jones (Sgt. Davis), Scott Marlowe (Pvt. Meredith), Adam Ken-nedy (Pvt. Maslow), Race Gentry (Pvt. Haines), Walter Kelley (Pvt. Ackerman), Anthony Ray (Pvt. Penelli), Robert Normand (Pvt. Christensen), Michael Miller (Pvt. Lynch), Victor Sen Yung (Korean sniper)

Malva (!")&)

Director: Vladimir BraunScreenplay: Nikolai Kovarsky, from the 69:8 novella of the same name by Maxim

GorkyCinematographer: Vladimir VojtenkoMusic: Igor ShamoRunning time: 9A minutesFormat: ;A mm, in colorCast: Dzidra Ritenberga (Malva), with Arkadi Tolbuzin, Anatoli Ignatyev, Pavel

Usovnichenko, and Gennadi Yukhtin

Kumonosu-jô (! rone of Blood, !")&)

Director: Akira KurosawaScreenplay: Akira Kurosawa, Hideo Oguni, Shinobu Hashimoto, and Ryûzô Ki-

kushima, adapted from the play Macbeth (6B5B), by William ShakespeareCinematographer: Asakazu NakaiEditor: Akira KurosawaMusic: Masaru SatôProduction Designer: Yoshirô MurakiRunning time: 665 minutesFormat: ;A mm, in black and whiteCast: Toshirô Mifune (Taketoki Washizu), Isuzu Yamada (Lady Asaji Washizu), Ta-

ka shi Shimura (Noriyasu Odagura), Akira Kubo (Yoshiteru Miki), Hiroshi Ta-chi kawa (Kunimaru Tsuzuki), Minoru Chiaki (Yoshiaki Miki), Takamaru Sasaki (Kuniharu Tsuzuki)

Kanal (Sewer, !")&)

Director: Andrzej WajdaScreenplay: Jerzy Stefan StawinskiCinematographer: Jerzy LipmanEditor: Halina NawrockaMusic: Jan KrenzProduction Designer: Roman MannCostume Designer: Jerzy SzeskiRunning time: :6 minutesFormat: ;A mm, in black and whiteCast: Teresa Izewska (Stokrotka), Tadeusz Janczar (Ens. Jacek “Korab”), Wienczy-

slaw Glinski (Lt. “Zadra”), Tadeusz Gwiazdowski (Sgt. “Kula”), Stanislaw Mikul-ski (Smukly), Emil Karewicz (Lt. “Madry”), Vladek Sheybal (Michal “Ogromny,”

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the composer), Teresa Berezowska (Halinka), Jan Englert (Zefi r), Kazimierz Deju-nowicz (Capt. “Zabawa”), Zdzislaw Lesniak (Maly), Maciej Maciejewski (Lt. “Gu-staw”), Adam Pawlikowski (SS man)

Donzoko (! e Lower Depths, !")&)

Director: Akira KurosawaScreenplay: Akira Kurosawa and Hideo Oguni, from the 6:54 play of the same name

by Maxim GorkyCinematographer: Kazuo YamasakiEditor: Akira KurosawaMusic: Masaru SatôProduction Designer: Yoshirô MurakiCostume Designer: Yoshiko SamejimaRunning time: 6;8 minutesFormat: ;A mm, in black and whiteCast: Toshirô Mifune (Sutekichi, the thief), Isuzu Yamada (Osugi, the landlady),

Kyôko Kagawa (Okayo, Osugi’s sister), Ganjirô Nakamura (Rokubei, Osugi’s hus-band), Minoru Chiaki (Tonosama, the former Samurai), Kamatari Fujiwara (< e actor), Akemi Negishi (Osen, prostitute), Nijiko Kiyokawa (Otaki, the candy-seller), Kôji Mitsui (Yoshisaburo, the gambler), Eijirô Tôno (Tomekichi, the tinker), Bokuzen Hidari (Kahei, the pilgrim), Kichijirô Ueda (Shimazo, the police agent)

! e Pride and the Passion (!")&)

Director: Stanley KramerScreenplay: Edna Anhalt, Edward Anhalt, and Earl Felton, from the 6:;; novel by

C. S. ForesterCinematographer: Franz PlanerEditors: Ellsworth Hoagland, Frederic KnudtsonMusic: George AntheilProduction Designer: Rudolph SternadCostume Designer: Joe KingRunning time: 64A minutesFormat: ;A mm, in colorCast: Cary Grant (Anthony), Frank Sinatra (Miguel), Sophia Loren (Juana), < eo-

dore Bikel (General Jouvet), John Wengraf (Sermaine), Jay Novello (Ballinger), José Nieto (Carlos), Carlos Larrañaga (José), Philip Van Zandt (Vidal), Paco el Labe-rinto (Manolo), Julián Ugarte (Enrique), Félix de Pomés (Bishop), Carlos Casa-ravilla (Leonardo), Juan Olaguivel (Ramon), Nana DeHerrera (Maria), Carlos de Mendoza (Francisco), Luis Guedes (French soldier)

! e Goddess (!")')

Director: John CromwellScreenplay: Paddy ChayefskyCinematographer: Arthur J. OrnitzEditor: Carl LernerMusic: Virgil < omsonProduction Designer: Leo Kerz

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;4B ) Film Credits

Costume Designer: Frank L. < ompsonRunning time: 657 minutesFormat: ;A mm, in black and whiteCast: Kim Stanley (Emily Ann Faulkner), Lloyd Bridges (Dutch Seymour), Steven

Hill (John Tower), Betty Lou Holland (Mrs. Laureen Faulkner), Joan Copeland (Alice Marie), Gerald Hiken (George), Patty Duke (Emily Ann Faulkner, age 9), Elizabeth Wilson (Harding), Bert Freed (Lester Brackman), Joanne Linville (Jo-anna), Gail Haworth (Emily’s daughter), Joyce Van Patten (Hillary), Werner Klem-perer (Joe Wilsey)

Yoru no tsuzumi (Night Drum, !")'; a.k.a. ! e Adulteress)

Director: Tadashi ImaiScreenplay: Shinobu Hashimoto and Kaneto Shindô, based on a puppet play by Mon-

zaemon Chikamatsu that was written in the early 6855sCinematographer: Shunichiro NakaoEditor: Akikazu KonoMusic: Akira IfukubeRunning time: :A minutesFormat: ;A mm, in black and whiteCast: Rentarô Mikuni (Hikokuro Ogura), Ineko Arima (Otane, Hikokuro’s wife), Ma-

sayuki Mori (Miyaji, the drum teacher)

Ten North Frederick (!")')

Director: Philip DunneScreenplay: Philip Dunne and John O’Hara, based on O’Hara’s 6:AA novel of the same

nameCinematographer: Joseph MacDonaldEditor: David BrethertonMusic: Leigh HarlineArt Directors: Addison Hehr, Lyle R. WheelerCostume Designer: Charles Le MaireRunning time: 654 minutesFormat: ;A mm, in black and whiteCast: Gary Cooper (Joseph B. “Joe” Chapin), Diane Varsi (Ann Chapin), Suzy Parker

(Kate Drummond), Geraldine Fitzgerald (Edith Chapin), Tom Tully (Mike Slat-tery), Ray Stricklyn (Joby Chapin), Philip Ober (Lloyd Williams), John Emery (Paul Donaldson), Stuart Whitman (Charley Bongiorno), Linda Watkins (Peg Slat-tery), Barbara Nichols (Stella)

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Index starts here

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**** {Insert “author photo” 54 on last page of book}****

André Bazin, su- ering ill health, in the late !"%&s.

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