All language subtitles for Journey.Through.French.Cinema.E04.Les.cineastes.etrangers.dans.la.France.d.avant-guerre_eng

Imagine you're at the movies.

MY JOURNEY THROUGH FRENCH CINEMA

FOREIGN FILMMAKERS IN FRANCE
BEFORE WORLD WAR II

French cinema has been
constantly nourished and enriched

by the arrival of foreign directors,
producers and technicians

often forced to leave their country
for political reasons.

They came in several waves.

First in the 1920s,
Russians fled the communist regime.

One director for instance:
Viktor Tourjansky,

who had worked in many countries,
had been Abel Gance's assistant,

and had directed
several very interesting movies.

Among Tourjansky's films,
I will choose Vertiges d'un soir.

It was adapted from a story
by Stefan Zweig.

Another version is better known,

by Rossellini
with Ingrid Bergman: La Paura,

which totally and unfairly
overshadowed Tourjansky's film.

And yet,

with the help of Joseph Kessel,
who wrote the screenplay,

Tourjansky made a feverish
melodrama...

that transcends
all of the film's ingredients.

Speak to me.

Don't leave me like this.

You have no right.

A young woman on holiday
has an affair

that upsets her life
and her marriage.

Her husband, the remarkable
and unsettling Charles Vanel,

begins to suspect her,

giving us some penetrating shots.

What's the cause of the crime?

Another man.

You'll do no such thing.

I will, or agree to see me again.

Fine. Tomorrow evening at 10.

Yes.

The gentleman kept me company.

I see.

Goodbye, then.

Goodbye.

The sinister Suzy Prim
blackmails her,

and gradually
everything goes to hell.

I'm warning you,

every time you see Jean,
you'll see me.

See how Tourjansky stops

and starts the music
during their confrontations.

What's this?

What?

The music from last night's film?

- What do you mean?
- I'm asking you.

What's the matter, Robert?

You've never used that tone.

You've never acted this way.

So explain yourself.

Explain what?

How he posits
a trembling Gaby Morlay

against a disturbingly
restrained Vanel.

- You're lying!
- What is it?

I won't let up.
You'll be forced to talk.

I don't understand.

You're treating me like a criminal.

Will you talk?

You terrify me.

Talk!

And I can't forget,
in the last scene,

Gaby Morlay's
three utterances of "I hate you"

that announce the "I don't love you"
in Madame de...

There's always happiness
for those who love.

You think so?

Yes,

I'm sure of it.

But

are you sure you love me?

Oh, you!

I hate you, I hate you.

I hate you!

Unable to find Nostalgie
said to be one of his major films,

which is unavailable,

I selected The Lie of Nina Petrovna,

a remake
of an admirable silent film

by Hanns Schwarz,

which it doesn't equal
in emotional force,

though it has real qualities.

- She's beautiful.
- Advantage.

- Intelligent.
- Drawback.

Expensive.

Advantageous drawback.

And she's witty, ingenuous,
cynical...

Splendid photography
by Curt Courant.

Dangerous even.

Gentlemen, hands up!

Hearts down.

I dislike firearms.

Nina, you kill us kindly.

May we introduce your next victims?
Lt. Monnier.

Your orderly.

- French?
- Yes, madam.

His eyes say "I love you"
in all languages.

1, 2, 4, 6, 9, 10 cases.

The train arrived at 9.
10+9=19.

The lady is a foreigner: 19+1=20.

5 crowns 40.

Excuse me. How old are you?

40.

So 5 crowns 40
minus 40 makes 3 crowns.

The next train is at 27 minutes past.

Then you owe me 4 crowns.

Henri Jeanson's dialogue
is brilliant,

as in this scene between
the courtesan and her future lover.

Forgive the intrusion,
but I couldn't let you be fleeced.

I thank you.

I thank you for your thank you.

Don't mention it.

Visual innovation,

long dolly shots
reminiscent of Ophuls.

Directors and technicians
fleeing Nazism in Germany

and Austro-Hungarian dictatorships

made up the second wave
of immigration.

They would shake up
the academicism and conservatism

that had bogged down French cinema
since the advent of the talkies.

Set designers like Alexandre Trauner,

cinematographers like Curt Courant,
Eugen Schüfftan,

Harry Stradling and Theodor Sparkuhl

would impose aesthetic innovations

and boost
the visual ambition of films.

But the arrival
of German technicians and directors

- Fritz Lang, Robert Siodmak -
would spark protest

and outcry against these foreigners
who stole work from the French.

French film workers
are streaming down the Champs-Élysées

in peaceful protest

to call the government's attention

to their plight due to the influx

of foreigners and foreign films

in French studios
and on French screens.

Vicious articles,
degrading statements,

especially by Marcel L'Herbier

who was seriously chastised
by Henri Jeanson:

"Marcel L'Herbier's only allegiance
is to his wallet."

Jeanson called Jacques Feyder
a "cinenazi"

because he directed
the film on the German pavilion

at the 1937 World's Fair.

Unfortunately Feyder was also

among the directors
who attacked foreign filmmakers.

And Jeanson pointed out
that he made his best films precisely

with one of these foreign producers.

Among the filmmakers
who went into exile in France,

at least temporarily,

there was Robert Siodmak.

Siodmak had shot
a remarkable film in Germany:

People on Sunday,

a sort of neorealist chronicle
written by Billy Wilder.

There was also Fred Zinnemann
and Edgar Georges Ulmer,

and ambitious,
fascinating films like Tumultes,

Autour d'une enquête

and especially Abscheid.

When he left Germany
in the spring of 1933

because he had no choice,

he had no trouble adjusting.

What is in fact quite surprising

is that he decided right off
he wouldn't make German movies.

In Paris, he would make
French or Parisian films.

He was in fact the only
German director who remained almost

until the Germans invaded.

He left France
a day before war was declared.

Hey, fellas,
it's Mollenard's gang!

He gave us Mollenard,

one of the major films
of the 1930s,

equal to
his greatest American film noir,

The Killers and Criss Cross.

Tired of trying to salvage
rather lame assignments,

he came across a novel
by Belgian writer O. P. Gilbert.

He went into debt to buy the rights

and changed the novel's ending,
which delighted its author.

He worked closely on the script
with Charles Spaak

and O. P. Gilbert,

plunging us right from the start
into a stale provincial world

steeped in avarice,

bigotry,

respect for order
and conservatism.

Mama!

You enter without knocking?

Sorry, a letter from Saigon.

- And?
- It's from Papa.

Put it there.

The company has summoned me.

They have news of your father.

Quite enough for me.

Hand me my bag and gloves.

Father Mangin is coming at 5 p.m.

If I'm not back,
serve him tea and cookies.

Bring a jar of jam,
but don't open it.

He won't ask, he's discreet.

Mama...

The captain gives plenty of news...

in three lines.

He sets it against
a spectacular exotic adventure

that is visually splendid,

beautifully photographed
by Eugen Schüfftan,

against a backdrop
of betrayal and arms smuggling.

Smuggling first organized

by the shipping company
and its rich shareholders,

but taken over by Mollenard
for his own account.

What is it?

The management fears...
I mean, dreads...

I mean, is concerned that

you're engaged
in transporting arms.

I've thus been personally assigned
to inspect your cargo.

An excellent idea.

Given our good relations, captain,

your word of honor would suffice.

- May I have it?
- What?

Your word of honor.

I have no word of honor.

Oh, Kerro...

What are you doing?

Counting the fly turds.

- Can you manage?
- I lose track.

Want me to help?

You take the back walls,
I'll take the others.

I'll pay the same price as last time.

That's impossible.

Why?

Prices have gone up since February.

I'll pay $125,000. I've got buyers.

Sorry, but the weapons are mine.
$200,000.

Out of the question.

Everyone's on my tail.

Consulates, police, customs.

Not a cent less than $200,000.

Trauner's remarkable sets reconstruct
the streets of Chapei district

devastated by Japanese bombardments
in 1932.

Here it is.

The house you're looking for.

Walk ahead of me.

The French part drops us,
as Olivier Père writes,

"into a frightful marital drama

"that depicts a loathsome couple

"separated by oceans
but united by hatred."

What's the matter, madam?

The captain's been suspended.

Six months of him
haunting Dunkirk and this house.

Six months hearing his foul mouth,
waiting up at night.

Is the suspension official?

Yes.

He may even be dismissed.

What an ordeal!

Gabrielle Dorziat is unforgettable,

as is Harry Baur
in one of his greatest roles.

Mrs. Mollenard is the sort of
virtuous wife who poisons my life,

at ease with her conscience
when the socks are darned.

Here's the truth, Truffier:

My only fear
in my whole damned life

has been to fall ill in Dunkirk
and croak in my own house!

A volcanic hero,
totally cynical and immoral,

and at the same time deeply human

and finally, admirable.

What's he so nosy about?

Siodmak, with Charles Spaak,

attacks the company's
ruthless practices,

religion,
which is complicit with them,

and a whole hypocritical social order
poisoned by lucre.

Allow me to bid you,
your officers

and your entire crew,
welcome.

I wish to congratulate you
for the rare cool-headedness

and moral and physical endurance
you have shown.

It will serve as a strong symbol
for future generations.

Thank you.

Well?

What?

Kiss me.

I'd rather die.

It swings between
Jack London and August Strindberg.

They called it a Popular Front film.

In a way, yes,
in that it attacks convention,

collusion between church
and the propertied class.

But there's also Mollenard,
the central character,

who remains, if you will,

a crook, in a way,

but a crook with principles.

- You're a monster.
- Yes, I am.

But you're to blame.

You and your world.

How could I have been stupid enough
to love you?

You hate everything about me.
My sunburned face,

my rough hands,
my sailor's gait, my language.

That, especially.

That's why I've never had a home.

It was always yours.

Love your children.

They're yours.
You united them against their father.

You turned them against me.

You molded them to your taste.

- My son into a man.
- Like me?

- My daughter, a woman.
- Like you?

A man and woman of my breed.

The Van Koerts breed!

What's striking in Mollenard are
the larger-than-life emotions,

even in their darkness.

In the novel, Hervé Dumont tells us,

Mollenard remains prisoner
in his room,

humiliated and demeaned by his wife.

Siodmak has him escape

- a fabulous idea -

with the complicity of his crew,
especially his first mate

artfully played by Albert Préjean,

and has him die aboard his ship,
as a true sailor.

An absolutely admirable moment.

Captain.

Aren't all girls a bit romantic?

Strange taxi-dancer.

Life has taught me a lot,
you know.

Already? Why this job?

I translate by day,
but it's not enough.

The crime plot of Pièges

is somewhat offhand.

Lift your skirt?

What?

Private investigation, please.
A little.

Thank you. Nice.

Very kind, but I don't see...

Patience.

Can you make beef stew?
Answer me.

The police hire a young woman,

the highly appealing Marie Déa,
discovered by Siodmak,

to trap an unknown murderer.

It allows for a series of sketches
that are more or less credible.

You will...
We will put you in contact

with everyone who posts an ad
seeking a lonely single woman.

Which I am.

Not any more.

We draft your replies,
you go to the meeting

under our guard, don't worry.

I'm not afraid.
At least not yet.

Dream of Youth.

I was especially impressed
by the abundance of sets,

the inventive costumes,

and suspects
who cut a rather picturesque figure.

Your Imperial Highness
will please note the soft lines

and the wavy,
nymph-like movement.

Like this exuberant dress designer

to whom Stroheim
lends a semblance of credibility...

Dawn Freshness.

Or this fetishist butler,

played by Jacques Varennes.

You're not like the others.

I understand.

Am I to leave
when I begin to understand you?

Stay if you like.

I don't care. You bother me
no more than the furniture.

Maria Déa is vibrant, modern,

and gives a mischievous,
ironic tone

to an otherwise
rather conventional character.

You must've found the girls before
more submissive.

You did what you wanted.

Never mind the others.

The tone constantly changes.

I'm talking about you.

From one sketch to another
we move from somber drama

to realistic moments,

and strange,
even chilling scenes...

Get out!

Get out!

Ténier!

They play this tune often here.

Tonight it seems brand new.

Without a thought for realism,

Maurice Chevalier
sings several songs in the film.

In every country,
I spoke of love, when I could

Two words were enough
to make me understood

In New York, in Sweden

In Rome, in Toledo

Those two words are "My Love"

We found letters
by young women

answering ads
in your correspondence.

In my correspondence?

He is in fact very convincing
in his first dramatic role.

Signed "Lucie Paralle."

Another signed "Arlette Roy."

Another signed
"Anne-Marie Laurette."

All say the same thing: "I'll come."

And you?
Is your memory coming?

I never got those letters.

Oddly enough,
the story was filmed twice

by exiled German directors.

Robert Siodmak in France

and Douglas Sirk
in the United States,

entitled Lured.

Robert Siodmak was to meet

the great playwright
Ödön von Horváth.

He wanted to adapt his novel
Godless Youth,

about the rise of Nazism.

Unfortunately, on Avenue Marigny,

a branch fell on Von Horváth's head,
killing him instantly.

One can dream about the film
they might have made together.

THE CINEMA DURING OCCUPATION

I often discussed the Occupation
with my father,

who told me all about what happened

with regard to Confluence,
the magazine he directed at the time,

especially the story of one printer
who died in the camps.

They took him to Klaus Barbie.

They were face to face.

Pons said, "I insist

"that you release one
of my employees, a worker

"you arrested the other day.

"By my word as a Christian
and a Frenchman,

"this worker
has never done anything against you."

Barbie answered,
"I don't believe you."

"Release him, or I stay here."

"Then stay, Mr. Pons."

And he did.
He ended up in Buchenwald.

Yes, early on I was made aware
of events during Occupation.

First through the writers
my father talked to me about:

Jean Prévost,
who died in the Vercors.

And then through movie people
I've mixed with.

I'm not a historian.

As a filmmaker, I can only mention

the contradictions
and bold actions that affected me.

Little incidents that marked me.

Starting with,

as Jean Cosmos, Jean Aurenche
and Gilles Perrault

all told me about,
the comfort to be found

in watching certain films.

Movies were the only entertainment.

That's true.

They sought in the cinema a sort of

abandon,

and freedom, so to speak,

except for the newsreels,
shown with the lights partly up

so that people wouldn't boo them.

Otherwise,
people went to movies

not only for entertainment
in the ordinary sense

but to escape
what they endured each day.

Of the 220 fiction features
shot during the period,

François Truffaut
listed 89 interesting ones and added,

"The departure of the 5 greats:

"Feyder, Ophuls, Renoir,
Duvivier, Clair,

"and the forced unemployment
of Jewish directors,

"necessarily fostered the arrival
of a number of new filmmakers,

"that no one thought to label
'New Wave,'

"even if that was the case."

Among them, Becker.

It's me, Red-Hands.

No more Red-Hands!

I piss on all policemen

And the whole constabulary!

You frightened me.

You know, Chiffon,

I loved you
even before seeing your face.

Remember the first evening?

I didn't think you could be ugly.

I thought:
I hope she's not too pretty.

François Truffaut even added,

"Unlike Italian cinema,
which was almost entirely fascist,

"98% of the cinema
during Occupation managed

"not to be collaborationist."

98%?

The figure is debatable.

There were a number of conservative,
reactionary films

that advocated Vichy values:
return to the land,

family values,
submission to religion.

But none
attempted to justify anti-Semitism,

even though before the war,
anti-Semitic allusions abounded.

And the majority

of filmmakers and screenwriters
behaved most honorably,

especially when one considers

the attitude of writers
and journalists.

For instance,
when I was making Safe Conduct,

I learned an anecdote
about Charles Spaak

that was typical of the attitude
of certain authors then.

Continental had hired me

to adapt a Simenon novel

entitled Les Caves du Majestic.

Like many French
and Belgians at the time,

I was imprisoned at Fresnes,

in solitary, when one day

the Gestapo appeared.

They spoke very good French.

They asked politely
if I was going to finish the job.

I asked for certain benefits.

They agreed to all my conditions.

Every three days, through the bars,

they came to get three or four pages
of the script.

Rereading Simenon's novel
to prepare Safe Conduct,

I came across a banker character,
a crooked Jew.

Spaak, in prison,

working on what he knew
was a minor film,

still eliminated all the character's
Jewish attributes.

He didn't want to give
the reigning ideology any ammunition,

or fuel Vichy's Nazi propaganda.

When I found out that nugget
of everyday resistance,

I felt like hugging him.

But I also found that state of mind
in people like Pierre Laroche,

Jacques Prévert,

Aurenche,

Bost and especially

Henri Jeanson, who wrote,

"I've always held anti-Semitism

"to be one of the vilest
manifestations of the human beast."

He held the record in French film
for fines and prison sentences,

by both the French and the Germans,

for pacifism, anticolonialism,
incitement to murder a Nazi,

and denunciation of anti-Semitism.

Still, I find it scandalous,

as some technicians or directors did

- I mean Autant-Lara
and Jean Dréville for instance -

to call that period
the golden age of French cinema.

"Golden age,"
when your country's occupied?

When names
were scratched off the credits

of Jewish actors or writers
and those who had left France?

When communists and Jews were hunted?

Or when Lucien Rebatet could write:

"Sooner or later,
we must drive out of our country

"hundreds of thousands of Jews,

"starting with Jews
without proper papers,

"those not naturalized,

"who cause clear political
or financial harm,

"meaning all Jews in the cinema.

"All of French cinema

"must inexorably be closed to Jews
once and for all,

"without regard for class or origin."

And he added,

"Some major French directors,
such as Julien Duvivier,

"are married to Jewesses,

"and thus held in Israel's clutches."

At Liberation,

anti-Semitism was detected
in Les Inconnus dans la maison.

As was the case in Simenon's novel,
the culprit, played by Mouloudji,

had a Jewish-sounding name.

You don't dislike me?

You're crazy.

It doesn't matter now.

To avoid censorship, Decoin
had to rename his character Amédée

in a post-synchronized version.

Give me your hand, Amédée.

No more silly ideas.

But as Raimu died in 1946,
his lines couldn't be dubbed.

He continued
to call his client Ephraim.

Ephraim Luska
ran away from his parents' shop,

because it smelled bad.

During Occupation, French directors

faced particularly rigorous
censorship

on the lookout for the least offense
to morals and virtues.

To make fun of it, Henri Jeanson

started the rumor
that the film Pension Jonas

had been banned for idiocy.

The film's two screenwriters,
one being Pierre Véry,

had their names removed

when they saw the release print.

Censorship was compounded
by judgments - some of them amusing -

by the Catholic Church,
which issued often severe ratings.

For instance 5: "To be banned"

for Douce, with the mention:

"sadistic use of Christmas songs."

And 6,

which went beyond "to be banned."

What could be "beyond" being banned?

In any event,
Le Corbeau was given a 6,

with a commentary
that in fact sums up rather well

what makes the film so powerful.

"A difficult, harsh film,

"constantly morbid
in its complexity,

"free love provoked cynically with
crude emphasis by the woman."

Does that stop you from wanting me?

"A doctor whose attitudes
in child delivery are ambiguous."

- The mother is saved.
- And the child?

No.

"The 'good' character
professes atheism."

I don't believe in God.

"Suicide, murder,
foul language, swearing..."

La Vie de plaisir
by Albert Valentin was also awarded

the infamous 6 rating,

and was harshly criticized
by the Vichy regime.

I will respect the social order.
I refuse to abide anarchy.

My son will not marry a dancer.

She wouldn't be happy here.

What should I do, Uncle?

You must protect the child
from its illegitimate birth.

Then, for the dancer,

whose fate moves me deeply,

arrange a retreat

where she can ponder her errors

and regret them.

Last, submit to your father's will.

The film was a vicious attack
on the powers of the church

and money.

But at Liberation
- and this may be the only case -

it was banned
by Free France censorship.

Republican Puritanism could not bear

the film's moral
to be proffered by someone

who owned a cabaret
and produced shows

with very scantily clad women,

and that served
liquor and champagne.

And yet, as Albert Préjean
rightly pointed out:

"As far as I know,

"champagne has killed
fewer people than crude oil."

So you criticize me
for working.

No,

for plying a rather lowly trade,

when you have no need to.

You think oil
is more respectable than champagne?

One doesn't sell it personally.

During Occupation films were shot
in terribly arduous conditions.

Night shoots, air raids,
unheated studios,

food and material shortages...

Everything I evoked in Safe Conduct.

Coffins?

The lumber for sets is here.
Requisitioned.

They're in high demand
on the Russian front.

Furniture for the Atlantic Wall.

The studio head sells to the Krauts.

Every little bit counts.

And the film stock shortages,

a director's nightmare.

48 secs, 79 feet.

We have it?

No, sir.

I'll cut the shot in two.
I need 55 ft.

With a short end of 65 ft.
and a quick clap, it'll do.

Hear that, men?

Get the first take right.

Our first takes
have been right for weeks.

When you know the conditions
in which some films were made,

you can only admire the result.

Like the quality
of Carnival of Sinners,

the originality of the script,

this astounding opening scene,

which against all rules of the genre

starts the story
with a host of characters.

There are at least 30 or 40
in these introductory scenes.

- Odd fellow.
- Maybe a lunatic?

I wouldn't want to meet him
on a dark street.

Have you seen a strange little fellow
dressed in black?

He was carrying a long box.

Like a coffin.

We shot at him. He dropped the box.

He's not here?

It's admirable

what the cameramen and set designers

managed to do with odds and ends,

and in frightfully

difficult conditions.

I was that surgeon.

Poor bodies
that suffered all their life

became my field of experimentation.

Thanks to them, to me,

new surgical operations
became possible.

But only one film
evoked the hardships back then,

especially
the lack of street lighting.

That film was

Guitry's Donne-moi tes yeux.

Isn't it amusing, stepping into
this little circle of light?

It escorts us.

In the remarkable scene
where he walks Geneviève Guitry home

using only a flashlight,

Guitry proves to be
a revolutionary filmmaker

and yet, a man of his time.

I believe
we're both on the wrong track.

Our journey through the night
is oddly like our romance.

I realize I either
let you guide me blindly

or I slow your pace.

During that period,
and despite censorship,

scenes and passages of dialogue
can be found here and there

that mock or criticize
values promoted by the regime.

The cult of marriage:

I've been widowed 3 years, Sire.

You weren't married long.

No, 3 months.

3 months of bliss,
3 years of regret.

No, Sire.

3 months of regret, 3 years of bliss.

He'll go to jail

and you will be cloistered
for years.

That's what awaits you.

Nothing will part us.
I will be strong.

Such pride! Be more humble.

I don't want to be humble,
I want to be happy.

What do you expect from me?

Absolution?

With such feelings,
you shall not have it.

Mr. Durand is a great man.

An exceptional person.

A monster, rather.
A horrible monster.

Because he knocks off
the occasional lowlife?

My only complaint is,

he uses a dagger and a shoelace,
not a machine gun,

dynamite and poison gas.

- Are you justifying murder?
- No, slaughter.

I like Durand's sense of numbers.

And that he robs his victims?

Why not?
They misuse their money anyway.

Why, you're an anarchist!

And you, a moron.

A tiny little moron.

Strange talk,
from debtor to creditor.

I owe you something?

Not much.

- What?
- Your soul, that's all.

I've come
to get acquainted with it,

as a farmer who comes
to look over his stand of wheat.

So you are...

The devil is not always
at a poor man's door.

Impossible!

Everything's possible.

During that era,
despite censorship,

3 films on class struggle
were made: Douce...

I thought in all fairness...

Fairness?

I might have the liberty...

"Equality, fraternity."
I know the tune.

I'm too old to be a republican,
young lady.

Hello, cousin.

"Cousin," he means you, Sire.

The aristocracy,
the army and the clergy.

In short, society.

This parrot knows what is customary.

So your city is divided into 2 clans.

Society and shopkeepers.

What nonsense.

Dear Zélie, we must combat it.

The spirit of resistance
was also found

in the artistic integrity
of the technicians,

the care, creativity and love

with which certain scripts
were written and shot.

And the talent, the sensibility

and the passion of directors.

Let's return to Guitry
in this strange scene

of Donne-moi tes yeux.

Now, let me tell you...

An admirable Sisley.

...why these masterpieces
are unique.

Renoir's La Loge,

one of the world's
most marvelous paintings.

This sublime Corot.

They are all unique,
because all these masterpieces...

Millet, Carpeau's Prince Impérial.

All these masterpieces...

Pissarro,
and this amazing Claude Monet.

...They were all painted in 1871.

All in 1871?

Yes, my friend.
That's what geniuses were doing

when we had just lost the war.

Manet's Balcony,
another masterpiece.

And last, one of Degas' most
fabulous portraits,

and this eternal Rodin:
The Age of Bronze.

What feeling do you get
from looking at them?

The feeling that
what was lost on one side

was won back on the other.

Indeed.

Between us
we may consider that such works

qualify as victory.

THE POSTWAR PERIOD

First, let's demolish a myth:

French cinema at the time

was not exclusively the voice
of an entirely resistant France.

Where is the elite,
dear colleague?

Take this scene from
Henri Calef's excellent Jericho,

written by Charles Spaak
and Claude Heymann.

After a resistance action,
the Germans demand hostages.

Gentlemen,

we have no choice
but to put our own names on the list.

Are you speaking seriously,
Mr. Mayor?

Our ship is sinking.

As town councilor, I didn't know
I was entering the navy.

No, you entered community service.

I hope nothing will happen to us.

But we are charged
with making the list.

We're charged with nothing at all!

The mayor, and he alone.

We are as one.

I've long since ceased
to share your views

on stadium maintenance,
market days

or anything else!

In the underestimated
and forgotten Retour à la vie,

- 4 directors, but I'll discuss only

Jean Dréville,
André Cayatte and Clouzot -

give a contrasted, bitter picture
of the homecoming prisoners' lot.

You will find France peculiar.

With good will, you'll adapt.

There's hardship,
especially for housing.

Where will you live?

Do you mean to stay in my home long?

Find me an apartment
and I'll return yours.

Would you turn out a
Resistance fighter of the first hour?

You, in the Resistance?

Yes, I was wounded at Wagram.

Wagram?

We attacked Wagram metro station
an hour before Paris was liberated.

My compliments.

I know the Resistance
helped the army.

Cayatte must be
the first one to mention

the deportees returning
from the concentration camps

in a chilling sketch
co-written with Charles Spaak.

A family imitates
the signature of a relative

who had been sent to Dachau

or Ravensbrück.

When she returns,
they decide to send her nephew

to cover up the sham.

Aunt Emma...

It's me, Gaston.

Note that the woman
cannot sleep on a bed

and Cayatte shows her
lying on her bedroom floor.

You recognized me.

I've lost weight,
due to the shortages.

I mean the...

Simone and the children
prayed for you daily.

So did I, of course.

Despite the jokes
Charles told about...

I don't want to tire you, but...

I came to say that we will

surround you with so much love
and care you'll be up in no time.

We're a tough family.

Remember how your father
was still chopping wood at 93?

And your mother, over 80,
dancing at Clémentine's wedding?

We'll show our mettle.
Hale and hearty to the end.

Sure, everyone has limits.

They left Berlin in flames
by helicopter.

It took them to a Dutch port.

All was ready for this possibility.

Look at this boarding house
in Clouzot's segment.

What's your problem, Gérard?

If the war doesn't interest you,
don't deprive others.

This former prisoner,

played by Louis Jouvet.

Leave us in peace with your war!

A physician back from Buchenwald

advises you to avoid fat,

spices, condiments,

any food that causes

intestinal trouble.

The repatriated will be welcomed

at the reclassification center

to help you find work quickly.

We mustn't forget
René Clément's Les Maudits,

co-written by Jacques Rémy,
father of Olivier Assayas,

and Henri Jeanson
right after the war.

It recounts the flight
of a group of Nazis,

collaborators and crooks.

Nearly all the characters
are detestable or repugnant.

It was undeniably bold,

and shot at a time when Hollywood
was making fewer anti-Nazi films.

Some were even changed during editing
into anti-communist films.

We each have a specialty.

My husband has remained in contact
with his countrymen abroad.

Mr. Ericksen, a scientist

whose research
might bring us the final victory.

Victory doesn't necessarily belong
to those who win the war.

Victory can't be taken for granted.

It can only be achieved
through dogged action in peacetime.

God hears us,

and our Fuhrer protects us.

And there is
Le Silence de la mer.

Melville was keen to adapt
the Vercors novel,

published underground,

but Vercors had refused.

Melville went ahead,

saying he'd submit his film

to a panel of resistance fighters.

If they rejected it,
he would burn the negative.

Now that showed incredible daring
and self-confidence.

My name is
Werner von Ebrennac.

I'm sorry, I...

This masterful, challenging work
shows that resistance

can also take the form of silence.

This was necessary, of course.

I'd have avoided it, if I could have.

My orderly will see to it
that you are not disturbed.

When at times
he let silence invade the room,

and seep into every corner
like a heavy, unbreathable gas,

of the three of us,

he seemed the most at ease.

He would look
at my niece approvingly,

with that expression
at once smiling and solemn

that he'd used

from the very start.

And I felt my niece's soul
struggle in her self-imposed prison.

I could see it in little signs,

such as the slight trembling
of her fingers.

I am pleased to have found here

a dignified old man

and a silent young lady.

We must conquer this silence.

We must conquer France's silence.

I like this.

Melville told me that in Marseille,

an exhibitor
had taken the film's title literally

and pictured on the theater façade

an officer in a submarine
with a periscope

and a ship in the distance
blown up by a torpedo.

So viewers who came to see the film
on the strength of the poster

sat calmly through
the first half of the film,

assuming the officer
would eventually leave

and the fighting would begin.

When they realized that nothing
of the sort would happen,

they vandalized the theater seats.

Melville gloated over the event.

- My name's Manon.
- I don't care.

I forbid you to speak.
You're my prisoner.

One film dealing
with the aftermath of the war,

was Clouzot's Manon,

which in a few shots

evokes the brutality of the purges.

Don't look, it's ugly.

Let's get out of here.

It's the same all over.

Let me go, please!

Are you mad?

I won't do it again.

The postwar period briefly inspired
a series of popular films

which, as Jacques Lourcelles wrote,

showed optimism
and a desire for renewal.

Take for instance the minor miracle,
L'École buissonnière,

an endearing film
by Jean-Paul Le Chanois.

For me, discipline, learning by rote

with arms folded, punishment...

- None of that.
- What?

All that matters

is to try to find a soul

behind each face.

A soul? You talk like the priest.

Call it what you like.

Soul, character, whatever.

Every kid has a personality.

The point is to find it.

You won't find it
by hitting the desk with a switch.

And even if water bursts forth,

you can lead a horse to water but...

"Anyone who attacks us
is a fool.

"Signed: The Class."

Nice work, teacher.

You pressure our children
to defend your evil cause.

So that's what the print shop is for!

It's not my doing
and I'll tear it up.

I view it as a poster to mobilize.

This is war.

- Speak of what you know.
- I've seen two wars.

Too young for one,
too old for the other.

I know war,
and yours doesn't scare me.

Let us recall that before making
Papa, Mama, the Maid and I,

and an awful adaptation
of Les Misérables,

before becoming
the New Wave's whipping boy,

Jean-Paul Le Chanois
was a shrewd screenwriter

who scripted La main du diable,
La dame d'onze heures,

and wrote the original screenplay
for Europe 51,

not half bad.

At the time, he directed

a whole series of populist
and choral films

that are perfectly honorable,
such as Sans laisser d'adresse.

Don't complain.

We'll win because we're stronger.

Our statues are gone,

but not the pedestals!

It showed a Paris where statues

were not yet back on their pedestals,

and described milieus
that French cinema rarely explored,

such as this meeting
of a taxi drivers' union.

I said I had no head for figures.

I noticed it all year long,

writing this report,

this evening as I charged a customer
who was broke.

Yet our finances are sound.

So you deserve praise,

you who pay your dues,

the only voluntary tax
in a time of many taxes.

Le Chanois was always the first
to defend French cinema.

Especially in 1946,
against the Blum-Byrnes agreements.

Léon Blum,
special ambassador for France,

is signing
the Franco-American agreement.

The agreements imposed, in exchange
for loans to rebuild France

and erasing a $2 billion debt,

an abolition of the quotas
set on the number of American films.

But most of all, theaters

could only show French films
12 weeks out of the year.

That left 40 weeks
for foreign and thus American films.

These disastrous measures
were likely to destroy French cinema.

They sparked outrage
and several demonstrations

organized by the Communist Party.

Directors:

Daquin, Grémillon,
Autant-Lara, Le Chanois,

Becker...

And actors:
Gérard Philipe, Jean Marais...

And the agreements were renegotiated.

Theaters could show French films
for 13 weeks instead of 12.

Quotas for American movies
were reinstated.

And a handful of civil servants
- I'll call them geniuses -

created the French film board's
automatic support mechanism

funded by a 10.9% tax

on all movie tickets

and allocated solely to French films
according to their receipts.

A brilliant idea
that would save French cinema.

An idea the Americans
have never understood.

They have always believed
French cinema was subsidized,

not self-regulated.

I remember a discussion

with Jack Valenti
and Toscan du Plantier,

in which Valenti
pulled out the cliché

that French cinema
was state subsidized.

And we said to him,

"No, it's not subsidized
by the state."

"Then by who?" Valenti asked.

And Toscan said,

"By you.

"By a percentage of ticket sales
on your films

"that goes into
the automatic support fund

"redistributed to French films."

Steven Spielberg
understood the system

and thought it was brilliant.

He said it was the best way
to combat imperialism.

Subtitles:
Cynthia Schoch & Lenny Borger

Subtitling: ECLAIR