His pain is our pain: Mamoun Hasan on Bill Douglas

Originally published in the Guardian in 2008, Mamoun Hasan--who was head of the British Film Institute at the time Bill Douglas began filming his trilogy--recalls what is was like to work with the director.

It is accepted now that Bill Douglas's trilogy of films - My Childhood, My Ain Folk and My Way Home - are landmarks in British cinema. What's less known is that there wasn't originally a trilogy to make. It only became a trilogy after a piece of political sleight-of-hand that changed the name of the first film from Jamie, in order to ensure that Bill continued to make films.

In the summer of 1971 I was asked to hold the fort as head of production at the British Film Institute, while it found a replacement for Bruce Beresford. It was only meant to last a few months--I had trained as an editor, and had directed and written screenplays, but I had not run a department and I was wary of producers. I did not relish the role. Since then, I have done quite a bit of administering and producing, and I blame Bill.

When I began my stint, Bruce had left two piles of applications for the scant money the BFI had to support film-making, all of which went to short films. There was a tall pile of rejections, and a smaller one of maybes. Bill Douglas's script, with the title "Jamie", was in the smaller pile. It took 10 pages of reading for it to go from being a maybe to a must.

Bill's screenplay was different from any I had read. One could see the film immediately. He eschewed the convention of scene headings (ext/int, location, day/night); there was no generalised description and no emotional padding. It was lucid and concretely imagined. It unfolded in a series of descriptions, some deliberately ungrammatical, that without the use of technical terms evoked the shot, size of frame, and who and what was in it. Dialogue was spare. It was almost a silent movie. It was also a fine piece of writing - poetic even. The script was the film. Or so I thought.

We awarded him £3,000 (out of the £5,000 that we had). Bill's fee was £150. I gave him the best crew that lack of money can buy: raw talent with passion and verve. At first everything went well. Bill was affable, intelligent and good company. Once shooting started, it all changed. He was a man apart. Banter and joking - normal during a shoot- irked him. Maybe the story was too close to him. He said he was resurrecting old memories, but it was more than that. He was setting the record straight, grieving, settling scores, forgiving and much else. His vision came at a price.

Before Bill started shooting, I told him he would make an important film. But even I was startled by the first set of rushes. They were intense, stark and distilled to utter simplicity. The images were individual and distinct, but with hints of Soviet cinema, Bresson and early neo-realism. His storytelling was also particular. If classical narrative is like light in Newtonian physics, in that it travels in a straight unbroken line, then Bill's narrative is akin to quantum physics, where light moves in discrete packages of energy. Never show the audience something, he said, that it can imagine better than you can show it. In Bill's work, the gaps would make another film. The audience has to work to fill the gaps; it has to participate. It is exhilarating. This was not British cinema. It was something else. It was alien.

That unique quality raised a problem: I could not see our industry backing him. Politics, these days, is extra-curricular to film-making; in the 70s it was the only subject. Narrative cinema was considered old-fashioned and in pursuit of a new, non-bourgeois cinema, the BFI Action Committee was trying either to take over the Institute or dismember it. The committee favoured collective film-making with no hierachies. Applicants for funding, I learned, should spend half a day discussing the economic, social, political and aesthetic aspects of their project. Presumably they got to spend the other half talking about what the film itself would be about. It was not going to be easy to get Bill funding for a second film in this climate.

So I came up with a wheeze. Jamie was clearly about Bill's childhood, so I pretended that Bill had always intended to make a "childhood" trilogy - with its echoes of Mark Donskoi's Gorki films and Satyajit Ray's Apu trilogy. We were not, I said, backing three films, but one film in three parts. Bill went along with this. Jamie became My Childhood and the trilogy was born.

In competition with star-filled films that cost millions, My Childhood won the Silver Lion at Venice in 1972 . Its success helped the BFI to move into feature production. It represented, I argued, the beginnings of an alternative cinema in Britain. Denis Forman, then chairman of the BFI, pointed out to the government that the BFI was doing what the National Film Finance Corporation, the quango responsible for film funding, was not interested in. Minister for the Arts Lord Eccles was persuaded. The BFI went into features and the budget was increased twentyfold. I stayed another two years and we backed, among others, My Ain Folk, Kevin Brownlow and Andrew Mollo's Winstanley, Peter Smith's A Private Enterprise, David Gladwell's Requiem for a Village and Horace Ove's Pressure.

It would be wrong to say Bill was difficult. I know directors with a tenth of his talent who are more egotistical. He was not a prima donna. He was, however, exacting - at times beyond reason. He would "remember" a scene, imagine it anew, write it down and then want it exactly like that. I believe he was persecuted by those images that had the power and hold of dreams. If he couldn't get it to work, it hurt him. Bill made people work for him through pain. His pain became the crew's pain. Peter Harvey, who was sound recordist on My Ain Folk and now a well-known cinematographer, said of him: "I could flatten him with one punch, but he terrified the life out of me." What was terrifying was how much it mattered to Bill. In return, the crew gave him more than their best - they over-achieved.

Still, we had our dramas. Just after midnight on the first day of filming My Ain Folk, Peter rang to tell me that Bill had finished only one set-up; the producer had left the picture; and Bill was having a nervous breakdown. I arrived in Newcraighall just outside Edinburgh late the following morning. I wanted to hear from Bill himself, and nobody else, what had gone wrong. Ashen-faced, he sat down and pointed at Peter. "I want Mr Harvey to pay for my typewriter. He made me throw it at the bedroom wall." I asked how. It transpired that, though Bill hated shooting more than one take, for one crucial scene he did six. Unfortunately, the tape had got twisted during the perfect take. "He ruined ma shot," he screamed. "He's ruining ma film!" He waved wildly: "I won't work with them." I replied: "That's the best crew I can find. If they're not good enough, I'll cancel the film. I'll ring the chairman." I got up. I am not sure, but I think I was bluffing. I walked slowly down the corridor to the public phone in an alcove. I picked it up - and heard a stampede. Bill was running towards me, followed by the crew. He snatched the phone from my hand and tied the cable round his neck. Luckily, he didn't go through with it.

After the trilogy, Bill waited 10 years before making his next feature, Comrades, when, as managing director of the NFFC, I persuaded my board to commit the largest sum in its history. Channel 4, under Jeremy Isaacs, matched us, as did Roger Wingate of the Curzon cinema. It is another classic. After that, Bill wrote a screenplay for me entitled Justified Sinner, based on the James Hogg novel. But we could not get any production funding either from public or private sources. He did not make another film.

Bill Douglas FilmFest: Day 2

Movie: My Way Home
Year: 1978

Christmas-time in a local authority home in Edinburgh, a few years after the Second World War. Mr Bridges, who runs the home, attempts to bring some festive cheer to the children--through harmonicas of all things!--but his efforts are resisted by Jamie. When Jamie's father arrives to take his son back home to Newcraighall, Mr Bridges warns the boy that he is unhappy about his returning, but Jamie doesn't respond, and leaves with his father and the woman friend he has brought along, and who is dropped off before they reach Newcraighall. Jamie leads his father to the 'pearls' he had previously hidden, but they are revealed to be valueless, and his father throws them away.

Escaping from the scene of marital discord that greets them on their return, Jamie returns to his paternal grandmother's house. His grandmother, who now lives alone and in squalor, gives him a copy of David Copperfield, which Jamie reads, but then tears to shreds when she accuses him of removing her name from the inscription she has written. Jamie's father attempts to get Jamie to go down the pit, while his wife is horrified when Jamie says he wants to be an artist. He returns to the home, where Mr Bridges makes an unsuccessful attempt to find him work, and then to arrange a foster parent for him--Jamie abruptly leaves the foster parent's home after she falls asleep by the fireplace, an obvious emotional trigger in that both of his grandmothers did the same thing.

After a miserable time in a Salvation Army hostel, Jamie returns to Newcraighall, only to find strangers and a deserted house where he used to live. A few years later his National Service takes him to an RAF base in Egypt, where he meets Robert, an educated Englishman. Jamie retains his solemn demeanor, and much of the time is taken up with menial or seemingly pointless tasks, but Robert's friendship shows signs of awakening in him an interest in life in general and the arts in particular. They visit the Pyramids, go to the cinema, and admire the architecture of a mosque. It's also understood that Robert (Joseph Blatchley) has romantic designs on Jamie, but not special emphasis is placed on that. It's just part of the overall fabric of the story, another detail in Jamie/Douglas' complex and trying road to adulthood.

Talking about what they will do when they return, Robert says that he'll probably go to university, while Jamie repeats his desire to be an artist, adding maybe a film director. When they are about to leave Robert gives Jamie his address, telling him that he can call it home.

Bill Douglas FilmFest: Day 1

Movie: My Childhood
Year: 1972

and

Movie: My Ain Folk
Year: 1973

Bleak, desolate, almost unceasingly grim--"My Childhood" is the first installment in the Bill Douglas Trilogy. It's the shortest of the three--clocking in at just under 50 minutes--but it pacts enough pathos and bare-naked emotion to fill a running time twice as long.

It's 1945. Jamie (Stephen Archibald) and Tommy (Hughie Restorick) live a meager and isolated existence with their maternal grandmother in Newcraighall, a Scottish mining village. The frail and permanently beshawled grandmother is given to wandering outside, and when she appears at the gates of the local school, Tommy, the son of one of her daughters, walks her home. Meanwhile the younger Jamie, the son of her other daughter, scavenges for coal.

Jamie's affection is reserved for a black cat, and Helmuth, one of a group of German P.O.W.s who he visits while they work in the field. Tommy alternates between hostility towards the boy, who appears to be his brother, and friendship. When Jamie asks after his mother and father, Tommy tells him of his own mother, now dead. Back in the fields, Jamie uses a children's book to teach Helmuth English.

Tommy visits his mother's grave, exchanges hostile glances with a neighbour walking a dog, and is visited by his father, who brings him a canary as a birthday present. The grandmother orders the man to leave, and he cycles away as Tommy chases after him. In her anger, the grandmother tries to destroy the birdcage, and Tommy is forced to conceal it. Jamie is given sixpence by the neighbor with the dog.

Discovering that Jamie's cat has killed his canary, Tommy kills the cat. Having been told that the neighbor with the dog is his father, Jamie follows him to the house next-door to where he lives, which is occupied by the man's doting and possessive mother (Jamie's paternal grandmother). Jamie and his maternal grandmother take a bus to visit a woman he discovers is his own mother, who has been committed to an asylum, and who gives no sign of recognizing the visitors.

The end of the war is marked by a village bonfire, but it also leads to the departure of Helmuth. Tommy attempts to comfort the despondent Jamie, but then discovers that their maternal grandmother has collapsed and may be dead. Jamie runs out of the house until he reaches the railway, seems to contemplate suicide, but when he jumps from the railway bridge he lands in one of the open carriages of a goods train. The train takes him away from the village and in a final act of defiance, Jamie spits.

For those of us who have grown up in the relative luxury of the last few decades, it's hard to imagine the type of existence that Jamie and his brother had to grow up in. Absent parents, compounded by desperate poverty--it's positively heart-tugging to watch them try and go about their way. Jamie especially, who broods for his parents, is seen as an afterthought--except in his friendship with Helmuth. And even that has to end; for Jamie, what is there to look forward too? Why even try?

"My Ain Folk" picks up the the narrative after the death of the boys' maternal grandmother. An attempt is made to take Jamie and Tommy, who we find now is not Jamie's brother but his cousin into care, but Jamie tales shelter in his paternal grandmother's house. She tells a welfare officer that the boy is welcome to stay, then subjects Jamie to an angry tirade about how his mother ("a hooer") ruined her son's life.

The complex patterns of family relationship only gradually becomes clear: Jamie's grandmother lives next door to the house where her favourite son (Jamie's father) lives with Agnes, who the grandmother hates, and the couple's son. The grandmother's house is also occupied by her other son, just returned from the war, who is himself carrying on an affair with Agnes. When his grandmother attacks the neighbouring house while brandishing a knife, Jamie runs away, but is brought back by a policeman. His ill-treatment includes being forbidden to use the toilet and being shut outside in the snow, and his misery is compounded when he learns from his grandmother that his mother has died in the asylum to which she had been committed.

Like his cousin, Jamie appears to gain some solace from visits to the cinema, and does finds a companion when an ambulance brings his paternal grandfather home from hospital. However his grandfather is too weak to stand up to his wife, his longstanding relationship with a woman in the village makes him the constant subject of his wife's taunts, and the old man becomes increasingly despondent himself.

Having received a letter from Tommy, Jamie visits him in the Edinburgh care home in which he has been placed. He is accompanied by Tommy's father, who uses the occasion to justify himself for not taking his son home with him. Jamie is given the key to his old house by his grandmother, and told to look for the pearls apparently hidden there by his mother. He finds what he believes to be a set of pearls hidden in a pillow, but buries them in a coal heap, earning him a beating from his uncle when he denies finding anything. The uncle is later thrown out the house by Jamie's grandmother, the antagonism between the grandmother and Agnes culminating in a night-time fight between the two women. Having met another woman, Jamie's father drives away with her. Jamie's grandfather dies, and Jamie is taken away to the Edinburgh care home.

FilmFest 3: The Bill Douglas Trilogy

William Gerald Forbes Douglas, known to you and me as Bill, was born on April 17, 1934 in Newcraighall, a suburb of Edinburgh, Scotland. His early childhood years were spent under the care of his paternal grandmother. Following her death, he was raised by his father and his father's mother. After growing up in abject, bleak poverty in the immediate aftermath of World War II, Douglas joined the National Service and was posted to Egypt. It was there in 1955 that he met fellow film enthusiast Peter Jewell, forming a friendship that would last the rest of his life and profoundly influence it.

After some time in the 1960s working as an actor, Douglas enrolled in the London International Film School in 1969. While there, he made some student shorts and wrote the screenplay for an autobiographical film called "Jamie." He pitched his project--which would eventually become "My Childhood"--to Films of Scotland but his bid for funding was rejected on the grounds that his project failed to present Scotland as a forward looking nation. Fortunately, the newly-appointed head of production at the British Film Institute, Mamoun Hassan, took an interest in the project and "My Childhood" was filmed in 1972.

Douglas' reputation as a filmmaker is largely based on the excellent films that make up the trilogy. He was also an intensely-devoted collector of materials relating to the early history of cinema. Douglas died of cancer on June 18, 1991 at the age of 57 in Devon, England. His collection formed the basis of the Bill Douglas Centre for the History of Cinema and Popular Culture, which was opened at Exeter University in 1997.

Reflections on Rohmer

Here's an interesting take on the "Six Moral Tales" by Andre Aciman, a professor of comparative literature at City University of New York. It was originally published in the New York Times on the occasion of Rohmer's death in January of 2010.

To those of us who have seen all of Eric Rohmer’s films it is impossible not to remember when, where, with whom we saw each one. I even remember the second and third time I saw his films. “My Night at Maud’s,” “Claire’s Knee,” “Chloe in the Afternoon” are grafted onto my life. Something happened between me and these films at the Thalia, at the Brattle, at the old Cinémathèque, or at the old Olympia Theater on the Upper West Side. But I can no longer isolate what that something is. I don’t even care to know what was exclusively Eric Rohmer’s and what was mine, what he was ever so cautious to convey and what I most likely misunderstood completely. The mix, as sometimes happens, becomes the work of art.

But then with Mr. Rohmer, who died this week at the age of 89, the mix is not incidental; it is essential. To see an Eric Rohmer film is not to escape from the drudgery of our daily lives; it is to sit quietly and have someone show us lives that are not entirely different from ours but different enough, situations we’ve all been in and couldn’t wait to get out of but could have learned from, if only we’d had the patience and the courage to sit through them.

Mr. Rohmer was the master of tact — tact in the way his characters behave with one another, tact in the way he himself, as a director, spun his tales, and ultimately tact with truth and fiction. In his hands, sex could be suspended, and passion, without ever boiling over, seldom went cold.

I can’t forget the scene in “My Night at Maud’s” when the very pious engineer in the business suit decides to sit on Maud’s bed while she is lying under the covers with only a T-shirt on, determined to seduce him. They stare at each other, and they talk, and she tells him things, and he tells her things, and still they talk, and it’s clear to everyone, including the characters themselves, that though this strange couple has just met hours earlier and may not share a sliver of love between them, what we’ve just witnessed is one of the most intimate scenes in movie history.

It is impossible to watch this scene or certain moments in “Tale of Autumn,” “A Good Marriage” or “Full Moon in Paris” and not envy the candor of Eric Rohmer’s men and women, their impulse to dissect each nuance of desire and then turn around and confide it right away to those who’d aroused them.

With my friends we used to call these situations Rohmerian. You meet A, you are drawn to A, but neither you nor A wish to rush things. You simply want to stop time a bit, and because neither of you cares to hide what you’re really doing, you decide to confess your maneuvers and are wildly grateful when told they were by no means unknown to the other. Rohmerian. What comes after this is seldom the business of art; it is the stuff of humdrum prose.

Since his death, the usual clichés about Eric Rohmer are once again pullulating on the Internet. He was talky. He was a mannerist. He was a classicist. Eric Rohmer — whose men are more into themselves than the women they are allegedly trying to seduce. Eric Rohmer — whose films, in the words of the character played by Gene Hackman in “Night Moves,” are like “watching paint dry.” Eric Rohmer — for whom courtship is a conceit for how people jockey into position vis-à-vis the things they want and seldom believe they’ll get.

What the commentary has missed is that Eric Rohmer was above all things a “moraliste.” The word is difficult to translate. All the men in his “Six Moral Tales” are either married or engaged to be married but, through a series of accidents, find themselves tempted to betray their beloveds. Each therefore is faced with a “moral” quandary.

It’s worth remembering that Mr. Rohmer was playing with words, using the word “moral” in a way that harks back to the French Moralists of the 17th century. Despite their emphasis on morality, men like Pascal, La Rochefoucauld and La Bruyère were urbane and disabused analysts of manners, mores and the human psyche. They were perpetually on the lookout for every insidious motivation in others and every instance of self-delusion in themselves. In the hands of a moralist, even sex becomes a conceit.

For all their self-analysis, Eric Rohmer’s men and women are not as penetrating as they wish to be. No one is evil, no one is too good either, and no one suffers, or at least not for long. They all muddle through courtship, never get their hands dirty; and the hard truths they must face are always given obliquely enough and never hurt. There are ugly facts enough on the outside.

With Eric Rohmer, as with Mozart, Austen, James and Proust, we need to remember that art is seldom about life, or not quite about life. Art is about discovery and design and reasoning with chaos. If there is one thing I will miss with Eric Rohmer’s death, it is the clarity, the candor and the pleasure with which one human can sit with another and reason about love and not forget, in Pascal’s words, that “the heart has reasons that reason knows nothing of.”

Eric Rohmer FilmFest: Day 5

Movie: Love in the Afternoon (aka Chloe in the Afternoon)
Year: 1971

In his negative review of "My Night at Maud's," Christopher Null of the web site filmcritic.com state that "I'd wager virtually no one has them all." He is referring, of course, to all of the "Six Moral Tales," and as of today, I can proudly and happily say that I have. In fact, I wouldn't have missed them and if I'm really good for the rest of the year, maybe Santa will leave the Criterion box set under my tree (hint, hint!). Of course, and my wife and friends would argue this point, I don't feel like it actually makes me a better human being that I've done this. I do think it makes me a better cineaste (budding one though that I am). I learned a lot from watching them--I think it's fair to say they are certainly films for thinking people. You can't check your brain at the door, and I think that's a good thing. I like to think, to be challenged and not have to work a little bit for the payoff. The "Six Moral Tales" one and all accomplished that, and that's the reason I will keep returning to these films for years and years to come.

Frederic (Bernard Verley) is living a charmed life. He has a wife named Helene (Francoise Verley, his real-life wife) who besides being beautiful is smart, successful and obviously devoted to him. You can just see in her expressions the love she feels for him. Frederic has a good job, a young child and another on the way. Frederic loves Paris; he feels stifled by the suburbs and feels truly alive in the streets of the city. What excites him the most are the Parisian women he sees daily. He is conscious of their presence everywhere--at the office, in stores or in cafes--and they flit about like so many butterflies. In the voiceover, Frederic tells us that their beauty is emblematic of his wife's beauty and that their beauty is a positive affirmation of his choice. Still though, he fantasizes and in the best scene of the film imagines that he has a magic amulet that will allow any woman to fall under his spell.

The women in this fantasy sequence are played by actresses from the other Moral Tales (Francoise Fabian-Maud; Marie-Christine Barrault-Francoise; Haydee Pollitoff-Haydee; Laurence de Monaghan-Claire; Aurora Cornu-Aurora and Beatrice Romand-Laura) and the scene is a fun nod to the other films in the series. The funniest exchange takes place with Aurora who tells Frederic she charges 10,000 francs. When Frederic replies that HE charges 20,000 she doesn't blink ("that's a bargain.") Even more clever I thought was that the only woman able to resist was the headstrong, determined Laura, still clearly her own woman.

But back to reality and all at once, Frederic's life is thrown for a loop with the arrival of Chloe (Zouzou). Frederic and Chloe have a shared past and after time abroad and a failed relationship, Chloe is back in Paris trying to get her life back on track. She is determined to make Frederic a part of that and sets out on a gradual course of seduction. She plants the seeds little by little--questioning whether Frederic's love for his wife is genuine and calling upon him for favors and company. As they continue to see more and more of each other, Frederic finds himself tempted to stray from his wife and sleep with Chloe (Chloe, for her part, has no problem with this and indeed has picked out Frederic to be the father of the child she so desperately wants). And there's the moral question--to cheat or not to cheat? Of course, depending on where the morals of the viewer lie, Frederic may or may not have cheated before the time comes to make the decision on the act. It's interesting--and up to each person to decide. The movie--and the series--ends with a big emotional wallop that lays bare the feelings of the characters involved.

Want to discuss "Love in the Afternoon?" Leave a message.

Eric Rohmer FilmFest: Day 4

Movie: My Night at Maud's
Year: 1969

and

Movie: Claire's Knee
Year: 1970

I had some free time last night so I made it a double feature. How do you like them apples, Gene Hackman? Two Rohmer films in one night? Actually, the count is three in two days because I watched the amazing "My Night at Maud's" twice. A nice surprise from Netflix too. After being told it would be a "long wait" for "My Night" to arrive, it instead showed up promptly along with the others in the series. So I'm really happy to be able to have seen this one along with the other films in the series. I am really enjoying watching the evolution of Rohmer's work as it unspools during the viewing of the "Six Moral Tales." I've done this before with music, listening to, say, Sonic Youth from their early days and moving forward chronologically. It's not always the easiest thing to do, but I really get a greater sense of the artist's impact and development doing it this way. So thanks to Netflix for making a "long wait" actually a very reasonable one.

I can't get enough of "My Night." After seeing it twice over the course of two days, I still feel like I want to see it again and again. There's just so much there, so much to observe, digest and think about. It goes so much deeper than just a canned synopsis of the film ("three people meet to discuss the nature of philosophy, religion and love over the course of an evening.")

The film begins in a beautiful old church, the kind of which seem to be found practically on every street corner in Europe. Jean-Louis (Jean-Louis Trintignant) spots the blonde-haired student Fracoise (Marie-Christine Barrault) during the service and is immediately smitten. He follows her after the service but loses her. Nevertheless, this brief encounter is enough to convince Jean-Louis that he will one day marry Francoise. His pursuit is interrupted when he chances upon Vidal (Antoine Vitez), an old friend (and a Marxist) he has not seen in 14 years. It's Christmastime and Vidal is going to visit his friend Maud (Francoise Fabian), a beautiful divorcee. Vidal clearly has feelings for Maud, but their relationship is destined to remain just friendly ("we don't get along well on a day-to-day basis.") Vidal implores Jean-Louis to come along and the three spend the evening in animated, deep conversation.

The philosopher and mathematician Blaise Pascal is almost a co-star during the night at Maud's. Jean-Louis takes a dim view of Pascal's condemnation of Christianity and marriage. There is also much talk of Pascal's wager. This probably a really simplified explanation but it goes a little something like this: If facing long odds against something (say 10 to 1 against the existence of God) you must stake everything on that one chance. Because if God does not exist and you lose your bet, then your loss is minimal. But if God does exist, then our reward will be great and eternal.

After some impressive verbal sparring all around, Vidal leaves, leaving Jean-Louis alone with the beautiful Maud (truly one of the more amazing female characters you will ever see on screen). Maud comes "from a family of free-thinkers" and is an atheist. Her views on marriage and love are diametrically opposed to Jean-Louis', who holds traditional Catholic views of faithfulness and devotion. Maud is clearly taken with Jean-Louis and the moral conflict arises when Jean-Louis is tempted to "cheat" on Francoise, whom he doesn't even speak to until after leaving apartment the following morning, and sleep with Maud. Jean-Louis does eventually get to talk to Francoise, and she is open and receptive to his advances. Icy roads provide a convenient excuse for Jean-Louis to give her a ride home and when the car becomes stuck on the narrow streets near her home, Francoise advises him to spend the night. Francoise clearly shares Jean-Louis' feelings, but, much like the title character in "Suzanne's Career," Francoise is different from what she appears to be on the surface.

This film is excellent across the board. The characters are fascinating. Jean-Louis is guided by his Catholic teachings and seems genuinely sincere in his desire to live a godly life. But, like many of us, he is torn between that and his earthly desires. It is also interesting to watch Jean-Louis' transformation of the course of the film. At first, he is quiet and retiring, but as the night at Maud's progress, he grows in confidence and poise. He never grows cocky, like some of the other male characters in other "Six Moral Tales" movies, but does show more assertiveness and confidence during and after his association with Maud. Vidal is a riot, fast-talking, good with the quips and in love with Maud (even though he never outright says it). His motivation for wanting Jean-Louis and Maud to meet one another in the first place and then be together is interesting and is something those two characters debate during their time together. And Maud, well, what can you say? She has it all--beauty, brains, charm, confidence--in short, the kind of woman every guy would be glad to call his own. And yet there is a sadness to her just below the surface--it is very subtle and doesn't show itself all the time. But it is there and it caused me to look at her character with a lot of sympathy and affection.

The film is in fabulous black-and-white, with the snowy December streets of Clermont providing the backdrop. Everything is wonder to look at--the huge church packed with celebrants at the Christmas Eve mass, the tight, trafficky streets where Francoise rides her bike and the brightly-lit bookstores filled floor-to-ceiling with philosophy texts and math primers. All credit to the cinematography of Nestor Almenderos, whose exquisite work helps makes this--and the other Moral Tales--the memorable works they are.


So too, is "Claire's Knee," which (to me) suffers only in comparison because I saw it right after seeing "My Night" twice. Not many films can match up to that one and "Claire's Knee" does indeed fall a bit short. However, there is still plenty to recommend in the fifth of the Moral Tales.

Our hero is Jerome (Jean-Claude Brialy) a dapper cultural attache who is engaged to be married to Lucinde. Lucinde is only seen in the form of a photo Jerome has with him, and it's commented upon that the photo makes her look "severe." Yet despite his flirtatious relationship with Aurora (Aurora Cornu), Jerome is happy with Lucinde and is looking forward to getting married after a sometimes strained six-year courtship. With a few weeks to kill and some business to attend to before his nuptials, Jerome re-kindles his friendship with the wise Aurora, who is lodging at a country home owned by the twice-married and now single Mrs. Walter (Michele Montel). Mrs. Walter has teen-aged daughters by two different men--the precocious Laura (Beatrice Romand), who is all knees and elbows, and the beautiful Claire (Laurence de Monaghan). Laura immediately takes a shine to the urbane Jerome and soon puppy love is in full bloom. Aurora playfully urges Jerome on, chiding him, scolding him and telling him what to do in regards to Laura. Jerome feels Aurora is trying to use him as her "guinea pig" and provide her with material for a story.
Against his better judgment (and despite the considerable age difference), Jerome slowly but surely finds himself attracted to the almost 17-year-old Laura. While on a hike together in the mountains, he kisses her. Instead of building from that moment though, the relationship starts to wane, and indeed Laura begins spending more time with a school friend her own age. This irritates Jerome to no end and he confides in Aurora, who is having quite the good time observing and listening to her friend's conundrum. On the rebound, Jerome spots Claire (who doesn't make her appearance until about 45 minutes in). He is immediately attracted to her--more specifically her knee (and a nice knee it is too.) Jerome feels that her knee is the entry point to his desire and if he could only touch it, he would be a happy, contented and fulfilled man. But Claire has a boyfriend too, who may or may not have her best interests at heart (and who may or may not be completely faithful). The remainder of the film centers on Jerome's pursuit of that goal, which ultimately is achieved but not in the way that perhaps he had intended. Claire's response too, is quite different from what Jerome may have been hoping for.

This movie has the typical beautiful Moral Tales scenery (this time the setting is Annecy, located near Switzerland in the mountains). There is some great natural sound here (birds chirping, dogs barking) which is reminiscent of "La Collectionneuse." The dialogue is--as always--punchy, sharp and witty and the cast is excellent (in particular Cornu, a real-life novelist and poet, and Romand). To me, "My Night" was a home run. "Claire's Knee" is a booming double off the wall in centerfield. And there's nothing wrong with that (forgive the baseball metaphor, it's late, I've been trying to get this post written for several hours and I am starving!).

Want to discuss "My Night at Maud's" or "Claire's Knee?" Leave a comment.