Journeys Through French Cinema

Closing out his “exercise in admiration and gratitude” from an even more personal perspective, Tavernier recounts firsthand experiences from his 10 rewarding years as press attaché to and with legendary producer and publicist Pierre Rissient. Through the turbulent 1960s, the duo promoted American filmmakers while also shoring up French ones. Tavernier shares with us epiphanies he had with directors including but not limited to Eric Rohmer (narrating 1962’s La Boulangère de Monceau); the intensely loyal Jacques Deray; the gone-too-soon Philippe Fourastié; Pierre Granier-Deferre, who provided invaluable insight into how to direct actors; and Alain Resnais, whom Tavernier had idolized since seeing Hiroshima mon amour three times at age 18 and was proud to later count as a friend. Concluding the series in style, Tavernier surprises us by excerpting one final film that he cherishes...

Continuing to spotlight names that might be unfamiliar even to ardent film buffs, Tavernier unveils glorious restored footage from one of France’s first-ever color films, 1936’s La Terre qui meurt. The latter’s director, Jean Vallée, is given his due, as are Pierre Chenal, Henri Calef (previously Chenal’s assistant)—and trailblazing women directors including Jacqueline Audry (Olivia), Nelly Kaplan (A Very Curious Girl), and Agnès Varda (Cléo from 5 to 7), whose emergence in the 1950s Tavernier hails as “a thunderclap.” Tavernier is joined by Cannes Film Festival director Thierry Frémaux for an annotated discussion of director Gilles Grangier’s many teamings with iconic actor Jean Gabin that is rich in production anecdotes and histories.

In seeking to upgrade his own outmoded perspective on several filmmakers, Tavernier credits critic/programmer Patrick Brion and other writers for early and often championing directors who—decades after their heyday—were finally restored the respect they deserve. Tavernier revisits the oeuvres of Maurice Tourneur, whose crime tales were both bemusedly observational and authentic; Anatole Litvak, who stunned with his dynamic camera choices; Raymond Bernard, who made the groundbreaking 1932 epic Wooden Crosses on real-life WWI battlefields; René Clair, warmly chronicling a now-vanished working-class Paris; and — encoring after Episode 3 — comedy and musical specialist Jean Boyer, whose additional career as lyricist in collaboration with popular composer Georges van Parys make for tuneful rediscoveries.

As a postscript to his survey of moviemaking in France under German occupation, Tavernier takes a deep dive into how that period of history impacted films by three essential directors—Claude Autant-Lara, René Clément, and Henri-Georges Clouzot—all the way through their post-WWII work. They had completely different métiers, but each can be seen as ahead of his time and as part of a New Wave even before the one formally labeled as such. Availing himself of archival interviews with the subjects and their colleagues, Tavernier marvels at Lara’s proto-feminist narratives (the Woman in White films, Le Mariage de Chiffon); Clément’s brio with performers and framing detail (Forbidden Games, Purple Noon); and Clouzot’s novelistic eye that is loving but never sentimental (The Raven, The Wages of Fear).