Original subtitles

It all began in 1975

with the shopwindows at the Blue Thistle

and the couple who ran the shop.

She particularly fascinated me,

smiling amid her sewing notions,

perfumes, and odds and ends.

She was always there, sad and vacant...

practically mute.

Thirty years later they're gone, of course.

A nice photo gallery was there for a long time.

Now there's an Iraqi-Lebanese café.

Hookahs have replaced the buttons and flasks.

There's still a driving school, a hairdresser, a plumber,

and the horse butcher's iron gate.

I was already living there when a German TV station

said I could film whatever I liked.

I chose to film my neighboring shopkeepers.

Like a village, you could find everything you needed.

There was the local café, of course...

and across the street, the local bakery.

Not so usual was the neighborhood accordion shop.

It's still there, with its yellow storefront, on the left.

Construction blocks our view of the rest of the street.

We found an old postcard shot from the same angle

but from a bit further back.

You can clearly see the same building with a bakery.

On the right was a butcher shop, with its big awning,

which remained a butcher shop until 2000.

This looks like books and stationery.

Later, when I got here,

a lady sold wedding dresses there.

Then a man sold used books.

Then the Thais came in.

Here there was a hardware shop, then a plumber's shop,

then a bicycle shop.

Now it's our editing room, with DVDs in the window.

The café was already there.

I believe they sold oysters outside,

or else it was a café-grocer's,

like one I knew on Rue Cels nearby.

Hello, Agnès.

My name is Mélie. I'm from Oran in Algeria.

I've lived in the 14th arrondissement for over 20 years.

I met my husband, and we chose to live here

and run this little café that we liked.

I've been on my own for some years now,

and I handle the business on my own.

When I came to this neighborhood in 1951,

it was hard to get a telephone line.

So the owners of the café, Mr. and Mrs. Tisseur,

allowed me to give out their number.

When someone called for me,

she'd walk outside and shout "Varda!"

The phone booth is still there,

but I have my own phone now, and even a cell phone.

A fine woman, Mrs. Tisseur.

I hadn't filmed her in their café,

but only as she left the hairdresser's.

I remember following her husband's funeral procession with the locals.

You'd go on foot back then,

from the Avenue du Maine to Place d'Alesia.

One evening, Mystag the Magician was here.

I managed to gather everyone

for that evening of magic.

It served as a pivot point in the film. Based on the magic tricks...

and the people present,

I could go from one shop to another,

return to the magic show,

and go off again.

I'll now present a few

using some familiar objects.

Suppose I begin tonight...

Both bowls are full.

The rice above falls onto the tray...

while the bowl below is overflowing.

The grocer is the only one I filmed

still working in the same spot.

My name is Mohamed. I was born in Zarzis.

I came to Paris in 1974.

- Just before we filmed? - Yes.

I remember the film you shot.

I was just an employee then.

The boss was...

I took over...

in 1981.

- And your wife? - Her name's Fitouria.

We met in Zarzis in Tunisia and got married there.

Then I brought her with me to Paris.

I have two children. They were born in Paris.

My name's Rafik. I'm 16.

I'm majoring in science in high school.

My name's Rafika. I'm 20.

I'm a first-year med student, hoping to specialize in pediatrics.

We'll see.

It's odd to return and find the grocery from when I was a kid.

It's the one shop that hasn't changed.

It's still the same.

It's closed. Too bad.

That's the little café where they filmed, and I took part.

We put you near the Mona Lisa, since you looked like her.

Yes, people would tell me that.

It really bugged me. It's not my favorite painting.

But it's lovely. I should be flattered.

I was an ice-skater back then.

I attended the skating school

in hopes of becoming a professional.

And you did, right?

Yes, I was hired by Holiday on Ice,

a well-known international troupe.

I stayed for 10 years. - You ice-skated for 10 years?

Yes, we traveled the whole world... or almost.

No one gets younger, of course. It's a career for the young.

You have to plan ahead, and I moved on to other things.

Speaking of the Mona Lisa...

I work at the Louvre now,

in reception and surveillance.

The Mona Lisa is in a special room,

and I'm often assigned there.

I often find myself near her.

The connection goes back 30 years!

It's true.

- Thanks, Isabelle. - My pleasure.

Cranking out turns on the ice,

cranking out memories, cranking the camera.

Well, our Super 16 camera had no crank.

But we shot a lot. Behind the camera was...

Nurith Aviv was the director of photography on the film.

I got a call. "This is Agnès Varda.

I'd like to make a film.

Could you start shooting in two days?"

That's what happened.

We'd set up in a shop.

You and I aren't big women. And we'd hide the sound engineer.

We'd set up lighting in the morning.

Then we'd just wait...

to see what would happen.

Sometimes I'd pinch you. But we had a spy too.

Remember that young girl, the trainee?

She'd stand out of sight

and give us a sign if someone was coming.

Other times we'd just wait.

I followed this woman a lot.

And here this man enters without even glancing our way.

That's amazing, since we were right there.

He pays no attention, as if we weren't there.

He wasn't an extra. It wasn't planned.

We didn't know he'd come in and ask for buttons.

A jacket, you said?

I wish you'd tilted down to show the buttons more.

Just a bit.

How much is that?

Sixty centimes.

That was very clever of you,

panning left even before he leaves.

So she's in the shot as he leaves.

That was really nice.

Because the man became an interruption

in our observation of this couple.

It was very nice filming.

I often try to anticipate things,

sensing that something's going to happen.

Sometimes it works. Other times it doesn't.

In any case, Nurith and I agreed

that the camera should be like a calm, patient person

who's fairly stationary but looking right and left,

observing attentively.

I really like the way

these gas canisters are brought out and put back inside.

We stay with this couple for a moment at their own pace.

As they bring their wares out to the sidewalk.

The way you filmed them at work was just right.

I can see you standing with your handheld camera...

following them without moving.

Well, moving your body slightly

as the work unfolds.

I find the whole sequence interesting and unusual.

It's really like choreography, with entrances and exits.

Their choreography is like a little dance.

We see a harmonious relationship...

at least in the way this couple works together.

She carries the light things.

He handles the heavy things.

I think it's great how it's all shown in one shot.

You're the queen of sequence shots anyway.

It's everyday life.

But with a certain precision about it.

She brings out the ladder — not too heavy.

And every item is put in the same spot every day.

And every evening they bring it all back in —

utensils, ladders, gas canisters —

executing all the same movements together, but in reverse order.

This fade-in goes from black to reveal the person.

Instead of the lab doing fade-ins, I asked you

to do them with the camera, remember?

They're all at different speeds. It's a nice hand-crafted quality.

Exactly.

Fades done in the lab

are so uniform that they annoy me.

We'd raise a little blackboard as you opened the lens...

letting in light.

You came up with that.

I just like it that way.

The craftswoman in you wanted them done —

By hand. Your hand.

For fade-outs,

it was the same, but in reverse.

Closing the lens, then curtain.

I have no change.

- Is this the new five-euro bill? - Yes.

Are you sure?

You fold it in two...

give it a snap, unfold it...

and at your fingertips you now have

a genuine 100-euro bill.

Drinks are on me!

I'm Norberto Neves. I repair cane seating.

I took over the tailor's shop.

The tailor was next to the hardware and paint store.

The chair caner in the former tailor's shop

is now next door to the editor and editoress.

Of films, of course.

Hello.

I took over the Louvets' hair salon.

And when I found out Daguerréotypes was filmed here,

I was of course proud.

The Louvets cut both men's and women's hair,

but he handled the men

while she handled the women.

The salon was split in two.

The men and women didn't mix.

Now it's mixed. We serve both men and women.

There's one big difference: I'm a serious cinephile!

So, Agnès... I know film!

But close your eyes if you're especially sensitive.

There! The wound is healed instantly!

That sausage won't go far.

Let's make sure everyone gets a slice.

It's all just illusion!

So those who think nothing happens at this end of Rue Daguerre

are clearly mistaken.

Sure, at the other end, near Avenue du Général Leclerc,

there's a lively and popular market.

Step inside for bargains, ladies!

Saint-Marcellin cheese, two for three euros!

Get your lilies of the valley!

Ten percent off every kilo!

Yes, the Daguerre Market is famous.

But the quiet end of the street and its merchants are famous now too,

thanks to my documentary,

shown on TV and at festivals worldwide.

ZDF showed it first, calling it People on My Street.

Then it was shown in England, Sweden, and Quebec...

and on PBS in the U.S.

The people of Rue Daguerre were well-received everywhere.

It was finally shown on French TV in late November 1976

and was very well-received.

With a few exceptions...

I received two letters, one with one signature,

another signed by various residents of Rue Daguerre.

"Madame, it was with great disappointment

that on Monday we watched your film about Rue Daguerre —

or more precisely, a pathetic slice of our Rue Daguerre —

that may harm the street's reputation.

Moreover, we don't understand the need

to tell how these merchants met and what they dream about.

I hope you won't subject us

to another turkey like that again."

"Shame on you for having made such a pathetic film.

I'm thinking of viewers

who don't know our street

and who will think we're retards

living in the 20th century."

Not very flattering to the merchants in the film!

It's sheer stupidity.

No reason to overreact, but I'm astounded.

It's really pathetic. You never mentioned this.

It's because I'm preparing a DVD,

and I was looking through old materials.

So you'd forgotten it?

No, but I'd forgotten how vicious it was.

Can you imagine? This part is great:

"Madame, do not presume to hold your head high

on our fine old street,

because you're not worthy."

So I'll hang my head instead.

They'll see my white hair!

I'll come along and throw a towel over your head!

Go ahead and laugh. The carnival's coming...

right down our end of the street.

The day after the carnival.

The quiet old street has changed little.

As I look at this image, the cruel world is in great turmoil.

The earth's crust is cracking,

swallowing up 25,000 people in Pakistan,

and drowning 1,200 in Louisiana

and 2,000 in Guatemala.

So much tragedy and death.

And I gaze at this image

filled with nostalgia for certain faces I filmed, now gone.

I often think about Madame Blue Thistle.

She loved Rosalie and me very much.

And she knew I loved her too.

She'd kiss my hands when we filmed in their shop.

It was a gentle and pleasant feeling to film her.

There was genuine affection between us.

I know she touched the hearts of many viewers.

I received letters for her,

and twice I received a money order for 50 francs

to buy flowers for her.

Around 6:00...

she wants to go out, but she doesn't.

She doesn't want to leave.

Some inner force induces her to go out.

Not to go out, but to want to go out.

But she's never wandered off.

Her desire to be elsewhere gave her a daydreaming quality

and veiled her anxious and captive look.

I think she's unforgettable.